Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Tabitha had not tolerated any gossip about Marjorie from anyone in Cuan Searla. She had made two examples of her displeasure, very early and very publicly, and those ladies, who were no doubt friends of Lady Plaimin, had not attended any events since then. Tabitha had insisted that Marjorie join her and her other friends during the planning, sewing, staging, and rehearsing, and Marjorie had been willing, though she had remained very quiet in manner and dress. She had retired early from the maidens’ banquet, from the prenuptial supper, and from tonight’s feasting, and Tabitha had not been pleased to see how little she ate. But Marjorie was not asking to return to the cloister, and that was enough for now. Tabitha would not allow that to happen. She was still angry enough at the Elder Mother that she had refused to allow the cloister’s choir to accompany her when she sang at the wedding ceremony.

  Now all the work was done and all the formalities were finished, so only feasting, dancing, and laughter remained. Tabitha had danced with every male guest who mattered, but now her cheeks were threatening to flush. She would not be so undignified as to sweat, so as the music rolled to a stop, she decided it was time for her to stop as well. She had grown accustomed to clothing of lighter fabric and layering on Maze Island, so the traditional gown, cap, and veil she wore felt more confining than she remembered. The sapphire hues of Betaul blue overlaid with a scatter of glittering crystals weighed her down in a way that was no less real for being invisible to everyone else. If she wanted her discomfort to remain invisible, she had better sit and relax for a while.

  Just off the dance floor, she saw Lord Plaimin, but he pretended not to see her. Ever since the incident at the cloister, he had tried to hide from her. Lady Plaimin was not here at all tonight, pleading illness, which was no surprise, since Tabitha had been repeatedly asking after her daughter. Nan would not have approved of that kind of fun, and in fact would have scolded Tabitha for scaring people. But the result was that all the nobility of Cuan Searla had gotten both messages. Marjorie was off limits, and Tabitha would not play courtly word games of insult and retaliation with them. She did not need to. They were not her peers.

  It had not stopped the flirting, flattery, and seeking favor, of course. But none of that had ever bothered her.

  Only one person here was not afraid of her at all, and she would not have it any other way. She had not been able to spend much time with her father, since, naturally, he had not been as involved in the wedding preparations as she, and those had taken up nearly all her time. Now she swept her eyes from one side of the castle’s ballroom to the other, wondering where he was. He would not have retired yet, would he? It was still relatively early.

  As she idly searched, moving gracefully through the guests, exchanging smiles and nods, her gaze lingered on two or three very handsome young men. She had grown accustomed to seeing men and women of all races on Maze Island, but in her heart, and with a guilty thought of Graegor, she still found her own people to be the most attractive. Tall, light-skinned, light-haired, with lean, elegant faces and forms, to her they epitomized the union of poise and strength.

  Her father still had both qualities as he aged. She saw him sitting with two other lords in comfortable chairs on one of the small balconies that framed the room. Dark brown velvet draperies covered the tall windows behind them, and the stone floor was richly carpeted. The stylized Betaul swan on her father’s silken tabard shone cream-white in the light of the hanging candelabra. She was a little worried about the silver overtaking the gold in his hair, but was quite glad that he had not lost more of it. His beard was exactly as it had been for years, thick but short and neatly trimmed. As she glided up the short flight of stairs, all three men rose from their seats and bowed, and the bloodhound lying in front of her father also got up, its ears twitching warily at her. The other two lords politely excused themselves, and Tabitha sank into the oversized seat on her father’s left.

  “So it is done,” she said with satisfaction. “Pamela and Daniel are married.”

  “It is done,” her father agreed as he resumed his seat and leaned forward to scratch the dog’s ears. Tabitha followed his gaze out to the floor, where Pamela was leading a traditional folk dance with her older brother. She looked so lovely, exactly as a bride should. Her gown was of a very traditional cut, of course, with sweeping skirts, a high neck, long, dagged sleeves, and a floor-length veil. But in addition to the different hues of white and gold, panels of spring green made the entire ensemble young and stylish. The look on Daniel’s face when he had first seen Pamela at the ceremony had been extremely satisfying.

  A servingman appeared behind them. He set a flute of white wine on the little table at Tabitha’s elbow, topped her father’s mug with dark ale, and faded back. Tabitha took a sip and made a face, which her father saw. “No good?”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Too dry?” When she nodded and put the glass back, he asked, “What about the wine I sent you for your birthday?”

  “I brought it to the Equinox party for my magi. It drew many compliments.”

  He nodded and let the matter drop. She felt a little bad about it, since he had obviously taken some care to find a vintage she would like, but really, he should have known better than to try. She did not like many wines, and sorcerers did not even celebrate birthdays.

  The servingman returned and replaced the flute of wine with a goblet of water. Tabitha sipped decorously, though her throat felt dry and she would rather have gulped it all down so it could start cooling her from the inside out. She could feel sweat at her neck and the small of her back, and also at her wrist, where she wore her new bracelet with pearls in purest Betaul blue. Graegor had given it to her just before she had left. She slid it up her arm a little to give her slick skin some air.

  “How is Lord Natayl?” her father asked.

  He had asked that when he had first arrived, of course, but she knew what he meant now. He wanted her to speak truly. “Difficult.” That was probably the best way to say it, because she would never say that Natayl made her cower.

  “But you are doing well, obviously. He can’t complain about your talent. The fireworks were stunning.”

  “The pyrokinetics did go well,” she agreed. “But Isabelle and Clementa handled most of them. I was concentrating on Pamela’s tiara.”

  “Ah, yes.” His expression suggested he had been impressed with the live flames that had danced glowing colors around Pamela’s dark hair. “As I say, he can’t complain about your talent.”

  Tabitha sighed and smoothed a fold of her heavy skirt. “Nothing is ever good enough.” At her father’s slight frown, she added, “Nothing from anyone is good enough for him.”

  “Well, I am not surprised that he expects a lot from you.”

  “He expects too much from me,” she muttered. “He seems to think that I should know things without being taught.”

  “Things? You mean magic?”

  “Magic, yes, but also Mazespaak words I had not heard before, or events in history I have not yet studied.” It was too warm on this balcony. Her cheeks were flushed. “He contradicts my tutors. He gets annoyed if I don’t understand something he says.”

  Her father lifted his eyebrows. “I remember being annoyed with you on occasion myself.”

  “It’s different.” When he still seemed unconvinced, she blurted, “He hates me, Father.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  He did not believe her. Josselin had believed her, but then, Josselin knew Natayl. Tabitha thought about revealing the proof, that Natayl had struck her down to her knees for disobeying him, but she would not admit such weakness. Instead she said, “I feel like he is furious at everything, but he is unloading all that bitterness onto me.”

  “Who else is strong enough?”

  Tabitha blinked. Her father took a drink of his ale, still looking at her. It took a while for her to think of how to answer. “There are eight other sorcerers of his generation, and all of them are strong enough.”

&nb
sp; He conceded her point with a tilt of his mug. “Still, you might try not taking it so personally.”

  Josselin had said much the same thing. Tabitha just did not know how.

  “After all,” her father said, gesturing vaguely, “it might be a way to … bring your magic forth. You can’t forge a sword without heat.”

  “He has never said anything like that.” In fact, Graegor had said that it worked the other way, that trying to force magic could inhibit it.

  Her father settled back in his chair, unperturbed. “I am sure you know better than I do.”

  In this case, I do. She did not want to continue the argument. This chair was nice. If she could manage to cover her feet with her skirts and slip off her shoes, she might actually be comfortable. “What about you, Father? How are you, truly?”

  He took a long drink. “Enjoying my irrelevance,” he said when he finished.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the court believes that Othot will inherit now,” he explained, “so they bother him with their schemes.”

  Tabitha made a face. More insults. “You should have pushed for the regency.”

  “And who would have supported me?”

  She had no answer for that. When King Motthias had died on Maze Island, his in-absence regency council back in Thendalia had been obligated to nominate candidates for the permanent regency council. The three cronies Motthias had chosen for the in-absence council had all believed that Tabitha’s position as the new sorceress gave the Betauls too much power already, and her father had not even put himself forth as a candidate. “There should have been a way,” she murmured finally.

  “No. I never intended to get in the middle of that mess. That’s why I went home right after the coronation.”

  She sniffed. “That does not mean they should disregard you. They should have more respect.”

  “They have plenty of respect. All I get from the peerage these days is empty respect.”

  He did not sound upset about it, but Tabitha hardly thought that her father enjoyed thinking himself powerless. “So are you attending court this year at all?”

  He shrugged. “Seems a waste of time when I have patrols to sail, and the only time anyone actually speaks to me is if they want something from you.”

  “But you have not asked me for anything on anyone’s behalf.”

  “I would not be much of a gatekeeper if I did.” He lifted his mug in a sardonic toast.

  She did not like this new attitude of his, and decided that he could not be truly serious. Maybe he had had a bit too much ale tonight. She looked back over the ballroom floor and stated firmly, “Things will change.”

  When her father’s ship had arrived in Cuan Searla, the day after hers, she had made the decision to give him the charm. It meant trusting Ferogin in three ways: that he was telling the truth that he had cast the spell and had not, as Josselin surmised, found an old one of Staziec’s; that he had the skill to cast the spell safely and effectively; and that his ultimate motive was that he wanted her to owe him a favor. After brooding over how much of this to reveal to her father, Tabitha had told him that this new charm was very powerful and could even be dangerous, which was why it had taken her months to obtain it. She had explained how to extract it and told him to be careful when he used it, and they had not spoken of it since.

  She hoped they would never need to speak of it. The charm would work, and her father would marry and have a son. Then Othot would be left with nothing of Betaul, and the court would consider Duke Etienn a powerful force in the kingdom again, as they should. The Betaul bloodline would not die, not now, not ever.

  “Othot may be taking the opportunity to visit,” her father said then.

  “Visit?”

  “Betaul Keep,” he clarified.

  “But why?”

  “To throw his weight around. He’s done it before, when I’ve been gone.”

  She was startled. “You never told me that.”

  He shrugged. “They all handle it well. There’s an art to subtle sabotage.”

  “Even the kennel master?” The kennel master, just like the other masters, and Tabitha, and her father, and everyone else who had endured Othot’s first visit to Betaul years ago, knew that Othot did not like dogs, and that the feeling was mutual. Tabitha smiled and added, “I doubt his sabotage is particularly subtle.”

  She was pleased that this actually made her father laugh. “No,” he agreed, leaning forward to scratch his dog’s ears again. “Not particularly.”

  “I wonder how the queen’s little Kifims tolerate Othot.”

  “Probably quite well. Kifims are more weasel than dog.”

  Now she laughed, and she allowed herself to take a long drink of her water. She wished it had ice in it. “The queen’s favorites change so often, I am surprised Othot has lingered in her good graces for as long as he has.” She managed to kick off one of her shoes. They always felt too tight after she danced.

  “So he is still in her good graces?”

  “He was, the last I heard, although I don’t think my information is always reliable or current. The queen herself never writes to me.”

  Her father gave her a disappointed look, but relaxed back into his chair and picked up his mug again. “From what I have heard, the queen is having a difficult time of it. She controls access to her son, but the regents are increasingly acting on their own, and when it comes time for her to have the new baby, it will be even harder for her to maintain her grip on any power.”

  Tabitha nodded, as if she had known at least some of this before. “When is the baby due?”

  “I think it’s any day now.” Then he snorted. “She will probably try to oust Lord Morel from the regency one more time before that. It would be very helpful to know as soon as that happens, if it does.”

  He was, Tabitha thought, expecting rather too much from her. The Jasinthe magi who had pledged to her were much too far away for her to reach telepathically. Natayl was the one with networks and arrays of magi who could move important news back and forth, not her. “Lord Morel has survived this long, though,” she said. “Since he is a magus, he will always have the support of the court’s magi, and since he was Motthias’s friend, the Pravelles will back him too.”

  “The Pravelles back him to keep the Duke of Jasinde off the regency.”

  Tabitha nodded. “That too.” Lord Morel was a cousin of one of Tabitha’s former suitors, and he was the only member of the in-absence regency council to have actually become a permanent regent. The Duke of Jasinde, the queen’s cousin, considered this to be a mistake in need of correction. But if the duke ever actually managed to get himself onto the regency, the other regents would likely defer to him, and he would effectively wield the power of a king. Tabitha wondered if Queen Perisca realized that such a situation would make her all but irrelevant. “How old is the prince now? I mean, the king? Six?”

  “Just six, yes.”

  “Nine more regency years, then.”

  “Which is why I am keeping Betaul out of it, as much as I possibly can. I don’t mind being ignored by the court if it means I can rule my side of the kingdom without their interference. Without needing to choose a side between the Pravelles and the Jasinthes.”

  Now, this sounded more like her father. “The middle ground,” she nodded.

  “My ground.” Then he made a noise of disgusted amusement. “They have not even noticed that I have not paid the tithe, which shows a dangerous level of incompetence.”

  Tabitha agreed. If the regency was not collecting the kingdom’s taxes, how could they actually run the kingdom? It was short-sighted and stupid. “If they eventually notice, will you pay it?”

  He raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that the steward of Thendalia’s mines would withhold the bounty of those mines?” Tabitha only shrugged elegantly, and her father took another drink. “I might take my time about it,” he allowed. “I will need coin and grain for my soldiers if your meeting d
oes not go well.”

  The heretics. Tabitha had managed to keep them out of her mind over the last few days of wedding preparations. When her father had first arrived, she had brought Clementa and Isabelle to meet with him, Beatris, Sebastene, and Daniel to discuss what she should say at the heretics’ meeting, and, more importantly, how she should say it. That evening had gone long with discussions of every possible outcome. But it was the only time they had all talked about it, and now the meeting with the shovel-men was the day after tomorrow. Suddenly Tabitha did not feel ready.

  But she said, “They will listen to me, and they will withdraw.”

  Her father sighed. “Because you always get your way.”

  He was not at all happy that she, Clementa, and Isabelle were doing this themselves, without one of his advisors along. “They asked to speak to me, Father.” She repeated her reasons gently but firmly, to convince him and to convince herself. “I am the one who forced them to listen to you in Tiaulon, with my magic. I need to impress them with my magic now, which means I can’t seem to be consulting with anyone.”

  He muttered something under his breath. Tabitha added, “I will stick to the script that we agreed upon. I will make no promises to them. I will find out what they want from you.”

  Still her father frowned down at the dog near his feet. Tabitha reached out and touched his arm. “Please, Father. Trust me.”

  “I suppose I must.” But then he patted her hand and managed something like a smile. “I am worried. There is much at stake.”

  “I know.” Her throat was dry. She sat back and picked up her refilled water goblet.

  “They never should have gotten any further than Velleclef,” her father said with some frustration. “Not after Motthias defeated them last year.”