Our Lady of the Snow Read online

  Our Lady of the Snow

  Louise Cooper

  Published by Mundania Press

  Also by Louise Cooper

  Time Master Trilogy

  The Initiate

  The Outcast

  The Master

  Star Shadow Trilogy

  Star Ascendant

  Eclipse

  Moonset

  Other Books by Louise Cooper

  The King’s Demon

  Sacrament of Night

  The Summer Witch

  Our Lady of the Snow

  www.Mundania.com

  Our Lady of the Snow

  Copyright © 1998-2015 by Louise Cooper

  Cover Art © 2015 by Niki Browning

  First Edition January 2015

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-59426-240-1

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59426-241-8

  Published by:

  Mundania Press

  An imprint of Celeritas Unlimited LLC

  6457 Glenway Ave., #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, Celeritas Unlimited LLC, 6457 Glenway Avenue, #109, Cincinnati, Ohio 45211, [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Legal File Usage – Your Rights

  Payment of the download fee for this book grants the purchaser the right to download and read this file, and to maintain private backup copies of the file for the purchaser’s personal use only.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author’s earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights and livelihood is appreciated.

  Production by Celeritas Unlimited LLC

  Chapter One

  Evening devotions at the Metropolis temple were a public ceremony, and the congregations were always large. There was a popular notion that particular spiritual credit was earned by attending this greatest and most elaborate of the three daily rites; and on the secular side it was certainly a sound move, for the Fathers and Mothers took especial note of faces in the crowd and there was always the chance that the occasion would be graced by the presence of one or more members of the imperial family in their galleried box high above the tiers of the temple amphitheater. Tonight, too, there was an added incentive, for the anthems and sanctification chants were to be sung by the choir of the Court Academy. The choir rarely performed on everyday occasions, but everyone knew that they were rehearsing intensively for the imminent visit of the Sekolian ambassador with its attendant pomp and ceremonial. This was a dry run, so to speak, and the choir were gathered now in the amphitheater’s great semi-circular bowl; two hundred and thirty women and girls, all dressed in identical gold-threaded gowns, awaiting the arrival of the officiating High Father. In the shimmer of a myriad lamps and candles they looked ethereal, as other-worldly as the carved figure of the Lady, who sat eternally at the feet of her lord and consort in the massive, high-relief devotional image behind the altar. The figure of the God himself, towering, faceless and utterly dominant, rose above the altar and the choir’s massed ranks like a colossus. Already a number of offerings had been laid before the image, and more would follow as people petitioned for advice or intervention or blessings.

  The gazes of most of the congregation were on the choir, though some shifted upwards now and then to glance with hopeful speculation at the imperial box. The box’s damask curtains were closed and the fretwork screen was in place, making it impossible to tell whether it was occupied. The Imperator and his family did not show themselves to the common gaze except on the most prominent ceremonial occasions, but the possibility that they were here tonight, albeit invisible, was a valuable sop to public contentment.

  From his own lofty perspective in another screened cubicle on the elevated gallery, Exalted Father Urss had also been studying the imperial box, though his interest was cursory and a matter of habit rather than anything else. In his opinion, none of the royal family were likely to be present in the temple. The Imperator himself, burdened by the failing health of old age, rarely made the journey through the private tunnel from the palace these days; his elder son, Prince Osiv, could not be expected to do so, and Prince Kodor, his younger son, usually managed to find a plausible reason for staying away. Urss made a mental note to have another stern word with Prince Kodor on that subject, and one or two other matters while he was about it, then turned his attention once more to the patiently waiting choir.

  Which one of them was the girl in question? Father Urss’ sharp eyes had singled out several possible candidates, some of whom looked acceptable whilst others clearly were not. But he took no pleasure in guessing games and was growing irritated by waiting for the devotions to begin. Sound—even a whisper—carried clearly in the gallery, and he could not speak to his companion, and thus risk being overheard, until there was music and chanting to mask his voice. There was no excuse for this delay, and another mental note was filed away to the effect that the attitude of some temple Fathers towards their offices was becoming slipshod, and the failing must be nipped in the bud.

  The rite did finally begin, with a cold fanfare of trumpets that brought the congregation dutifully to its feet. Father Urss did not rise, and neither did his companion; hidden as they were behind the fretwork it seemed an unnecessary waste of energy. As the ceremonial (which both knew so thoroughly that they could shut it from their minds) got under way, Urss turned at last to the small, dumpy woman seated in the chair beside him.

  “We can speak now, I think, Beck. Kindly point out the girl you have in mind.”

  Grand Mother Beck leaned forward with a rustle of her blue silk robe and scanned the vista below through a conveniently placed gap in the fretwork. Seventy years old, which gave her a decade over Father Urss, she had been head of the Imperial Sanctum of the Lady for four years and was widely regarded as the most astute politician ever to grace the post. Short, stout, with a jowly face and formidable eyes, she was well aware of her increasing value to Father Urss and his allies on the Exalted Council in matters such as this one, and her face reflected her confidence as she replied in a practiced undertone.

  “The fourth row, eighth from the left. The small one with the fair hair.”

  Father Urss followed her direction. “Ah. That one.” Had he noticed her during his private speculation? He couldn’t remember. At this distance detail was sketchy, but the first impression was encouraging. The girl was young—eighteen or nineteen, he would surmise—and appeared pretty; her hair was corn-gold rather than merely fair (though that, of course, might be the effect of the lights) and, above all, she looked demure. Do
cile. Obedient.

  He raised the magnifying hand glass that he had brought with him for the purpose and held it to his right eye. The girl’s face sprang into clearer focus, and he nodded, satisfied by what he saw. She was pretty; so delicately innocent as to be almost doll-like. In terms of her appearance, at least, she was eminently suitable.

  “What is her name?” he asked.

  “Nanta,” said Grand Mother Beck.

  To Father Urss’ certain knowledge there had not been a Nanta in the highest echelons before; but the name was not flamboyant, and it sat well enough on the tongue. He nodded again. “And you say she is of the EsDorikye family. Which house?”

  “The northeastern.”

  “Mmm.” Urss’ tone implied neither approval nor disapproval; he was merely assimilating facts. “Her pedigree, I presume, is what prompted you to choose her over any other potential candidates?”

  “Yes, Father.” Beck did not mention the other factor, the uncommon and unfamiliar instinct that, for some reason, which she did not trouble to question, had led her to Nanta EsDorikye. Priest he might be, but Father Urss had no time for instinct and intuition; to him they were women’s foibles and thus to be disparaged. Opening a leather wallet she carried, she handed him a folded piece of paper. “I have a copy of the pedigree here. I checked the details personally against the Crown Registry, and they are all correct.”

  “You are thorough, as always.”

  Beck smiled. “Thank you, Exalted Father.”

  Neither spoke for a while as Father Urss studied the paper. Beyond the screen the ceremony was progressing but they were hardly aware of it. Even when the choir began to sing, neither spared so much as a moment’s attention for the spine-tingling beauty of the women’s clear, pure voices filling the temple. The Academy choir might be second to none in the whole of Vyskir, but Beck and Urss had neither the ear nor any partiality for music and ignored it as they might have ignored a buzzing fly.

  Eventually Father Urss folded the paper and said, “It seems, Grand Mother, that you have made an excellent choice in every respect.” He paused. “I trust the girl herself has no inkling of what’s in the wind?”

  “Naturally not.” Beck’s voice was level but her eyes betrayed momentary annoyance that he should even need to ask the question.

  “Good. Then it only remains to put our choice before the Imperator and persuade him to our way of thinking. Frankly, I doubt if that will be a problem.”

  Beck’s eyebrows lifted faintly as she noticed how, already, he was crediting himself as well as her with the choice. “I hope not, Father. Though I understand that the Imperator would prefer Prince Osiv not to be married at all.”

  “That,” said Urss with faint asperity, “is not a matter in which even the Imperator has any choice now.” He rose to his full, considerable height. “I have seen all I need to, Mother Beck, and under the circumstances I’m sure the God will understand and pardon our early departure.”

  Turning in the direction of the statue he made a deep, reverent bow. Beck followed suit and they moved to the door at the back of the cubicle. Beck drew aside the silk curtain, stood back to allow Urss to precede her, and they walked together along the gallery towards a side staircase that formed a private and privileged link with the complexity of the temple’s inner offices. As they started down the wide, shallow steps, Beck said, “What will you require of me now, Father?”

  Urss eyed her obliquely. “I think we can safely count on the Imperator’s agreement to our proposal. So the next stage will be twofold. Firstly, the Sekolian ambassador, when he arrives, must be fully acquainted with the situation and reassured that it presents no threat to his own mission.”

  “Quite,” said Beck.

  “Secondly, the girl herself must be prepared for the change in her circumstances. Where that is concerned, I’m sure I don’t need to stress the need for absolute discretion.”

  Beck nodded. “Of course, Father; I understand your meaning.”

  Her tone suggested that she also had a strategy, but Urss knew her too well—and trusted her methods too implicitly—to demean himself by asking a direct question. He smiled, so that for a moment his saturnine face was almost pleasant. “Do whatever you think fit, Grand Mother Beck. Just keep me informed. That is all I require.”

  They continued down the stairs in companionable silence.

  ****

  Flurries of snow were falling on the towers and domes of the Metropolis as the blue coach bearing the crest of the Imperial Sanctum of the Lady clattered in full panoply over the river bridge and into the city precincts. People on foot, heads down against the wind-blown white turmoil, scrambled and slithered out of their path; an outrider’s whip cracked to liven one or two stragglers and the coach with its four caparisoned black horses swept by, hurling up a bow-wave of slush and spray. A few of those they passed recognized the crest and made obeisance or cried out for benedictions. But the cloth-of-silver curtains at the coach windows didn’t so much as twitch, let alone afford any glimpse of the august passengers inside.

  Behind the curtains, in gloom relieved only by a single lamp that swung wildly from the roof as the bridge cobbles did their worst, Sister Chaia, the Imperial Sanctum’s messenger and emissary, glanced surreptitiously at her senior companion and wondered at the quirks of human nature that could have produced such a flaw in an otherwise sternly dauntless personality. High Sister Marine was sitting rigidly upright in one comer of the plush seat, her mantle drawn tightly around her and her face, in its frame of wimple, grey with affliction. Her narrow lips moved ceaselessly in silent prayer. Despite the fact that she had never before set foot in the capital city she would, Chaia knew, have given a very great deal to be utterly oblivious of her surroundings at this moment.

  Marine loathed traveling and always had. She had discovered at an early age that she was prey to severe journey-sickness whenever she ventured more than a short distance, and for years now she had rarely left her own district. But this summons was one that could not be ignored, so for the past four days she had been obliged to suffer the bouts of nausea and the confusing agoraphobic-claustrophobic syndrome engendered by traveling in a closed carriage through vertiginously open country.

  The two women had exchanged few words during their journey, partly because of Marine’s sickness and partly because hers was not a personality that encouraged chatter. Now, though, Chaia leaned forward and ventured gently:

  “If you have never visited our great capital before, High Sister, the view from the bridge is well worth seeing.”

  Marine opened her eyes and gave Chaia a pained look. “Thank you, Sister Chaia,” she said testily, “but views are of no interest whatever to me. I would prefer to know how much longer we have to endure this jolting.”

  Chaia raised one hand and lifted the curtain enough to peep out. “The city is busy today.” A fond smile touched the comers of her mouth. “And the light on the river is very beautiful. The boats—”

  Marine was uninterested in such trivia and interrupted. “Can you see the Academy yet?” She had no intention of demeaning herself by exposing her own face to the common gaze.

  Chaia stifled a sigh. “Yes, Sister. The bell tower is visible. It’s one of the highest in the Metropolis; with a blue dome—”

  “I understand that the Sanctum of the Lady is attached to the Academy. Is that so?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “Good.” Marine leaned down and pushed away the foot warmer beneath her seat. The coals had gone cold long since, and despite fur-lined boots her feet were numb. “I shall be thankful for a welcoming fire. The inns on this road leave a great deal to be desired.”

  “I’m sure they did their best, Sister.”

  “Perhaps they did; in which case all I can say is that their best is no cause for celebration.” Marine raised her gloved hands to her head. “Put down your veil, Sister Chaia. Court custom requires that women of rank do not show their faces unless they are within doors.”
r />   Chaia knew that as well as she did, but didn’t have the courage to point out that custom wasn’t always followed to the letter. She obeyed, drawing the fine grey veil forward, and Marine followed suit. Through her veil, Chaia thought, the High Sister looked like a corpse. But at least once the veil was down she did finally unbend enough to draw the other curtain back a little and peer out. They were over the bridge now, and the outriders shouted to clear the way once more as the little cavalcade turned into one of the broad thoroughfares that followed the riverbank towards the heart of the Metropolis. There was more traffic here: other carriages, traders” carts, curtained sedan chairs, opulently dressed men riding well-bred horses with servants following on foot. And on the broad pavements, among lines of market stalls, people in the hundreds: a moving, bustling sea of colorful humanity. Despite her mood Marine was fascinated; for all the tales that were told about the Metropolis she had never seen people in such enormous numbers before, and no amount of imagination—of which, anyway, she possessed very little—could have prepared her for the sheer scale of everything. Many of the buildings beside this thoroughfare were four or five stories tall, and above their rooftops the great towers of the more exalted city center rose taller still, climbing high enough, or so it seemed, to pierce the clouds.

  The coach rolled on, and after perhaps a quarter of a mile turned again, this time into a quieter street. Marine saw several small groups of religious women, veiled and with their hands in fur muffs, hurrying through the still falling snow, and once a velvet-cloaked High Brother walking carefully along the pavement under the protection of an oilcloth canopy carried by two pages. They were drawing closer to the towers now; façades pressed in and the horses” hooves began to echo hollowly, while the sky dwindled to a narrow ribbon between the crowding domes. Then came another turn, and ahead of them suddenly were black wrought iron gates set into a high stonewall. Carvings covered the wall’s face, depicting sacred themes and devices, and along the coping, between rows of murderously sharp spikes set to deter any would-be intruder, statues bowed their heads and upraised their hands in attitudes of prayer. Beyond, faintly unreal in the haze of snowfall and the rising vapors of the city, was the greatest structure in the entire kingdom: the gigantic central tower of the temple, its grey walls all but lost against the sky’s backdrop so that its mosaic dome seemed to float ethereally above the animation below.