Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “This is better. My family makes it. We mix it with cow’s milk and some cane sugar crystals.” Still in the rhythm of the dance, he swiftly unwrapped the little ball and dropped it into her hand. “It melts quickly, my lady. Please try it.”

  He was right. It was better. It was sweet and rich, and the bitterness she expected lent only a slightly darker taste instead of turning her mouth inside out. “Oh, it is good.”

  He grinned again. “Most ladies like it.”

  “What are cane sugar crystals?”

  She learned that they came from a plant that grew in Toland and in Medea, much like the beans of the chocolate itself, which were related to coffee beans. He told her that his family had invested their fortune in importing these beans and crystals, and that they were always experimenting to try to reach the perfect flavor. Tabitha nodded at his words, looking up at his face, her body going through the motions of the dance, the press of other couples around them seeming more and more distant. She asked him where his family’s lands were, and he did not act surprised that she did not know. He told her about his homeland, a woodland barony near Aviere. He knew, of course, that the Betauls were the guardians of Thendalia’s shores and stewards of its mines, but he also pointed out that his family and hers were both important producers of lumber. It was nice to have something so solidly economic in common, something of which her father would approve. He asked her what it was like to grow up in such a famous castle, so she told him all about Betaul Keep. When the music stopped in the middle of her story, he made no move to escort her back to her father, and instead stood holding her hands and listening to her.

  When the music started again, they simply started dancing again. As Tabitha paused for breath, she suddenly felt ashamed for talking so much. It was not something to which a lady subjected a lord. “Forgive me, Lord Bayard, for chattering on.”

  “None necessary, Lady Betaul. Your voice is pretty.”

  “Thank you, Lord Bayard.”

  “Nicolas. I’d like it if you called me Nicolas.”

  “Nicolas,” she said, trying it out, and liking how it sounded. Knowing it was at least mildly improper, she said, “Please call me Tabitha.”

  “Tabitha,” he said, and she loved how he spoke her name. “Do you sing?”

  “I do.”

  “I hope I can hear you sometime.”

  “Perhaps at one of the parties.” In the next few weeks the nobles in Tiaulon would be holding gatherings of all sizes in the evenings, everything from grand balls to poetry readings. Surely she and he would see each other at some of them. “Do you sing too?”

  He laughed. “No, and I shouldn’t. Mammoth is the one who sings.” He nodded toward someone on his left.

  “Mammoth? Which is he? In the green, there?”

  “No, there. The one with the huge ears.”

  Tabitha gasped with laughter and instantly quashed it, but could not help smiling. She remembered that particular lord. “Yes, they are a little large.”

  “So is his nose. That’s why we call him Mammoth.”

  She giggled. “Does he mind?”

  “He’s never said so.”

  “Men call each other all kinds of names,” she remarked. More than once, she had accidentally overheard the servingmen and guardsmen call one another some truly offensive things without any of them getting upset. “But ladies do not. We are not allowed to notice even the smallest flaw in another lady’s looks.” Both Nan and Mistress Sabine had repeatedly reprimanded her for that. But she could not help what she noticed, and some flaws were very hard to ignore.

  “Women are more cruel to each other than men are,” Nicolas said.

  Tabitha had heard Beatris respond to this idea before. “But men kill each other.”

  Nicolas shrugged as if that did not matter, and then his face lit up. “Are you coming to the tournaments? I’ll be competing. I missed all of last summer because my arm was broken, so I might not do very well, but I would love it if you came to watch me.”

  Love. He would love for me to be there. Tabitha had never been to a tournament before, and now she could not wait to go. He was so handsome. “I will. I promise.”

  At the end of the dance, Nicolas produced another chocolate from his pocket and slipped it into her hand while escorting her back to her father’s table. She wanted to spend the rest of the evening talking with him, but her father did not invite him to sit down, so he could do nothing except smile at her again and take his leave. Tabitha watched him go, noticing the easy grace of his body, and only broke her gaze when her father cleared his throat at her. “What’s that?”

  He was looking at her hand, and she opened it. “He gave me chocolate candy.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows, but another dance partner bowed at their table before he could say anything about it. Tabitha tucked the chocolate into one of the tiny pockets sewn into the folds of her skirt and danced with a dozen more men. Some were handsome and some were charming, but none were anything like Nicolas. She kept looking for him out of the corner of her eye. Every time she saw him dancing with another lady, she felt a stab of jealousy, but she kept hoping he would come back to dance with her again.

  It was when the streaks of sunlight had faded and the dance floor had filled to overflowing that King Motthias found her. He stepped in front of the lord who was about to escort her back to her father’s table, and he took firm hold of her hand. “You may leave Lady Betaul in my care,” he told the lord, who immediately bowed and retreated. The king looked down at her and brought her gloved fingers to his lips. “My lady, I beg another dance with you.”

  The same strange feeling came back. It was more like a muscle twinge than a splinter, Tabitha decided, and only barely there, but uncomfortable. Of course, she could not refuse him, so she curtseyed. “Yes, your Majesty.”

  He led her to a circle of other couples forming near the high table. This dance required the gentleman to hold the lady by the waist and hand, and as the king’s hand touched her hip, she only barely controlled a flinch. When the music started, she fixed her gaze on the elaborate pin at his shoulder, but the first thing he said to her was, “My lady, if I may?” And he touched her chin with his finger and tilted up her face until the brim of her hat was no longer shielding her.

  She met his eyes, but had to cast hers downward after only a moment as the twinge grew stronger, like a claw scraping inside her skin. How can a man be so handsome and so repellent at the same time? He was not at all like Nicolas or Alain. The light of the torches only seemed to emphasize the darkness and shadows, casting everything in ruddy red.

  “I have never seen skin so flawless,” the king said, his voice very low, low enough that she was clearly supposed to lean closer to hear him. “Your face is a perfection known only in sculptures.”

  She managed to nod. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

  His hand returned to her waist and pressed against it, while his other hand trapped hers against his chest and his leg brushed against hers with every other step. She was so uncomfortable and her body was so stiff that she was sure she would stumble. But she could not stumble, because she knew he would pull her even closer when he caught her.

  “I understand you are an accomplished singer, my lady.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” She did not even humbly protest the word accomplished. Polite conversation was beyond her right now. Her stomach was starting to churn into nausea.

  “If your voice is as lovely as the rest of you, then I look forward to hearing it.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  He was quiet for a measure or two, and then she felt his hands relax away from her. He was no longer squeezing her hip or tugging her toward his chest. Tabitha kept dancing and did not react, hoping that her father was just over her shoulder, come to rescue her.

  “So much fear,” the king said then, and she tensed and almost missed a step. He sounded a little confused, but she was sure that that was only what he wanted her to think. “Becaus
e I am the king, or because I am a magus? Or because I am a Pravelle?”

  He thought she was afraid of him instead of repelled by him. Men always think women are afraid. She certainly was not going to correct him. “All three, your Majesty,” she blurted like a shy child forced to speak.

  “I am sorry to hear that, my lady.” His voice was not so low or intimate anymore. “Your father has kept you far too sheltered. Too innocent.”

  “Maybe, your Majesty.”

  “Were you to stay at court, I am sure that your trepidations in all three respects would be eased. You would even get used to magic.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “How does your father manage without magi? I have a dozen here, and still their work never ends.” She heard him smile as he added, “I end up resetting and maintaining as many spells and charms as they do.”

  A dozen? But, of course, Sorcerer Natayl was a Pravelle. He would not object to his magi serving the royal family. “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “Do you share your father’s prejudice toward my kind, my lady?”

  Watch what you say to him. “I have no prejudices, your Majesty.”

  “That’s good. It would be very helpful to the crown to have magi messengers in Betaul again someday.”

  “Someday, your Majesty.”

  “Perhaps I will entrust two or three to your personal service as a wedding gift.”

  Tabitha kept her feet moving and her eyes downcast. Where was he going with this? “You are generous, your Majesty.”

  “I confess I made Lord Othot the same promise.”

  There it was. Othot had said that the king favored a match between them. “You did, your Majesty?”

  “Does it not make sense to give you both the same magi?” She heard his smile again as he said, “I don’t have so many that I can cast them to the winds like leaves.”

  “My father will decide, your Majesty.”

  “But you will speak to him on Lord Othot’s behalf? People say that he values your opinion, my lady.”

  “I will, your Majesty.” It was not even a lie. She could clearly imagine the sarcastic conversation she and her father would have about it.

  “Lord Othot has been a very good friend to me over the years. His loyalty, once won, is unwavering. You would never regret welcoming him into your family.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “I have your promise, then, my lady? You will convince your father to give your hand to Lord Othot?”

  Watch what you say to him! “My father will decide, your Majesty,” she repeated. When was this dance going to end?

  He stopped dancing and touched her chin again. She stopped herself from flinching, but when he tilted her face up to his, her breath caught at the red gleam in his eyes. It’s just the torch flames, she told herself, but real, physical prickling was racing up her spine to her neck. She had to look away.

  One of his fingers brushed against the inside of her glove, along her wrist. “Your promise, my lady? You and Lord Othot should be wed. Your king desires it.”

  Why? Tabitha tried to hold still against flinching, wincing, itching. “My father will decide, your Majesty,” she whispered.

  His body shifted slightly. Was he about to kiss her? Fear and itch surged over her neck, throat, scalp, her whole head filling with freezing pain. She let out a gasp, and bit back another. When she pulled her arms to her chest and clutched them together, she realized that the king had let go of her.

  He had stumbled half a step back, and he was blinking, as if he had been startled or awakened. Several of the other dancers were turning toward them curiously. Tabitha immediately sank into a deep curtsey, and her head hurt fiercely when she bowed it. “Forgive me, your Majesty, I am unwell,” she managed breathlessly, and without waiting for his permission, she turned and moved quickly along the line of the high table toward the shadowy colonnade.

  Only once she had reached it did the horror of what she had just done seize her, and her steps faltered in the darkness behind one of the huge pillars. I ran away from the king! I turned my back on him and left him in the middle of a dance!

  She had to get back to her father. She pushed herself forward, not daring to look behind her to see if the king had followed her. There were still many people dancing, even though the evening air had cooled. Servants bustled chaotically through and across the colonnade’s walkway, and at the third near-collision, she could not hold back an angry sound. She needed to get to her father! He would know what to do.

  He was there at their table near the front of the dance floor. Blocking his view of the high table was an idle group of lords and ladies, standing, shifting, talking, laughing. Distracting him further, she was dismayed to see, was Othot, sitting next to him and speaking very intently. The king had planned it, she realized. He had not wanted her father to see him dancing with her.

  It took a great effort for her to not burst out from the colonnade and scurry toward the table like a servant. She slowed down, she walked tall, and she smiled and nodded in answer to smiles and nods from people passing her. Her father saw her approach, unescorted, and immediately tilted his head in a way that told her that he knew something was wrong. He excused himself from Othot and met her some steps away from the table, and she took his arm. “What is it?” he asked, his voice pitched low, leaning his head toward her so that she could speak in his ear.

  “The king asked me to dance again. He wanted—he wanted me to promise to marry Othot.”

  “Ah.” Her father nodded. He had clearly expected this, and suddenly she felt foolish and ashamed. The king had not hurt her, but she had run from him like a frightened child.

  “Forgive me, Father, I—I left. I just left in the middle of the dance, I left him and I turned my back on him. I should not have done that, it was so rude. He will be so angry!”

  “Calm down, Tabitha.” He surveyed the scene around them for a long, slow moment. Tabitha saw Othot smiling nastily at them as he got up from the table and sauntered away.

  “I don’t see him,” her father said at last. “But I do see some ladies running from group to group with new gossip, so I will assume that there was at least one cognizant witness.”

  “I insulted him,” Tabitha whispered. “He will be angry at you.”

  “Yes.” He was still scanning the courtyard. “It was rude, and I wish you had not done it, but I also wish I could have seen his face when you did.”

  “Father?”

  “Never mind. I will hear from him about this, but I can handle it. I might even be able to turn it around …” His voice trailed off in thought, but he quickly recovered himself and looked down at her. “I don’t want you to speak with him without witnesses from now on.”

  “Yes, Father.” That went without saying.

  He nodded. “All right. You should go home now. If he decides to make this a problem, you should not be here.”

  “Yes, Father.” She did not want to go. She wanted to dance with Nicolas again, and remind herself that some handsome men, most handsome men, were also kind and charming. But she did not want to encounter King Motthias again tonight. “Father? Why does he want me to marry Othot?”

  “Several reasons, some of which you should be able to work out for yourself.” His gaze was sweeping the tables and dancers and shadows, obviously looking for their servants.

  “But he must know how you feel about it.”

  Her father laughed, but not because it was funny. “Oh, yes. He does.”

  Tabitha walked out to the sitting room and twirled a circle. “What do you think?”

  Beatris had arrived while Tabitha was getting dressed, and she and Pamela looked up from the table and gushed enthusiastically over the new mint-green gown, complimenting the lace panels and the sheen of the fabric. Since Pamela’s moon blood was giving her cramps, she and Beatris planned to spend a quiet evening playing cards while Tabitha went to the Avieres’ ball.

  Mistress Florain came around and loomed over Lise a
s they braided up the trailing corset ribbons, white and green and blue. “Did you finish all the thank-you notes, dear?” she asked.

  Tabitha flicked her hand toward the tray on the writing desk, and Beatris made a noise of surprise when she noticed them. “How many are there?”

  “Nine or ten.”

  “Most of them were food,” Pamela said of the gifts that had come in that day, the first step every one of Tabitha’s potential suitors took. “Exotic fruit from the south and such. But where is that pretty charm bracelet, Tabitha? Are you wearing it?”

  “No,” Tabitha said grimly. “That was from Othot.”

  “He has sent something you nearly every day,” Beatris remarked. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “My father has them.”

  “His Grace writes the thank-you notes for them himself,” Pamela giggled. “Tabitha showed me some. They all pretend that the gift is for the whole household. They were so vicious and so polite at the same time.”

  Beatris frowned. “How do you pretend that something like a bracelet is for the whole household?”

  “I am not sure how Father will handle that one,” Tabitha admitted. She wished she could wear the bracelet, because it was very pretty, but she had other pretty jewelry not tainted by association.

  “Has the king sent you anything else?” Beatris asked.

  The gossip about her dance with the king had taken an unexpected turn. The king claimed that Lord Natayl had called to him, speaking mind-to-mind as magic-users could, and that he had sent Tabitha away in order to give the sorcerer his attention. Not only would Tabitha’s rudeness in fleeing him be forgotten, it had given the king a reason to send her three separate gifts, to “apologize”. “Nothing after the silk shawl,” Tabitha told Beatris. “My father wrote all the thank-you notes for those too.”

  Pamela giggled again. “He pretended that the shawl was a tablecloth.”

  Tabitha smiled at that. “Yes, and we even used it on the table at tea today.”

  “Oh, how was today’s tea?” Beatris asked. “Pamela says it was Lord Morel.”