Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Tabitha ignored her. As her feet were freed of the boots, she leaned back into the soft chair and let her eyes shut. The governess loomed over her. “My lady, they will be bringing up your trunk in a moment, I expect, and we can fetch your nightclothes. Would you like some tea?”

  Tabitha shook her head.

  “Mistress Florain, this fabric on the table here, is it for us?” Pamela asked, apparently having come back out of the other room.

  “Indeed, Lady Pamela. Mistress Agnes will be here tomorrow to measure both of you and draw up your color charts.”

  Pamela squealed. “New gowns, Tabitha! Oh, what’s this? Black. Is it for the funeral?”

  “Yes, you will have new gowns for all the events. The funeral, and then the procession, and of course the coronation. There will be a party here that night, so you will have something new for that, and for the feast the next day, and for the first day of the tournaments.” Pamela made a wordless noise of delight, and the governess went on, “These are just sample bolts, for you to see the colors and textures. If you dislike any of them—”

  “Oh, no, I love them all! Even the black is so silky and fine.”

  “I think you will like Mistress Agnes very much. All these fabrics are exclusive to her shop.”

  “I can’t wait to show these to Beatris. Is she here?”

  “I understand that she arrived in the city with her husband this afternoon. They are staying with Lord and Lady Renaud. It’s not far. We will see them tomorrow.”

  “But I thought they were staying here with us.”

  “Lord and Lady Renaud are old friends of Count Sebastene. I am sure that’s why they extended the invitation.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Indeed. They are kind and generous people. You need not worry about how Lady Beatris will be treated.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that I am worried, it’s that I miss her. We are more like sisters than cousins, since my real sister is so much older. Beatris saved my life once! A dog attacked me and she fought it off. I was four and she was six. I just …” Pamela wound down into a heavy sigh. “I just miss her so much.”

  “You will see her tomorrow, dear.” Mistress Florain sounded a lot like Nan. It was not just her accent, either. Tabitha decided that she did not mind this new governess.

  She was so dizzy. She sat very still and tried to keep her head in one position, and before long she lost track of the chatter around her. Eventually the trunks arrived, and Lise came in to help Tabitha to stand and to walk into another room. She helped her to undress, helped put on her nightgown, and helped her into bed. The sheets were smooth and cool, and the mattress and pillow were soft and fresh. When her door shut, she could still hear murmurs from the other room, but the noise was not nearly enough to keep her awake.

  The sun shone its noon heat on Tabitha’s head, and were it not for her white cap and full formal veil, her face would have been burning. A headache had settled in her temples. Her shoes made her feet hurt. They were so sturdy. Mistress Florain had insisted that Tabitha wear these shoes because, as she said, “You will be walking a fair distance, and you can’t do that in slippers.” But the funeral procession from the basilica to the palace had been cancelled, and since dawn, all the nobility had been gathered here in the central courtyard for one ceremony after another. Tabitha had never been required to stand so still for so long in her entire life, and her feet were as sore and as heavy as if they had been stuffed into bricks.

  But she did not fidget, or shift her weight, or yawn, or turn her head. She stood absolutely poised and elegant, like the white embroidered swans covering the deep blue gown on which Mistress Agnes had spent so much time. Mistress Florain would be very proud of Tabitha, just as Nan would have been. Her father surely was, motionless on her left in his blue and white surcoat. It was the first time anyone at court had seen her, the Jewel of Betaul, and she knew that everyone would be judging her, from the landed knights all the way up to the king.

  The members of the royal house of Pravelle were the first row of witnesses to the coronation. Tabitha counted six men and three women wearing the red and white. The king was with the priests on the dais, of course, and he had no brothers, so these men were his uncles and cousins, with their wives. Tabitha had memorized lists of names, and although she did not yet know to which faces they matched, she thought that the woman at the head of the line had to be Queen Perisca. She seemed to be Tabitha’s height, but she had had a child, so it made sense that her hips were wider. She was of the Jasinthe house by birth, so the Jasinthes were the second row of witnesses, eight men and eleven women that Tabitha could see without moving her head. Three of the women wore holy sisters’ gowns, and Tabitha knew that at least one of them was a maga. She also knew that not all the Jasinthe magi had made the trip, specifically because of their ongoing feud with the Lord Sorcerer Natayl.

  Tabitha had glimpsed the sorcerer two or three times during the very first ceremony, when he was creating a magical bond with the new king. But the sorcerer’s deeply cowled red robe had obscured his face, and after that ceremony, he had left the dais. Mistress Florain had told Tabitha just yesterday that Lord Natayl almost never appeared in public any longer. He was only here for the coronation, and after the weeks of celebrations were over, the rumors said, he would make the long-awaited announcement of the kingdom’s new sorcerer.

  Lord Natayl was of the royal house, but the new sorcerer would not be, because there was no Pravelle now who was the right age. Tabitha herself was the right age, but she had never done anything a sorceress, or even a maga, could do. If she had been able to do any magic right now, she would have made her head and her feet stop hurting. And her fingers. Her fingers were cramping now! She had to hold her left hand very lightly on her father’s bent arm to keep from wrinkling his crisp sleeve, and the angle was not relaxed. Nothing here was relaxed.

  But she would not fidget. She would not move. She and her father were the only Betauls, the only two people in the third row of coronation witnesses. All the pride of their house stood with them. No matter how hard anyone tried, no matter how long they all had to stand here, no one would be able to find the smallest fault with Tabitha’s comportment. She was excellent at “playing statue”, as Nan had called it, and Nan had taught her well.

  She missed Nan. But Nan was not the one who should be here now. Her mother should be here now, between Tabitha and her father. And on Tabitha’s other side, there should be a brother, and a sister, and four or five more of them lined up, or waiting at home because they were too young to stand still. There should be as many Betauls as there were Jasinthes.

  It all rested on her. The future of their house, the survival of their house, depended on her.

  From somewhere in the rows behind her, she heard a soft gasp, then the thump and rustling skirts of a lady collapsing in a faint. That was the fourth, and Tabitha was sure that there were more, further back in the crowd. She could only hope that Pamela and Beatris were not among them. But then, Pamela and Beatris were so far back in the crowd that Tabitha would not have heard them even if they had fainted, though Beatris was not so far back as she would have been with her own family.

  Beatris was married. It was still so strange for Tabitha to think about, even after seeing Beatris with Count Sebastene all this week. Their courtship had been so short, no more than two months. And then all of a sudden they were all making plans and fitting gowns and choosing flowers. Pamela had grown giddier and giddier with excitement as the day approached, while Tabitha had grown more and more incredulous. She had repeatedly asked Beatris why, and Beatris had only ever said, “He is a good man.” Which was no answer at all.

  The wedding had taken place in the chapel at Betaul, with the feast in the great hall. So many people had come, even more than had come for that funeral years before. Many guests had attended the wedding to honor the duke, of course, but Count Sebastene himself seemed to have many friends, or at least many people who spoke well of him.
Tabitha had passed the day in bemusement, still not convinced that any of it was really happening, and the crown of it all had come when Lord Daniel had interrupted the dancing to propose to Pamela.

  He had made a show of it, quieting the musicians and making a speech, and finally sinking to one knee to hold her hand and formally ask her the question. Pamela’s babyish cheeks had been bright pink throughout the spectacle, and she had nodded her answer because she was too choked up to speak. Tabitha had looked over at Beatris, but Beatris had not seemed the least upset with the display. Lord Daniel must have asked for her permission to upstage her at her own wedding, and she had granted it. Tabitha really did not understand Beatris at all. Lord Daniel had stood and tugged Pamela close to kiss the top of her dark head, a gesture that Tabitha had thought inappropriate, and really inappropriate when Pamela had actually buried her face in his chest for a brief moment before stepping back and wiping at her eyes, her hand still firmly in his.

  It was all very romantic, of course, but Tabitha knew better. Pamela may have been surprised by the time and place, but she had outright told Tabitha’s father that she had wanted Lord Daniel to ask her formally, and more importantly, she had known almost her entire life that this was coming. This marriage was not a merging of two longing hearts. It had been arranged for the sole purpose of land management between neighbors who wished to keep things friendly.

  Just like Tabitha’s own marriage would be arranged, very soon, for similar mutual advantage. Tabitha, however, would not indulge in this kind of playacting. She could not have Alain, and because of the new king’s prejudices, she could not have the Telgard prince. She therefore refused to pretend that her marriage was anything but a business contract.

  And that business contract, her future husband, was here in this courtyard. He had to be. Her father would only consider suitors of high birth, and he would only consider suitors who made their appeals in person. That meant the man Tabitha would marry was no further away from her right now than a few dozen paces.

  Who was he?

  Many priests and acolytes were moving back and forth across the dais now, and the choir of holy sisters sang a crescendo. Were those the Archpriests, leading the Hierarch? Her glimpses of grey robes and brightly colored stoles and caps made her think that they had to be. Did that mean they were getting ready for the actual crowning? She hoped so. After Prince Motthias officially became King Motthias, and after his wife was crowned the queen consort, the dukes would come forward to swear fealty and present their families. After hours and hours of standing still, she would finally be able to move.

  Ceremony after ceremony dragged by, each accompanied by different music. There were prayers recited by the priests and prayers recited by the new king, each accompanied by lighted candles. His head was anointed with dabs of water, oil, ink, blood, wine, milk, soot, and even honey. He was crowned no less than three times, with leaves, with pearls, and with gold. Ribbons were tied and untied, tiny chains were locked and unlocked, and weapons were passed back and forth. Because he was a magus, a group of other magi performed a silent, nearly motionless ritual similar to what the Lord Sorcerer had done earlier. It felt to Tabitha like days earlier.

  Then, at last, the bells tolled, the Hierarch called out to the crowd, and everyone cheered.

  Tabitha applauded vigorously just to have an excuse to move her arms and shoulders. She even bounced up and down on her toes a few times to move her legs and knees. The cheering went on for a while, and she took the opportunity to yawn hugely behind her face veil, tug her sleeve at her wrist, and shake out her skirts before the bells stopped ringing and the noise of the crowd died away. When silence had resumed, Tabitha’s hand was set on her father’s arm again and she was standing perfectly still. She could not help but notice that the same could not be said for several sagging Jasinthe ladies in the row in front of her.

  Servants carried two thrones onto the dais. The king mounted the two steps to the larger of the two, and flute and harp music began to play as his wife came forward to be crowned queen. There were not nearly as many ceremonies for her, or as many priests performing them, but she, too, was crowned three times, and every one of her fingers received a ring. The king stood and escorted her up the single step to her throne, and as the bells rang and the people clapped, Tabitha again allowed her limbs discreet stretches and made minute adjustments to her gown. The sun felt like it was drilling into the top of her head. She heard another lady collapse in a faint somewhere behind her.

  With the king and queen now seated, their son was presented to the assembled nobles, a blonde boy of five years. Confirming him as the heir required several more priests and ceremonies, but the resulting applause allowed Tabitha a few more small stretches and deep breaths. The child was led away, the bells rang, and then it was time for the men of the king’s family to swear their fealty and present their wives, sisters, and daughters. Tabitha watched closely as the Pravelles went up to the dais, noting how the ladies stayed back and held their curtseys. One by one, the men knelt and recited oaths over the king’s sword, and the king recited his promises in return. Each lady seemed to know when to rise and come forward to be presented by one of the men. Both the king and queen chatted with all the men and ladies in voices too low to hear, and Tabitha took firm hold of her patience. She knew it would take even longer for the royal couple to greet all the Jasinthes.

  The Pravelles eventually bowed their heads, stepped back to the edge of the dais, and filed to the right, following the diagonal line of the dais toward the courtyard’s colonnade, a path that did not allow them to show their backs to the king and queen until they were many steps away. As the Pravelles reached the shade of the colonnade, the Jasinthes started forward to the dais. Throughout the bowing, curtseying, oath-taking, and light conversation that followed, the Pravelles unobtrusively returned to their places as the first row of witnesses. Tabitha watched the flock of Jasinthes closely, but none of them made any unexpected movements or unexplainable gestures. That was good. It meant that Mistress Florain had been right, and if Tabitha simply remained graceful and proper, she would not give unintentional offense.

  Then it was time. Her father tensed his arm to warn her before he moved, and it was a good thing he did, because Tabitha froze for that half an instant, a clamp of ice squeezing the back of her neck. But she recovered at once and walked with her father to the dais, stepping as lightly as possible in her terribly clunky shoes. The harpists played on, accompanied now by oboes, and Tabitha thought she heard a flat note as she sank down in her curtsey.

  She was very glad Mistress Florain had made her practice this. She had never held a curtsey for so long before, and now everyone was watching. To distract herself, she strained to listen to her father giving his oath of fealty just a few steps away. He recited it without a single pause or stutter, his voice as grave as ever, and the king’s voice in answer was rich and deep. She suddenly realized that her own mouth and throat were dry.

  “Welcome, my friend,” the king was now saying to Tabitha’s father in a less formal manner. “We are so happy that you traveled so far to be with us today.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” her father answered. “I left my fleet in very capable hands, so you need not worry for Thendalia’s shores.”

  “I do not worry at all with you here, my friend.”

  As Tabitha wondered if that was somehow an insult, her father said, “Every visit to Tiaulon is a pleasure, your Majesty.”

  “Some more than others, perhaps. We beg your forgiveness for the disgraceful reception you received upon your arrival.”

  Does he mean the heretics? Tabitha thought he must, but his tone was so light, as if by “disgraceful reception” he meant muddy streets instead of a riot.

  “It was undoubtedly my own fault, your Majesty,” her father answered, not abandoning his grave air. “The captain at the gate hinted that the unrest had not yet been quelled.”

  … as it should have been, Tabitha finished in her
head.

  “One of the perils of an overcrowded city,” the king said dismissively, but Tabitha did not believe he was truly so unconcerned. “Travelers bring all types of pestilence.”

  Travelers? Does he mean us? We bring pestilence?

  “Yes, your Majesty, all of which only add to the hazards of the native infections.”

  “Oh, indeed! But with a few brief words, you pierced the heart of the disease and cleansed the wound, and the infection vanished.”

  His guardsmen have not been able to find the rioters, Tabitha realized. And he blames us.

  “I take no credit, your Majesty.”

  “Nonsense,” the king said. “Your reputation for eloquence is well deserved.”

  Of course it is. His speech saved our lives. Tabitha vividly remembered how frightened she had been that night.

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” her father said flatly.

  “As is your reputation for justice. Such a tragedy struck your household this past winter.”

  He means Alain’s death. She could not believe the king was crass enough to mention the scandal, but her father answered as if he had expected it. “A tragedy, indeed, your Majesty. The young lady seemed so gentle, but her father’s evils doomed her.”

  Marjorie is happier now, Tabitha reminded herself. She is cloistered. Her father can never touch her again.

  “I do hope that our envoy’s visit did not unduly distress your household with our questions.”

  “Not at all, your Majesty.”

  Tabitha remembered the envoy from then-Prince Regent Motthias. He had visited two months after Alain’s death, just after her father had left Betaul to go to sea. But her father had left instructions for the castellan and Lord Daniel, and the envoy had not been allowed to speak to her, Beatris, or Pamela. So her father was speaking the truth. The envoy had distressed the household not at all.

  The king’s voice lifted to carry further. “And here we must have your daughter. Such poise! She seems fully recovered from the shock of discovering her foster sister to be a murderess.”