Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  After a short silence, Rond sighed out a breath. “It was a woman. A woman came to us.”

  “When?”

  “Same day … we met Lord Graegor. That afternoon. She came to the room … where we’re staying. Oh, God.” His eyes screwed shut again. “Ahren’s dead. God roast it, God roast it.”

  “Easy.” Contare didn’t give him more than a moment, though. “We have to find who killed him, Rond. We need all the details you can give us. A woman came to your room?”

  “Magi woman. But she was … like a whore. Dressed like one. But she held up … a paper. It said, ‘They’re listening’. Ahren … Ahren let her in. She had more papers. She asked us questions … like a whore would ask … but she held up papers … with other questions. So we … we could … answer out loud ... but answer the questions on the paper too.”

  “Did she say who she thought was listening?” Contare asked.

  “Sorcerers. You. Your magi.”

  Inn room walls were notoriously thin, but such precautions seemed extreme to Graegor. But maybe not, since Contare’s magi had been watching. Had they seen this woman?

  “Who did she say she was?” Contare asked.

  “She said to call her … ‘Haze’,” Rond said. “Like … fog. Said she was part of … a magi group. They wanted to help us get our drawings back. I thought we should … listen to her. She put down the papers and had us sit very close … and whisper. Sometimes … she made a noise … like a whore. Out loud. So no one would listen to us … too closely.”

  “Was she Telgard?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she look like?” Contare asked.

  “About … my age. Long brown hair. Taller than … most women.”

  “Anything particularly distinctive?”

  “Not much chest.”

  “She said she wanted to help you get Brandeis’ drawings back from us?”

  “Right. Ahren asked why. She said she knew … that you … were behind the arrests … of our leaders. That we both … both groups … had reasons to … work against the sorcerers. Ahren said no. He said he would not work … with rogue magi. That Lord Brandeis was worried … that the rogue magi ... were not … acting … for the One.”

  “Did she admit to being with the rogue magi?”

  “She said … rogue magi … not all the same. Some just want … fair treatment. Her group … Telgards only. They wanted … to raid the Hall. Get papers and information … to use against you. She said … they’d get our drawings at the same time.” Rond’s eyes were closed now as exhaustion gradually claimed him.

  “Just a little longer,” Contare said encouragingly, touching Rond’s chest. The man’s eyes popped open again, and Contare prompted, “What did Ahren say to that?”

  “He told her to leave. That we weren’t interested. But I said …” Rond winced. “I asked him if he’d done what Lord Brandeis wanted. Find the people in the pictures. Find out who they are and why they’re important. I asked him if he’d done that yet. I asked him if he trusted the sorcerers to do it for him. He didn’t say anything. I asked the woman … what she needed from us.” His strength seemed to drain from him again, and he sighed. “She said … they needed you, both of you … to be away from the Hall. Distracted for … a few minutes. Blocked from … telepathy. She said they … already had a plan for … Lord Contare. Needed someone … to distract … Lord Graegor.”

  “So you lured me to the fox-den,” Graegor snapped, unable to keep the sudden, fierce anger from his voice. “Even though Lady Tabitha insisted on coming with us. You led us into a trap.”

  Rond shook his head, his eyes closing. “Just supposed to … distract you. No danger. Haze was … with me … when I saw you … come out of the play … with Lady Tabitha.”

  “How’d you know I’d be there?”

  “Haze knew … you go to the theater. On Windsday. I didn’t … didn’t realize … you’d be with the sorceress. I wanted to … find you later. By yourself. But Haze said, ‘Go ahead.’ She said … that the sorceress should come too. So she’d be … out of the Hall. I didn’t … I never thought … any danger. Especially … to sorcerers. You … are danger. Not in danger.”

  You are danger.

  You will burn the world.

  You are dying and you know it.

  “They used you as bait,” Contare said solemnly. “Bait isn’t meant to survive.”

  Rond sighed again. “I know. Ahren … dead. My fault.”

  “Their fault.”

  “Wouldn’t have been there … if I hadn’t … talked him into it. My fault.”

  Contare touched Rond’s forehead. “All right. Sleep now.”

  “My fault,” Rond murmured again.

  “Sleep,” Contare commanded quietly, and Rond’s eyes closed.

  Contare watched him for a few moments. Then he looked over at Graegor. “What do you think?”

  Graegor slowly shook his head. “He’s not lying. I don’t need magic to know that. And he and Ahren weren’t just caught in the trap. They were meant to die. Disappear.”

  Contare nodded.

  “And then the rogues would tell Brandeis that they died by our hands,” Graegor guessed. “They want to turn Brandeis and his followers against us.”

  “Perhaps. But the rogues don’t understand Brandeis’s devotion to the One.”

  Graegor himself didn’t understand Brandeis’s devotion to the One. “What will Brandeis do?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “When Rond goes back to Orest and tells Brandeis what really happened, maybe he’ll listen. Maybe Brandeis will agree to work with us since we saved Rond’s life.”

  Contare leaned his elbows on his knees again and stared into the middle distance. “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe not,” Graegor reconsidered, “since we didn’t save Ahren’s.” Who knew what Rond would do, once he’d thought through what had happened? Maybe he would decide that it was Graegor’s fault that Ahren was dead, and therefore Graegor couldn’t be the One. Maybe he would convince Brandeis. Would Brandeis then set all his followers against the sorcerers? Join the rogue magi?

  The woman. Rond had spoken to a rogue maga. He’d seen her face and would recognize her if he saw her again. Contare’s magi might have even caught a glimpse of her while they were watching the heretics’ inn. “What about the woman?” he asked Contare. “Do you have any idea who she was? Is?”

  “‘Haze’?” Contare repeated the name Rond had given. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Do you think we can find her?”

  “The city’s sealed.”

  Graegor nodded understanding. All the gates closed at the twenty-first bell each night, and they didn’t open again before the fifth bell the next morning. Contare had undoubtedly sent word to the city guard that no exceptions were to be made tonight, and that the gates would remain closed until the Circle decided to open them. But … “Even the secret exits?”

  “The what?”

  “My friends told me rumors of secret ways out of the city.”

  “We know about all of them. We just let people think we don’t.” Contare gestured toward the basement again. “Like these rooms.”

  Graegor heard a door close somewhere above him, and more than one pair of footsteps. “Is someone else here besides Lord Henrey?”

  “Darren and Lania are searching the house. Henrey is looking at the ceiling of the basement.”

  “The rogues couldn’t have put those blades there without the lessees knowing about it.” Graegor searched his mind for the name. “The Crane family. They must have known.”

  “I agree.” Contare let out an edge of anger with those two words. “Varrhon is looking for a renovation permit now.”

  Graegor had been to the records vault beneath the Hall several times. Without Magus Lobunat, the records-master, to point him in the right direction—over and over again—he never would have found anything. “Won’t that take a long time?”

  “Not for him, n
o.”

  “Are the Cranes still here? In the city?”

  “Josselin is trying to track them down.”

  “But the rogues, the attackers, they got away. Stan said he lost them.”

  “I have ten magi on the streets trying to find them.” Contare made another gesture toward the basement. “A few more are on their way here to take care of Ahren’s body, and to help us clean up all this.”

  “Clean up. Jeh. I need to do that.” Graegor held out his hands and forearms. They were bloody, sticky, and absolutely disgusting. “Is the water pump inside or outside?”

  “Inside. But give your leg another moment or two.”

  “I’m all right,” Graegor said, even though his body still felt like a dead weight.

  “You don’t sound all right yet.”

  “I suppose I sound a bit tired.”

  “Actually, you sound a bit drunk,” Contare said.

  Graegor laughed weakly. “I wish I were. It’s more fun.”

  “Sorry. Not tonight. Jeffrei is on his way with some food and clean clothes for you.”

  “You woke him up?”

  “I woke everybody up.” Contare stood up, pressing his hands into the small of his back, but then he looked down at Rond again. He paused for a long time before saying suddenly, “I need those other drawings. The ones of you, Koren, and Ferogin as children.”

  “Maybe Rond can convince Brandeis to send them.”

  Contare nodded slowly. After another long pause, and evidently several connected thoughts, he said, “The magus in your home village.”

  “Magus Paul?”

  “I want to look closer.”

  “Should I send him another letter?” Magus Paul had not answered Graegor’s first letter, or his second. Contare’s magi had reported that the man did not appear to be in regular contact with any other magi, which was itself strange, even a little suspicious, but not proof of anything at all.

  “Please. I’ll send Hugh to deliver it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yet again Contare slipped into silent thought. Then he said, “I’d like you to try to extend your sight again. You’ve been following animals with it. Maybe you can …”

  Graegor waited, then suggested, “Follow the rogues?”

  “It’s worth a try.” The blue-white light above Contare’s head had dimmed noticeably, and now it fought with the yellow light of the lamp to cast shadows on the empty walls. The old man’s hair gleamed silver and white, but his face looked longer, and the wrinkles on his forehead and near his eyes were deeper and sadder.

  “I’m sorry,” Graegor whispered. He didn’t know for what. He just knew that he kept bringing pain to this kind, good man. Throughout Graegor’s childhood, this man had been only a name, as distant and revered as a king or a saint, but now he felt closer, more real to Graegor than his own father ever had.

  For a moment it didn’t seem that Contare had heard him, but then he nodded, smiling a little. “I knew you would be.”

  Graegor waited for him to explain, but he didn’t. Instead he stood taller, and Graegor could sense his renewed strength, drawn from somewhere Graegor hadn’t found in himself yet. “Water,” he said. “Let’s pump some water.”

  Chapter 9

  A night market not far down the next street was defying the nip of the wind. In the dark carriage, Tabitha’s whirling thoughts momentarily slowed as she listened to the string music, the hawkers, and the rising and falling laughter from the lively neighborhood.

  Turn, she thought at the driver, though she had no telepathic connection with him. Turn down that street. She wanted to smell spices instead of drying blood, and hear pretty songs instead of Natayl’s shouting.

  She should not have left Graegor. He was still in pain. That spearhead in his leg.

  But she had started the day intending to put a spear in his heart.

  She had rehearsed her speech in her mind over and over. She could still recite it. It was a calm explanation that they were honestly too different, as people, to be happy together. She had been bracing herself all night for the confrontation, steeling herself to remain unaffected by anything he might do, say, or feel to try to win her back.

  But how could she be unaffected by what had just happened? Death from above had revealed his belief in her. And his belief in her was so strong, as strong as his power surging alongside hers, that she suddenly believed in her own strength. His soft, heavy warmth did not smother her, it heated her, like the bellows of a fire. And she suddenly found him very attractive.

  But he had never been with a girl. That meant she could never tell him about Alain or Nicholas.

  The street music faded behind her, and the carriage rocked as the wheel hit a missing cobblestone. Her seat swayed, exactly like her emotions had swayed over the past days. Anxiety about hosting the perfect Winter Solstice gathering had smoothed into satisfaction at the party’s height, only to crash into a brick wall of rage when Graegor had decided that Koren needed his help to chase off Ferogin.

  It was Ferogin’s fault, not his. Ferogin attacked him.

  It had been very gratifying to watch Natayl shout at someone else for a change.

  Tabitha’s arm flared with pain, and she realized that her other hand was pressing it, searching for the purple pearl bracelet, Graegor’s bracelet, that was stuck to her glove by her blood. She released it, and she took a deep breath. Fields of flowers, petals closing.

  Her magic still made her itch, even when she used it to stop pain. She did not understand that. Itching was a kind of pain, an irritation of the nerves.

  Fields of flowers, petals closing. Petals closing.

  Maga Rollana had never taught her anything like that. To that dry stick of a woman, healing was about the names of bones, muscles, and arteries. But it was so obvious that controlling pain had to come first. Graegor had showed her how to do it, with complete belief that she could do it. Unlike every other male she had ever met, he did not assume she was weaker than he was.

  She was strong enough to fight. She had just survived an assassination attempt. They had tried to kill her and Graegor. They had drawn blood. She could not hold back a shudder as she remembered the searing pain of the blade stabbing her. She had been frightened, very frightened, itching and sweating, but she had made a shield of magic. She had not cowered in her chair like she had at the Hippodrome. This time, when the rogues had attacked, she had fought.

  How could the rogues believe that they could kill sorcerers? They had not even come close. She and Graegor had fought them, pushed back their blades. When their attack had failed against the combined shields of two sorcerers, they had fled.

  Fled where, though? They had escaped. She should not have left that house. Graegor was in pain, and they had to find the rogue magi. But even Contare, sweet and grandfatherly Contare, obviously believed she was too weak to be useful in a crisis. When he had said, “Natayl wants you home as soon as possible,” he had meant that he himself wanted her out of the way.

  She had not argued with him because she had never argued with the men deciding her fate. She had always retreated. She was expected to retreat. Women always did.

  Not always. Josselin most certainly did not. And nearly two dozen magi women had pledged to Tabitha—highborn ladies, simple holy sisters, and former servants. They had all stood their ground.

  She thought of Isabelle, and realized that her cousin was awake right now. She thought about calling to her to find out how angry Natayl was. But the fact that Isabelle was awake meant that Natayl had roused the entire household, and that told Tabitha all she needed to know.

  Go back to the fox-den, she wanted to tell the driver. Graegor was still in pain. Fields of flowers, petals closing. She could help him control the pain like he had helped her.

  She, Tabitha de Betaul, had been stabbed with a spear. A spear, a weapon, like in battle.

  She suddenly realized that just like Graegor, the rogues had treated her as his equal. They feared her power as
much as they feared his. They had not held back because she was a woman.

  Men had never feared her before. They had feared her father or Natayl. It was not about what she could do, but about what they could do on her behalf.

  We’re sorcerers, Graegor had said. We can do anything.

  I can do anything.

  But could she do what she most wanted to do? Could she keep her secrets from him?

  She remembered Josselin’s words very clearly. “It is difficult, though not impossible, for sorcerers to shield thoughts from other sorcerers while in bed.”

  Difficult. Not impossible.

  Since the party, Tabitha had spent days agonizing over what to do about him. It had made her miserable, leading to sudden outbursts at the servants and spiteful comments to her friends. She had wanted to confide in Isabelle, Clementa, someone to help her decide, but she could not tell them the truth, and she already knew what they would say. They all liked him too much.

  Finally, this morning, after dreaming about Alain, she had decided that she could not run the risk of sleeping with Graegor. And if she could not sleep with him, they had no future. So the responsible thing to do was to end the romance now.

  The hooves of the two horses pulling the carriage clopped on the cobblestones in regular rhythm. One of the carriage wheels needed to be oiled, since it squeaked loudly at one point in its revolution.

  Clop clop clop squeak. Clop clop clop squeak.

  By the time Graegor had arrived to take her to the theater tonight, her nerves had been stretched so tight she could have plucked them like a harp. Her nerves were still stretched tight, but for much different reasons.

  She could feel the points of the bracelet’s teardrop pearls pushing against her forearm. She had worn the bracelet tonight, even though it did not match her outfit, so that she could give it back to Graegor. She had not wanted to give it back, since she liked how pearls felt against her skin. The lovely necklace of smaller pearls, colored all shades of blue, that the Telgard ambassador had given her years ago was still one of her most prized possessions. But giving Graegor’s bracelet back would be a symbol, a sign that she was serious about ending their romance.