Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  It was not long before the magi women started climbing onto their mules, and Tabitha guessed that the festival committee had reassembled in the viewing box. Tabitha’s horse shuffled its legs and snorted until the groom whispered to it. A tall, bald magus appeared at the front of the tunnel and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. He called out the procession’s order, and Tabitha was startled to learn that after the mammoths, she was supposed to lead.

  Very carefully, she commanded the horse to walk, and with the boy at its head, it carried her to the front of the tunnel. “My lady, you will take your mark in the center of the ring of mammoths,” the magus explained, pointing out of the tunnel toward the stadium floor.

  “Ring?” She had known there would be mammoths, but she had thought there would only be two or three.

  “Well, my lady, it will be actually more of an oval than a ring. People will be able to see everything better that way.”

  Idiot. “I mean, how many mammoths will there be?”

  “One dozen, my lady.”

  “One dozen!” Mammoths stampeded when there were too many of them. Everyone knew that. The festival committee was supposed to make sure that none of the presentations put anyone at real risk. Why were they allowing it? Why was Lady Serafina allowing it? She was in charge of the Ministry of Games and Trades, and she, at least, should already know how dangerous mammoths were.

  The magus was talking again. “We expected the ship to have brought them by now, Lady Sorceress, but please don’t worry. They will be here. For now, the men who will be riding them are standing where they will be, and there is a red mark in the sand where you need to go.”

  Tabitha hoped the mammoths would not be there. It was too hazardous to have so many in one place. And if they never arrived, Natayl would not be able to make good on his threat to make her ride one. She would not make the mistake of thinking that his threat was idle. It would not surprise her at all if he did decide at the last moment to make her ride a mammoth, or carry a lance, or wear a meat pie on her head. In fact, she should expect him to change something in the presentation, and be ready for it.

  Except she had never been ready for anything he had done to her so far.

  Her hands tightened involuntarily on the reins, and the horse turned its head around. Her leg slipped, and she clung to the split pommel with both hands and both knees. The groom hurried to pat the horse’s nose and soothe it while Tabitha struggled to regain her poise and pride.

  The Telgard sorcerer had to be an excellent rider, if his horse had been making “breathtaking leaps” during his rehearsal.

  The horse shook its head and snorted. The groom gave Tabitha a pleading look before whispering to the horse again.

  Maybe Natayl is right. I can’t even ride a horse.

  Maybe I am useless.

  Tabitha knew that she and the horse were supposed to remain as still as a statue, so she stretched each of her cramped fingers one at a time, trying not to disturb the reins. It was no use, since the horse shook its head and shuffled its hooves again. Then it pooped again. Either it did not like the knotted white ribbons in its mane, or it did not like it when she moved her hands on the reins or flexed her feet in the sidesaddle stirrups. This morning she had asked Natayl for a more sedate horse, but he had laughed at her and told her that to be any more sedate, a horse would have to be dead.

  At least he had not made good on his threat to make her ride a mammoth. She had never been very close to one before today and could not believe the size of the things. A magus riding one had taken pains to point out to her how unpredictable they were and what careful handling they required. She had nearly jumped out of her skin when they had all trumpeted at once, even though they had already been out on the sands and she had still been in the tunnel. What was worse, their powerful smell equaled their powerful size and powerful sound. She had to breathe shallowly to keep from gagging.

  But even the mammoths made her less anxious than the crowd did. The first time she had ever been in a huge, filled stadium had been only yesterday, to watch the demonstrations and parades at the Colosseum, and it had been overwhelming, even from the safety of her box seat. Clementa had suggested that Tabitha attend one of the Hippodrome events over the summer simply to appreciate how big it was, but she had not, and that had been a mistake. Back in Tiaulon, she had stood in front of the entire court to meet the king and queen, and having so many eyes on her had felt oppressive. Now, she did not have her father at her side, the noise was building to a roar not unlike the mammoths’ call, and there were a hundred times as many people staring at her. It was not appropriate for so many people to be staring at a lady. She suddenly wished she was dressed like the magi women, in a traditional gown, cap and veil. Her bare face, her flower-strewn hair, her diamond jewelry, and her white dress all seemed too bold.

  The magi women rode their mules slowly to their marks, twelve for the inner circle and twenty-four for the outer circle, all facing toward her. Beyond the women were the rings of mammoths, horses, and magi men carrying lances, pikes, and spears. She was not close enough to recognize any of the men’s faces, but she thought she saw Clementa in the outer circle of women, and over there should be Attarine and Isabelle.

  At the final rehearsal a few days ago, which Tabitha had not been required or even asked to attend, Natayl had told all the women in the presentation to keep their attention on Tabitha and to follow her lead. When Isabelle had told her this, Tabitha had assumed that meant that he would be telling her what to do. But right now, she had no idea where Natayl even was, and that fact was bringing her to the edge of panic. During all the parties, ceremonies, and events of the past week, he had hardly ever left her side. Even last night during her sleepless vigil at the chapel, he had been right there to make sure she did everything correctly, even though all she had to do was kneel and pray. For him to abandon her now, here, when his presence might actually be reassuring, was cruel.

  She took advantage of the direction she was facing and searched the viewing box from one side to the other. Making out faces at this distance was difficult, but she was certain she would recognize Natayl if he was among the other sorcerers and their magi guests. He was not. At the far edge of the viewing box, though, she did recognize Borjhul. Even from here she could feel his eyes on her. She told herself she was being ridiculous, since everyone’s eyes were on her, but his dark stare did nothing to soothe her nerves. All this past week, at every event and function that required all the sorcerers’ participation, Borjhul had constantly caught her off guard by suddenly appearing within the groups of men swirling around her. She did not know if it simply amused him to make her anxious or if he was looking for another opportunity to try to force telepathy with her.

  She realized that her gaze was lingering in his direction, and she moved her eyes to search the viewing box again for Natayl. He was nowhere. She wanted very much to reach out with her mind to find him, but she also wanted very much to not let him know that she was so tense.

  My family is behind me. She tried to steady herself with that thought. They were in the section reserved for the sorcerers’ special but non-magi guests, all of them wearing Betaul blue. I am a Betaul. I am a sorceress. I am calm, serene, and graceful as a swan.

  Then shadows passed over them all, and Tabitha tilted her head slightly to watch the real swans soar by in all their majesty. She did not know how the swans’ handlers convinced them to do their bidding and fly in a specific pattern, but Maga Desimall had speculated that it had taken weeks and weeks of training. There were two swans for each maga, and as they finished their fifth flight around the Hippodrome, the women dropped their mules’ reins and lifted their arms, bracing muscles and magic for the swans’ landing. Tabitha hoped it would go better this time. During the only rehearsal she had attended, the landings had been tricky. Even with padded sleeves and the power of telekinesis to help lift the large birds, three of the women had not been able to keep their arms aloft for more than a moment
, and one maga had even fallen off her mule.

  The swans rose into the air, higher and higher, which was not right, and Tabitha wondered if the handlers had lost control of them. Fortunately the women were not supposed to do anything with the swans during the weapons drills of the magi men, so the crowd would not notice that anything was wrong.

  The men riding the mammoths pulled themselves up to stand on the beasts’ shoulders and raised their spears. The weapons drills at the rehearsal had been impressive, far outstripping similar performances Tabitha had seen in Betaul and in Tiaulon. Spinning the spears in mesmerizing patterns, the mammoth riders had tossed the weapons back and forth, passing them from one rider to the next, going clockwise around the circle and then counterclockwise. Then the horseback riders had joined them, twisting and pivoting their lances and throwing them up for the mammoth riders to catch and cast back down. Finally the magi on foot had added their pikes to the rotation, and under the precise control of highly trained magi, all the pole-like weapons had seemed to dance around the circle in wheels upon wheels of beautiful dexterity.

  As the spear tips gleamed in the afternoon sun, Natayl’s mind rumbled into Tabitha’s: “Don’t move or your women could die.”

  Icy shock seized her throat. As she stared, all the magi men threw their spears at her.

  She almost fell. She almost screamed. The spears passed over her head, over the heads of all the magi women, and the other mammoth-riders caught them, spun them, and hurled them again. The wind of their passing lifted her hair. Panic clawed at her, and the horse shifted under her, and she thought she would fall from the saddle.

  “Don’t move!” Natayl ordered again.

  He was doing this. He was directing all of this. Terrified that her horse would toss its head, Tabitha pulled in her thoughts and her magic and focused entirely on her mount. Still. Still. Still. Still. Still.

  Icy needles of fear became arrows, became spears, through her neck and over her head and down her back. It itched, it hurt, but it gave her focus, made her think of turning to ice, of herself and the horse freezing in place. Still. Still. Still.

  It did not stop. Spears and lances and pikes whistled with speed, never pausing. She could not think about it. She could not think about it. Still. Still. Still still still still still still still.

  “Don’t move!” Natayl told her a third time. She was frozen solid, all but the wild pounding of her heart. She felt the shafts of the weapons flying up, up. Heat and light bloomed beyond her closed eyes. Still still still. Icy pain held her. A single horrible impact knifed into her ears from every direction at once, and she flinched, but her horse did not.

  In the silence that followed, Natayl’s voice came again. “Lift your head, girl. It’s over.”

  Tabitha’s eyes fluttered open and her chin jerked up. The Hippodrome crowd was cheering. In a ring around her horse, the metal points of dozens of weapons were driven into the ground like stakes.

  “Come to the viewing box now,” Natayl told her.

  The fear holding her finally thawed, replaced by that raging, horrible itch all over her skin. She forced herself to start breathing again. She found she could speak, and she gave the word to tell the horse to walk.

  When the beast moved, she nearly slipped from the saddle again. She tightened her knees on the split pommel and clenched her teeth. The horse delicately stepped over the spearheads, and all the magi between her and the viewing box split apart to make a path through their ranks. Tabitha could not see the faces of the veiled women that she passed, but she heard one of them gasping uncontrollably, and saw another holding one hand hard against her stomach. The faces of the magi men were expressionless, and not a single one of them met her eyes.

  A rogue magus had thrown a spear at Arundel yesterday, while the Eighth and the Ninth were processing through the streets. The man had gotten away. So had he been a rogue, or just one of these magi, practicing? Aiming for her?

  That was outrageous. But what had just happened was outrageous.

  She saw Natayl. He was just below the viewing box, on the dais, awaiting her. The icy needles crawled down her neck, pricking her with horrible itching as her fury rose. “You could have killed me!”

  “You were in no danger.”

  “The women were!”

  “That’s why I told you to stay still. I had complete control of everything else.”

  “Why did you change it?”

  “It made a great show. And you faced another of your fears.”

  “My fears?” Raw, itching force struggled to push its way out of her. She would kill him. She would throw him down to the sands. She would—

  “Control yourself!” His voice hit her like a hammer, and she remembered all the women still on the stadium floor. She could do nothing here, not without risking them the way Natayl had just risked them.

  “You are horrible.” She had never said anything like that to him before.

  “Count on it.” He extended his hand as the horse stopped at the dais.

  She could not think straight. She could not see straight. She was vaguely aware of the dry touch of Natayl’s hand as he helped her climb from the horse to the viewing box. She could see the sorcerers and their magi applauding her, but she could not even acknowledge them. In the third row of chairs was King Motthias, and he gestured to the seat beside him.

  “Incredible, my lady,” he said as she sat numbly down. “Such calm in the face of such a storm! You are a fixed star shining over an unworthy world.”

  She ignored him. She ignored Natayl sitting on the other side of her. Only dear old Nan’s training kept her from screaming in rage.

  How dared he threaten her? How dared he endanger her friends, her cousin, all the magi women, for the sake of a show? And why? Because theirs was the last presentation of the nine, and it had to be memorable? Because he hated her and wanted to punish her? Because the Jasinthe magi had defied him in the past and so many of their women were here? Because he was a hateful old man and cared about nothing?

  It would be hours before she could leave, hours of sitting trapped between the two men she despised most in the world. She wanted to be with her family on the other side of the stadium. She was a Betaul, not a Pravelle, and it was an outrage that these two Pravelles could force her to endure their company, especially after that.

  She itched. Itched at her neck, over her head, down her back. Her magic was stabbing her with thorns and prickles from the inside out. It was ready to burst out of her.

  But she held it in. She held it in. Nan would have been so proud of her. No one, not even Natayl, knew how thinly her poise covered her seething anger. On the surface, she held a wine glass, turned her head back and forth to watch the games that ranged across the stadium floor, and nodded when Natayl or the king said something. But beneath her calm exterior, she let her thoughts howl like the wind.

  The least, the very least Natayl could do for her would be to exchange seats with her. The other two magi who completed the Thendal group in the viewing box were dull, decrepit men who would not try to talk to her. They would certainly not talk past her like the king and Natayl were doing. But of course that was why Natayl had seated her where he had, so that he and the king could talk past her in a condescending and intrusive way that was completely unnecessary since they could speak telepathically. He wanted to show her that she was less than he was.

  What if she simply got up and left? Stood up and excused herself to make water, and then did not return? Or sat down somewhere else? The seat just behind Sorceress Josselin was empty. The maga who had been sitting there certainly would not ask Tabitha to leave when she got back. As the king leaned close to say something else to her, Tabitha seriously considered doing it. The only thing that held her back was that the empty chair was so close to Graegor’s.

  But so what if it was? His presence or absence should not affect her behavior in any way. She spoke to him as she would to any other lord. She was polite and kind, and she did nothing to
discourage or encourage him. She should be able to sit down right next to him and feel only relief that she had escaped her Pravelle enemies.

  She realized that she had been letting her gaze wander toward him, or at least toward that side of the viewing box, rather often. Today he looked somewhat more handsome than before. Something about the riding gear he was wearing today suited him better than any of the formal garb he had worn during this week of rituals and receptions. His light brown hair was mussed, no doubt from the acrobatics he and his horse had performed and that she had not been able to see. She wanted to straighten it. His eyes were such an amazing color. If only he had blonde hair. If only his face had more classic lines, like Alain’s and Nicolas’s.

  At that moment, Graegor looked over his shoulder at her. She smiled at him, a smile exactly like any she would give to anyone who had accidentally caught her eye. Then she looked away. She had to continue to act completely indifferent to him, or Natayl would feel justified in bonding them.

  The king was still talking to her, still undaunted by her silence. Would he ever learn?

  There were races, games, and contests, and some of the feats of climbing and unarmed duels reminded her of Nicolas. She did not let herself daydream about him, because he had not loved her and did not deserve her thoughts, but she did let herself think about the chocolate he had given her. She had tasted chocolate made here on Maze Island, but she did not find it nearly as sweet as his had been. Instead it was spicy, like too much of the food here.

  And the wine was so dry. When the servants from behind the curtain offered her yet another glass, she waved it away and asked for water. Instead they brought her a glass of melting ice. If she had wanted ice she would have asked for ice.

  She held it in. She held everything in. No one would know how much she wished she could leave.

  Near twilight, she was allowed to rise from her place for a moment in order to assist Ilene in giving the winners of the games their laurels. Koren did not join them, and there was some reason for that, but Tabitha neither remembered nor cared. When she took her seat again between Natayl and the king, the king said, “The Khenroxan girl is as timid as a mouse, is she not? And the Medean girl looms like a tree.”