Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  And he still wanted her. It was Solstice, it was supposed to be this way. Everyone knew that.

  He wanted to blame her. But this was his own fault. He’d ruined everything.

  Even with his brain churning the same thoughts over and over, even with his shields closed tight against telepathy and everything else, he suddenly knew that another sorcerer was nearby. He recognized the pale ambiance of Arundel’s magic a moment before he recognized the Aedseli sorcerer’s deep voice talking to Stan.

  The carriage door opened. “May I join you, my lord?”

  The formality was stupid. Their time in the labyrinth had eroded it quickly, and Ferogin’s habit of calling all of them by their first names had spread and stuck. Graegor didn’t want company, but refusing felt like too much effort, so he said nothing. The carriage swayed a little as Arundel, undaunted by Graegor’s silence, found the opposite seat and settled into it. Graegor couldn’t see him, except the occasional glint of the whites of his eyes in his dark face. That face was probably composed in the same tranquil expression he wore at every Circle session.

  Magi were still calling to him, pounding at his shields like on a barred door.

  “An eventful evening,” Arundel said, his accent just enough to be rich and exotic. There wasn’t a thing about him that wasn’t smooth and cultured. Breon’s blood, he was a pearl, and he’d probably never done anything as stupid as this, and Graegor couldn’t listen to his small talk.

  “Do you mind telling me what happened?” Arundel asked next. When Graegor made no answer to this either, he said, “I tried to call to you.” And, after the next silence, he finally got to the point. “I’ve been having the same dream as Oran.”

  Graegor flinched. There was only one dream he could mean.

  “I thought you were about to fulfill it.”

  But I didn’t. I didn’t. He’d probably driven Tabitha away forever, but he hadn’t done that.

  “It’s not the same dream in every particular,” Arundel’s voice went on in the darkness. “Oran and I think differently, so we dream differently. But when he told me his dream about you, I finally realized the meaning of one I’ve been having. It’s so unlike all my other dreams, it seems to come from somewhere else entirely.”

  Graegor didn’t care where the prophetic dreams came from. He knew they were real.

  “I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” Arundel said.

  “I’m all right,” Graegor mumbled. He didn’t need to be talked into anything, or out of anything, or down from anywhere. It was done, it was over.

  “Oh, so you can still speak.”

  Graegor saw no need to reply to that.

  “You pushed so much earth magic through the antennas that you destroyed all their crystals,” Arundel said. “They shot sparks that started fires all over the neighborhood. The earth magic wiped all the spells from all the local charms, too. So, are you certain that you’re all right?”

  He hadn’t meant to do any of that, of course. He’d just wanted Tabitha to know … what? That he was angry? And what good had that done?

  “It’s happened before,” Arundel said then. “Hamid said that he damaged the antennas more than once when he was learning to control earth magic. And he wasn’t the only one.”

  Graegor shrugged. So it happens sometimes with us. Go away.

  Arundel shifted and, presumably, sat further forward, because his voice sounded closer. “The crystals in the antennas. The fires you set here.” A pause. “The crystals in your vision. The fires you could set, now that you know those crystals are there.” He paused again, and continued with exaggerated patience: “The obelisks contain crystals. The Bond of the Circle is a crystal. If anything could set such a fire as could burn the—”

  “I know!” Graegor snapped. “Do you have anything useful to say?”

  “What happened tonight?”

  I wanted to do with Tabitha what you were doing with Ilene. Shouldn’t you get back to that instead of interrogating me? “An argument happened.”

  “Tabitha?”

  “She hit me.” He held onto that. This wasn’t wholly his fault. She had overreacted. Right? “Not a slap in the face. That’s different. It was with her power. I’d never even think about doing that to her.”

  “It’s not different.” When Graegor didn’t answer, Arundel repeated, “It’s not different. Women can hit men, but men should never hit women. The kind of hitting doesn’t matter.”

  Arundel was right, and Graegor knew it. But part of him was still angry, and didn’t want to stop feeling angry. If he stopped, he would be admitting that he had no right to be angry. And he did.

  You will burn the world.

  It will be because of rage.

  From the depths of the heart.

  “Do you see that?” Arundel asked quietly. “When a woman hits a man, it’s because he’s not listening to her, or he’s not taking her seriously.” After another silence, he said, “You always need to pay attention to what she’s telling you.”

  “I was.” Tabitha was the one who hadn’t paid attention to him.

  “Are you sure?” Arundel paused. “Did you frighten her?”

  No.

  He stopped. Did I?

  Was that it? Was that what he hadn’t understood?

  When they’d first been bonded, he had often sensed fear from her—fear of the dark, fear of their power, fear that she couldn’t even explain, as if the fear itself had taken on a life of its own.

  Did the thought of making love scare her?

  The idea hung in Graegor’s mind, and he forced himself to examine it. It … it was not entirely unreasonable. She’d grown up noble, sequestered in her father’s castle, almost cloistered like a holy sister. She’d been expected to marry young, to someone who didn’t love her. Was a wedding night something she was relieved to have escaped, once she became a sorceress?

  She could have told him that. They’d talked before about things that frightened them …

  Oh God. His daydream, that incredibly vivid fantasy—had that scared her too? The darkness, the intensity, the forcefulness he’d imagined … it was all too close to rape.

  The word stung him hard. Horror turned his stomach, and he covered his mouth with his fist. He was just like Hagan. Deep inside, he was exactly like Hagan.

  “You did frighten her,” Arundel concluded, still quiet and grave. “Never mind that you frightened the rest of us. If you can’t control yourself for our sake, control yourself for hers.”

  Control yourself. Graegor’s heart was galloping. His power was spinning with the turmoil in his head. It would erupt from him again if he couldn’t calm down. He had to center himself, like Contare had taught him. The meditative prayers …

  “Why isn’t this easier?” he whispered instead.

  For once, Arundel didn’t have a quick answer. Eventually he said, “Maybe your visions can guide you.”

  “You know about my visions?”

  “Yes.” A rustling suggested that Arundel was settling back into the carriage seat. “Oran told me what you told him.”

  “He doesn’t think I’m prescient.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  Suddenly wanting Arundel to keep talking, Graegor asked, “What do you think?”

  “Your visions are about the One,” Arundel stated.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you so sure?” What made the white heralds so sure? What made anyone sure of anything when he was sure of nothing?

  “My dreams tell me.”

  Right. He should have expected such a worthless answer. “Your dreams tell you. In your dreams, does a giant voice in the sky say, ‘Graegor’s visions are about the One’?”

  He heard Arundel sigh. “I can’t explain to you how I know. All of my dreams point toward the One, so when my dreams align with your visions, I have to conclude that your visions are about the One too.”

  The One. Why were they talking about
the One? “What does ‘the One’ even mean?”

  “The One means everything,” Arundel replied serenely.

  Graegor knew that the idea of a special person bringing peace and harmony to the world was not just part of the L’Abbanist faith. Many pagan religions believed it too. He assumed that Arundel followed one of those. Aedseli was reputed to have hundreds of them. “I mean, what does the One mean to you?”

  “Understanding. Sympathy. Selflessness.”

  Might as well ask. “Am I the One?”

  Arundel’s smile was evident in his voice as he said, “I know there are people in Telgardia who think so, but no.”

  “Is Borjhul?” The Kroldon sorcerer’s face was among Brandeis’s drawings, and Borjhul’s very name was the name of their long-looked-for god of war.

  “No.”

  Right. A god of war wouldn’t be bringing about peace and harmony. “How about Daxod?” Again, there was a drawing of him, and Malaya had told her people that he was her son … though she was obviously lying …

  “None of us are the One,” Arundel said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen the One, in my dreams. I dream of Ilene holding a baby.”

  That stunned Graegor to silence for a long time. He eventually said, “Not her baby, right?”

  “I don’t know.” Arundel paused. “I think so.”

  “That’s … supposed to be impossible.” His brain was no match for this idea right now. A sorceress bearing a child? It had never happened. Contare had told him that it had never happened, and the one time Graegor had been stupid enough to ask Josselin, she’d given a whole lot of embarrassing detail about why it couldn’t happen.

  Why were they even talking about this?

  “I don’t think anything’s impossible,” Arundel said.

  Graegor’s head hurt. His gen whirled inside him.

  Arundel shifted in his seat. “I would like it very much if you were to tell me about any other visions you have. Everything fits together, and I need more pieces of the puzzle.”

  You need? No. You want. Oran wanted the same thing. Arundel was more friendly about it, but Graegor didn’t consider him an actual friend, or even an ally. His priorities and motives were his own, like Oran’s were his own, and neither were likely to take Telgardia’s best interests into account.

  So if he ever had another vision, he’d tell Contare. He’d let Contare decide if anyone else should know.

  If Contare ever spoke to him again.

  Arundel sighed. “All right, I’ll leave you alone. If you want my advice …”

  Which I don’t.

  “I think you should go home and sleep. You’ll have a tiring day tomorrow, replacing the antennas and resetting the spells.”

  I’m going to go get really drunk. If Contare told him to go to bed, he would, but not otherwise, and he doubted Contare would. Contare hadn’t even tried to call to him.

  Contare hadn’t even tried to call to him.

  “And one more thing.” Arundel’s voice was harder now. “This hostility between you and Ferogin needs to end.”

  The sharp left turn was disorienting. “What?”

  “I know this isn’t the right time to talk about this. But we should, and soon. We’re all on the same side, Graegor.”

  “Tell him that.”

  “The Ninth must be united against the rogue magi.”

  Graegor had to fight the sudden urge to laugh. He’d forgotten all about the rogue magi. And why shouldn’t he? They weren’t the danger here. He was.

  Arundel waited another endless moment, then shifted forward, rocking the carriage back and forth as he got out. It was calmer, quieter, and darker outside now. Thanks to Koren, the fires were out, and no one was fighting.

  Arundel paused at the door. “Think about what I’ve said?” He made it half a suggestion, half a plea.

  Get back to Ilene. Why are you here when you could be with her?

  The carriage door closed, but then swung ajar with a creak. Graegor set his elbows on his knees and pressed his palms to his forehead.

  He could still sense Tabitha, glittering silver. The bond meant that they could always sense each other’s presence. It would never go away. She would always be close to his heart, but out of his reach.

  No. No! He couldn’t let this be over. He had to get her back. He loved her. He needed her. Tabitha could keep him off that terrible path just by being with him. If he could control himself. If he stopped frightening her. If he tried harder to understand her.

  Control yourself for her sake.

  Control yourself or burn the world.

  Burn the world.

  Lightning-rider.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  Tension crowded out everything else in Graegor’s mind, pressing on and into and through his head. He held his mouth shut, and heard himself growling in pain. Or whimpering.

  It was supposed to have been a perfect night.

  Chapter 15

  Tabitha did not run, or hurry in any way. Her pace was perfectly composed as she passed the carriage and headed down the street that followed the canal. She did not slow down or speed up when she felt the surge of earth magic behind her, and as waves broke over the wharf and the moored ships, she edged to the left to put more distance between her and the water. She ignored the people’s shrieks at the sudden soaking, and merely wove between them as more and more got off the rocking boats and gathered in clumps on the street. But then, three carriages trying to maneuver around each other blocked the way ahead, so she turned off the canal road at a broad intersection that led deeper into the noisy neighborhood.

  She should have known. It was obvious from the food. Mushrooms stuffed with egg. Red bell peppers stuffed with corn and beans. Pastries stuffed with fruit and chocolate. This stuffed into that. The bedding connotation was unmistakable, and she had not seen it because she had not wanted to see it.

  But then, that lullaby. The sweet viola playing the innocent tune that dear old Nan had sung to her. A lullaby for a baby. What was she supposed to think, after hearing that? How could Graegor have possibly thought that that song was appropriate for a seduction?

  He had blindsided her. He had blindsided her completely. A year, she was supposed to have had a year to master telepathy before facing this. They had to wait. No matter how much his kisses melted her, there had to be rules when marriage was not an option. The quote from the holy tracts had been the first thing to come into her head. It was not the right rule, but there were rules. Josselin had said so. A year was the least amount of time for sorcerers to wait. Sorcerers lived centuries.

  I’m not just a sorcerer. I’m a man, asking the woman I love …

  She huffed in disdain. Man. He was not a man, he was a boy. He had no self-control and he was too used to getting whatever he wanted. He had expected her to say yes. He had expected her to do this while Koren and the prince were still on the boat with them.

  The prince.

  Nothing could have prepared her for him. He was perfect.

  Her pace was slowed by the crowd. Spicy scents wafted around her with the babble of Mazespaak mixed with foreign tongues. The yellow light of streetlamps fell on the people funneled between the lines of three- and four-story buildings. Most of the men’s chests were bare, and the women flaunted naked legs and shoulders. The mood was cheerful, wild, and hungry, fed and over-fed by that depraved pagan Solstice blessing from Arundel and Ilene.

  Not a blessing. This whole night had been a curse.

  She had been quite curious when Graegor had told her that Prince Darcius was here on Maze Island. Her childhood fascination with him was, of course, childish, but understandable, and she had been ready for the reality to be a disappointment.

  But it had not been a disappointment. It had been a disaster. From the moment her eyes had met his, she had had to keep her mind under tight control. She could not let the least hint of what she was feeling reach Graegor. It would have been cruel. />
  Like Jeffrei, Prince Darcius was an order of magnitude more handsome than Graegor was. Unlike Jeffrei, his hair was as golden as Tabitha’s own. He was not as tall as Alain or Nicolas had been, but he was clearly taller than she, which was important. He even had a blonde beard, short but undoubtedly silky-soft. And every time he spoke to her, he proved himself royal in every way, undeniably gracious, even when he had had to admit that his father had never told him about the betrothal.

  Sweet like Alain. Confident like Nicolas. Their children would have been so beautiful.

  She wanted him so much. She felt it all over her body. And it was obvious what he wanted, that he was hot-blooded enough to bed a sorceress. But since Tabitha herself was not available, and neither was Ilene, that only left Koren.

  The very idea of them together was so repugnant she could feel her jaw clench. She had insisted that they join her and Graegor for the choral review and supper because otherwise they would have gone somewhere else, with no one to watch them, and Tabitha had decided that she could not allow that to happen. And then that dress Koren was wearing had such a low neckline, she was almost showing cleavage, not that she had any to show. Tabitha could only hope that her fight with Graegor had ruined the mood for all of them.

  The prince belonged to her. He was supposed to be her husband. She knew that it was irrational, but she could not help it.

  She saw an Aedseli man stare at her as she passed. Had he recognized her? It was unlikely. She had left the mansions behind, and no one around her looked to belong to the highest circles of society. But then, they would stare even if they had no idea that she was the sorceress. What was a Thendal lady doing in a neighborhood full of southerners?

  Full of southerners. Most of them were taller than she, and it was growing more crowded with every step she took. She could not see very far in front of her, and she kept raising herself on her tiptoes to look past arms and shoulders. People were bumping into her. The talking and yelling and singing were all foreign, either foreign languages or just foreign accents, thick and slurring. She was so sick of accents, she realized. She was sick of having to listen so closely to figure out what most of the population of Maze Island was trying to say to her. Even her beloved prince’s accent was a little too harsh, a little too much like Graegor’s.