Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Did he know what she had done tonight? The icy needles in her neck spread down her back. Was he waiting for her to tell him, to say it out loud? Would he say it if she did not?

  Because she had to move, had to do something, she took her goblet and put it to her lips. But before she could even taste it, he barked a laugh. It startled her, and wine sloshed onto the wooden tabletop.

  “Yes, it did happen, didn’t it?” he said, his mouth twisted in a lecherous smirk. “You. Him. At last.”

  Him. He meant Graegor. Obviously. She tried to meet his eyes as she stammered, “W-why would you think …” That was all she could get out before the heat in her cheeks forced her to drop her gaze to her lap, to escape how he was looking at her.

  Natayl shrugged then, and drank half his goblet. “There’s something about a girl who’s just been bedded.”

  She wanted to scream, What about a girl? How did he know? How had Borjhul known? Was it magic that sorcerers could sense, or could men just smell it?

  Natayl might have smelled it, she realized. He had the scent sensitivity like she did, and she could still catch the whiff of the nameless man’s seed between her tightly clasped legs. Oh God. She could not stand the thought of Natayl thinking about her like that.

  Why is he even here? He went to the manor house this morning!

  “Drink,” Natayl said, the smirk gone. Tabitha took a tiny sip, her face still hot. She desperately wished for the courage to simply stand up and walk out, but right now she did not dare disobey him. She had no idea what he might do when he was drunk. She would not give him any excuse to send that horrible pain through her again.

  “You had a fight afterwards,” Natayl guessed, “and so you are upset. Yes?”

  He was focused on Graegor. She was a little more certain now that he did not know about the other man. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “A … a bad fight.”

  Natayl nodded, and made a rolling gesture with his hand to encourage her to continue. She would have, just to tell him something, just to get to the end of this, but her breath was seized again by the certainty that Graegor knew. How could he not know? She had tried to talk herself out of it, tried to work her way around it with some twisted logic, but they were bonded. He knew her. He had not come after her because … because …

  “I hurt him,” she whispered.

  “Ah, well.” Natayl took another swig. “That’s what girls do.”

  That’s not fair. Tabitha could not force the words out, but he read them on her face. “That’s what girls do,” he repeated sternly, as if it was a lesson she had not absorbed. “You are all poisonous. It’s your nature.” He paused, as if expecting her to say or do something, and when she did not, he said, “Allow me to guess the nature of the pain you inflicted on your young man. Your new lover. Your new telepathic lover.”

  My God, he does know, how can he …

  “You were thinking about the prince.”

  Tabitha gasped aloud, relief and shock tangled together in a fierce itching all over her skin. Natayl did not know about the man in the alley—but how did he know Prince Darcius was here?

  “Yes.” Natayl nodded. “I thought so. In bed with one, but your mind on the other. Did wise old Josselin not warn you of this? Or did you simply not listen?”

  Tabitha looked down at her hands, clenched in folds of her skirt. The seed dripping between her legs was itchy and slimy. She just wanted to get away. How could she make him send her away?

  “Now that you have met him,” Natayl said then, every word twisted like a barb, “what do you think of the Telgard prince that your father always wanted you to marry?”

  She could not imagine what Natayl could be expecting her to say, so she said nothing. He knew what she thought of Prince Darcius. He had already guessed.

  “Look at me, girl.”

  She lifted her head. Natayl’s bushy brows were creased together over his predator eyes and his lip was curled in a sneer. “Your father was stupid to think that he could ever marry you into Telgardia’s royal house.”

  “My father is not stupid,” she snapped.

  He smirked. “So you can still speak.”

  “Don’t insult my father.” No one would insult her father again. He was looking for a new wife now. He would have a son. The Betaul bloodline would go on. And on.

  “Ah, filial loyalty.” Natayl leaned closer. “But never forget the loyalty you owe me.”

  I owe you nothing. It was an instinctive thought, a wish. She knew it was not true. She was his apprentice, and if she displeased him, he would hurt her.

  “Or perhaps such loyalty is not to your liking.” Natayl tapped all ten fingers against his goblet, rippling them up, then down, as he continued his speculation. “Perhaps you would rather be a queen than a sorceress. Is that it? Is that why you resist every single thing I try to teach you?”

  Please just let me go.

  Natayl leaned even further forward over the table, so much so that she could not help shrinking back. His breath stank. “Or is it that you would rather be a princess than a queen? You wish to be a child, pampered and coddled, with nothing asked of you, your only duty to play in bed with your handsome prince?”

  She hated him. She would not answer. She had been through far too much tonight.

  “I thought so.” His disgust was strangely comforting. When he used that tone, it usually meant he was about to dismiss her. But then his voice rose. “You are the most useless, brainless, shallow little slut that ever lived. Abban above, why did it have to be you?”

  That was not comforting at all, especially when shouted into her face as she cringed back. She had to grab the edge of the table for support, and she could barely hold on because her arms were shaking.

  “What is wrong with you?” he demanded then.

  She just had to wait until he dismissed her.

  “Are you really this weak?”

  She just had to hope that he did not hit her again.

  “Show me that you are worthy of this! Show me you can be who you need to be!”

  Tabitha swallowed. Her father would want her to be strong. He thought she was strong enough to be a knight.

  She had not done any of the things he had suggested to her at Pamela’s wedding, any of the training that he said would sharpen her mind and keep her from freezing in a crisis. She had not even tried. Her father had so much faith in her, and she had not even tried.

  She cowered under Natayl’s glare. But she had to answer him. She had to try. “I can be who I need to be,” she rasped, her throat completely dry. She cleared it and spoke louder, words her father had given her. “I was born the sorceress. I will be the sorceress.” She was not brave enough to add, No matter what you want or do.

  Natayl shook his head, a quick, almost shuddering gesture, and he hissed, “No you weren’t.”

  Tabitha stared at him. She was not … what?

  “Stupid bitch.” His fist was clenched, pressed against the table. “You were not my successor. A Pravelle was my successor. My family. My successor. A boy. Born the same month as you.” He stood up at the table, looming over her for a terrifying moment, but then pushed aside the bench and limped back to the wine rack. Tabitha felt the sharp scrape of his power as the cork on another bottle popped out by itself and splatters of wine landed on the floor.

  A boy. Born the same month as you.

  She did not understand. She knew she looked stupid with her wide-eyed stare, she knew he would shout at her, but the words came out anyway. “I … I thought …”

  “What did you think?” He filled his goblet again and put the new bottle down next to the other, which was only half empty.

  Tabitha swallowed. Her voice sounded so small. “Lord Contare told Graegor that he was the only one, and that if he did not become the sorcerer, no one could.”

  Natayl laughed his guttural, angry, steel-against-flint laugh. “True as far as it goes. As long as you are alive, no one else can be.”

  Her skin itched li
ke the buzzing wings of a thousand bees, so strong she could almost hear it. “What do you mean?” she finally whispered.

  Natayl studied her for a long time. His eyes were narrowed, but also bloodshot, with shadows thickening their wrinkles. She saw a wine stain on his black shirt, and she had never seen his clothes stained before—except at the Hippodrome, with King Motthias’s blood. He was drunk and angry, and he hated her, and he was obviously trying to decide if he should tell her something. Something more than he had already let slip. The rest of the story.

  Tell me, she begged with her eyes. Whatever it is, tell me! If there is a way out of this, I will take it!

  She would take it. She would rather be a queen than a sorceress. A princess than a queen. Anything but the murderous whore, the evil little cunt, that her magic had made her.

  Natayl slowly rested his back against the high worktable behind him, crossing his arms over his chest, holding his goblet by the rim. He glanced up at the ceiling for a count of ten—in fact he actually seemed to be counting—and then rested his gaze back on her. “What have you heard about near-sorcerers?” he asked, his voice like the soft crunch of gravel under the tread of a boot.

  So now it was time for lessons. She took a silent breath. Everything she knew about near-sorcerers had come from Graegor, so she tried to remember what he had said without thinking about him. “They have powers, like magi. But their telepathy is as strong as ours, and they can’t block it out.”

  This answer irritated Natayl, and again, this reaction felt more familiar. “Not what they do. What they are.” He put down the goblet and gestured to include both of them. “They are sorcerers, like us, but only potential sorcerers. There are dozens born to every race every year. But two things need to happen for a potential sorcerer to gain a sorcerer’s power. First, he needs to be born right after the Sorcerers Star passes through the sky. You do know that the Sorcerers Star is a comet, right?”

  Tabitha nodded. Beatris had told her, a long time ago.

  “Passing through the dust cloud affects some unborn babies. It awakens their telepathy, and they start to attract gen. Magic power.”

  “From … where? The earth?”

  “Other people of the child’s race.” He picked up the half-full wine bottle. “If magic power is wine, all the ordinary people have a drop of it, from the comet, from its dust. When a potential sorcerer is born, he pulls that drop of wine away. Enough of those drops together will become an entire bottle of power.” With his other hand, he picked up his goblet, and drained it with one swig.

  It seemed safe to ask questions. “What about magi?”

  “They keep their drops of wine. They’re born with some, everyone’s born with some, but they’re born with enough so they can keep that extra drop they get from the comet. They can resist the pull from a potential sorcerer.”

  Drops of wine. Ferogin was right. Metaphors did not really help.

  Natayl refilled his goblet, speaking faster. “The potential sorcerers all attract gen. Whoever does it the fastest gets more gen, which attracts more, faster and faster, until he is more powerful than any of the others. More powerful by an order of magnitude. That one becomes the sorcerer.” He glared at her. “I was that one.”

  She was that one too. Wasn’t she? Except, no, something had gone wrong. Obviously something had gone wrong. “The … Pravelle baby,” Tabitha said, extremely carefully. “He … died? Before he could be the sorcerer?”

  “He became the sorcerer. Then he was murdered.”

  Murdered. That word was so horrible, so close to her, like a dog sniffing around her feet. “I thought our power protected us.”

  “Oh, no. No. Not completely.” Natayl held up a finger, then another. “Between one and two years old, about. Before that, a baby sorcerer will survive accidents, but not attacks. Once the baby can walk a little, and talk a little, and count a little, then his gen will defend him if he’s actually attacked.”

  “Who attacked him?” Tabitha whispered.

  “A maga.” Natayl’s face twisted into an awful scowl, as if he could smell and taste something repugnant. “My maga. She was with me for years, before she lost her mind.” His eyes lost focus, though his scowl had not faded. “She changed. Got too possessive, too obsessed. Told her I’d had enough.”

  Tabitha waited for him to continue. Eventually she said, “She knew who he was? The baby?”

  Natayl’s eyes snapped back to her, and now his scowl changed, becoming his typical expression of disgusted impatience with her slow wit. “She knew who he could be. Born at the right time, to my house. And by then he had attracted enough gen to be the sorcerer. I felt it. We each felt it for our own, even here, hundreds of miles from our homelands. We didn’t know who, but we knew when.”

  He was not making sense now. “But you said you did know who. The Pravelle baby.”

  Natayl winced and pressed his hand to his head. He mumbled something, and Tabitha bit her lip. But he was not shouting at her. He was actually telling her something.

  “This is what happened,” he said, his tone clipped, his fingers still rubbing his forehead. “I felt the flare of power. I knew that somewhere in Thendalia, a baby had become the new sorcerer. The Circle does not look for these children before they are ready, so I did not know who it was, but I thought it might be the king’s cousin, because he’d been born the month before. Then Merlie and I fought, and she left. A few days later Oran left.”

  Oran? But Tabitha kept back her puzzled frown. Natayl was talking to her.

  “Oran had dreamed that his successor was in danger. We aren’t supposed to return to our homelands for a year following the Sorcerers Star, but he defied the Circle and went anyway.”

  Oran’s successor. Borjhul. Ice crawled up Tabitha’s back. He had been in danger? She could not imagine him as a helpless baby. He was too strong, far too strong. She remembered the soft touch of his mouth against her neck, and she flinched.

  It drew Natayl’s attention. “Do you know about that?” he asked. “That Borjhul was to be sacrificed, and Oran had to rescue him?”

  Tabitha shook her head, looking down. She had not known. Borjhul was to be sacrificed. It would have been so much better if he had been. The Kroldons burned babies. Every Kroldon woman’s first-born child was given to their temple, Clementa had told her. She had not believed it until Magus Uchsin had said it was true, or used to be true. Why could Borjhul have not died on an altar?

  “Oran was still in Kroldon when he had another dream,” Natayl went on. “He called to me and told me that my successor was in danger. I called to my magi in Tiaulon. They told me the Pravelle baby had been kidnapped. When they found him, he’d been dismembered.”

  Tabitha gasped. She immediately pushed the images away, and had to do it over and over as they tried to creep back into her head. How could anyone … how …

  Natayl ignored her reaction. “I defied the Circle then. I didn’t even ask. Malaya was presbyter then. I knew that she would never agree to let me go. I changed form and started for Tiaulon.”

  “Why?” Tabitha whispered. He looked at her, and she looked down at the table.

  “Why?” he repeated. “Why did I go?”

  “The baby was already dead.” You were too late.

  Silence. She did not dare look up. He was looking at her.

  “While I was flying over the sea,” he finally said, “I felt the flare of power again. It felt exactly the same. A baby had become the new sorcerer, again. I reached the coast, and I stopped. I didn’t know what was happening.” His words were coming faster. “I tried to call to Oran, to ask him if his dreams had told him anything else about my successor, but he was still in Kroldon and it was too far. I stayed on the coast and kept trying. For two days. I didn’t want to interfere in the natural order. I knew it wouldn’t stop anything. I didn’t want to do anything without guidance. Then one of my magi called to me, a relay messenger. Another baby had been murdered. A girl. Same way, in a town a few dozen mil
es west of Tiaulon. Merlie had been seen there. She’d been in Tiaulon, and she’d been in this other town. She was killing them.”

  This was horrible. At some point Tabitha had looked up to stare at him, and her hands were clenched in her skirt. This maga was killing babies. Who could kill a baby? “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe revenge.” Natayl took a swig of wine. “I delved her when I caught her. But her mind had taken a bad turn. A very bad turn. I couldn’t be sure. She might have been trying to kill all my possible successors in order to punish me. Or maybe she was stupid enough to think that I wouldn’t grow old if I had no successors. Maybe she wanted me to be grateful to her. Grateful for killing them.”

  She was mad. She went mad. Natayl was still not shouting, so Tabitha asked, “How did she know who they were?”

  “Thanks to her very long association with me, she knew what made a sorcerer’s power different.” Natayl filled his goblet again. “She went to the Pravelle baby first. Wanted to see if his power felt like mine. It did, and so she killed him. She thought it was over. But she was stupid. The power doesn’t just vanish.” He drank, and drank. “That other baby,” he went on after draining the goblet, “the girl? The girl. She was a potential sorceress, and she was still attracting gen, so the Pravelle baby’s gen went to her. So Merlie found that baby and killed her too. Then she realized what was happening. She could sense the power, the gen, itself, even without the baby. It started moving when the girl baby died, because another sorcerer was pulling at it, this one even further west.” He stopped. After staring into his empty goblet for a long time, he looked at Tabitha. “After she killed that baby boy, she followed the power again. West, again. But I caught her then.” His eyes bored through her, and his voice was less than a rasp. “We were just east of, where? Can you guess? Yes. Betaul.”

  Betaul. She was going to kill me next.

  Tabitha shuddered, and kept shuddering. She hugged herself to try to stop it, but she could not control the spikes of ice that were piercing her right to the bone. Dismembered. She was going to butcher me.