Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “We will speak tomorrow,” she stated, and gave her hand to the driver to help her inside.

  “We can change plans,” Graegor said. “We can arrange something else. I could—”

  “We will speak tomorrow,” she repeated, and her driver closed the door.

  Graegor held his mouth shut, held his mind shut, and took a deep breath. He didn’t even allow himself to whisper a curse as the carriage rolled away.

  Fine. They would speak tomorrow.

  Back inside, Contare was alone in the parlor. “Water closet,” he explained Darc’s absence. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Contare didn’t push it. He never did. “Do you think the prince would like to go out and meet your friends?”

  “You’re sure it’s all right to tell them?

  “I’m not worried about Jeffrei or Rose, obviously. I’ll take your word on the others.”

  Graegor had not even considered telling Rose. He’d barely spoken to Rose or any of the other girls since Tabitha had returned. “Patrick and Logan won’t tell anyone. Marcus won’t either. He’d be the hardest to fool, anyway, since he’s been to court.”

  “They’ve probably already met,” Contare agreed.

  “I’ll call to Jeff and let him know we’re coming.”

  Jeff answered in an energetic way that meant he’d had a lot of coffee when he’d finally gotten out of bed. “Hai! Are you still at the office? I’m sorry, I didn’t think I left too much for you. Do you want me to come in?”

  “I’m not, and you didn’t, and I don’t. Contare and I have an unexpected visitor for you and the others to meet. Are you at the training grounds?”

  “No, still eating, but heading over there next. Who’s the visitor?”

  “Prince Darcius. Contare said I could tell you that he’s here, and Marcus and Patrick and Logan. But no one else.” He didn’t want the girls to know. They would be too interested, and if they joined him and the other boys, that would be “socializing”.

  The sense of Jeff’s mind had closed a little into wariness. “Just us? Why is he here?”

  “It’s just a short visit, nothing official. We’re pretending he’s ordinary.”

  “He’s not magi, so he is ordinary.”

  “You know what I mean. I can bring him to the training grounds, unless you think somewhere else would be better.”

  “The training grounds are fine. Anywhere at the Academy is fine today—there are a lot of visitors, so he’ll blend in. Or is he dressed up all princely?”

  “Not all that princely, no.”

  “Not a problem, then.” Jeff paused. “Has he met Tabitha yet?”

  “Yes. Everything went fine. She won’t tell anyone he’s here.”

  “‘Fine’?” Jeff knew him too well. “What happened?”

  “Nothing I can explain easily.”

  Jeff gave the mental equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Jeh, that’s her. See you soon?”

  “Soon.”

  Darc returned to the parlor physically as Graegor did mentally, and Contare rose from his chair, his motions stiff. “Your Highness, Graegor would like to take you to visit the Academy and spend the afternoon with some of his friends, if that’s all right.”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “Then I look forward to seeing you again this evening.”

  They emerged into the bright day, and the townhouse door closed behind them. Darc glanced back at it. “He looks a lot older than he did last year.”

  Graegor didn’t like to think about it. He paused to greet Butternut, who was sitting by their steps as if she lived there, and the cat pushed her head into his hand. She even let Darc pick her up and scratch beneath her chin, until a sudden metallic clatter nearby startled her into bolting. A servant two doors up the street had tipped over his cart, and Graegor and Darc helped him gather up the pots and pans. Then they walked two streets east to visit the horses in Contare’s stable. Darc had chosen Graegor’s horse personally from the Saracrian stallions that the royal family bred, and he was pleased at the quality of Sable’s accommodations and the glossiness of his coat. They fed all the horses apples, and then headed for Davidon’s Walk toward the Central Quarter.

  Solstice crowds filled all the spaces between and around the permanent buildings and the vendors’ tents. Music was everywhere—mandolins, flutes, drums, and voices. The way was slow and the air was stuffy, but the noise and excitement didn’t feel edgy or nervous like it sometimes had since the lockdown. It seemed Darc was thinking about that too, because after they’d bought a snack of lamb wraps, he surveyed the street and asked, “Exactly how worried do I need to be about rogue magi? Slightly, moderately, or extremely?”

  “Only slightly.” Graegor had chosen a high, windowless wall to lean against as they ate, though. “Only because that maga, Haze, hasn’t been captured yet.”

  “I read the report. She’s the one who set that trap for you, right? You never found her?”

  Graegor shook his head grimly. “Somehow she made it through the whole lockdown. Lord Pascin thinks she might have been among the people that the Circle exiled, but obviously we can’t assume that.”

  “No.” Darc pushed another wedge of lettuce and lamb into his mouth. After he swallowed, he asked, “Any new visits from your heretic friends?”

  “No visits. Rond has been really good about writing to me every month.”

  “So he told you about the petitions?”

  Graegor frowned and said, “Petitions?” around a mouthful.

  “Brandeis has been petitioning all the cloisters and basilicas in Lakeland to ask the Hierarch to rescind Orest’s charter. He says that the holy tracts forbid any cloister community to hold a town’s charter, and it should be given to the residents instead.”

  “No, Rond didn’t tell me that.” What was Brandeis doing? He’d agreed to rein in his followers until he and Graegor could meet in person. And Rond had promised Graegor that he would tell him if Brandeis started passing around sketches of sorcerers and magi again, or if anything similarly important happened. This was clearly important. “What is he after?”

  Darc shook his head and licked sauce off his thumb. “My great-uncle showed me the dispatch, but there wasn’t much information. You’ll want to find out what else my father knows.”

  “Do the holy tracts forbid a cloister to hold a charter?”

  “They don’t forbid a basilica to hold a charter, I don’t think. I don’t know about a cloister. But giving the charter to the townsfolk? That has to be to get them on his side, right?”

  Graegor nodded, thinking it through. “If the townsfolk hold the charter, they can elect their own mayor. So Brandeis obviously wants one who will set him free.”

  “One of the local barons might press a claim for jurisdiction, though, and that’s where it gets really murky.”

  Graegor wanted to talk to Contare. This wasn’t what the white heralds had agreed. Had Rond lost his influence with Brandeis, and had been afraid to say anything in his letters?

  Or does he blame you for Ahren’s death, and never meant to keep his word?

  Darc scratched his beard with a contemplative look. “Is Lord Contare still planning to take you around the kingdom next year?”

  “Jeh. But I’m not sure anymore that I should wait that long to meet Brandeis.”

  “Could you meet him with your mind? He can use telepathy, right?”

  It took Graegor a moment to even make sense of what Darc had said, because no one who knew anything about telepathy would have suggested that. “No, that’s not how it works. I have to meet someone personally before we can create a link between us.”

  “Will you, when you do meet him? So that later, you can ask him what he’s doing? Keep an eye on him?”

  Graegor had never thought about that. “Maybe I should. Contare and I confirmed that I do have the talent for long-range telepathy. I was able to reach Magus Hugh when he was in Scherrhafen. But Orest is further north, and f
urther west.”

  “Brandeis has some of the same powers, though, right? Can your telepathy meet in the middle?”

  Again Graegor had to puzzle through the idea. “Not as such. But if, say, I could reach Magus Hugh from here, and Brandeis could reach him from Orest, Hugh could relay our words to each other, I think. But I’m not sure if a magus can hold two long-range links open at the same time.”

  “Sorry if I sound stupid. I’m trying to learn more about it.”

  “You’d better be sorry, you drooling idiot.”

  Darc made a show of wiping spit off his mouth. “So, what other trouble have you gotten into lately? I need to stay informed of these disasters of yours, and their consequences.”

  “Is that list longer or shorter than your list of landmarks?”

  Darc raised his eyebrows. “You tell me.”

  Graegor hesitated. He told Darc a lot in his letters, but there were two subjects he avoided—problems with Tabitha, and Oran’s prophecy. The reasons for the first were obvious. As for the second, he was afraid that actually writing down the words burn the world would made them seem more real. Too real, and too likely. “You got my letter about Brigita pledging to me?”

  “Yes, that disaster has been duly recorded. Not that I understood all of it. Hang on. Drool.” He wiped his mouth again. “Especially that part about the light inside her skin.”

  “I probably didn’t explain it very well. You’d have to see it. Contare could do it too, once he tried. He said it was the first new thing he’s done with his power in a hundred years.”

  “Well, now, that’s an accomplishment.”

  “Jeh, we rode out to the hills and tried to think of all sorts of insane ways to use our magic. No disasters, though.”

  “Well, of course not, stupid. Disasters don’t happen that way. Who’s drooling now?” Graegor ran his forearm over his chin, and Darc nodded in satisfaction. “All right, then. How about revisiting past disasters? You were no doubt invited to the grand Theocratic council convening in Chrenste this summer.”

  Graegor rolled his eyes. “I declined.”

  “Really?” Darc asked, pretending to be puzzled. “I have no idea why you wouldn’t want to tell your story over and over and over again so that hundreds of priests can dissect every tiny piece of it.”

  “I’m just shy, I guess.” He didn’t want to swim in that guilt. He’d lost control of the earth magic under Castle Chrenste, ripping holes in the throne room and the basilica sanctuary, and then toppling a cliff. In his opinion, the true miracle wasn’t that the Eternal Flame had turned purple that night, but that nobody had died. “Are the repairs finished?”

  “They weren’t when I left.”

  Graegor shook his head. He realized he was still holding the last lettuce wrap, and he stuffed it into his mouth as he pushed himself away from the wall.

  They’d just passed through the arched entrance to the Central Quarter when Graegor felt Koren’s mental tap. He sighed, even though he had half-expected her call. When he opened the link, she sent, “Josselin seems to think that I should go to a choral review tomorrow night.”

  He didn’t bother to be coy about it. “I know.”

  “‘Tis a terrible idea.”

  “I know.”

  She paused. “Tabitha thinks ‘tis a terrible idea too, then?”

  “Jeh.”

  “Well, even if ‘twasn’t, I already made plans. I’m going to Saint Nainsi’s to help with the children.”

  “You do hate having fun.” Errie had accused her of that.

  “Shut it. I’m taking care of the babies. I can get them to sleep, and you’ve no clue how valuable ‘tis for new mothers.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “And you’ll have no trouble finding someone else for your prince to escort. Tabitha’s cousin, maybe.”

  “He really wants to meet you, though.”

  “Apparently that’s already been arranged. At the service tomorrow.”

  “Will you at least wait to meet him before you decide?”

  “Decide what?”

  “About coming with us tomorrow.”

  “I thought we agreed ‘twas a terrible idea.”

  It was. It probably was. But he’d promised Tabitha he’d take her to the choral review, and he’d promised Contare that he’d see to Darc’s safety. He had to figure out something. “Contare doesn’t want anyone else to know that Darc is here.”

  “Rose knows. She could go with him.”

  That made him pause. Of all the girls who had been with him at the pond, Tabitha hated Rose the least. His special plans for tomorrow night seemed unsalvageable, so the best he could do now was make sure he could plan another such night soon. That meant keeping Tabitha happy with him. “That might work. I’ll ask.”

  “Problem solved, then.”

  “If they all agree.”

  “They should. ‘Tis the only variation of this idea that isn’t terrible.”

  Graegor couldn’t argue with that. Once Koren dropped the link, he blinked and realized that Darc was looking at him with some concern. “You went away for a while there.”

  “Sorry. Telepathy.”

  “It’s a little strange how you can walk with your eyes glazed over like that.” He stepped around an overturned planter. “And avoid obstacles. Who was it?”

  “I was talking to Koren about tomorrow night.”

  Darc grinned. “And?”

  “And she thinks it’d be better if we brought someone else. Our friend Rose. You’ll like her.” Everyone did.

  Darc’s face fell. “Why?”

  “Tabitha and Koren don’t get along.”

  “I knew that. I didn’t know it was so bad that they couldn’t spend an evening in the same room.”

  “It’s not Koren’s fault.”

  Darc waited, then sighed when Graegor didn’t continue. “All right, I trust you. I will get to meet Lady Koren, though, right? Tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, at the basilica service.”

  “Good.” After a moment, Darc added, “I know you were surprised when Lady Tabitha said that she and I were supposed to be betrothed. Believe me, I was too. I never heard about it.”

  Graegor shrugged. Tabitha should have been the one to tell him.

  “I want to meet Lady Koren,” Darc went on, “because she was someone my father was considering.”

  “Really?”

  “Father hasn’t been very happy with how Khenroxa’s crown prince is handling things up there. Marrying into one of their other families could give us more influence.”

  “But … the Lairconaigs are essentially in exile.” That was how he had heard Josselin phrase it. He hadn’t yet asked Koren how true it might be. “Their only holdings are in the Far North Isles. As far as influence goes …”

  “Their bloodline’s old, though, and that still matters.”

  “So is Tabitha’s.”

  Darc shrugged. “Father made a minor ceremony of crossing Lady Koren off the list one night at dinner, when we heard she was Khenroxa’s new sorceress. I’ve been curious about her ever since.” Then he suddenly swerved to avoid a group of holy sisters, and swerved the other way to avoid a pair of very large Kroldon sailors. “I didn’t expect it to be quite this crowded,” he confessed when they were side by side again. “I mean, doesn’t the sponsorship requirement keep most people out?”

  Graegor scowled. “Well, there have been people selling their allotted sponsorships.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “People who wouldn’t normally host visitors have been signing permits for neighbors or friends who have run out of sponsorships to give. It’s hard to track and harder to stop.”

  Darc grinned. “You sound like a bureaucrat.”

  “Oh, just wait. It’s in your future too.”

  They reached the guardhouse that kept watch over the wide entrance to the Courtyard of Flags. Darc was suitably impressed by the monstrously tall flagpoles and by the marble ma
jesty of the Hall, and Graegor promised a tour later that afternoon. He pointed out the museum and the row of embassy buildings, then the library and the observatory as they passed through the gardens and gates. Past the outer wing of the library and a copse of trees were the Academy training grounds, a complex of enclosures and yards where the students learned acrobatics, unarmed combat, and many different weapons, with all the training enhanced by magic. It was more crowded today than Graegor had ever seen it, and the way was made even slower by Darc constantly stopping to stare in amazement at the high leaps, feats of balance, and other antics in every training yard they passed. They had just reached the upper gallery of the main gymnasium when Graegor heard a female voice raised toward him. “My lord?”

  He knew that voice. He was about to keep walking, pretending he hadn’t heard, but ahead of him, Darc had already turned around, so Graegor had to too. The pretty Adelard maga standing at the gallery railing was wearing a sea-blue dress and a matching ribbon in her extra-long hair, and she was smiling as if thrilled to see him. “Lord Graegor, I thought that was you.”

  “Maga Edewa.” She was in Ferogin’s inner circle, and this was the third time that she’d managed to trap Graegor into acknowledging her. He had no doubt that she had again prepared something inappropriate to say in order to embarrass him; she and Ferogin’s other female magi seemed to carefully plan these “chance” encounters. Tabitha would have been able to rout her with a single chilly phrase, but Graegor was out of his element, and this girl knew it.

  “And who is this, my lord?” she asked, smiling at Darc, and Graegor introduced him to her as a lord from Lakeland. Darc understood immediately that Edewa was no friend, and he greeted her without any prompting for small talk, but she made some anyway. “Visiting for the Solstice, my lord?” When Darc nodded, a wicked smile crossed her face. She glanced sidelong at Graegor. “It should be very lively this year, with Lord Graegor and Lady Tabitha leading the revels.”