Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “Yes, violence is deplorable,” he agreed, very earnestly, and quickly went on. “Lady Sorceress, you must know that the nobles in Thendalia battle each other not only in court, but also on their lands. The people suffer and die for the sake of a few miles of ground or a few herds of cattle. Do you, Lady Sorceress, oppose this violence as well?”

  Tabitha frowned before she could stop herself. There was no answer for this in the script. “My father does not do this,” she said, before Clementa or Isabelle could suggest anything. “The Betaul Marches don’t suffer under this kind of fighting. You speak of the Jasinthes and the Pravelles, and their vassals.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Her frown had made him nervous. “I have seen these battles, but yes, in the east.”

  “Ask him if he has seen farms burned by the heretics,” Clementa sent.

  “You say you have seen battles,” Tabitha said. “But have you seen Walkering and others of his kind torching fields of grain before harvest? Have you joined them?”

  “No, Lady Sorceress,” Elder Bear said, bravely meeting her gaze even as he nervously pressed his splayed hands against the sides his cloak. “Never. I have never seen that or done it. I swear.”

  She believed him. If he was lying, he was the best liar in the world. “Is there anything more I should ask him?” she sent to her magi.

  “Do you plan to talk to each of them?” Clementa asked.

  “Partridge, at least,” Isabelle sent.

  “Yes,” Clementa sent. “I think we can learn the most from him. But before you let this one go, ask if he knows Wendlin personally.”

  A good question. “You think very highly of Elder Wendlin. Have you ever met him?”

  “Once, my lady.” A small smile actually turned the corners of his mouth for a moment. “He is an extraordinary man.”

  “He does not know him well enough to answer anything about him,” Clementa judged.

  Tabitha agreed. She spoke aloud, and more loudly. “I am pleased that you have spoken honestly with me. I will consider your words.”

  “Thank you, Lady Sorceress,” he said, his shoulders slumping a little.

  “You may rejoin the others.”

  Elder Bear bowed, started to turn, thought better of showing his back to her, and side-stepped awkwardly down the bowled ground to his fellows, who either stared or glared at him. The most potent glare came from Angry Man, as Tabitha had come to think of him, who still knelt by Walkering’s side. Elder Bear whispered something to Partridge as he passed, and Partridge looked across the space at Tabitha.

  “Say nothing,” Clementa suggested. “See if he will approach without an explicit invitation.”

  “Like a deer,” Isabelle apparently could not help adding.

  It took a few moments, but Partridge eventually broke the silence by taking a tentative step forward. When Tabitha did not object, he took another, and a few more, but stopped somewhat short of where Elder Bear had. “My lady, may we speak?”

  “We may.” Her voice was no louder than it had been with Elder Bear. As she had hoped, Partridge unconsciously turned his head and leaned forward slightly to hear her. “You started to tell me more about the early days of Elder Wendlin’s preaching,” she went on, “but you were interrupted. Please continue now.”

  He bowed, and in so doing, took another step closer. “Yes, my lady. I do want you to understand our point of view.”

  “I can’t promise that, but I will listen. Now. Elder Wendlin left Saint Ferogin’s?” It was actually difficult for her to say “Saint” and “Ferogin” together now. It was so ironic that the Ferogin she knew had been named after one of the most famous saints in Adelard’s history.

  Partridge continued the story. Elder Wendlin left his cloister voluntarily, but was eventually forced to flee the city when the Archpriest sought his arrest for heresy and sedition. His version of “holy farming” involved the abolition of rents and the direct ownership of land by the peasants who did the work, which was not popular with the nobles. But some of them found his arguments compelling, and set aside land for him and his followers. The number of those followers grew, and included many priests who were distressed at the Adelard Theocracy’s corruption. Within a decade, half of eastern Adelard had turned aside from an increasingly desperate Hierarch, and the successful experiments with “holy farming” had attracted the attention of a group of botanists who wanted to try a new soil additive they had developed.

  “This is all very interesting,” Clementa sent, “but why did they invade Thendalia?”

  Tabitha waited for Partridge to come to what seemed the natural end of an idea, and as he took a breath to continue, she interrupted. “You make it sound quite peaceful.”

  He hesitated, then sighed. “My apologies, my lady. Your earlier question is to the point. How did our shovels become weapons instead of just tools? I can only say that disagreements on the meanings of holy tracts can become very heated, and once Elder Wendlin and his followers were named heretics, it took no time at all for us to be persecuted, hunted, and martyred. There are safe regions in Adelard, where the nobles have declared for Wendlin and the Archpriests have agreed to let us preach. But in other areas, Adelard’s Hierarch and Theocracy have condemned us repeatedly, and we must defend ourselves.”

  “Why must you go to other areas? Why did you cross into Thendalia, where you are not welcome? You have even sent men west into Telgardia and Khenroxa. Why not stay where you are tolerated?”

  Partridge smiled kindly. “We must remake the world, my lady. We can’t stay in one corner of it and hope Lord Abban thinks that’s enough. I am a Thendal like you. Our homeland needs Elder Wendlin’s message.”

  Tabitha’s next words were from Clementa. “And since our king is a child and can’t oppose you, you bring Adelards over the border to help you ‘remake’ Thendalia? To bring suffering and death to our people?”

  He gave her a long look. Except for the beard, he really did look a lot like Count Sebastene, with that round face and solid, pudgy form. His eyes had the same keen intelligence. “Our people are already suffering, my lady.”

  “How?”

  “They pay heavy rents and heavy taxes, my lady. Our nobles conscript them and force them to fight each other over land and riches that they will never own. Our priests tell them to pray for the One and be content in their misery. But wherever I go, wherever I preach, the people want to hear me. The farmers want to learn from us. They ask us questions and listen to our answers. If it was it up to them, we would be well on the road to remaking the world already. But the lords and the priests attack us and try to drive us away. They don’t want the world remade. They don’t want the One to come.”

  He stopped and waited for her to say something. Clementa supplied a question, and Tabitha repeated it. “Have you met Elder Wendlin?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “He has not come to Thendalia himself.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “What does he think of those who have? Does he know that they are pillaging, burning, and killing? Does he accept and encourage it, as Elder Walkering implied?”

  Partridge cast his eyes down. “No. He is … dismayed.”

  Tabitha dropped her voice even further. “And yet, you persist.”

  “I don’t, my lady. On my honor, I have not done any such thing.”

  “But you have not stopped those who have.”

  “My lady, when men are pursued, beaten, and imprisoned, they learn to defend themselves before they are killed. That is human nature. But some of us can manage to hold back the urge to retaliate, the urge to take the offensive against our tormentors. Elder Wendlin understands this. He wants men like me to intervene before … other men … go too far.”

  “They have gone too far already.”

  Partridge paused, and then asked, “May I speak frankly, my lady?”

  “I do wish you would.”

  “We … the shovel-men. Wendlin’s followers.” But he stopped there, obvio
usly struggling with the words.

  “Yes?” Tabitha finally prompted.

  “We are not as united as we pretend, my lady,” he said in a rush. “But I want to change that.”

  “Now we are getting somewhere.” Clementa’s father had told her that he believed the heretics had splintered into separate groups, and it seemed he was right.

  “You want to unite them?” Tabitha asked.

  “Factions like—like his—” Here he gestured with his chin over his shoulder to mean Walkering. “They urged us to push into Thendalia, my lady, even after King Motthias slaughtered hundreds of us. I wanted to wait.”

  “And Elder Wendlin?”

  “I confess that I haven’t spoken to him in some time, my lady.”

  “Elder Walkering said that Elder Wendlin approves.”

  “My lady, I don’t think he’s spoken to Wendlin in a while either.”

  “Ask him how many factions are represented by the six of them here,” Clementa sent.

  Tabitha did, and Partridge said, “Three. I … my lady, I am the one who sent the letter to you in Tiaulon. Then, my associates believed it was a good idea to make a dedicated effort to contact you, even when you didn’t answer. Once you did answer, we felt we needed to bring in others.”

  “Other factions.”

  “Yes, my lady. Only Elder Wendlin can speak for all of us, but I thought it was important that, if we did have the privilege of meeting you, we truly represented the shovel-men here in Thendalia. Your support, your sympathy, is the difference between success and failure for us.”

  Tabitha almost smiled at that, but remembered in time to keep her face cool. “Do you, like Elder Walkering, mean to convert me to your cause, right here, right now?”

  “My lady, I would not presume anything so drastic. Yes, I hope that eventually you come to see what we see, that the world must be remade before the One will come. But I know that no intelligent person comes to such a belief without time for contemplation. If you will grant the possibility that Elder Wendlin is right, I will consider this meeting a victory.”

  “He wants something more tangible than that,” Clementa sent.

  Isabelle agreed. “Ask him what you asked Bear. Ask what he wants, not what they all agreed to request.”

  “But he just told me. Or is he lying?” She wanted to believe Partridge. Maybe he reminded her too much of Sebastene.

  “Yes,” Clementa and Isabelle both sent, and Clementa added, “He is ambitious.”

  “And probably more dangerous than Walkering,” Isabelle sent.

  This seemed unlikely to Tabitha, but she kept that thought to herself. “Anything is possible,” she finally said aloud. “Elder Wendlin may be right. And now that I have granted this admission to you, are you ready to call this meeting finished?”

  It was a good tactic. Partridge’s mouth dropped open for just a moment before he recovered. “If you wish it so, my lady.”

  “A joke only, Elder …” She paused. “Will you give me your name, or must I continue to call you Elder Partridge?”

  “I confess I do rather look like one, my lady. Partridge is both simple and truthful.”

  “But he is neither,” Isabelle sent.

  “Elder Partridge, I ask you this: what do you ask of me?”

  “My lady?”

  “You, personally.” She dropped her voice even further. “Disregard the others for the moment. What is your most secret, desperate hope for the outcome of this meeting?”

  He studied her. “Allow me first to guess what yours is, my lady. You want us out of the Betaul Marches.”

  This was hardly a secret, desperate hope. “I want you out of Thendalia,” she said, just as directly. “But Betaul will do for a start.”

  “If my associates and I can gain leadership of the shovel-men in Thendalia, I can promise that we will not progress any further west until you allow it.”

  Tabitha could almost see Clementa’s and Isabelle’s eyes widening at this revelation. “Ambitious indeed,” Clementa sent.

  “Dangerous indeed,” Isabelle sent. “This is a trap.”

  “We can together strive to end this civil war that is so distressing to us both,” Partridge continued. “Also, I will ask all my followers to help find, and reveal, rogue magi in Thendalia.”

  “Trap,” Isabelle sent. “Trap trap trap trap trap.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Ask him how he plans to ‘gain leadership’,” Clementa sent.

  That was a very good question. “Bold promises,” Tabitha said. “What is your plan to assume this mantle of power?”

  “I would hardly call it that, my lady. We both know the true power here.”

  “Flattery,” Clementa sent. “Ignore it.”

  “Very well,” Tabitha nodded. “I will rephrase. What is your plan to convince the other factions to follow you, and yours?”

  “Your recognition will go a long way.”

  This exact request was not expected, but she had an answer to a related one. “I can’t openly recognize the shovel-men as legitimate.”

  Partridge frowned. “My lady, my understanding was that you had not yet taken oaths to the Circle.”

  “But I still owe obedience to my master, Lord Natayl. Meeting you, here, now, is one thing.” She hoped. “Lending public legitimacy to an entire group of priests whose beliefs have not been declared canonical by the Theocracy is another.”

  “My lady, should I take that to mean that our beliefs must be declared canonical by the Theocracy before you will openly support us?”

  “Of course. I follow the ways of my master and my father in this, Elder Partridge. It is not my place to decide if Elder Wendlin’s teachings are correct.”

  Partridge heaved a sigh of resignation. “My lady, if my associates and I can’t gain leadership of the shovel-men in Thendalia, then I can’t assist you in stopping the burning and pillaging. Other factions will ensure that it continues.”

  No. It was too early to give up. “Is there any way that I can help you other than public recognition?”

  He hesitated. “I think so, my lady, but I fear it will seem crass.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that.”

  “Well, my lady, coin would help.”

  “He wants a bribe,” Clementa sent.

  Tabitha did not alter her expression. Her father had been insistent that they not offer the heretics any bribes, or “tribute”, as he called it. “What would coin help you do?”

  “My lady, we would be able to help the people. They are already listening to us, and they will listen more to those who are able to feed them, shelter them, understand them, and offer them hope for the future.”

  “Or buy weapons,” Clementa sent.

  “I see that you are skeptical, my lady. I have a suggestion, if I may?”

  “To make coin seem less crass?”

  He nodded as if her tone had not been sarcastic. “My lady, I spoke earlier of the experimental farms that Elder Wendlin has created in Adelard. You could assist us in setting up similar farms in Thendalia. The benefit is twofold. First, the food grown on the farms would be distributed to hungry people. Second, the farms would show the success of Elder Wendlin’s methods, which would help convince Thendalia’s Theocracy that Elder Wendlin’s teachings are worth studying.”

  After a short silence, Isabelle sent, “It’s not a horrible idea.”

  After another short silence, Clementa sent, “It might be worth considering.”

  Tabitha nodded and said, “I will think about this. I have been concerned for some time about the failing harvests in Thendalia’s far north, as each winter grows colder than the last.”

  Partridge nodded. “Of course, my lady, experimental farms in a more southerly region would attract more attention from the Theocracy.”

  “Indeed. However, I did recently ask Lord Natayl about sending funds to help the people from those northern areas.” It was not quite a lie. She had heard Natayl mention, in two s
eparate Circle sessions, that he intended to divert surplus grain from the Circle’s holdings.

  He will be so angry. I did not ask his permission to do this. He will not shout, he will hiss and then use the pain magic on me. He will.

  Clementa and Isabelle both sensed her sudden panic, and she closed them off as she fought it down. Partridge was talking and did not seem to have noticed anything wrong.

  She was a Betaul. Her father was counting on her.

  Calm and still. Calm and still.

  She could still feel her heart pounding in her chest when Partridge stopped, waiting for her to answer. She pursed her lips and tilted her head like she did at parties when she had lost the thread of the conversation. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “Your words sent my thoughts flying.”

  “My lady,” he nodded.

  Clementa and Isabelle were both urgently sending to her, and she opened her mind to them again, assuring them that she was all right. “What should I say next?”

  “You hinted that you can send money to him,” Clementa sent. “You need assurances that it will only be used to set up these experimental farms.”

  “Yes.” Tabitha looked directly at Partridge again. “I need to be certain that any … resources … that I send from Maze Island ultimately do the good they are meant to do.”

  Partridge nodded. “Of course, my lady. These farms would be a gift from you to our people. Any gift from the Lady Sorceress should be considered … untouchable.”

  “Yes. Untouchable. Like the Betaul Marches.”

  This made him nod again, slowly, and then he said, “I must confess, my lady, I am unsure of the precise demarcation of your father’s territories.”

  “There is no precise demarcation. That is why they are called ‘marches’.” Clementa saw an opening for the question Tabitha needed to ask, and Tabitha quickly continued before Partridge could speak. “But I understand how precision can be important. For example, my father and I are wondering what, precisely, is meant by a ‘share’.”