Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “They’re at the beach,” Isabelle reported.

  Tabitha did not stop pacing. Once Isabelle moved to sit on her cushion, that would be the time for Tabitha and Clementa to move to theirs, and for the magi to put up their hoods.

  “Where are they?” she asked Isabelle after only a short time. Her skin felt icy.

  For an answer, Isabelle sent what she was seeing. Six men, as agreed, all wearing hooded cloaks. They were all taking the steep, uneven stairs slowly and carefully, but only the one leading the way seemed to be having actual difficulties, due to his weight. She had stressed that they were not to bring shovels, and it seemed that none of them had even brought walking-sticks to help with the climb. Were they Thendals or Adelards? None of their faces were visible, at least not above their bearded chins.

  If only she could sense the energy of her people. Then she would be able to tell which, if any, of the approaching men were Thendals.

  But she could not. All sorcerers could, in theory. But somehow, she could not.

  She heard a boot scraping against stone, the noise strangely loud, and a grunting cough. Anxiety—no, fear tightened Tabitha’s spine, seizing her shoulders, seizing her breath. What was she doing? What was she doing?

  She could not talk to these men. They were not noble or magi, and they were not here to flatter her or serve her. They were violent, rebellious, and untrustworthy. They expected her to help them. There were too many of them to keep a secret. It was certain, it was inevitable that Natayl would find out what she was doing. He would punish her. He would hurt her.

  “No,” she murmured. “I can’t.” They were still climbing the stairs. She had to send them away.

  Both Clementa and Isabelle turned to her, their eyes going wide as they sensed her panic. “Tabitha,” Clementa sent as she crossed the space between them on silent feet, “you are nervous. That is expected. But we will remind you what to say if you forget.”

  “No. I can’t. I should not be doing this. You need to send them away.”

  “Take a deep breath. They are here. You need to talk to them.”

  “They will not listen. They will know.”

  “Know what?”

  Know that Tabitha was a fake. Know that nothing about her was confident or strong or smart. That she could barely do any magic at all.

  “Tabitha.” Clementa faced her. “If you back out of this, it will send the message that you can’t be trusted to keep your word.”

  Tabitha did not send the thought, but it was loud in her head: Better I break my word to a gang of heretics than to Natayl. She had not asked his permission.

  Clementa’s hazel eyes were wide, unblinking, almost angry. “They are here to ask favors of you. To convince you that they can be trusted. You are in control.”

  “Then I can send them away.” She knotted her fingers together. “I will say they offended me.”

  “Are the rogue magi right?” Clementa demanded. “Do sorcerers not care about the world? Do you not want to use your power for the good of your people? Do you not want peace?”

  “I want peace.” Her own voice in her mind was so faint.

  “Then demand it! You can stop the fire and the blood. You can show the world that the Ninth Circle will not tolerate injustice.” She splayed her gloved hand toward the ground. “It starts here. You can do it. You must do it.”

  “I have never done anything like this before!”

  “They don’t know that!”

  “I will do something wrong. I will make a fool of myself!”

  Clementa looked at Isabelle. Isabelle stepped closer and sent, “Your father is counting on you.”

  The words hit Tabitha like a pail of water. Oh my God. Her father. Her father had asked for her help. He needed to know what the heretics wanted from him. He needed to drive them out of Betaul. How could she face him if she was too frightened to even talk to them?

  The heretics threatening his lands. Threatening his people. Her people.

  She was a Betaul. She had the blood of warriors, of dukes, of kings. Would she rather suffer at Natayl’s hands for this, or disappoint her father?

  All on its own, a huge breath drew itself into her lungs, filling them, breaking the tight hold of her fear. It was still there, like frozen spikes embedded in her skin, but she could think again. “Forgive me,” she sent to Isabelle, and especially to Clementa, whose tense expression was sagging in relief. “Forgive me. You are right. You are both right. I must do this.”

  “We will be here with you,” Isabelle reminded her.

  “Yes,” Clementa sent. She pulled herself back to her normal brisk practicality. “They asked for this meeting. They will be pleading their case before you. You will not need to talk as much as listen.”

  I am a Betaul. I am a sorceress. She told herself that this was no different from those dreary speeches that Natayl had forced her to give to his magi, where only poise and memorization counted. Poise and memorization were very old and familiar companions of hers. Nan had seen to that very early. She took another, softer breath and let it out. I am a Betaul. I am a sorceress.

  Clementa took a calming breath of her own. “Now, sit. I will arrange your cloak.”

  “You have a hairpin loose,” Isabelle added. “Let me fix that first.”

  They sat her down on the center cushion and fussed over her, which was soothing. Tabitha was able to simply breathe, and to hold her noble name and magic rank around her like a mantle. Her face gradually relaxed into a resting expression that, she knew, looked calm but disapproving. Everyone had agreed that warm smiles would not do here.

  The sounds of the footsteps were obvious now. Clementa and Isabelle put up their hoods and took their places, sitting exactly like Tabitha, cross-legged on their cushions with their cloaks spread over their laps and legs. Tabitha’s back was straight, but she tried to keep it from feeling stiff. Her eyes were half-lidded and looked slightly down, as she had practiced. A tiny boost of telekinesis made her neck itch, but kept her body unnaturally still.

  Everyone was beneath the notice of a Betaul sorceress until they bowed before her and begged her attention. A Betaul sorceress did nothing to make supplicants feel comfortable or welcome. A Betaul sorceress was the essence of feminine mystique and unspeakable power.

  Her fear was like ice, but ice was solid.

  The six men murmured to each other as they crowded the top of the stairs, and Tabitha waited for them to decide what to do. I can still send them away, the treacherous words hit her mind. When Natayl finds out, I can just say …

  Nothing. She could say nothing. She could make no excuses now.

  She followed the men with her eyes as they edged around the space like mice near a sleeping cat. It was impossible to tell if the wards were disturbing any of them, but it was clear to Tabitha’s mind that none of them were magi. They stopped near a point across the bowled ground from her. They still wore their hoods, and they still whispered to each other, but then they quieted and shuffled into a line. Perhaps relative rank had been the subject under discussion. They all made the sign of the Godcircle and then lowered their hoods. They attempted to bow together, but it was very ragged. Tabitha would have smiled under other circumstances. Today she said, in Thendalian, “Rise.”

  One of them recoiled at the sound of her voice, and two others froze. But the others gamely faced her. Tabitha waited just long enough for one of the two in the middle to open his mouth to answer, and then she said, “I am Tabitha de Betaul, Lady Sorceress of Thendalia. You represent the Adelard priest Elder Wendlin and the followers he has gathered. Step forward and give me your names.”

  The one standing on the far left cleared his throat. His hair and beard were dark and neatly trimmed, but his nose and cheeks were thick and ruddy. “Lady Sorceress,” he said, his accent from the White Sea region. He could have been either Adelard or Thendal. “You are as beautiful in reality as you are in story.”

  She supposed she should not have expected anything more or
iginal or poetic. She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge the common compliment. “You are?”

  “My name is not important, Lady Sorceress.”

  That had not been part of the agreement. They had said they would reveal their names. “It is important to me,” she said, keeping a slow, regal cadence.

  “I apologize, Lady Sorceress, but we have decided that we can’t give our names to you. Our names give you power over us.”

  “Old bedtime tales,” Clementa sent. “Misunderstandings about spellcasting.”

  “Or he realizes that we have lists of known aliases,” Isabelle sent.

  “Are you now changing the terms of this meeting?” Tabitha asked, her voice perfectly steady despite her rising uncertainty. “Should I let them get away with this?” she asked Clementa and Isabelle.

  “Not exactly, my lady.” That was the one near the middle, who had been the one to lead the way up the stairs. He was short, stout, and bald, and reminded Tabitha of Count Sebastene, except for his sparse blonde beard.

  “They are doing this to try to put you at a disadvantage,” Clementa sent. She did not need to remind Tabitha that she had wanted to do something similar.

  “‘Not exactly’?” Tabitha asked the heretic, arching her eyebrows.

  “We respect your abilities, my lady.” The stout man was definitely a Thendal, and likely from the west. “We risk much by being here. Please understand that our names would put us at further risk after we leave.”

  “What should I say?” Tabitha asked.

  “Give them names,” Isabelle suggested.

  “Yes,” Clementa seized on the idea. “Turn it around. They will not name themselves, so they will have to answer to what you call them.”

  “The one at the end did say his name was ‘Not Important’,” Isabelle sent.

  “No, too flippant.”

  “How about Walkering? He looks like my mother’s old dog.”

  “What should I say?” Tabitha repeated, more urgently. They did not have time to debate dog breeds. The expression of the heretic in the middle was slipping from resolute to wary, and the heretic on the left was about to speak.

  “Give them one last chance,” Clementa sent.

  “How, then, should I address you?” Tabitha asked. It came out just right, like she had spent the last few seconds holding onto her temper rather than in frantic conversation with her magi.

  “We are all priests, Lady Sorceress,” the heretic on the left said. “‘Elder’ will do for any and all of us.”

  Tabitha made a little noise of disapproval. “This is foolishness. Give me names to know you by, or I will give you names myself.”

  The heretic in the middle raised his eyebrows in surprise. The one on the left held his mouth closed for a moment, and then said, “How can you object, Lady Sorceress? You have not introduced the two magi you have brought.”

  “That is because I myself am here. If Elder Wendlin himself were here, then I would not need your names.”

  “Lady Sorceress, you will not regret indulging us in this matter.”

  Regret? As if they could make her regret anything! “You have left me with no choice, Elder Walkering.”

  The heretic on the far right snickered, and covered it with a cough. Elder Walkering shifted his eyes in a quick glare, but faced Tabitha again and inclined his head. “As you wish, Lady Sorceress. I owned such a dog once.”

  Tabitha looked at the heretic in the middle again. “Should I name you as well?”

  “It would be an honor, my lady.”

  Then she looked at the heretic standing between the first two. “And you? You would answer to a name of my choosing?”

  He bowed clumsily, his hand held in the sign of the Godcircle. He was Adelard, and he had a youthful face, despite his grey hair and beard. “Honored, Lady Sorceress.” His accent was thick but not too unpleasant.

  “What do you think?” she asked her magi.

  “If three of them are agreeing to this,” Isabelle sent, “the other three are unlikely to complain.”

  “Yes,” Clementa sent. “Leave it there for the moment. Ask about the letters.”

  Tabitha swept her cool gaze over the entire group. She waited a beat, then asked, “Who among you is the author of the letters written to me?”

  The one in the middle glanced right and left, then back to her. “My lady, we all agreed to the sending and the wording of our letters.”

  “Unlikely,” Clementa sent, and Isabelle agreed.

  “That is unlikely,” Tabitha said, “Elder Partridge.”

  He did not look particularly happy with the name. And truly, he was not that plump. But he did not object, and simply said, “It is true, my lady.”

  She looked at each of them in turn. Not all could meet her eyes, but even the ones who could did not offer another answer. A tiny hope took root in Tabitha’s mind that their obstinance would give her a reason to send them away.

  No. They were here, and she was a Betaul sorceress. “Who among you, then, negotiated the terms of this meeting with me?”

  Partridge inclined his head yet again. “My lady, the negotiations were with all of us. You have been writing to all of us. In a sense, you already know us.”

  Ridiculous. “You refuse to speak your names. You refuse to divulge the author of the letters. You refuse to take responsibility for the terms of this meeting. How, then, do I ‘know’ you?” At Clementa’s suggestion, she added, “Are you heretics at all? Or are you Theocratic priests seeking to set a political trap for Thendalia’s sorceress?”

  Most of them looked indignant at this accusation, especially Walkering, but Partridge shook his bald head with a sigh. “We are all true followers of Elder Wendlin, my lady. Our proof is in our words. May we offer them now? It is why we have come to see you.”

  Tabitha paused, as if considering, before she said, “I don’t wish for us to waste this opportunity to understand each other. Very well, then. Tell me the story of your beliefs.”

  Partridge began, with a practiced rhythm to his speech. “As you no doubt already know, my lady, our leader, Elder Wendlin, once lived at Saint Ferogin’s Cloister in Hudec. The most ancient holy tracts in the world are kept in that cloister’s library, and although Wendlin was not at that time a trained scholar, these crumbling documents fascinated him. He made a study of them, and discovered that the preservation efforts of earlier generations had misaligned some of the partial pages. His new interpretation of our ancestors’ divinely inspired insights led him to believe that two other holy tracts had been misinterpreted as well.”

  Tabitha had indeed learned parts of this background before, during her preparations for this meeting. She resisted the urge to tell him to cut to the meat of it all, and merely nodded for him to continue.

  “His superiors did not agree with his interpretation. It’s difficult to blame them for not seeing what he saw, since they were very set in their ways, and Wendlin’s revelation was shocking. Although the L’Abbanist world claims to be waiting for the One, and longing for the One, our behavior says otherwise. Wendlin learned from these ancient texts that the One will not bless this world with his coming until we remake the world for him. All the Theocracy’s rituals, all our prayers, all the worship in the L’Abbanist world, it is all meaningless unless it remakes the world for the One.”

  He paused, clearly waiting for her to ask the obvious question. When she did not oblige, he asked it himself. “What does it mean to remake the world? Elder Wendlin teaches us that the very first step, before all else, is to end hunger. Men can’t become kind, generous, humble, or pious if they are constantly struggling to feed themselves and their families. Farming and herding are our holiest endeavors.” Again he paused, and when again she said nothing, he tilted his bald head. “My apologies, my lady. You have heard all of this before.”

  As Tabitha nodded, she sent, “Should I ask him to go on?”

  “Ask how it changed,” Clementa answered. “Ask how it went from planting
fields to burning them.”

  “How their shovels became weapons,” Isabelle added.

  “What I have not heard yet,” Tabitha said, “is any explanation of how your leader’s teachings became corrupted. Holy men, priests, are men of peace. But instead of planting fields, you are burning them. Instead of tools, your shovels are weapons.”

  “There is no corruption,” Walkering insisted. When Tabitha turned her head slightly to regard him, she saw fierce intensity in his wide, dark eyes. “Elder Wendlin foresaw that many would resist the path of the One. A burned field can be replanted, its fertility revived. An edge on a shovel can defend a farmer from the depredations of both wild animals and evil men.”

  “Let him talk,” Clementa sent, when Tabitha was trying to think of how to answer. “I want to see how much of a fanatic he is.”

  “My lady,” Partridge said, “perhaps we should speak first of the early days, when Elder Wendlin left Saint Ferogin’s …” He trailed off when Tabitha lifted a single finger at him, without taking her eyes from Walkering.

  The fact that Partridge had noticed the minute gesture from her black-gloved hand took the sharp edge off Tabitha’s anxiety. Talking to these men, surrounded by these rocks and the wet air, really was no different than talking to any other men, surrounded by wines and warmth. They all paid very close attention to her. They all made assumptions about her. They all wanted something from her. They all knew they would have to be extraordinarily convincing to have any chance of getting it.

  She thought of Graegor then, and felt a surprising rush of affection. He was different. He was special.

  Walkering was nodding in acknowledgement. “Lady Sorceress, Elder Wendlin is like all of Lord Abban’s priests in that he believes in spreading peace. But he also believes that there can’t be true peace while powerful men tread upon weaker men. When they join together, they are strong, and it allows them to spread the message, even if persecuted.”

  As Clementa had suggested, Tabitha let Walkering talk, but although he spoke many words, they did not mean much. He seemed to repeat himself often, but Tabitha could not be sure because he ran his sentences together, and she often lost track of which nouns connected to which verbs and to which pronouns. It did not help at all that his accent grew thicker as he talked about Wendlin’s supposed goals for the L’Abbanist kingdoms beyond his “holy farming”. Apparently Wendlin believed in self-rule, like in Aedseli, and Tabitha had to wonder where he had even heard such ideas in the north.