Tabitha ignored him. He paused, then leaned closer to her, much too close, close enough for her to smell his breath, and he murmured, “Please, my lady. Please forgive any and all offenses I may have unwittingly given you. You are the sorceress and I am the king, a magi king. We should be relaxed with each other.”
Relaxed! “We are not friends, your Majesty.”
“I hope someday we will be.” He waited another moment, then sat back. Tabitha seethed. Did he think she could not see what he wanted?
She welcomed the fireworks. She did not care how fantastic they were, but they meant the day was almost done. Soon she would be back at the townhouse with her family, eating soft bread and butter and listening to Pamela gush about the presentations. Her father and Lord Daniel would talk about the purebred horses, and Beatris and Count Sebastene would ask questions about how the swans were trained, or something like that. Isabelle would still be angry at Natayl for putting her and everyone else in danger, and she and Tabitha would work up a good rant about it and call the old sorcerer every bad name ever invented. Soon. In just a short time now, everything would be over and she could escape.
A blinding burst of red light leaped at her with a sizzling crack and tore a burning path past her head. She ducked, instinct and fear sending her to the floor in front of her chair as the noise of screams and impacts filled her ears. She covered her head with her arms and curled up her legs and tried to block it all out, but it was filling her mind, so many minds flailing against hers, panic and fear and confusion and rage holding onto her, suffocating her, while prickles and thorns tore across her back.
“Girl!” Natayl’s voice cut through everything. “Get to Motthias!”
She had no idea what he meant. An image of the king appeared in her mind, lying on his back with his chair overturned beside him, blood all over his face and neck and chest. “Cover the artery!” Natayl shouted in her head. “I will be there, just hold it down!”
“But—”
“Do it!” His presence vanished.
Tabitha tried to ignore the noise. She stared at the floor as she got to her hands and knees, and stared at the chair leg to figure out where she was. Crawling, she saw another chair leg, and then she saw the king, and she shrieked. There was blood everywhere, it covered his throat, it covered the floor, he was burned and bloody and he was making a horrible sound. Her hands shook and her stomach twisted, and she wanted to stop staring but she could not tear her eyes away.
“Idiot!” Natayl shouted as he landed on his knees by the king’s head and clamped his hands over the streaming blood. “You stupid little bitch!” His eyes closed as he sank into a healing trance, and Tabitha scrambled backward to get away from them both. Her shoulder bumped against her chair, and she climbed up into it with her legs tucked under her like a child. The blood was horrible, but even more horrible was how she could not look away from it. She clutched the arm of the chair with both hands, but still they shook. So much shouting all around her, so much noise, so many minds tearing themselves apart. It hurt.
Assassination. Her father had warned her. Had the king been attacked or the sorcerers? Had they been aiming for her?
Suddenly she felt the soft warmth of one mind settle over her, like a blanket on the summer grass. With a trembling breath, she closed her eyes, and the blood went away. It let her go. She turned away from Natayl and the king and looked up at Graegor.
His bright blue eyes were wide with worry for her. His magic was so strong, like a huge shield covering her. Nothing could reach her, nothing could touch her. In a daze, she watched his fingers brush her sleeve. She started to lift her hand toward him.
Then Natayl loomed over her and shouted at her, and she shrank away from him. He was covered in blood, the king’s blood. The king was dead. The king was dead and Natayl blamed her. As his murderous fury hit her, his shouting was the smallest piece of his assault, and she stopped breathing as his mind battered hers.
Then Graegor stepped closer to her and snarled at Natayl. His power shielded her from the old man, but its soft warmth had turned vast, as if it could swallow her whole. It could. It had touched the Eternal Flame in Chrenste, and had changed it. He could already wield earth magic. His magic could engulf the stadium. It could engulf the entire city.
She could never stand against him. She could never protect her mind from his. She was caught between a sorcerer who could rip out her throat and another who could spill out her secrets, and she could do nothing. Nothing. Her power meant nothing. She was stupid and weak and useless. Her father would be so ashamed of her. She ducked her head against the back of her chair and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out Natayl, Graegor, the king, the noise, the night, the world.
She trembled so violently she thought she would shatter, and her breaths were coming short and shallow. Everyone and everything had to go away, just go away.
Leave me alone.
Leave me alone.
Over and over, like a prayer or a spell.
Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
Tabitha startled awake. She realized that she had actually fallen asleep while kneeling in front of the altar, in front of the altar of the Basilica Ecumenica of Saint Davidon’s Word. For how long? Please, not long. She hoped no one had noticed. She glanced left, then right. She was still alone at the rail. By the low voices, it seemed everyone else was still behind her, near the benches.
She felt exhausted. She had been awake all through the previous night, and so much had happened today. So much bad had happened today.
She stared dully through the golden bars that set apart the sanctum. The king’s coffin had been placed over the well before the altar. This basilica, strictly speaking, was a Telgard basilica, since the current Archpriest was Telgard, but it did have a well. She had been surprised to learn that only Thendal L’Abbanists always included a well in their chapels, cloisters, and basilicas. Where did other L’Abbanists get holy water, if not from a wellspring beneath the altar?
The well was appropriate, but the coffin itself was not. It was made of fine-grained wood with steel trim and mother-of-pearl inlay, suitable for a wealthy man or a minor lord. It did not look much different from Alain’s, she realized. The basilica did not have on hand anything like a true lhamors’an, with its great size and jeweled locks and bands of precious metals. The priests back in Tiaulon were probably building one right now, so that the king could be put to his final rest in a coffin fit for magi royalty.
She wondered what words, exactly, Natayl had used when he had contacted his magus in Tiaulon to report King Motthias’s death. Had he placed all the blame on the rogue magi who had seized control of the fireworks? Or had he included the detail that Tabitha had not saved the king’s life when she could have?
Except she could not have. Even if she had put her hands into all that blood, she could not have found the artery, and she certainly could not have held it closed. Here in the basilica, where God watched everyone most closely and heard prayers most clearly, Tabitha tried to be honest with herself. She truly did not think she could have saved the king.
It was Natayl’s fault. It had been his choice. The king was dead because Natayl had chosen to heal Lord Lasfe’s terrible burns instead. There was nothing Tabitha herself could have done.
Could I have saved my father, if it had been him?
She flinched. Her family was safe. Nothing had happened to them. The rogue magi had not attacked the crowd, only the sorcerers’ viewing box.
Lord Lasfe had nearly died.
She flinched again. You are dying and you know it. The rogue magus had said that. He had looked directly at Graegor and said it. It was you who touched the Flame. You are dying and you know it. The time of the sorcerers draws to an end.
Her hands trembled. To distract herself, she risked a glance over her shoulder. Natayl’s hushed voice was fierce, and he and the purple-clad Duke of Jasinde were looking at each other angrily. Beside them stood one of the king’s Pra
velle cousins, rage making his face nearly as red as his surcoat. Her father stood slightly apart, his arms folded over his chest, watching, and the magi Archpriest stood nearby, very short and very nervous. Since no one had had a chance to change clothes, they all looked untidy and uncomfortable.
No one except Natayl, that is. He wore plain magi grey, since his formal robes had been completely soaked in blood.
Tabitha looked away. From here, beneath the largest of the five domes, she could see the basilica’s entire interior, and the place seemed even grander when it was nearly empty like this. The floors were of marble quarried in Thendalia, the benches were built from Khenroxan white oak, the tall tapestries were of Telgard weave, and the geometric carvings at the tops of the domes were in the Adelard style. From there her eyes drifted to the golden Godcircle over the altar, and this, at least, had no kingdom’s stamp. Every single L’Abbanist chapel, cloister, and basilica in the world suspended a Godcircle over its altar, and the Godcircle was always gold, even if it was only gold wire or gold leaf over wood. This one, of course, was solid gold, and the thaumat’argent cords that held it from four points of the domed ceiling had spells to reinforce them so that it would never fall.
No flame burned at the top of this basilica, which had surprised her. In Thendalia, every basilica burned a flame in honor of the Eternal Flame in Telgardia’s capital city, but in the other L’Abbanist kingdoms, it was not always done. Count Sebastene had told her that since the Eternal Flame was now purple, the priests in Tiaulon were debating about whether or not to add chemicals to their basilica’s flames, and even to the little racks of Lord Abban’s Lights, to make them appear purple. He had said that most priests had very strong opinions for or against the idea.
It was because of what Graegor had done. He had touched the Eternal Flame. People in all the L’Abbanist kingdoms were arguing about what it meant, but the rogue magi thought it was a sign that the time of the sorcerers was over. What if they were right?
No. They could not be right. The power she had sensed from Graegor was too vast, too solid. He had stood against Natayl without any hesitation. How could someone with that much power, that much strength, be the same kind, self-effacing boy who so clearly, so desperately wanted to talk to her? She knew that he could learn her secrets if anyone could, but she could not imagine that he would ever presume to try.
So different from Natayl. So different from the king.
Beatris had once said that no one should be glad when someone else was dead. But Tabitha was glad that Motthias was dead. He was a horrible person and a terrible king. Even if his death threw Thendalia into chaos, as Natayl obviously feared it would, she could not bring herself to regret it.
Does that make me a horrible person and a terrible sorceress?
No. It was not her fault. None of this was her fault.
“Lady Sorceress?”
The Archpriest had approached her. She made the sign of the Godcircle, got to her feet, and nodded. “My Lord Archpriest.”
The little man bobbed his dark head. He still seemed anxious, but he spoke to her calmly enough. “I am told that Maga Attarine Jasinthe begs leave to speak to you most urgently.” He gestured toward the central aisle, where an acolyte stood at the far door, holding it halfway open.
“Yes, my lord.” Instinctively, she looked at her father for permission to withdraw, and he instinctively nodded to grant it. She heard Natayl snort as she left. He did not like to be reminded of her obvious loyalties.
When she reached the door, the acolyte bowed to her and led her across the basilica’s cavernous anteroom to another door. This led to the lamplit foyer of the holy sisters’ cloister, and while the acolyte held the door for her, he did not enter. When she did, she was surprised to see the foyer filled with more than twenty magi women, waiting for her. Attarine, Clementa, Velinda, and Isabelle were there, as well as other Academy students she knew. She saw Maga Desimall and other women who had been in the presentation that day, including some holy sisters. Nobody was smiling. The door closed behind her, and Tabitha suddenly wondered why Attarine had asked her to come. She had been so relieved to escape the old men that she had not thought about it.
“Lady Attarine,” she said to her friend, nodding formally. “You asked to speak to me.”
Attarine’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, my lady. We …” She stopped, and started over in Thendalian. “My lady, Maga Clementa will speak for us, if you will permit.”
Tabitha looked at Clementa, whose serious expression gave nothing away. “Maga Clementa?”
Clementa nodded. “Forgive us, my lady. Lady Attarine is of the Jasinthe family, the highest-ranking house among us, and whose magi ladies, you have no doubt noticed, are all here. We made our request to you in her name to emphasize the fact that we would not interrupt you with anything trivial.”
“I understand,” Tabitha said, nodding stiffly as icy tingles spread across her neck. Every woman in the room was staring intently at her, as if judging each of her words. Did they think she had killed the king? “Is this about his Majesty?”
Clementa dipped her head in respect. “May Lord God bring peace to his Majesty. But no. We need to ask you a single question, Lady Sorceress.”
They want to know more about the rogue magi attack. They want to know if any loyal magi were involved. “Then ask.”
“My lady, did you know what the Lord Sorcerer had planned for the presentation?”
“No!” Tabitha was stunned. She could not believe Clementa could ask such a thing. “Of course not! If I had known I would have warned you!”
“I believe you,” Clementa said, more softly. “But I am privileged to know you. Most of these magi don’t. The Lord Sorcerer put us in danger today, and we need to know if you had any hint of what was to happen.”
“I did not. Lord Natayl told me nothing.” And this should come as no surprise to you, she added, fiercely but silently, since you know full well that he has been leaving me in the dark ever since I came here!
“Lady Tabitha.” Isabelle had her arms folded across her chest, and she had the raised eyebrows of someone who was not convinced. “You don’t have telepathic links with any of us, but you do have one with Lord Natayl.” She glanced at Clementa, then added, just as boldly, “If you don’t trust us enough to speak with us mind-to-mind, then we can’t trust what you say.”
How dare you. Tabitha took a breath, but Clementa spoke too quickly. “My lady, we mean no offense, no offense at all. We are not questioning your integrity. This is simply too important, and we need to be absolutely sure. If you would allow telepathy with just one of us, it will reassure everyone that we can put our trust in you.”
No one spoke. Everyone watched her. Tabitha looked from face to face, and she saw Clementa’s confidence, Isabelle’s skepticism, Attarine’s and Velinda’s hope, and everything in between. They wanted to trust her. They wanted to respect her. They wanted to be certain that she would never play games with their lives as Natayl had done.
They had the right to be certain. She was their sorceress, and somehow, she had to make her telepathy work with them. She had tried before and failed, but she could not fail now. She needed friends and allies, and she could not afford to alienate these women.
Besides, it was right.
Natayl talks to me telepathically but does not know my secrets. Graegor is bonded to me but does not know my secrets. If she could hide her whoring and murdering from sorcerers, she could certainly hide those sins from magi, right?
Did they realize that? Did they know that telepathic assurances from her might mean nothing?
It was not prudent to point it out. “I am afraid,” she said slowly. Everyone expected women to be afraid, even other women. “I hate how Lord Natayl’s mind feels. I hate how he can learn things from me that I don’t intend. I am afraid that if I open my mind to anyone else, the same thing will happen.”
“You are a sorceress,” Clementa said. “We are magi. You have nothing to fear from
us.”
She knew how to answer that. “And you have nothing to fear from me.”
Clementa bowed her head. “Thank you, my lady. You have always been unfailingly kind.”
Tabitha hoped that she could hide the truth of that from mere magi as well. “I will bond with one of you. I hope that I can put to rest all doubts that I was as surprised as you were at what happened today.”
A hint of relief crept into Clementa’s voice as she said, “As you say, my lady. Which of us should come forward?”
Tabitha wanted to pick Clementa herself, but she knew that that would not satisfy Isabelle or the older magi. “You ladies must choose,” she said. “I believe that in due time, I will have telepathic connections with all of you, so I will be content no matter who it is.”
Isabelle looked surprised, which served her right. Clementa nodded. “We will confer, my lady.”
No one moved. Tabitha watched as their expressions turned distracted, focusing on inward conversations, or perhaps just one inward conversation, that did not include her. Even Isabelle’s eyes went distant. When had she made telepathic connections with these women, and why had Tabitha not known about it?
Clementa looked back at Tabitha and nodded once again. “My lady, thank you for your patience. We have decided. It will be Maga Elinore, the eldest and wisest among us. Is this acceptable to you?”
“It is.” Her eyes found Maga Elinore in the middle of the crowd, and the women shifted aside to allow the holy sister to come to the front. She was the one who had volunteered to let Isabelle take her place in the presentation. She had lived on Maze Island all her ninety years and had run her cloister’s hospital for half her life. Despite her shuffling steps, she had a proud bearing. “Maga Elinore,” Tabitha nodded to her. “I hope you are well.”
Icestorm Page 40
