Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “It was not your fault,” Clementa said, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. The maga’s eyes were closed, and Tabitha’s face flushed with shame. She was a sorceress. Clementa never should have stepped in front of her. Tabitha should not have let it happen.

  “What did he want?” Velinda asked cautiously.

  “I believe,” she said calmly, “that he wanted to make a telepathic link with me.”

  “Well, he was certainly rude about it,” Velinda declared.

  Something about her words, or the way she said them, broke the tension in the room. Tabitha pushed herself away from the door and resumed her place at the head of the table, while the others all sat down again. “Forgive me,” she repeated with cool dignity. “I should not have allowed such an interruption.”

  No one was tactless enough to point out that she clearly could not have done anything to prevent it. Attarine shyly lifted her hand for permission to speak, and Tabitha nodded. “My lady, we hear rumors, and … what do you know of him?”

  “Nothing,” Tabitha admitted. He had never volunteered a word about himself in her hearing.

  After a pause that seemed loud in the quiet room, a girl at the end of the table said, “I heard that … he … Lord Borjhul … that he is preserving dead magi. That once Lord Oran and the other old sorcerers are gone, he will revive them.”

  The other girls stirred uncomfortably at that. Tabitha forced herself to smile as if amused instead of horrified. “Oh, that is quite impossible, I assure you.”

  “The Telgard sorcerer would stop him,” a maga named Landrie said with a combination of awe and infatuation. “He is touched by Lord Abban above.”

  Tabitha pursed her lips. She had never let their discussions devolve into ruminations about boys, no matter who they were, and she would not start now.

  But she could not scoff. The Eternal Flame did burn purple now, and it was because of the Telgard sorcerer. Did he have God’s special favor? Was that why Natayl had bonded them? Is that why he felt so warm?

  What did God’s special favor even mean, if it also rested on a murderer like her?

  At that moment, she felt the gritty, invading touch of Natayl’s mind. Instinctively she resisted, but the pressure of his power only grew stronger. She clenched her entire mind, her entire body, to keep him away. Her skin itched so badly it burned her with pain, but she could not let him do it again, could not allow him to see through her eyes, hear through her ears, know what was happening around her. Not again, not ever. If he was close to her thoughts he would be close to her memories.

  Abruptly he was gone. Tabitha’s eyes fluttered open to see all the girls staring at her in alarm.

  “Was it him?” Clementa eventually asked, her voice hushed.

  Tabitha started to nod, but then realized who Clementa must have meant, and shook her head. “No, it was Lord Natayl.”

  “Lord Natayl attacked you?” Velinda asked in disbelief.

  “No, I …” She did not know how to explain.

  Landrie squeaked like a mouse, and she turned toward the door as if expecting it to open again. “What is it?” Clementa asked, but before Tabitha could say anything, the door did open and one of Natayl’s magi assistants came into the room.

  All the girls turned their eyes down to the table, like children of an angry father. Tabitha remained as she was and coolly meet the magus’s gaze. She had shown too much fear in front of the Kroldon sorcerer. A mere magus would not intimidate her. “Yes?”

  The magus spoke in Thendalian. “Lord Natayl needs to see you, my lady. Now.”

  Tabitha’s neck prickled with icy cold again. She had angered the old man, and it was best not to make him any angrier. She nodded and rose to her feet, slowly and calmly. The magi girls did the same. Landrie looked miserable, and the magus shot her a hard look before gesturing toward the door. “My lady?”

  “Of course.” She swept her gaze over the girls, stopping for a moment at Landrie. She obviously had a telepathic connection to Natayl’s assistant, and had not seen fit to tell Tabitha. She would not be coming to the meetings anymore.

  She followed the magus down the corridor and up the stairs to Lord Natayl’s office, though the urge to turn and run was very strong. Would Natayl force his way into her mind? Her power gathered as it always did at the back of her neck, that itching pressure that sometimes verged into outright pain. It made her suddenly angry. Why did her own magic feel so unpleasant, while the Telgard sorcerer’s magic felt so warm and soft and smelled like summer grass? She tried so hard to ignore its constant presence, and yet she was tempted to reach out to touch it, to breathe it in.

  No, she would not think about the Telgard boy! She would not let this affect her! Why had Natayl bonded them? She knew he had done it on purpose, and he had had no right. She tried to pull strength from her anger as she allowed the magus to open each door for her that led from the upper corridor to the inner room where Natayl waited. But her anger and her strength both wilted when the old man turned from the window where he was standing.

  He looked so disgusted with her. His upper lip was curled in a sneer, and the lines of his face seemed to hold layers upon layers of grievance and disappointment. Why had she called to him? She could have, should have, routed Borjhul on her own, somehow.

  The magus only held the door long enough for her to enter the room before he pulled it shut and retreated. Natayl said, “You will not refuse my call. Understand?”

  Tabitha nodded. But immediately she felt the pressure of his mind against hers, and she resisted, clenching her fists, closing her eyes, holding her breath.

  Natayl said something in another language that sounded like a curse. His mind withdrew, and when Tabitha opened her eyes, she saw him sitting wearily down in his chair at the table. When he looked at her again, his expression was milder. He gestured to the chair on the other side of the table. “Sit.”

  She sat. Her fingers started to fidget with the folds of her skirt almost at once.

  “You are afraid of telepathy. You are afraid that another magic-user will be able to read your mind if you allow telepathic contact. Am I right?”

  Tabitha dipped her head. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Why did you call to me?”

  He knew why. He knew! “I—I wanted Lord Borjhul to leave. He was not listening to me. I … I needed help.” There, I admitted it. Are you satisfied?

  “You needed me to tell Sorcerer Oran.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I did. And Lord Oran handled it, did he not?”

  “It seemed so.”

  “Would you agree, then, that telepathy is a useful skill?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And would you agree that if a skill is useful, it is worth learning to do well?”

  She knew where he was headed. “Yes, my lord. But—”

  He waited for her to finish, and when she did not, he raised his eyebrows. “But?”

  He already knows! Why does he make me say it? “But when I try, I feel his power. His magic is always right there.”

  “You mean Lord Graegor.”

  Who else could she have meant? “Yes! I can’t get past him! I try to focus, I try to shut him out, but he is always there, and you—” She hesitated, but when his expression did not change, she kept going, angrily, recklessly. “You knew what was wrong just now, without me telling you! You pulled it all out of my mind in an instant! You could pull anything out of my mind!”

  He regarded her calmly for a few seconds, then said, “Are you finished being hysterical?”

  Horrible old man. “I am not hysterical,” she murmured, looking down at her lap.

  “I could sense what was happening because your call was undisciplined. You did not send me words. You sent me images and feelings. Words are slow and clumsy compared to a single moment of everything you are experiencing.”

  “Then why does everyone tell me to send words?”

  “By ‘everyone’ I assume you mean the magi gir
ls with whom you have surrounded yourself.”

  She could not tell if this bothered him, that her friends had been trying to teach her. “You told me the same thing back on the ship. When you talked about telepathy, you talked about words.”

  “Do you remember what I actually told you about words?”

  Tabitha stared hard at her fidgeting fingers.

  “I told you that words limit what is sent. When you are able to send words, and only words, without associated feelings and images, then you are in control.” He sighed loudly. “I have said this a thousand times. I can’t read your mind. No one can. You are a sorceress. You are strong enough to keep me out. Have you not noticed that?”

  Was she strong enough to keep him out? Or was it just that he had never used all his power against her? She had barely held back Borjhul.

  “With a magus,” he continued, “a sorcerer can usually force telepathy if necessary, but even some of the magi are strong enough and skilled enough to keep their secrets. Whatever your secrets are, they will be safer if you learn to use telepathy in a controlled and disciplined way.”

  She nodded, not looking up.

  “You are not convinced. Let me ask you this. Do you think I ever let anything ‘slip’? Do you think I ever reveal anything I don’t mean to reveal when I use telepathy?”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “I have secrets too. Some belong only to me, but most belong to other people, people who have entrusted me with them. Because I have mastered telepathy, I know I can take those secrets to my grave.”

  This all sounded logical, but that did not mean it was true. This could all be an elaborate method of gaining her trust, of getting her to open up to him. “What about him?” she asked. “He is always there.” He was there right now, heavy draperies pulled back from the windows, ready to fall over her again.

  “I have telepathic links with hundreds of people. I can feel each one if I focus on it. Lord Graegor is strong in your mind because you don’t have any other bonds.”

  That did not sound right. After all, she now had a bond of sorts, however tenuous and strained, with Natayl himself, and it did nothing to lessen the bond with Graegor.

  “You don’t believe me,” he stated. “Why?”

  Because you could be trying to trick me. She could not say that, but she had no other answer.

  “Because you are afraid,” he answered himself, nodding, as if he expected her to nod as well. He folded his gnarled hands on the table and leaned forward. “It’s not surprising. Girls are taught to be afraid. You were raised to be afraid. Of men, of animals, of disease, of childbirth, of being alone, of almost everything. You are even afraid of the dark.”

  Tabitha stiffened. How had he known how much she hated the dark? If he knew that, what else did he know? Did he know what she had done with, and to, Alain? Did he know that she had not only pushed Nicolas to his death, but that she had invited him to her bedchamber? Had she revealed everything to Natayl without even realizing it?

  “Now that you are a sorceress,” he went on, “you know that you should not be afraid, but you can’t break free of your fears. That is why you will not allow me, or anyone else, more than the briefest touch with your mind. You are afraid that everyone will learn how afraid you are.”

  Tabitha stared at him, speechless. How had he missed the truth so completely? Her true fear was that someone, anyone, everyone would learn about Alain and Nicolas. But somehow, Natayl could not even glimpse the shadow of the idea that her secrets were truly dark. He could only see her as a silly little girl.

  She would agree with him. If she agreed with him, he would never look any deeper. She ducked her head. “I am not supposed to be afraid,” she said in a small voice.

  “I will help you face your fears,” Natayl said. “You already try to show no fear, which is the first step. We will build on that.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She had no idea what she was supposed to have said. But apparently she had said the wrong thing, because Natayl scowled, and his temporary patience abruptly expired. “I have given you time and space to whine and cry over your fate. Now we will resume lessons.”

  Whine and cry? That was not fair. Betauls did not whine or cry. “Yes, my lord.”

  “On most days, we will practice telepathy, telekinesis, and pyrokinesis.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I will give you books to read. Can you trouble yourself to learn Mazespaak?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “There will be more official events at which we must appear together, especially as the Equinox festival draws near. At all such events, you will speak only the island tongue, even to other Thendals. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Finally, you must come when I call, no matter what time of the day or night, no matter what you are doing or where you are. Do you understand?”

  That sounded ominous. “Yes, my lord.”

  He stared at her as if he did not believe her, but then grunted and flipped the back of his hand at her. Tabitha stood carefully and glided like a swan to the door.

  I am a Betaul. I am a Betaul and a sorceress.

  No matter what churned inside her, no matter who confronted her, she would never, ever again show anything but calm, serene, perfect grace.

  Pravelle flags flew from the tops of the masts of the king’s ships, the white reindeer rippling in a constant wind that made Tabitha shiver in her light cloak as she stood on the open pier with Natayl. The pier was the longest she had ever seen, jutting out from the rocky Maze Island shoreline and running at least a quarter mile out to deep water. The choppy sea kicked waves against the pier footings, spraying up a salty mist against her cloak and face. The sun blazed overhead, glinting from the two galleons’ glass windows and brass fittings, and also from the tips of the spears the royal guardsmen held as they took up positions on either side of the lead ship’s gangplank.

  She did not want to be here. Her father’s ship was arriving today too and would be docking at the city’s main harbor. If this took much longer, she would not get back to the city in time to welcome her family. But Natayl had insisted that she greet the king with him, and when she had tried to get out of it, he had skipped his usual stage of annoyance and had immediately started shouting at her. He expected her to respect his family as an extension of her respect for him, and she would do well to remember her place as his apprentice. She had not dared to argue.

  Several of the king’s servants came down the gangplank, two of them nearly tripping as the ship bobbed and rocked. Tabitha hoped that the king would stumble as well, but he loped down the swaying gangplank easily, his dark red greatcloak billowing behind him. His crown was a thick gold and silver band in his blonde hair, and his smile was as broad and as false as she had ever seen it. She dipped a curtsey, held it as Motthias and Natayl greeted each other, and then rose and lowered her hood. “Welcome, your Majesty.”

  “My Lady Sorceress.” The king bowed deeply to her, but he did not reach for her hand. He looked her in the eyes, but without calculation, menace, or seduction. It was like most men looked at her, if they dared even that, with the knowledge that she was beyond their reach. But from him she knew it was all a lie. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lady, and to return to Maze Island.”

  Tabitha nodded, but she was not going to return the compliment, or ask him about his prior visit. She would say no more than courtesy strictly required. “I hope your voyage was smooth, your Majesty.” She hoped he had been seasick.

  “It was somewhat rough, my lady. My queen would have been quite uncomfortable in her condition, and we both hope you excuse her absence.”

  She had not heard that the queen was pregnant again. She did not congratulate him. “I excuse her absence, your Majesty. Fortunately, her family is well represented.” No fewer than a dozen Jasinthes, most of them magi, had arrived within the last few days.

  The king tilted his head with what most la
dies would consider a charming smile. “Yes, my lady. I understand that you have made the acquaintance of her young cousin, Maga Attarine.”

  “I have, your Majesty.” She left it at that.

  Natayl cleared his throat. She thought he was angry, but did he really expect her to be friendly? “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have been meaning to apologize for our abrupt departure from Tiaulon without Lady Tabitha bidding your leave in person. I must take full responsibility, as it was my decision.”

  Tabitha was certain that the two of them had already discussed her absolute refusal to see anyone in person before leaving Tiaulon. Natayl was only taking formal responsibility for the insult because anything else would make him look weak. But the king said, “No apology necessary. The lady’s needs of course come first.” He looked at her with another smile, which she did not return. “How are you finding Maze Island, my lady?”

  “It’s very nice, your Majesty.” Could they finish this so she could get back to the city? It was so windy and cold, and she was going to be late. She realized that they were both waiting for her to say something else, so she added, “It’s warmer than Thendalia.” That should suffice.

  Natayl’s mind was silent, but his face gave her the definite impression that he thought she was being rude. But she knew she was not. Nan and Mistress Florain had both taught her precisely where that line lay. The king made some comments about the weather, to which she merely nodded. There was almost an awkward pause before the king turned to gesture for the lords in the ship behind his to disembark, and Tabitha had to greet at least half a dozen of his Pravelle cousins. She had met them all in Tiaulon, and they were all much more deferential to her here than they had been there. A few tried to compliment her, but she did not respond with more than acknowledgment.

  You are beyond them now, her father had said. All of them would have to earn her respect. She would not pretend otherwise.

  Finally Natayl gestured to set everyone moving down the pier toward the dirt road that led back into the woods and eventually to the manor house. Both of Natayl’s carriages and several big wagons waited on the road with a crowd of magi, and Tabitha played statue as all the bows, nods, curtseys, and greetings were performed. The manor servants were nervous about hosting the king, and some of the trunks were fumbled or dropped as they were loaded onto the wagons, which caused further delay. Tabitha hoped that in the confusion she could manage to not ride in the same carriage as the king, but Natayl summoned her with a sharp mental call, which she had to obey.