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  Marine privately agreed but did not say so. Instead, she asked, “Have you met Prince Kodor?”

  “Yes. Twice, now.” Nanta had half expected Kodor to visit the apartments again today, but he had not. “I don’t know if I like him, but he spoke kindly to me. And I think he is very fond of Osiv.”

  Marine had heard as much. “And the Marchioness Pola,” she said. “Have you met her, too?”

  “She was presented to me at the reception, but I didn’t speak to her and her face was veiled,” Nanta replied. “I believe I’m not to meet her properly until after her marriage. They tell me she’s not the least like Duke Arec.”

  That Marine could well believe. Pola of Sekol had also been present at the banquet, which Nanta had not attended, and when she lifted her veil during her brief formal introduction to Prince Kodor, Marine had seen her face quite clearly. She wasn’t the conventional beauty everyone had been led to expect, but she was a handsome young woman, with a fine if sallow complexion, a generous mouth and very expressive dark eyes. At a guess she was in her early twenties; of a similar age with her husband-to-be. For the rest of the night she had seemed tense, and every move or gesture she made was performed with rigidly schooled decorum. No; she was certainly not like her father. But beyond that certainty, she was as yet an enigma.

  Thinking of enigmas, Marine abruptly recalled the frost sprite. It gave her a small shock to realize that she had put the incident out of her mind, and suddenly it seemed vitally important to tell Nanta about it. But the chance had passed, for even as she groped for a way to broach the subject, Dorca returned.

  “Your Highness. Mother.” Dorca curtseyed to them both in turn; a deeper curtsey to Nanta. “The dresser is waiting, Your Highness. It’s nearly time for the Prince’s meal.”

  Nanta looked as if she would have liked to snap a vitriolic reply, but instead her lips only tightened a little and she said, “Very well.” She looked at Marine, her eyes expressing all that she couldn’t voice in front of the servant. “Thank you for coming, Marine. And thank you for your news. I’m more glad than I can tell you.” She took Marine’s hand again, scandalizing Dorca, and to avoid trouble later, Marine curtseyed and bowed her head.

  “Your Highness. I am at your disposal at any time.”

  When Dorca had closed the door on her with a final disapproving look, Marine surveyed the passage in both directions. There was nothing untoward to be seen now. Could she have imagined that momentary glimpse of the sprite? She was overtired, probably overwrought; it was quite possible that there had been nothing there at all.

  She started to walk back towards the public area of the palace and, wanting to distract herself from thoughts of the sprite, considered the changes in Nanta. There was a strange anomaly

  about the girl; the unworldly innocence was still there, but underlying it now was a new and almost harsh strength that Marine would have thought quite foreign to her nature. Anger she could understand, but the old Nanta would have been too timid to show it in any way. This new girl, this new woman, was different. The mouse was showing signs of turning into something much fiercer. As Imperatrix, Marine thought, Nanta might well have surprised a great number of people who thought they had her measure. The results would have been interesting. As it was, though, she must be consigned to a lesser role while another fulfilled her duty. It crossed Marine’s mind to wonder exactly what Nanta’s role in the court would be in future.

  It did not, however, occur to her to wonder about Prince Osiv’s.

  Chapter Eight

  The marriage of Prince Kodor and Pola of Sekol took place two days later. This second imperial wedding was in stark contrast to the first, for apart from the bells and the lengthy temple ceremony, the whole thing was a very low-key affair. There was no public procession, no formal presentation, and the banquet took place in a lesser chamber than the ballroom, where the relatively small number of guests would not be dwarfed by the vastness of their surroundings.

  There had been one major alarm when it seemed that the Imperator might not survive to see his second son married. On the morning before the ceremony Arctor became ill—the result of a fish dish that hadn’t been properly cooked—and though the sickness lasted only a few hours, it left him badly debilitated. Father Urss immediately ordered half the kitchen staff to be imprisoned pending enquiries, then decided that if the worst did happen he would have the Imperator’s corpse carried to the temple tomorrow, and maintain the illusion of life until the nuptials were safely over. Fortunately, though, Arctor was much recovered by dawn, and the physician—no doubt with more than a thought for Urss’ wrath—pronounced him strong enough to play his part.

  The Prince Imperial did not attend the ceremony, but the Princess did. Nanta was seated beside Arctor in the screened box, with Duke Arec flanking her on the other side and a row of dignitaries whose faces and names she did not recognize behind them. Arec occasionally made a jovial remark to her, but the Imperator spoke to no one; in fact through most of the ceremony he appeared to be asleep. The flesh of his face had become even more sunken since yesterday’s illness, and his skin had a blue-grey tinge.

  To satisfy either decorum or his own religious conscience, Father Urss made up for his haste in conducting the previous marriage ceremony by drawing this occasion out to the fullest possible length. How Pola withstood it Nanta could not imagine, for the Marchioness had no throne to support her but was obliged to stand throughout the entire proceeding. She wore a simpler reproduction of Nanta’s blue and silver bridal gown, but her cloak and train were the crimson of the Sekolian ruling house. She looked stiff and uncomfortable, and Nanta noticed that she cast frequent glances at Kodor, who seemed either unaware of or indifferent to them.

  So the bells resounded and the protracted solemnities went on, until at long last the closing anthem began and the newly married couple left the altar to the accompaniment of a magnificent chorale. The sound of the massed voices sent a pang through Nanta, reminding her of her own years in the choir and the pleasure and elation she had found in singing. Never again; not now. For a member of the imperial family to practice any arts, even in private, was unthinkable.

  The combined volume of choir and bells stirred the Imperator out of his doze, and Nanta rose and stepped out of the way as attendants came to help him to his feet. This time, thankfully, they were to return to the palace by the private tunnel, following the bride and groom; then would come the repeating pattern of the reception and the escorting of the newly-wed pair to their chambers before she was finally allowed to take her leave and sleep.

  As the party made their way at the Imperator’s slow pace through the tunnel, the thought passed through Nanta’s mind that Pola’s wedding night would be very different from her own. She was right. But she did not guess at the whole truth, or anything resembling it.

  Apart from the fact that the bridegroom was present this time, the second reception was a scaled-down duplicate of the first; though its stultified dullness was increased when, after proffering his blessing to the couple, the Imperator fell asleep once more. From then on voices were hushed and movements kept to a minimum to avoid disturbing him, and the hours passed with an awkward stoicism that the muffled, distant noise of the wider celebrations did little to relieve. Kodor and his bride sat to right and left of the sleeping Arctor. They could not speak to each other for fear of waking him, and for the same reason no one else dared approach close enough to make conversation possible. Pola sat meticulously still, seeming hardly to breathe; under her veil her mood was impossible to read. Kodor, ignoring frequent censorious glances from Father Urss, twined his fingers in a game of his own devising and made little attempt not to look as bored as he felt. He did, however, take care not to show the other feeling that was slowly but surely growing in him as the time crawled on. A feeling of acute and gnawing resentment. He knew that it should not have been directed at Pola, for none of this was her fault. If he wanted to blame someone he should blame Duke Arec, whose covert t
hreats to Vyskir’s security had brought this situation about. But Duke Arec was out of his reach, while Pola was not; and his increasing animosity demanded a target of some kind.

  Kodor gave a sudden, sharp sigh, drawing an apprehensive look from Pola and a mumble from his father. After a moment Arctor’s head drooped again, but Pola was still looking at Kodor, and he forced down the irrational anger that her attention roused in him. She was not to blame. She was not ugly, not unintelligent; her personality seemed pleasant enough. Three days ago he had had no complaint at the prospect of marrying her. For a pragmatic alliance he could have done a great deal worse.

  But that was before his first meeting with Nanta EsDorikye.

  Kodor’s gaze shifted sideways to where Nanta sat; not by Arctor this time but alone on a chair placed especially for her a little way off. She was veiled, as convention dictated, but the veil was a light one and some detail of her face was visible. Kodor stared fixedly at her without realizing it, until a discreet cough from a few paces away broke the trance. Father Urss was watching him, and so was Duke Arec. It was Urss who had coughed, and the message in his eyes was ferociously clear. For Kodor to show such blatant interest in a girl younger and lovelier than his own new wife was foolish—and, in the presence of his wife’s father, potentially dangerous. Arec would not be slow to take insult, and Father Urss was issuing a timely warning.

  Kodor heeded it, and for the rest of the evening took great care not to so much as glance at Nanta again. But neither Urss nor Arec nor anyone else could censor his thoughts. And his thoughts continued to dwell on her almost to the point of obsession.

  He did not—could not—believe that her startling resemblance to the unknown girl who had haunted his dreams for so long was nothing more than coincidence. Dreams were sent by the God for a purpose, as Father Urss never tired of telling him. So what conclusion should he draw from this? What message was the God sending to him? Last night during his pre-nuptial vigil Kodor had prayed for an answer, but no answer had come. No manifestations, no revelations, no sign that the God so much as heard his entreaties. Father Urss had presided over the vigil, and at the high point of his frustration Kodor had been sorely tempted to confide everything and ask the priest’s advice. He had not, of course. One confessed to Urss; one did not confide in him; and Kodor’s dislike of him made him the last man in the Metropolis to whom he would ever reveal anything as personal as his dreams.

  So he had emerged from the vigil with his dilemma unresolved, and had gone, as he must, to marry a woman in whom he had no interest. How could he even pretend interest in Pola when his every thought, waking or sleeping, was fixed on Nanta? It wasn’t that he was in love with the girl. He barely knew her. But he wanted to know her; needed to know everything about her, to unravel the mystery and find out how a vision from his past could have stepped so shockingly and unexpectedly into the reality of the present.

  For the rest of the evening Kodor managed to avoid any more indiscretions, and sat counting the crawling minutes as he waited for the reception to end. It did end at last, and he steeled himself to put on a cheerful face as the escort formed up to usher him and his bride to bed. The Imperator was gently woken and stirred himself enough to mumble another blessing, then the small procession left the room in formal line. Arec caught Kodor’s eye and winked at him. Kodor forced an answering smile, but his eyes were cold.

  The walk to their suite of rooms was conducted in silence except for some giggling from the younger women of the escort. Pola moved with stiff dignity, ignoring the muffled sounds. Neither she nor Kodor looked at each other, and Kodor wondered fleetingly whether she knew what was expected of her and, if so, whether she was afraid. Then, finding himself indifferent to the answer, he shrugged the thought off. At the door of the suite the silk garlands were draped over them, and within another minute the door closed between them and their attendants. Women flurried to whisk Pola away to prepare her, and Kodor resigned himself to the attentions of his own male servants. It was all so predictable. The cloth-of-gold nightshirt, the flagon of wine, which he was expected to share among the servants so that they could drink to his health and prosperity and to the getting of many children. Kodor’s mood was darkening further with every moment, and by the time the men left him to make his way to the bedchamber he felt as if a thundercloud were hanging over him, building pressure and waiting only for the smallest excuse to discharge a colossal bolt of lightning.

  The bedchamber was lit by fifty candles, and a fire roared in the grate. Pola was not yet ready, and Kodor sat down in a chair near the fire and opened the book he had brought with him from his dressing room. It was a treatise on political history; hardly riveting reading but better than staring at nothing while he waited. He was halfway through one of the dry essays when there were noises from the adjoining room, whispering voices and a burst of feminine laughter, quickly stifled. Then the connecting door opened and Pola came in.

  Kodor’s first thought as he turned his head and regarded her was that she looked angular and mannish. It wasn’t true; it was simply her height and the fact that her face was handsome rather than beautiful. But he was comparing her to Nanta, and the contrast was so acute that irrationally, unjustly, it offended him. The women had loosed Pola’s hair, and the heavy, uncompromising blackness of it made him think of Nanta’s corn-fairness. Pola’s eyes, too, were very dark. Nanta’s were blue-green; even in candlelight, which was the only light in which he had seen them, he had noted their color. In blue and silver Nanta was exquisite. Pola was not. The colors didn’t suit her but only emphasized the sallowness of her skin.

  She was gazing at him uncertainly, standing between the door and the bed like an animal at bay. Then she cast her gaze down and said in a low, diffident voice, “Husband…”

  Something inside Kodor squirmed. He shut the book with a snap and stood up, still looking at her. She knew what was expected of her; he had seen that much in her eyes before she broke the contact. And she expected the same of him. Why should she not? They had been tied in marriage for a purpose, and if the purpose was not fulfilled the whole point of the union would be negated. Pola knew her duty.

  He didn’t speak to her but wordlessly indicated the bed. Pola had been schooled well; she made no pretence of maidenly hesitation but slipped off her robe and slid between the silk sheets. He had a brief glimpse of her legs under the silver nightgown; they were long and well-shaped, and despite his hostility towards her he felt a stirring of physical interest. He was human, he was male; he had a healthy sexual appetite, as a number of highly discreet women inside and outside the court could have testified. If Pola’s father now effectively possessed Vyskir, why should he not claim his own share of the bargain? It need not mean anything, but it would have its compensations, and if he got her with child quickly, the political factions would be content.

  With a suddenness that startled Pola, he pulled off his nightshirt. He hated the twice-damned thing anyway, always preferring to sleep naked. As his body was exposed, Pola shut her eyes and he saw her tense nervously. She was a virgin, of course. As Arec’s sole heir she was a valuable property and would have been kept firmly under lock and key until now. Kodor had had two virgins in the past and had enjoyed the experience.

  But then Nanta was a virgin, too…

  Suddenly, and without any warning, the thundercloud in his mind spat its lightning in the form of sourceless, savage anger that homed in on the young woman lying before him. For one blinding moment Kodor hated Pola, and the feeling triggered a reflex that he made no attempt to quell. He wrenched the bedcover back, throwing it to the floor, and she gasped as her body took the crush of his entire weight. Kodor didn’t kiss her or touch her breasts; he didn’t even look at her face, but took the mass of her black hair in one hand while the other thrust between her thighs, probing, exploring, pushing her legs apart. She writhed under him, but in shock rather than passion; he felt resistance and liked it; his fingers explored more forcefully and she whimpered a pr
otest.

  “No!” Kodor hissed at her. He wouldn’t let her fight him. He intended to take her, and if she proved unwilling he would be brutal. When he was finished she could think what she pleased of him, but she would have no cause to complain of neglect. That thought spurred him, and with a grunt he pulled her into a better position. She wasn’t aroused—far from it—but he was, and it was enough now to overcome her body’s opposition. He held her down, pinning her with an arm across her ribcage, and worked his hips against her groin, feeling through the coarse tickle of hair to prise at her. It was simple enough to break his way in, though her dry tightness was uncomfortable and didn’t improve much as he had her. He hurt her, he knew; she didn’t cry out, but when he glanced at her face it was contorted and ugly with pain, and she was biting hard on her lower lip.

  The whole thing lasted just a few minutes, and culminated in a release that relieved Kodor’s body and repelled his mind. He withdrew from her and slid out of the bed, wanting to get away from her and pretend that she didn’t exist. An embroidered silk robe layover a chair back and he put it on, tying the sash tightly and welcoming the cold feel of the material on his hot skin. Then he walked to the fireplace and stared at the flames. No sound from behind him, but he knew she was watching; he could feel her gaze like a physical touch, and it made him tense and angrier than ever. At last, unable to stand it any longer, he swung round to face her.

  Yes; she was watching him. She hadn’t pulled up the bedcover but lay as he had left her, naked and limp and passive. In the candlelight her eyes were huge, smudged by shadow so that they looked like charcoal. Her face was a still, expressionless mask. And tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Guilt stung Kodor, clashing with the anger. He wanted to turn and walk out of the room, leave her to her misery and find a comer somewhere in the apartments where he could simply lie down and sleep and forget this whole wretched fiasco. The guilt stopped him, for he owed her something, some explanation, however paltry, for his attitude. This was not her fault. She was an innocent party, used as he had been used, and he was compounding the wrong already done to her. A spark of compassion awoke, and Kodor started to ask himself if he might not make some kind move towards her, say something, reassure, apologize, explain.