Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

He knew what she meant. She saw it in his eyes before he smoothed his expression. “A ‘share’, my lady?”

  “Your fellow shovel-men believe that my father once promised them a ‘share’. Both he and I are at a loss to explain how this belief originated, and what is meant by it. Are you able to enlighten me?”

  “Ah,” Partridge nodded. “Yes, my lady. You are speaking of the incident in the capital.”

  “Were you there, Elder Partridge?”

  “In the city, yes, my lady. At the scene, no.”

  “Yet you admit to being the one who wrote the first letter to me. That letter stated, ‘Your father made us certain assurances the night you arrived in Tiaulon.’ I can only assume that ‘assurances’ and ‘share’ mean the same thing. So what do they mean?”

  “It was my understanding that you were there, my lady. Surely you remember what your father said.”

  “I do,” she lied, “and he made no ‘assurances’, no promises of a ‘share’. I ask you again. What do you mean by it?”

  Partridge gave her a direct, intense look. “A share of his attention, my lady. A share of his L’Abbanist kindness and compassion. And, as you no doubt realize, a share of the earthly treasure with which Lord Abban has blessed him.”

  “He’s lying,” Isabelle sent. “He doesn’t know the answer any more than the bear cub did.”

  “But it was in his letter,” Tabitha protested.

  “He may not have written it,” Clementa sent. “He may be taking credit for it to make himself seem more important.”

  Isabelle agreed. “It’s another faction that’s pushing for this ‘share’, not his.”

  “A share of his attention is reasonable,” Tabitha said slowly. “And of course a share of his kindness and compassion is reasonable as well. But you will need to be satisfied with a share of my earthly treasure, as we discussed. Not his.”

  Partridge gave her a fraction of a smile and briefly inclined his head. “I understand, my lady.”

  “See?” Isabelle sent. “He clearly doesn’t care about it.”

  “Very well.” Tabitha imitated his direct, intense look. “I have your word, then, that you will leave my father’s duchy?”

  Partridge inclined his head again. “You have my word that we will not progress any further west until you allow it, my lady.”

  “No, Elder Partridge. The coin for these farms that you wish to establish depends upon the total withdrawal of the shovel-men from the Betaul Marches.”

  Partridge hesitated, then sighed theatrically. “Of course, my lady,” he said, as if she had defeated him. “May we say that the Litthor Woods are beyond this area?”

  Ask for Orsilimie, her father had instructed. Settle for Litthor. “We should say that the Orsilimie Ford is beyond this area,” Tabitha said, quite firmly.

  Partridge seemed to expect this counteroffer. “Orsilimie may be difficult, my lady.”

  “But not impossible,” she said. He started to speak, but she was not finished. “I need not say that any warlike actions by your people against my people, or their property, is absolutely unacceptable.”

  “My lady, we will defend ourselves against armed men. But I promise that we will not use our shovels, our torches, or any other weapons against unarmed men, women, children, homes, fields, food, or treasures.”

  “Good,” she nodded.

  His expression was more wary than satisfied, though. “Have we an accord, then, my lady?”

  “Not yet.” She nodded toward the group behind him. “I have not yet spoken with everyone.”

  Partridge nodded, and curiously, he seemed to relax. “Yes, of course, my lady.”

  “You may rejoin them now.”

  Partridge bowed again. “My deepest gratitude for this rare honor, my lady.” This bow, like his others, was not very deep, but that had more to do with his girth than his regard. He did not back away crab-like, as Elder Bear had, but instead stepped aside and managed to walk around the slope of the ground without turning his back to her.

  “Walkering is sitting up now,” Clementa reported, and Tabitha glimpsed him too, though he was still mostly hidden by Angry Man’s crouch. “I think he is recovered.”

  “Hit him again,” Isabelle sent, with a reckless enjoyment that almost made Tabitha smile.

  “Or choose someone else for a private interview, so that you have a reason to hit him again if he interrupts,” Clementa sent.

  Tabitha’s eyes skimmed the group. She did not want to talk to Angry Man, and she doubted he wanted to talk to her. She looked at the heretic who had seemed sensitive to the wards. He was doing his best to keep his eyes on the ground, and what she could see of his face was chalk-pale. His right hand was making the Godcircle, held so stiffly his fingers looked painfully cramped. He was like a mouse, and in all likelihood, he would not even be able to talk to her.

  However, he was here, and that meant he was one of the leaders of these three factions. Was he only pretending to be frightened?

  The last heretic had dark red hair, an even redder beard, and clear, soft hazel eyes. She did not normally think of Adelards as handsome, but he was close to it. It only took a moment for him to realize that she was looking at him. He hesitated artfully, then stepped forward. He stopped in front of Tabitha and gave her an elegant bow just as Angry Man got Walkering back on his feet.

  This time, Tabitha spoke first. “Will you, too, withhold your name from me?” she asked quietly.

  “Lady Sorceress, I come fully equipped with a name for your use.” Like Walkering, he had a White Sea accent, but it sounded much nicer. He was speaking rather more loudly than the others had, though. “Please call me the Jackalope.”

  “Trap,” Isabelle sent, with sardonic amusement.

  Tabitha did not understand what Isabelle meant. She did know that the heretic wanted her to ask why he had chosen that name, so she did not. “Very well, Elder Jackalope,” she said, maintaining her quiet tone. “I will ask you what I asked the others. What do you want the outcome of this meeting to be?”

  “I dare not say, my lady.” His eyes held hers with desire, like no priest’s should. “But I will say that you are absolutely the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my entire life.”

  Girl? Only Natayl insisted on calling her a girl instead of a woman. Tabitha switched her expression from polite interest to cool disdain, and she completely ignored the compliment. “How is it that you were chosen to come here, with these others?” Her slight emphasis on you and others hinted at his unworthiness.

  “People say I speak well, my lady.” Her disapproval had not chastened him.

  “Speak, then. Tell me of the farms and homes that you have burned.”

  This abrupt accusation finally made him pause. “My lady?”

  “Or will you, too, deny that you had any part of this? Will you, too, place the blame on Elder Walkering?”

  “Yes, my lady, I will.” Now the flirtatious heat had turned into earnest warmth. “I am in charge of a small group of faithful followers of Elder Wendlin. We have never deviated from his teachings. ‘Lord Abban is God and loves the peaceful.’”

  Every section of every holy tract written in in the north started with those exact words. At Isabelle’s suggestion, Tabitha said, “Elder Wendlin did not reinterpret that, I see.”

  “No, my lady. Elder Wendlin reinterpreted very little. But the passages that he did reinterpret are the most critical for the understanding of the rise of the One. I can recite them for you, if you wish.”

  She had read them herself, and had found them too obscure to have any meaning. “No need. I know them well.”

  “Then you know that you yourself are within them, dear lady. You are the living saint. The model. The example. You are one of the embodiments of the natural powers that meld to become the path.”

  She remembered most of those words appearing in the passage. She had never once thought to associate them with herself. It gave her a strange feeling. Not a bad feeling, but certainly
a strange one. “I could also be the ‘swarm’,” she warned him. “That which ‘eats of the hope of life’.” Whatever that meant.

  “Never, my lady. I am convinced that if you were to join us, we would remake the world. Together.” He emphasized the final word, and the heat in his eyes had been stoked again. He suddenly reminded her of Nicolas.

  “I am not convinced of that,” she said, but she did not put as much firmness into her voice as she wanted.

  He almost smiled. “Allow me to persuade you, my lady. If not today, then we must meet again, and soon.”

  She could tell that Clementa and Isabelle both thought him to be the sort of outrageous, seductive liar that Tabitha had been easily handling for years. They would not have been so dismissive had they known she had succumbed to a seductive liar before. “And why would I consent to that?” she asked him.

  “My lady, you would consent to many things if you knew me better.”

  This was far beyond the mild flirtation that some men felt confident enough to try with her. Since this “Elder Jackalope” could not possibly be serious, it stood to reason that all his words were carefully calculated. But to what end?

  Clementa and Isabelle speculated on that, after pushing aside their momentary shock that a priest would be so forward. They wondered if he was simply trying to gain a general advantage by making Tabitha uncomfortable, or if he had something specific in mind. But the point was moot, since Tabitha was not uncomfortable. “I doubt that,” she said, very drily. It was time to put him off balance again. “I am having a difficult enough time sharing this space with you.”

  She thought she saw a flicker in his eyes at her emphasis, and he made no answer right away. Tabitha spoke into the silence. “A ‘share’, I have been told. The shovel-men want a ‘share’ from my father. You were there, I think.” She did not actually think so, but it might put him on the defensive. “A ‘share’ of what?”

  But he just smiled again. “My lady, as I mentioned, I lead a small group of Elder Wendlin’s followers. The others here lead other small groups. It’s how we survive persecution. My group seeks nothing from your father except the freedom to preach to his people.”

  “Is he lying?” Tabitha asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Isabelle answered, at the same time Clementa answered, “He might be.”

  “I see,” Tabitha said aloud. She saw no point in talking to this man any longer, and as he was taking a breath to say something else, she spoke, loudly enough that all the waiting heretics turned their heads toward her. “You may rejoin the others.”

  With only the slightest pause, Jackalope bowed. “Of course, my lady.” He copied Partridge’s route around the bowl of the ground away from her.

  “Which one next?” Isabelle asked.

  “I have no interest in speaking to any more of them.”

  “But we haven’t actually found out what they mean by a ‘share’.”

  “It clearly means different things to different factions. Or nothing to some factions.”

  “I agree,” Clementa sent thoughtfully. “They came here wanting to present a unified front, but they can’t manage it.”

  “Are you sure?” Isabelle asked, for Walkering had gathered the others and was whispering fiercely at them, not allowing Partridge to interrupt, though he kept trying. Walkering’s short beard no longer looked neat and refined, but bristled from his chin like a dog’s fur bristled from its back. The hairs still held some dried blood from his nose, despite Angry Man’s rag.

  “What should I do?” Tabitha asked.

  “He is trying to rally them around him,” Clementa sent, “but we know that at least some of them don’t want his leadership.”

  “But they have reasons for allowing him to lead,” Isabelle sent. “At least for now.”

  “What should I do?” Tabitha asked again. They did not have a script for this. No one had suspected just how fractured the shovel-men’s leadership truly was. “Should I side with Partridge? Or was he lying the entire time?”

  “Not the entire time.” Clementa paused. “But I believe he made promises that he may not be able to keep.”

  Tabitha was starting to feel nervous again. She remembered when the Telgard ambassador had called her a “pretty child”, after she had thought she had impressed him. Was Walkering haranguing the other five, or were they all pretending, and laughing? Did even that little mouse-man think she was stupid?

  “We should see if anyone else has anything to say,” Clementa sent.

  “Should I let Walkering speak, if he tries?”

  “Only if he is polite.”

  “Otherwise, hit him again.” Isabelle paused. “I mean it.”

  “It may be required,” Clementa admitted.

  Tabitha breathed deeply. She was not sure what else they could learn here. She wanted them to leave. Leave here, and leave Betaul.

  They had to leave Betaul, and she had to make them do it.

  She reminded herself that Partridge had already laid out his cards. She reminded herself that Clementa and Isabelle would coach her and make sure she did not say anything her father did not want her to say.

  These men were just men. She was a sorceress.

  She and her magi all sat down on their cushions again, in fluid, synchronized motions that were meant to attract the attention of the heretics. It did. Walkering immediately broke off from the others and stepped in front of them. “Lady Sorceress—”

  “Don’t speak,” she ordered. She had been willing to give him another chance, but as soon as he spoke, she realized that his voice irritated her far too much. When he opened his mouth again, she said, “You are all nameless. You are all equal. I can negotiate with any of you. You will stand aside.”

  Clementa and Isabelle approved. Walkering blinked, and when Angry Man leaned toward him to say something, he waved him away. But then the frightened heretic, the mouse, scurried in front of Walkering, looked up at him, and whispered urgently, holding his hands together as if praying.

  With extreme reluctance, Walkering stepped back, his mouth held tightly shut. The others glanced at each other, none of them brave enough to take Walkering’s place at the front.

  “You are Elder Wendlin’s devoted followers,” Tabitha announced, and they all refocused on her like dogs on a cat. “You have explained his history and his teachings. Most of you have also been reasonable enough to not expect me to be immediately swayed by such.” She allowed a pause, and continued. “In my private conversations with three of you, I have discovered that you want several things. You want Thendalia’s Theocracy to allow your preaching. You want to win the hearts, and feed the stomachs, of the common people. And you want me, personally, to take my place among you.” Another pause. “Do any of you have anything to add for my consideration?”

  Walkering still held his mouth shut. Jackalope lifted his eyebrows suggestively at her. Elder Bear shook his head solemnly. Angry Man simply glared, and Mouse stared at the ground. But Partridge gave her a tiny nod. It was a nod of appreciation that she had not revealed his desire to take control of the shovel-men.

  “He is the best option,” Clementa sent, with some resignation.

  “Even as ambitious as he is,” Isabelle added. “He wants to work with you, and if you agree to fund his farms, he might find out for you what the ‘share’ really is.”

  “But what should I tell my father about the ‘share’?”

  “Exactly what Partridge told you,” Clementa sent, “and that no one else would speak of it.”

  Tabitha hesitated, but then relented. “All right.” He would not be very pleased. But this was her meeting.

  The pause had been long, and Tabitha made it longer, waiting for everyone to become uncomfortable. When she suddenly spoke, Mouse was not the only one who flinched. “I agreed to meet with you because I want to end the war.”

  Walkering opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. Elder Bear swallowed and said, “Lady Sorceress, to call it a ‘war’—”


  “Is accurate.” She put on a stern frown. “There may not be soldiers in this war. But the people who suffer most from your incursion into Thendalia are the farmers. Not the nobles or the Theocracy, but the very people that you claim are doing holy work.”

  Elder Bear tried again. “Lady Sorceress—”

  “So what am I to do?” she asked them all. “I am Thendalia’s new sorceress. I have not yet become jaded by hundreds of years of watching men slaughter each other. I still believe that my power can protect my people.”

  “Lady Sorceress,” Elder Bear said, his hands making the sign of the Godcircle. “We want to protect them as well. We want to protect their spirits.”

  “Only Lord Abban Himself can do that.” She gave them a moment to try to think of a way to deny or modify that, and in the meantime she sent, “Should I use the threat?”

  “The reminder,” Clementa sent, using the word she favored for the tactic. “If you believe it is necessary.”

  Tabitha was not sure it was necessary, but if they were all secretly laughing at her, this would stop it. “Perhaps Lord Abban should protect your spirits.” She lifted one eyebrow, as if thinking something over. “I could kill all of you right here.”

  No one dared to answer, or move. Walkering scowled, and Partridge looked hard at her. Into the utter silence, she said, “It would leave the shovel-men in Thendalia leaderless. That would make it easier to push you all back into Adelard.”

  Mouse squeaked, just like a real mouse. “He might have peed himself,” Isabelle sent.

  “However,” Tabitha continued. She had rehearsed this. It was important that she deliver these words precisely and smoothly. “Such a complete betrayal of your trust is unworthy of me. And from a practical standpoint, your followers would not remain leaderless for long, and I would have lost any hope of influence over their new leaders. I know all of you now. I want you to stay on my side.”

  They wanted to stay on her side too. She could tell from the relief on Elder Bear’s face, the guarded hope on Partridge’s, and the desire on Jackalope’s. Walkering and Angry Man were both still holding back their words. Likely a lot of words.