Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “It is too late. I got married.”

  Beatris glanced back at Jenevive’s husband. “And he is not kind to you,” she guessed softly.

  Jenevive frowned hard, like she used to do when Tabitha would tease her for crying. A flake of powder drifted from her face. Pamela held her fists against her mouth in sympathy.

  “I am sorry,” Beatris whispered.

  Jenevive looked at Tabitha. Tabitha said, “Forgive me,” because that was what Jenevive seemed to want, but Jenevive just kept looking at her. What? What should I say? I could not help you then and I can’t help you now!

  “We saw Catherine yesterday,” Pamela said then, still anxiously holding her hands clasped in front of her. “We asked her if she was all right, and she said it was all right now. So …”

  “So what?” Jenevive demanded. Pamela just stared at her, and she made a noise of disgust. “She got used to it. Believe me, men don’t care if they hurt you. You will learn that soon enough.” She turned to go, but said over her shoulder: “We all deserve better.”

  The three of them stood in stunned silence for a while. Tabitha could only think of Alain. She wished she could tell Jenevive that not all men were as cruel as her husband and Catherine’s husband. But even if she could tell her, it was too late for it to matter.

  Beatris sighed. “I had no idea.”

  “Neither did I,” Pamela murmured.

  “But it’s obvious, right? We did not say anything.” Beatris looked at Tabitha. “Why did we all just let your father send her away?”

  “He did not send her away. Her cousin took her away. He had the right. The Maisenbleres are not our vassals. She was only being fostered with us so that she could meet someone to marry. That was the whole reason she was there, because Betaul is bigger and has more people! She knew she had to get married. Why is she so upset about it?”

  “Because he is not kind to her,” Beatris snapped. “He rapes her. He probably beats her.”

  “If she had not been so picky when she lived with us, maybe she would have found someone better.”

  Beatris hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “She might have.” She looked at Pamela, who looked ready to cry, and reached out to take both her hands in hers. “Pamela. I want you to know that some men are kind.” She looked back at Tabitha. “Truly.”

  Tabitha flinched. She did not want to come anywhere close to thinking about Beatris’ wedding night.

  When they returned to the courtyard, Tabitha’s father was sitting at the table with Lord and Lady Renaud and several Betaul vassals, and he gestured for her to sit beside him. “How is Lady Jenevive?” he asked her as he handed her a goblet, but Tabitha could only shake her head.

  She watched the dance floor over the rim of the goblet as she drank. It had become much more crowded. The tables were filled with ladies and older men, and young men were circling the perimeter, looking for their next dance partners. She saw several of these men begin to move toward her table, slowly and indirectly, trying not to seem overeager and indecorous. At last, she would meet the men who intended to court her. In all likelihood, she would marry one of those who was edging toward her right now.

  “Dear cousin!”

  She looked up, startled, to see Lord Othot bowing to her extravagantly as if he was a teasing, beloved brother. She had not seen him for three years. His pitch-black hair was cut differently and his pitch-black beard was longer, but his wide, knowing grin was as obnoxious as ever. He stood from his bow to her and then executed another to her father, who regarded him without any expression at all. “Lord Etienn, it is so good to see you so hale, and your little girl grown so devastatingly lovely.”

  I hate you so much, Tabitha told him in her head. Othot knew that Tabitha’s father meant to disinherit him through Tabitha’s marriage and resulting sons. Of course he would get in the way of Tabitha’s suitors in any way he could.

  “Othot,” her father said, leaving off Othot’s title as was his right as an older and outranking relative. “We were disappointed that you did not attend our party last night after were told to expect you. Were we not, my daughter?”

  “Yes, Father. But the company of Lady Vidremar’s little dog made up for it.” She so enjoyed puncturing self-important men.

  Othot’s smile slipped, but he ignored the insult and extended his hand to Tabitha. “Dear cousin, may I have this dance?”

  Tabitha pointedly looked at her father. She knew that she could refuse, but that sort of rudeness might have consequences. Othot and King Motthias were friends, though Tabitha’s father had not been able to learn if Othot had real influence or was just a toady. Her father consented with a magnanimous gesture, so Tabitha put a fake smile on her face and allowed Othot to lead her onto the dance floor.

  The crowd of dancers had stopped to applaud the musicians at the behest of the queen at the high table. She summoned the lead lutist and spoke to him, and when he returned to his fellows, they began a slower tempo. The dancers shuffled about, quite a few of them leaving the floor, but Tabitha recognized the positions that the rest of them were taking. She stood slightly in front of and to the left of Othot, and managed to position her own left hand on her waist before Othot could rest his hand there. He covered her hand with his, and they joined their right hands and stepped into the music.

  Othot said something to her, but she could not hear him, and when she turned her head, the brim of her hat hit him in the face. “Forgive me,” she said, and allowed herself a short laugh.

  He ducked past her hat to put his face down toward hers. “I must say, cousin, I can hardly believe how beautiful you have become. I thought the rumors had to be exaggerations.”

  “Why did they have to be, my lord?” Tabitha asked. “Betaul ladies have been beautiful for centuries.” We are the oldest bloodline in Thendalia.

  He laughed. “Too true, my lady. I should not have been at all surprised. Allow me to find another compliment to give you.”

  “Take your time, my lord.”

  Othot laughed. “I have it! Your wit, of course, worthy of your father.”

  “Again, this should be no surprise, my lord.”

  Othot laughed again, and when she did not, he said, “I see that the Betauls still have no sense of humor.”

  “It must be so vexing, my lord,” she said coolly. “Everyone else finds you so funny.”

  Othot did not speak for another measure of the dance, and then he said, with an air of innocent curiosity, “Cousin, how is it that you know this dance so well? You have not missed a single step, despite the obvious intentions of the queen when she called for a dance that is so new.”

  “New?”

  “Indeed. The king and queen introduced this dance at a private party last night. Yet you seem intimately familiar with it.”

  She could not tell if he was teasing her. “I have known this dance since childhood, Lord Othot. It is a traditional one in Betaul.”

  He laughed a third time, loud and heartily, and other couples turned their heads toward them. “My God, how rich that is!”

  “My lord?”

  “Oh, cousin, you should have heard her. The queen gave a pretty little speech last night about how she had invented this dance specifically for the coronation festival. She fooled us all.”

  “You are joking with me.” She was sure of that now. “You seem very familiar with this dance as well, and how could you be, if the queen only invented it yesterday?”

  “I have danced it half a dozen times by now.” Of course, he had attended the private royal party. That was where he had been instead of at her father’s. “But I assure you, last night my steps were not nearly so elegant. Oh, this is so splendidly comical. When I turn you next, look up at the high table at the queen. She is all but spitting bile.”

  At the next turning, she did catch a glimpse of the high table. The queen seemed to be looking in their direction, and she did not seem to be smiling. “You see?” Othot said.

  Finally Tabitha underst
ood. “The queen tried to embarrass me with a dance I did not know?”

  “But once again you triumph, cousin.”

  “Once again?”

  “Your gown. It is the height of fashion, and even beyond, with those charming sleeves which will undoubtedly begin a new trend. Is it Agnes’s design?”

  “Yes.” It seemed that everyone knew that Mistress Agnes was her designer.

  “Agnes is divine. If only she had not miffed the queen all those years ago, she would be the royal designer.” He sighed as if at a tragedy. “When the queen heard that your father had commissioned Agnes, she laughed. She hoped you would arrive looking positively rural.”

  Tabitha let her pleasant expression become less pleasant. “Lord Othot, whatever you may think, Betaul is not a backwater.”

  “Forgive me, dear cousin, if I seemed to imply that it was.”

  “And you can’t possibly know what the queen hoped or intended. She is the queen, and I have not heard that you are her confidante.”

  “I concede that I am not. But one need not be to know that she is a very jealous creature, and that you have turned the king’s head.”

  Stop it! I don’t want to turn the king’s head! I want my Telgard prince! I should be here on his arm, as his wife, not put on the auction block for the highest bidder!

  “Ah, cousin, you are speechless. You are yet too innocent for this court, I fear.”

  “I hope so,” she snapped, but smoothed her voice to continue. “Since I only came of age three months ago.”

  “I heard it was a rather subdued celebration, your coming-of-age. That tragic murder quite overshadowed all else for some months, I imagine.”

  Tabitha wanted to wrest herself away from him and leave the dance floor, or slap him across the face, or deliberately mash his foot with the heel of her shoe. She settled for cold silence.

  “Forgive me, cousin. Clearly I should not have mentioned it.”

  No, you should not have. She wanted to change the subject, but ladies were not supposed to do that when speaking with gentlemen. Then again, gentlemen were not supposed to purposefully make ladies feel uneasy, and Othot was certainly doing that. “How is your uncle back in Felcannen, my lord? Has he had any trouble with the heretics?”

  “No, not at all. I believe you are mistaking the location of Felcannen, my lady. We are on the coast of the Heart Sea, not the White Sea. It’s the White Sea that’s infested with these vermin.”

  She of course knew exactly where Othot’s paternal lands were. “I had heard that the heresy had spread south to your shores.”

  “And north to the ice sheets,” he returned mockingly. “And straight up in the air, all the way to the moon! You should not believe all you hear, little cousin.”

  Little. Othot was not even a handspan taller than she was.

  “I must beg your forgiveness again, it seems.” He did a good job of actually sounding contrite this time. “The heretics are not a joke. You had a dangerous encounter with them, I hear.”

  “It was nothing my father could not handle.”

  “Ah, yes. Is it true that he gave his word that he would not take up arms against them if they came west?”

  “That is one of many rumors,” she said. Her father had made no such promise, or any promise, to the mob in the Candle Ward, but everyone seemed to think he had. “I suggest you speak to him about it.” Because you will learn nothing from me.

  Othot was silent after that, and shortly thereafter, but not quite abruptly, the music stopped. “Apparently the queen has had enough,” Othot murmured as he bowed and took her hand.

  “As have I,” Tabitha said. She started to turn back toward the tables.

  But Othot held onto her gloved fingers, and his voice was as intense as his eyes as he spoke. “Marry me.”

  Tabitha stared at him in shock. Did he think he could insist?

  Now his voice softened into persuasion. “I am the rightful heir to Betaul, but your father insists that the line continue through you. Marry me and we can all have everything we want.”

  “You don’t know what I want.” Specifically, right now, she wanted to yank her hand away.

  “We could live here, in the center of all fashion and culture. You would keep all your riches and comforts. You would keep your name, for I would take yours, and you would never need to choose between your husband’s family and your father’s. You would dictate how our children are raised.” Othot moved closer. “The king approves. It will help to heal the strained relations between the Betauls and the Pravelles. Please say that you will consider it.”

  The people around them were shuffling into place for the next dance. Tabitha needed to get off the floor before the music started again and trapped her here with him for another turn. “I consider nothing without my father’s advice and consent,” she said coldly.

  Othot’s upper lip twitched in irritation. But he said nothing. He pulled at her hand to lead her back to the tables, where he nodded brusquely to her and her father before stalking away.

  “You upset him?” her father guessed. “Well done.”

  “It’s only fair. He upset me.” She told him everything that Othot had said.

  He frowned. “Strained relations, is it?” He drank from his goblet and looked in the direction Othot had gone. But before he could say anything more, a tall lord with grey streaks in his beard approached and asked to dance with Tabitha.

  After that, she never sat down. Lord after lord came to the duke, introduced themselves, and asked to dance with her, and her father agreed to all their requests. Because she loved to dance, and because she wanted to follow her father’s lead and not refuse anyone, she only left the floor long enough to be escorted back to the table and to have her hand taken by the next partner.

  Some of them were as dreary as all the old lords at Betaul, moving with infuriating stateliness. Some were magi, and even the ones who seemed pleasant triggered that internal twinge. Many other lords were potential suitors, and each tried to be witty and charming as they talked, showering her with compliments. Some told stories meant to show her how brave or smart or rich they were. A few were quite handsome, and she tried to remember their names in case her father asked if there were any that she liked. Some were mere boys, either not yet of age or all but beardless. They, too, complimented her beauty and grace, but most of them could not help overdoing it. She found it curious that at fifteen, females were grown women, but males were grown men in name only, with years of height, muscle, and sense still to come. Only after she had danced with half a dozen such youths did she remember that her Telgard prince was no older than they were.

  She did not know how to feel about that.

  She danced with the new Telgard ambassador, who gave no hint that he knew anything about her father’s proposals. The Adelard ambassador stood barely taller than she, the Kroldon ambassador had honey-colored skin and an alluring accent, and the Khenroxan ambassador had wildly curly red hair. All of them asked her opinion of the new king and queen, and she lied to them effusively. The king was on the dance floor almost as much as she was, and she kept avoiding his eyes, but the queen did not leave the high table at all, and Tabitha avoided looking in her direction as well. The Khenroxan ambassador remarked that it did not seem right that the queen had only danced once at her own coronation feast, and Tabitha immediately wondered if the queen thought that she, Tabitha, was upstaging her. When the dance ended, she sat down next to her father and asked for watered wine. “Forgive me, but I need a rest,” she said with a smile at the next lord, even though she was not at all tired yet.

  The queen did not take advantage of Tabitha’s absence from the dance floor, even when it stretched to a quarter-hour. So Tabitha allowed herself to be escorted to the floor again, and soon after that, the queen left the high table without any ceremony and disappeared into the palace. The tempo of the music increased almost immediately.

  The afternoon crossed into early evening, and though the sun had not yet set,
the servants lit torches, and the shadows of the white banners crisscrossing overhead created pockets of near-darkness beneath the colonnades. Tabitha had been dancing for hours and had just decided that she truly did need a rest, when she looked up into the face of the most stunningly handsome man she had ever seen in her life.

  His eyes were light brown, warm and relaxed, and his smile at her highlighted the perfect lines of his cheekbones. His hair and beard were blonde, both trimmed short and neat like Alain’s had been, and he was dressed in shades of silvery-green and earthy-brown. When he turned from her to bow to her father, he moved with smooth, natural elegance. “I am Lord Bayard, your Grace.” His voice had a natural rhythm to it, utterly charming. “May I dance with Lady Betaul?”

  Her father nodded his assent and returned to his conversation with Count Sebastene. Tabitha let Lord Bayard take her hand. Even though she wore gloves, she imagined that she could feel his touch on her skin. She could not stop looking at his face, and it seemed that he could not stop looking at hers, for he was half a beat late with the first step of the dance.

  “Sorry,” he murmured as he swept her forward. “They were right. You are gorgeous.”

  Tabitha had been hearing such compliments her entire life, and had heard more today than she could count, but from this man it felt quite different. “Thank you, my lord.” Then she tilted her head. “But who are ‘they’?”

  “Some friends of mine, my lady. All of them danced with you already.”

  She arched her eyebrow. “Then what delayed you, Lord Bayard?”

  “I was getting something. Here.” Something small fell into their joined hands. It was round and wrapped in a strip of parchment. “Have you ever tried chocolate?”

  She had, but did not want to tell him what she thought of it. “I have had some to drink.”