Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Graegor looked down at his plate. He wasn’t going to give up Tabitha, so he didn’t know what to say. That he would try his very best not to ‘burn the world’? That was demonstrably, laughably not enough, especially the day after fighting a duel. A duel that hadn’t even been about Tabitha.

  “You don’t need to answer,” Contare said softly.

  “Not right now, at least,” Oran muttered.

  Oran had hinted that he should break off his romance with Tabitha because of this. He thought Tabitha would break Graegor’s heart and unleash Graegor’s rage. What if he was right?

  “It’s true that we know very little about how prescience works,” Contare went on, and Graegor appreciated the diversion from the panic climbing through his mind. “That’s because usually, only one sorcerer in a generation has it.”

  After a moment, Oran seemed to accede to the change of topic. “We know even less about the shapechanging ability,” he pointed out, “and we all have it.”

  “I wouldn’t say we know less,” Contare hedged.

  “We have thousands of observations about it, but we’re no closer to knowing how or why it happens than the first sorcerers were.”

  “I wouldn’t say that either.”

  Oran gave Contare a long, level look, but then shook his head. “Never mind.” He returned his attention to Graegor. “Unless you have more to tell me, I think I must conclude that you are not prescient. But what this talent you’re manifesting is, I will have to consider more.”

  “That aligns exactly with my own thinking,” Contare said, in a tone that suggested Oran should have trusted him.

  “Good to hear it,” Oran told him, his tone even more dry than before. “Before I go, I have another, related request.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your par’thaumat, Brandeis, is prescient. We need to study his talent before he’s corroded.”

  “You have something in mind?”

  “I would like to see his drawings again.”

  Contare raised an eyebrow, but then nodded, and Karl disappeared into the corridor. Oran raised an eyebrow in return. “You keep them here? They’re that important?”

  “I think they might be. Especially since I have reason to believe that a couple of Brandeis’s people arrived here in the city a few days ago.”

  Graegor wondered when Contare was going to tell him that. Shovel-men and ringless ones had joined the crowds on Maze Island during the Equinox celebrations three months ago, and they hadn’t been particularly peaceful. With other troublemakers, they’d been exiled from the city, and should have known better than to try to return.

  Oran was saying, “Your par’thaumat told you that he’d been seeing visions all his life.”

  “Correct.”

  “When did he start drawing them?”

  “Almost right away. He told me that he has no natural talent for sketching, and his first drawings were poor. His mother found some instruction books, and eventually, an artist who believed in his visions began tutoring him. He’s very good at it now. I believe that the artist who taught him is the one who copies the drawings for distribution. They’re very polished.”

  “I remember them being so.” Oran’s eyes flicked over to Graegor. “Especially the one of you, son. But you’re of his race.”

  “Yes, sir.” Graegor had to admit that Brandeis’s drawing of him was better than any others he’d seen, probably because it wasn’t the least bit idealized. He’d seen literally dozens of pictures of himself—commissioned and not—since he’d been revealed as the new sorcerer, and the overwhelming majority of them made him very uncomfortable. Brandeis’s drawing also made him uncomfortable, but in a different way.

  Karl returned with a sheaf of heavy paper, and Graegor helped him lay out the seven images on the dining table. They were all lead-pencil sketches, close-ups showing faces and shoulders and sometimes down to the chest or waist. Contare hadn’t been able to identify two of the figures, but the other five were very familiar. Graegor himself was shown holding his quarterstaff against his shoulder, looking intently to one side, without a beard. Koren’s picture showed her with a long braid, which she had obviously cut off at some point before he had met her. Ferogin and Arundel did not look any different than he now knew them, but Borjhul did—Graegor had never seen him with that wide-eyed stare. Oran immediately picked up that drawing to study it.

  The drawings had arrived with many documents and other information about two months ago. Despite Circle rules against it—which Oran did not seem the least concerned about—Contare’s magi in Telgardia had quietly assisted the Theocracy and the local nobles in arresting, trying, and imprisoning several of the men who controlled Brandeis’ heretical followers. Graegor agreed completely that it had to be done; after their preaching in the towns along the River Telgard had gone from loud, to contentious, to violent, the “ringless ones” had burned the ferry at Orest and fought a bloody battle against soldiers sent from the local fort to restore order. With their most vocal leaders now captives like Brandeis himself, the heresy was losing traction, but these drawings were still circulating, and Contare thought that they were still important. He had first seen them many months ago, when he had visited Brandeis on his way west to find Graegor.

  “This isn’t a complete collection,” he explained to Oran now, just as he had explained to Graegor. “When he showed them to me, he had six more. These are just the ones he had copied and distributed.”

  “Do you remember those other six?”

  “I made a point of it. One of them was of his mother. He said it meant she was important, but that may have been sentimentality. He also had drawings of two of his followers, and neither of those are here since he didn’t circulate them. Both men were among those who were arrested.”

  “Based on their presence in the collection?” Oran asked, still frowning at the drawing of Borjhul.

  “Based on their positions in the organization. However, what’s missing from here that I would very much like to see again are three drawings of children, which he said he started seeing in his visions when he himself was a child. I think—I think—the children were Graegor, Koren, and Ferogin.”

  This had startled Graegor when Contare had first told him, but Oran only set down the drawing of Borjhul to pick up the one of Ferogin. The sketch showed that superior expression he always wore. “Have the Adelard heretics been focusing on him?”

  “Not like the Telgard heretics have been focusing on Graegor.”

  Graegor waited for one of them to comment on Koren’s presence in Brandeis’s childhood visions, but neither did. He opened his mouth to do so, but Contare then asked Oran, “What of the temples? Are there still holdouts?”

  Oran shrugged. “Some rural areas.” He saw Graegor’s questioning look, and said, “Your people think you are the One. My people think Borjhul is the One.”

  “You as much as told them that,” Contare pointed out, “just like Malaya told her people that Daxod was the One.”

  “I never stated any such thing about Borjhul.”

  “But when you took him from the temple—”

  “I can’t control their interpretations of my actions.”

  “That’s disingenuous.”

  “I can’t control your interpretation of my actions either.”

  Contare sighed. Oran set down the drawing of Ferogin and scanned the others. “Natayl’s girl isn’t here,” he said, sounding a little surprised.

  That was the first thing Tabitha had noticed when Graegor had shown her the pictures some weeks ago. “Maybe we don’t have all of them,” he murmured, echoing her conclusion.

  “Ilene is missing, too,” Contare said, “and so are Daxod and Rossin.”

  Oran tilted his head. “And what does that do to your theory? If your par’thaumat is simply dreaming of people who will be important to the world, and not people who will give rise to the One, then why does he dream of some sorcerers and not others?”

  Graegor had not hea
rd this theory from Contare before, and he looked at the old man curiously. Contare took a moment to consider before answering. “One sorcerer can have a greater impact on his era than another. Like Patricio, or Nuru. Brandeis might be seeing the sorcerers whose contributions will be more lasting.”

  The Kroldon sorcerer looked back at Graegor. “It might interest you to know that your master does not believe in the One.”

  This was not particularly shocking. Contare had said before that he viewed the veracity of the L’Abbanist holy tracts with deep skepticism, so it made sense to Graegor that the prophecy of the One was equally suspect in his master’s eyes. Graegor had no problem keeping his expression untroubled as he asked, “And you, sir? Do you believe in the One?”

  “Of course. Prescient sorcerers have dreamed of the return of the One since the first generation.” Oran glanced at Contare. “That should be good enough evidence for anyone.”

  “It’s all up to interpretation,” Contare said. “You have never dreamed about the One.”

  “That’s up to interpretation as well.” Oran drained his coffee cup, and waved Karl off when he moved to refill it. “Why must your par’thaumat’s dreams be about the future in general? Why can’t they be about the One specifically?”

  “They could,” Contare allowed. “But Daxod isn’t in the drawings, even though he fits the profile from Tolandish traditions—Malaya’s manipulations notwithstanding. Rossin isn’t in the drawings, yet Lasfe thinks that Rossin was born on the Day that Never Was, so he could be considered singular—‘One’. But Arundel is here, although none of the Aedseli religions speak of a ‘One’ this way.”

  “Except L’Abbanism,” Oran noted. He saw Graegor’s confusion and said, “L’Abbanism has a strong foothold in Aedseli. Have you ever heard of the Sand Basilica?”

  “No, sir.”

  Oran looked at Contare. “Broad education?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Narrow,” Contare returned just as sarcastically, holding up his finger and thumb a slight distance apart. “As narrow as humanly possible. My aim is to keep him completely ignorant.”

  Oran turned back to Graegor. “Have you ever talked to Hamid’s boy about his dreams?”

  “No, sir.” Then he remembered something from their time in the labyrinth, and added, “Arundel did say that he dreamed several times of all of us together, forging the Ninth Circle.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Contare remarked.

  “Still not certain,” Oran grunted.

  “Sir?” This idea was new, and alarming. Graegor had never had any doubt that the nine of them would forge the Ninth Circle, because why else were they all here?

  “Powerful people don’t like giving up power,” Oran said. “And that’s what you’ll all have to agree to do. Don’t be surprised if some of you resist it.”

  “You mean like Sorceress Iseult did?”

  Oran gave a short, rueful laugh. “Hopefully not.”

  “We didn’t have much trouble in our Circle,” Contare pointed out. “My personal opinion is that it’s a healthy thing for each new generation to discuss.”

  “You would think that,” Oran grumbled. “You have unwarranted faith in humankind.”

  “Arundel’s dream suggests my faith is warranted.”

  Oran shook his head and looked back at Graegor. “Did he say anything about other dreams?”

  “Arundel? No, sir, not that I remember.”

  “What has he told you?” Contare asked Oran curiously.

  “I’m sorting through it. I won’t speculate yet. If you want to ask him, though, he’ll tell you everything. Loves to talk, that one.”

  In Graegor’s interactions with him, Arundel had always listened at least as much as he had talked. But with an apprentice as taciturn as Borjhul, Oran obviously had a different perspective. “Did he ever dream of anything similar to my visions, sir?”

  “Nothing obviously related. I haven’t yet asked him if your latest vision triggered a dream for him as it did for me.” The old sorcerer suddenly leaned forward and tapped the table. “Yes, yes. Another question. Have you tried to trigger a vision?”

  “Deliberately? No, sir.” The thought had never occurred to him, and when he looked at Contare, it didn’t look like the thought had ever occurred to him either.

  “You should. Triggering another may tell us what the visions are.”

  Graegor was still looking at Contare, so he knew what his master would say before he said it: “No. Not until he’s learned more.”

  “More what?”

  “More everything. Two of these visions have been harmless, but one hasn’t. Back to the library, then experimentation. Maybe.”

  Oran frowned. “The harm done in Chrenste was not because of the vision. The vision came after the destruction.” He looked at Graegor. “Right?”

  “That’s what I remember, sir.”

  “We don’t know how each influenced the other,” Contare said. “Concentrations of earth magic could have been a factor.”

  There was a long silence as Oran thought that over. “I did not consider that,” he finally said. “It opens a new line of research.”

  “Indeed.”

  Oran seemed lost in thought for a moment, but then suddenly glanced into his coffee cup, saw that it was empty, and stood. “Thank you for breakfast,” he said as Contare and Graegor got up hurriedly from the table, “and for answering my questions.”

  “Of course,” Contare nodded, as if it wasn’t unusual for his guests to depart so abruptly. “Thank you for coming.”

  Karl followed the three of them back to the foyer, where Magus Richard had reappeared and stood ready at the doorway. Once polite farewells had been exchanged, Oran left, and through the open door, Graegor could see a strip of the sky, now more blue than black.

  Richard closed the door. Both he and Karl seemed relieved that the Kroldon sorcerer was gone, and Graegor couldn’t help feeling the same way. He hadn’t even realized how much tension he’d been holding until he released it in a long breath.

  Then Contare said, “Do you want to try it?”

  “What?” Graegor turned to see the old man looking at him thoughtfully. “You mean, try to trigger a vision?”

  “I find myself curious. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure.” Graegor had taken Contare’s earlier chiding as a flat prohibition, so his mind hadn’t even wandered into that territory. “Do you think I can?”

  “I have no idea, but I think it’s worth exploring.”

  “Why didn’t you want Lord Oran to know?”

  Contare shrugged. “Vanity and rivalry.”

  It always surprised Graegor when Contare admitted to the less admirable human emotions. “Sir?”

  “If we’re going to discover something new about your magic, I don’t want anyone else in the Circle to explain it before I can. Oran would have wanted to stay and observe.”

  “Oh.” He paused. “I think I want to try it, but …”

  “You’re worried about your control of your power.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a good worry. But have you lost control of your power since Chrenste?”

  Graegor thought hard about that. “No,” he decided, somewhat surprised. “But what about everything you said to Lord Oran? The effects of earth magic, and doing more research first?”

  “I think a small experiment should be relatively safe.”

  There was more to this than idle curiosity on Contare’s part. “All right, I’ll do it,” he nodded, “as long as I don’t have to be knocked unconscious first.”

  “But that’s half the fun,” Karl murmured.

  “No, you mean knocking someone else unconscious,” Contare told him, “not being knocked unconscious.”

  “I always get them confused, m’lord.”

  Contare nodded understandingly, as if this were a very common problem, then grinned back at Graegor. “Let’s use your very first vision as a model. You were looking o
ut a window and you slipped into a trance. You know how to put yourself in a meditative trance deliberately now, so look out at the street here, and see where it takes you.”

  “May I finish breakfast first?”

  “By all means.”

  Graegor quickly cleared his plate, and when he took it back to the kitchen, he grabbed a stool and carried it to the parlor, which had a front-facing window with a wide, shelf-like sill. Karl had pulled back the draperies, and Contare was using deft telekinesis to open and secure the outside shutters back from the window. With the lamps doused in the foyer and in the parlor, there were no reflections, and Graegor could easily see the townhouses on the other side of the street. The street itself was about the same breadth as the street in Farre where he had had his first vision, and as he settled himself on the stool, it occurred to him that that was probably the only similarity. This street was clean and completely paved.

  He couldn’t see a single person from where he sat, even when he leaned against the windowsill and looked all the way to the right, then all the way to the left. But it was early, and it was Godsday morning, when most people slept late if they could. He knew whole families back home who didn’t emerge from their houses on Godsday until it was time to go to the chapel at sundown.

  Aware that Contare had seated himself at the back of the parlor to keep an eye on him, Graegor set his arms, legs, hands, and feet into neutral positions, keeping his back and neck straight and his shoulders relaxed. His eyes found a spot where the white trim around an upper-story window stood out starkly in the dim grey shadows of dawn. At the corner of the window, a candle burned.

  You will burn the world.

  He had deliberately avoided thinking about Oran’s words. They were so disturbing that they made him physically uncomfortable, and he could not help shifting in his seat. He focused on his breathing, essential to any meditation, and mentally recited a series of prayers that matched the rhythm of the air filling and escaping his lungs. Oran’s prophecy kept intruding, but each time he realized that he was dwelling on it, he diligently returned his attention to the feeling and the sound of his breaths.

  In front of his eyes, on the street out the window, nothing moved at all, and motionlessness was not soothing. He knew how to put himself into a meditative trance, but that didn’t mean he was always successful. This time he found it particularly difficult. He found himself thinking about the lake back home, the soft lap of the small waves against the muddy shore. Yesterday, to try to take his mind off the pain, he’d listened to the sound of the larger waves rushing against the rocks of the dueling ground. Even rain was an easy, calming sound against a roof or window. Maybe this would be easier if it was raining, or if he was sitting on a beach.