Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Othot smiled easily at the insult, stroking his black beard. “I believe I told you, my king.”

  “Indeed you did.” The king looked back at Tabitha. His tug at her hand all but forced her to her feet. “My lady, Lord Othot admires you so much. It saddens me that you continue to stand on past grievances.”

  “I have released my grievances, your Majesty,” she told him, as she had told him before when he had tried to “reconcile” her and Othot at past parties, where there had never been quite this many people within earshot.

  “Then come.” The king gestured to Othot, and passed Tabitha’s hand to him. She had never touched Othot without wearing gloves, and his callused palm was feverishly warm. “Is it not right?” the king asked the assembled ladies, both of his own hands covering Tabitha’s and Othot’s. “The paternal and the maternal lines of the Betaul house must be rejoined.”

  “We will not flourish without each other,” Othot agreed. Tabitha refused to look at him, and noticed Lady Renaud finishing a whisper to a servant, who quietly fled the parlor.

  She is sending for my father. “Your Majesty, please,” Tabitha said, trying to pack as much innocent youth into her voice and face as she could. “You are kind, but …” Twinging, twinging, much stronger than ever before. Was it because her hand was bare?

  Was it his magic? Was he trying to use his magic to force her to agree with him?

  “Dear lady, look at me,” he entreated. One of his hands squeezed Othot’s against Tabitha’s, and the other slid onto her wrist under the edge of her sleeve. Tabitha held her breath, suddenly terrified, her back itching as if covered by ants. She felt certain that if her eyes met his, he would do something to her, get into her mind somehow and extract that promise he wanted. But if she did not look at him, if she did not accede to such a seemingly harmless request, he could choose, would choose, to be very offended, and most of the ladies here would take his part. She had no way out.

  So she fainted.

  Her knees and free hand made it all the way down to the Renauds’ beautiful parlor carpet. Shocked voices filled the room, and the king gripped her hand, then her elbow, tight enough to hurt. She felt flurries of motion around her, and the king lowered her to the floor on her back, exclaiming something, looming over her. The constant, needling twinge suddenly grew into a cold, twisting push inside her head. Her entire body shuddered, but she forced herself to relax again and remain completely limp as the king dropped her arm like it had burned him.

  Voices babbled around her, all female. The twinge was gone, the king was gone, or at least not right next to her. She smelled Beatris’s perfume and felt the stir of air from a fan above her face. “Some water, please, Lord Renaud?” she heard Beatris ask.

  “I was so worried about her today,” Pamela declared. “What with the weather being so warm and all those spicy things for lunch. But she insisted on coming tonight. Now look at how flushed she is.”

  Too much, Tabitha wanted to tell her. Never lie more than necessary. The ruse had worked, for now. She just had to stay down here until her father arrived.

  “Smelling salts, perhaps?” Lady Renaud suggested, rather loudly, as Beatris dabbed Tabitha’s cheeks with a handkerchief dipped in cool water.

  “No,” Beatris replied at the same volume. “She has a terrible reaction to them, much worse than anyone else I have seen.”

  Now Lady Renaud lowered her voice considerably, so as not to be heard by the murmuring ladies. “Should I try to end the party?”

  “The king will insist on staying to make sure Tabitha is all right,” Beatris whispered back.

  “Then I will at least try to move everyone to the veranda.”

  Tabitha heard the older woman’s skirt rustling and then her raised voice herding her guests out of the parlor. Unexpectedly, the king did not insist on staying with Tabitha, and allowed himself and his cronies to be led out of the parlor and toward the veranda, as Lord Renaud promised them tabac and a new variety of his vineyard’s famous red.

  Eventually the servants got the doors to the parlor closed, and Tabitha opened her eyes. “Nicely done,” Beatris whispered with a lopsided grin, still dabbing Tabitha’s cheeks.

  “Should I sit up now?” Tabitha whispered.

  “Give it a little longer,” Beatris advised. “Your cheeks really are flushed.”

  It was not particularly comfortable on the floor, but she could endure it. Pamela was still waving her fan above Tabitha’s forehead. “I can’t believe he came,” she hissed. “This is a ladies’ party.”

  “He wanted to touch my hand without gloves,” Tabitha murmured. “I think his magic works better that way.”

  “His magic?” Pamela gasped.

  Beatris frowned. “He thought he could use magic to get you to marry Othot?”

  “It felt that way. I think I can feel magic, somehow. Like a twinge inside.”

  “Maybe you can feel it because you are magi,” Pamela said, her excitement rising with each word. “Oh, that would be amazing!”

  “But that does not make sense,” Beatris murmured. “I admit I don’t know much about it, but still, I don’t think magic can force someone’s mind to change.”

  “He was doing something,” Tabitha whispered. It was easy to feel tired, lying down like this. “He is absolutely set on this match.”

  “How did Othot get to be such a favorite of his, anyway?” Pamela asked.

  “By being the duke’s heir.” Beatris dipped the handkerchief into the water again and squeezed it. “If Othot marries Tabitha, that gives the king a spy in Betaul, and, eventually, someone in charge there who will do anything the king wants.”

  The king made no attempt to intrude on Tabitha again until the duke arrived. By that time, Beatris and Pamela had helped Tabitha into the most comfortable of the settees, and when Lady Renaud led him through the parlor’s main door, Tabitha’s relief at seeing him made her sag. But the other parlor door opened at almost the same time, revealing Lord Renaud, the king, Othot, and murmuring lords and ladies behind them.

  Tabitha did not look at them, keeping her eyes on the tall, dark-clad figure, with his somber expression and silver-gold hair and beard. When he reached her and extended his hand to help her to rise, he said for all to hear, “Are you well, my daughter?”

  “Lightheaded, still, Father.”

  He looked behind her at Beatris and Pamela, and Beatris said, “She is doing better, your Grace. Well enough to return home.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to nod to Lady Renaud, who curtseyed, then turned again to nod to Lord Renaud, who bowed. “Thank you for taking care of her.” Then he looked beyond Lord Renaud to the king and said, “Your Majesty,” with a respectful bow. Part of Tabitha wished he would not be so respectful. But both of them had to behave better than the king had tonight.

  “Your Grace,” the king replied, with equal respect, although Tabitha knew this respect was just as false as his contrived warmth had been earlier. He turned to Tabitha, but made no move to take her hand or even come any closer. His eyes still seemed calculating and predatory, but something had changed. “My lady, please forgive any discomfort I may have caused you.”

  “Your Majesty,” was her only reply as she curtseyed.

  The leave-taking became general and spilled into the Renauds’ foyer. As they passed through, Tabitha heard Othot say something in a snide tone to her father, but her father ignored it. He said nothing as he led Tabitha and Pamela from the house and walked to the carriage, waiting beneath a lamppost on the cobblestone street. He said nothing as the driver helped get them and Pamela’s harp case inside, and he said nothing as they rode the few blocks back to the mansion. He probably wanted to ask her about the incident without Pamela there, and indeed, once the carriage had stopped in the back yard and they had all gotten out, he sent the driver away and sent Pamela inside. As they waited for the sounds of doors closing, Tabitha hugged her arms to her chest and pressed the toes of her shoes into the packed dirt of the chilly
, shadowed yard.

  “All right,” her father said finally, his voice very low. “Tell me exactly what happened. Leave nothing out.”

  Tabitha told him about the king forcing her to sing and trying, again, to force her to promise to marry Othot. She told him about pretending to faint, and how she suspected the king was trying to use magic on her. “But after that he did not come back,” she finished. “I was afraid he would, when it was only Beatris and Pamela and me, but he stayed out with the others.”

  She saw him nod in the dim light of the torches at the gate. He stood, his fist slowing tapping the side of the carriage, for what seemed to her like a very long time.

  “Father?” She was tired and wanted to go upstairs.

  “He said nothing when we left,” he murmured, still distracted, still thinking. “He has never passed up an opportunity to poke and dig at us. Never. He always has words.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “I wish I knew. I wish …” He stopped, then finally looked directly at her. “We need to get this done sooner rather than later. I will arrange for Lord Capousine and Lord Morel to each have another brief visit with us. They and Lord Sorante are the three I want you to consider.”

  “What?” Nicolas. I only want Nicolas! “Why?”

  “I do want to give you some say in the matter, and all three of them have—”

  “I mean why do I have to decide so soon?” Her father had to talk to Nicolas again. There had to be time for that. “Why sooner rather than later?”

  Her father paused again, and the moment stretched long as Tabitha watched his face. Did she have any leverage at all? If her father wanted her to get married now, could she insist on Nicolas?

  Finally her father spoke. “The king has been gathering support in the Theocracy for Othot’s claim. What I am doing by passing the succession through you is legal, and it has precedent, but it has not happened among the high houses for decades. Most of the nobles at court don’t favor it, and if enough Archpriests agree to support the king in this, then the Hierarch will intervene and try to force me to declare Othot my heir regardless of any sons you might have.”

  “But he can’t do that! You have the right to choose your own heir!”

  “But if the Theocracy does not recognize your marriage, then your children will be considered bastards.”

  Tabitha forced herself to pause, to think. She had a chance to insist on Nicolas, but she had to present the idea very carefully. She had to build up to it. “You did not tell me before that the Theocracy could do that.”

  “I did not think it would come to that. The Archpriest of Betaul will be here within a week, and I was counting on his influence to smooth the way. But now—for the king to all but ignore us just now—it must mean he knows something. He thinks he is going to get his way.”

  He seemed to be overreacting, but Tabitha did not say so. “His way,” she nodded. “A spy in Betaul, and, eventually, a duke he can control.”

  Her father frowned at her, the lines of his face just visible in the torches’ light. “It’s so much more than that,” he said, more softly, more intensely. “You don’t know? He wants you. He wants to make you his mistress.”

  Tabitha stared at him in horror. “What?” She shook her head. “He can’t. How? If I marry Othot …”

  “Othot will not care. He has his own mistresses. The king means to keep the two of you here at court, and Othot will let him have you. The king wants his own son to inherit Betaul.”

  Tabitha finally blinked, finally shut her open mouth, but she could not comprehend it. What kind of husband would allow his wife, force his wife, to bed another? She knew that married people could and did cheat on each other, but for Othot to marry her knowing what the king expected …

  Marry me, Othot had said to her. Marry me and we can all have everything we want.

  Tabitha let herself shudder. The thought of the king touching her like Alain had touched her was unthinkable. He would not be gentle. He would not care what he did to her body or her reputation. The queen would loathe her, the court would laugh at her, and he would force himself on her, every single night. No. No!

  Her father nodded as he studied her face. “What we must do now is get you a husband, on our terms, before the king can act.” When she looked at him, she must have seemed confused, because his voice took a patient tone as he explained. “It is one thing for the Theocracy to declare, before you are married, ‘None of Tabitha’s future sons can inherit.’ It is a very different thing for them to declare it if you are already married, the marriage is already consummated, and you may already be carrying a son. None of the nobles would want the precedent to be set that the Theocracy can declare a child a bastard after his parents married in good faith. Do you see?”

  I see. “Yes, Father.”

  “Good.” He seemed satisfied, but then he grimaced. “We must move quickly. I am sorry I must insist on this, but I can’t allow you to attend any more parties. In fact, I don’t want you to leave the mansion. Not even for chapel.”

  “Father!” How would she see Nicolas again?

  “I know you like all the social affairs. But you do realize what is at stake, don’t you?”

  She did. “Our bloodline.” But how would she see Nicolas again? How would she tell him what was happening?

  “Our bloodline,” her father nodded, “our land, and our people.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He nodded again, and he gestured toward the mansion’s back door, but Tabitha blurted, “You said you wanted me to choose my husband.”

  “I said I wanted you to have a say,” he corrected. “Your choices are Lord Morel, Lord Sorante, and Lord Capousine.”

  “But I don’t like any of them.”

  Her father shut his mouth tight for a moment, and then said calmly, “They are all suitable. I will give you until the end of the week to think it over.”

  She had missed her chance to do this carefully, so she just said it: “I favor Lord Bayard.”

  “I know you do. But he is not suitable and I have told you why.”

  She bowed her head and fidgeted with the folds of her skirt.

  He waited, and finally prompted her, “Tabitha?”

  “Yes, Father,” she murmured.

  “Good. The betrothal party we have been planning for the end of court will be a wedding reception instead. But you must not speak to anyone about it, not even your closest friends.” He paused. “This is very important, Tabitha. Do you understand?”

  She did not lift her head. “I understand. We don’t want the king to learn our plans.”

  And, she added silently, I don’t want you to learn mine.

  Tabitha bit her lip as she looked at the blank parchment. All her other thank-you notes were written, sealed, and sitting on the silver tray by her elbow. Only this one to Nicolas remained. She had written one to him before, the first time he had sent her a box of Bayard chocolates. This second box that had arrived yesterday was the same size as the first had been, and she and Pamela had enjoyed it with Beatris and Lady Renaud as before. There was no reason for this second note to be difficult to write.

  Except for the invitation that she wanted to include with it.

  She could not be sure that only Nicolas would read this, so she could not be straightforward. She had to say this in a way that only he would understand.

  Come to me tonight, and save me from the king and all my suitors. Come to my bed, and my father will have to let you marry me.

  No, that would not do at all.

  If only her father could understand her feelings. It seemed strange to her that he did not. He had loved her mother, so why would he not want the same happiness for his daughter?

  Thank you so much for the delicious chocolates. My friends and I truly enjoyed them. Please bring another box tonight personally.

  What could she say? What could she write that would let him know what she wanted, and how urgent it was? Today she had been forced to have
tea a second time with stout Lord Capousine. Her choices were him, Lord Sorante, and Lord Morel, and she had to give her father a decision on Godsday evening, tomorrow evening, before he left for chapel. It meant she had to sleep with Nicolas tonight, create the possibility that she could be pregnant tonight. Her father would be furious, of course, and that made her nervous, but she knew, knew in her heart that his anger would only last until she and Nicolas had a son. Once her father had a grandson to be his heir, he would be content.

  She loved Nicolas so much, and he loved her. Their connection was so strong. He never had to know about Alain. She wanted him with her tonight, every night, kissing her, touching her, making love to her. And he would be, if she could find the right words to put on this parchment.

  Mistress Florain was helping Pamela to dress for the riverboat party tonight, a party to which Tabitha was not allowed to go, a party where Nicolas would likely be and would expect her to be. She had briefly considered asking Pamela to help her get a message to him, but she knew that Pamela would tell Beatris. The thank-you note was the only way. And if she did not finish it and give the pile of notes to the messenger very soon, Nicolas may not receive it before he went out for the evening.

  She needed to think. She stood and went back into her bedchamber, to the window overlooking the lush front garden. The long, late-spring evening had barely begun, and the western edge of the garden was still sunlit. She had been standing right here at this window the last time their eyes had met. He had blown her a kiss.

  Yes. That was it.

  She hurried back to the writing desk and dipped the quill.

  To Lord Nicolas,

  Thank you so much for the delicious chocolates. My friends and I truly enjoyed them.

  I think of you often, and especially of the last time our eyes met. I remember what separated us then, and I want to bring down that barrier. As I sit alone tonight, I want the warmth of your friendship again.

  May Lord Abban bless you and keep you safe tonight and all nights to come.

  With all kindnesses from Lady Tabitha.