Our Lady of the Snow Page 13

  Then in a soft, unsteady voice thick with tears, Pola said: “Why do you hate me?”

  She couldn’t have known the nature of her mistake, but the words she chose, and the fact that she had spoken before he could, smashed the pity that Kodor was trying to nurture in himself. Suddenly he resented and despised her again, and all the venom of the reaction was in his voice as he replied, “I don’t hate you. I’m indifferent to you.”

  She flinched as though the words had been a physical blow. “I’m your wife.”

  “Not by my choice. Or, I imagine, by yours.” Even her voice affronted him; it was contralto, with a Sekolian accent, and he told himself that he had always disliked both. “But we’re encumbered with it now, and we”ve done our duty to our fathers and our countries. If I’ve got a child on you tonight, well and good. If not, then I’ll take you again until a child does result, and once it does you’ll have nothing else to fear from me.”

  Pola sat up. “I don’t want to fear you, Kodor! Don’t you understand? I hoped—”

  He cut across her. “I understand as much as I need or want to, thank you, and I’m too tired to engage in a debate about it. You’d better go to sleep.” He paused, looking at her. “And put something on.”

  It was intended as a small bridge across the gulf between them, a suggestion that she should keep herself warm, but Pola misinterpreted. Her face flushed scarlet with shame and anguish and she flung herself from the bed, snatching up her nightgown, wrenching it on, hurling the blue robe around herself. She faced him again, just once, her eyes flaming through the disordered curtain of her hair. Then with a trembling attempt at dignity she walked to the connecting door, opened it and disappeared into her dressing room.

  Kodor stood staring at the door. No sounds came from the far side, and after a while he turned away and started to snuff out the candles. The bedchamber sank gradually into darkness, and when the last candle was out he felt his way to the bed and climbed in.

  He lay for a long time staring into the dark, listening to the quiet. Pola did not return, and at last Kodor’s eyes closed.

  He hoped he would dream.

  ****

  The fading and then vanishing bar of light under the door told Pola that Kodor had extinguished the candles, but still she waited for more than two hours before cautiously peering out from the dressing room. She prayed that Kodor was asleep; if he was not, and saw her, it would strip away the last shred of pride that she had left. He must not think that she had come back like a fawning dog, seeking his favor. It might be true, but he must not think it.

  She had sharp ears, and heard the muffled, uneven rhythm of Kodor’s breathing as she leaned cautiously into the room. One of her servants at home in Sekol had been plagued by nightmares and breathed like that in her sleep. So, Kodor was dreaming. She would have given a lot to know what he dreamed of.

  Her eyes accustoming to the gloom, she moved silently across the carpet until she could just discern the outline of the bed and its occupant. Kodor had thrown off half the covers and was lying with one arm outflung across the mattress, and Pola curbed an instinctive urge to go to him and cover him so that he would not catch cold. Whatever happened, she would not let herself touch him without a clear invitation. Another rejection, another humiliation, would be more than she could bear. So she merely stood at the bed foot, staring at the husband who had claimed his rights in what amounted to careless and scornful rape, and whom she loved with a sick, helpless bewilderment.

  Her body stung and ached from Kodor’s assault, but the other ache, the ache in her mind and heart, went far deeper. All she wanted to ask, to know, to demand, was: why? She had done nothing to offend him. She was not hideous or deformed. She had been willing to become his in complicity and, she had secretly hoped, in pleasure, and though she had no experience of carnal love she had been eager to learn. But Kodor had given her no chance, and she didn’t understand.

  Unless the suspicion that had begun to gnaw at her during the past few hours was true.

  She had seen Kodor watching Nanta at the reception, and the expression on his face had sown the first seeds. In love with his brother’s wife. Was it possible? Likely? Certain? Pola didn’t know, but the evidence, though not strong, was there, and it went a long way towards explaining his attitude now. This was, after all, a pragmatic marriage in which neither she nor Kodor had had any say, and if the God and the Lady had decreed that she should lose her heart to her husband, they did not necessarily also decree the reverse. It was cruel, but she had no right to expect anything better.

  She became aware that she was crying again; hot, slow tears that trickled silently down her cheeks and which she knew would not be easy to stop. In truth she didn’t want to stop them, for they relieved, just a little, the agonizing ache in her mind. Let them come, she thought. Just as long as she made no sound that would wake Kodor and give her away.

  She went to sit by the window, which overlooked a small, sunken courtyard. Snow was still falling, drifting in fat flakes past the panes and settling in a dimly visible blanket on the ground below. Pola thought of the future, and her duty, which through all her life she had never failed to do. She would not fail now. She would maintain a pretence of contentment, say nothing of her sadness to anyone, and be to all intents and purposes the perfect wife and the perfect princess. Princess Pola. It sounded faintly ridiculous to her ears, whereas Princess Nanta did not. Pola did not hate easily—truthfully, she had never dared to hate anyone—but she felt the unfamiliar emotion growing in her now, for the woman who had stolen what should have been hers. It would be hard, so hard, ever to call her “sister”.

  Kodor had begun to mutter in his sleep, and she looked over her shoulder to the bed. He seemed to be twisting and turning, though in the dark it was difficult to be sure. A nightmare? If so, he deserved it—but then she crushed that thought and put it away as unworthy and unmeant. She started to rise, hesitant, wanting to go to him and offer him comfort but knowing she could not. Then, amid the mutterings, he called out one word. A name.

  Her name.

  Pola laid her head down on the window ledge and wept.

  And she did not see the pale, shimmering and not quite human form that flitted across the snowbound courtyard, paused a moment to gaze up at her window, then was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  The excitement and upheaval were over, the last of the visiting dignitaries gone, and though the Metropolis was still in a festive mood, life had largely returned to normal.

  Both of the imperial brides had apparently settled into the regimen of the palace. Nanta had begun her routine official duties and spent many hours at the desk in her private office, quietly and obediently working her way through sheaves of documents that must be read and studied or signed on her husband’s behalf. Quite why she should have so many of these obligations imposed on her she didn’t know, and the reason for it was not explained to her. The vast majority of the documents seemed to concern trivial matters that could have been dealt with easily and efficiently by some minor member of the Exalted Council, and she came to the conclusion that the sole purpose was to habituate her mind, or perhaps merely her reflexes, for a future in which, as Imperatrix, she must be occupied in some worthwhile way. It all seemed rather futile considering Osiv’s affliction, but appearances had to be maintained. The right things must be seen to be done, and Nanta hadn’t the confidence to argue the pointlessness of it.

  Pola, equally obedient, was learning the minutiae of her role as the future Princess Regent. This at least had some real value, for in years to come her husband would effectively govern Vyskir, and she would be expected—not least by her father, Duke Arec—to play an active part in his rule. So Pola studied history, politics, economics, statecraft, applying herself with a dor resolution that thoroughly satisfied her tutors.

  The two women had very little contact with each other. They met when Arctor was well enough for the imperial family to be called together at the dinner table, but t
hose occasions were rare, and when they did take place the atmosphere was too inhibiting for any real conversation. Nanta was disappointed. She had hoped to make a friend of Pola, but Pola simply either would not or could not unbend enough for even the first overtures. At the tedious dinners she was more stiffly formal than necessary, never looking Nanta in the face even when they sat opposite each other, and only speaking to ask for a condiment or refuse a second serving. In fact, Nanta reflected, she had more contact with Kodor than with his wife, for Kodor often came to visit Osiv and play with him for a while, and when he did he always invited Nanta to join them. Nanta was puzzled by Pola’s remoteness. But in her innocence, it did not occur to her that she might be the reason for it.

  Her own life was settling into a dull, predictable but not altogether unhappy routine. The early shock of discovering that Osiv was as he was had waned now, leaving her only with a residual sense of discomfort and, occasionally, confusion. If physical appearance were the only consideration, then a young man of Osiv’s good looks and figure would have been a husband to delight in, and Nanta was aware that she could easily have fallen in love with him. But one could not love a child in that way: the possibility simply did not exist. There lay the confusion, the anomaly that she must live with and learn to accept. But the irony of it, which could easily have become an obscenity, was made more bearable by Osiv’s sweet nature. He had decided now that he unequivocally liked her, and treated her as a cross between a mother and a playmate. Every morning he would wake her early by bouncing on her bed and throwing his arms around her neck for a hug, and at night he refused to go to sleep until she personally had told him a story. Nanta knew few stories and would quickly have run out of ideas, but Kodor had sent her a gold-bound and exquisitely illustrated book of legendary tales from his own collection, which would keep Osiv contented for a long time to come.

  She had also seen less than she hoped to of Marine. Marine had caught a severe head cold a few days after Kodor’s wedding, and she was so unused to being ill that it had taken her a long time to recover. When she did recover, she seemed to be constantly at the call of Mother Beck, and her visits to Nanta were infrequent and so brief that there was barely time to exchange news and pleasantries, let alone anything more. Nanta thought that Marine looked tired and preoccupied, and prayed every night for the Lady to grant her strength. She herself was in excellent health, and to her surprise there had been no more nightmares or, as far as she knew, sleepwalking episodes. For all its limitations, her new life was tolerable, and she was slowly coming to accept it.

  Then barely a month after the weddings the Imperator took to his bed, and this time it was not a false alarm. The chief physician came personally to Urss’ austere quarters as the sun was setting and told him quietly but unequivocally that, in his professional opinion, the reign of Arctor IX would come to an end before the night was out.

  Urss somberly thanked the physician and dismissed him, saying that before attending to the formalities he would spend a few minutes in private prayer for the Imperator’s peaceful journey to the arms of the God. The man left, but instead of praying, Urss stood staring at a map on his wall, aware of a new feeling stirring in him. He would not have called it excitement; that would be unseemly in the extreme. Yet it had a strong element of eager anticipation, as he contemplated the final fulfillment of the scheme that he and his close confidants had planned and worked towards for a very long time. They had waited patiently for this moment. Now, at last, the reward was in sight.

  He dropped his gaze from the map and turned his thoughts to more immediate matters. Protocol required that Osiv should be the first to be told of his father’s impending death. A waste of time, of course, as the prince wasn’t capable of understanding, but it was vital that the proper procedures should be seen to be observed. Next Kodor must be informed, and when the physician judged the end was an hour or less away the family would gather at the bedside to make their farewells and participate in the Rite of Passing. The Rite, too, would need to be arranged, and Urss pulled the bell-rope that would summon his secretary. The man, a stooped, short-sighted but reliably discreet Father, appeared seconds later, and Urss gave instructions for preparations to begin, nodding solemnly in response to the secretary’s expression of sorrow at the news. Then, when the man had gone, he donned his chasuble and the gold-fringed sash reserved for the most solemn occasions, and made his way to the Prince Imperial’s suite.

  Nanta and Osiv were dining; though “dining” was hardly the term for the blend of game and close supervision that Osiv’s meals involved. The prince sat at a small table with a napkin tied firmly around his neck; he had eaten the dishes that he liked and Nanta was now trying to coax him into taking a few spoonfuls of those he did not like but which were necessary, according to the physician, for his good health. There were toys among the serving plates on the table and Nanta’s own food was untouched and going cold. A flustered Dorca announced Father Urss, and Nanta rose quickly and defensively to her feet as, without waiting for an invitation, the priest came in.

  “Exalted Father…” She had not come face to face with Urss since the ugly scene on her wedding night, and her face flushed hotly. Osiv used her distraction to remove a half-chewed piece of fish from his mouth, then gave Urss a suspicious glare and turned away.

  “Your Highnesses.” Urss bowed punctiliously to the prince then made a lesser bow to Nanta. As he looked directly at her she realized that this was something serious. “I regret that I must be the bearer of sad news.”

  Nanta’s expression changed. “The Imperator… ?”

  “Yes, madam. I’m afraid that the end is very near.”

  “Oh …” Her face became still, introverted; she knew that she should make some show of grief but, truthfully, what was there to show? She had met the Imperator on so few occasions and exchanged only a formal sentence or two with him. She didn’t know him, and on a personal level his imminent death meant nothing to her. At last, struggling for anything that would be better than silence, she managed, “I am…greatly distressed to hear that, Exalted Father. Osiv—my—the Prince Imperial will also be…” Then it occurred to her that the loss of his father would probably mean little more to Osiv than it did to her, and the polite words stumbled to a halt.

  Urss permitted himself a small, charitable smile. “I quite understand, madam. Perhaps you would prefer me to try to explain to His Highness?”

  “No.” She frowned. “Thank you, but no. I will talk to him myself.” She glanced towards the table, where Osiv was now dropping pieces of diced vegetable into his cup of fruit juice. “Though not immediately, perhaps.”

  “Of course.” Urss watched Osiv’s antics with a distaste that bordered on contempt. “However, the Prince will be required to attend the Imperator before the end, so if I might suggest that the matter isn’t delayed for too long…?”

  Nanta wondered if Urss had any concept whatever of kindness. To subject a child like Osiv to a deathbed vigil was unfeeling and unfair, and it would do nothing to help either him or the Imperator. But she kept her thoughts to herself and only said, “Very well. Has Prince Kodor been told yet?”

  “My first duty is to the Prince Imperial, madam,” Urss reminded her. “When I have your permission to withdraw, I shall go to Prince Kodor and inform him.”

  “My permission? Oh…oh, yes.” Nanta nodded, collecting herself. “You have my permission, of course, Exalted Father. Please convey my sympathy to the—to my brother and sister. And when the time comes to—to attend—”

  “I will send word at once, Your Highness.” Urss bowed again, took a precise pace backwards, then turned and swept from the room.

  Nanta looked at Osiv. He had grown bored with his new game and was slouching in his seat, chin on chest and kicking his heels impatiently against the chair legs. She was just beginning to ask herself, helplessly, how she could possibly explain to him what was happening and what he would be expected to do, when Dorca returned. Her pleasant face was cr
eased with anxiety and, approaching with nervous deference, she ventured, “Is anything amiss, Your Highness?”

  Nanta liked Dorca, but at this moment she did not want to talk to her. All the servants would hear the news soon enough; let her find out in her own good time. So she said, “No, Dorca, nothing’s amiss. I believe Prince Osiv has eaten his fill, and I am not hungry, so you may tell the footmen to clear the table.”

  “Yes, madam.” Disappointed, Dorca returned to the door, then paused. “Though if there is anything I may do—”

  An edge crept into Nanta’s voice. “There is not. Just obey me, please.” Her tone softened. “Thank you.”

  Dorca paused another moment, then thought better of saying anything more and went out.

  ****

  Kodor and Pola were also dining when Father Urss arrived; but the contrast with the scene in the Prince Imperial’s rooms could hardly have been greater. This time, knowing Kodor’s temper, Urss did wait to be announced, and he was shown in to find the prince and princess seated at opposite ends of an immaculate table, waited on in respectful silence and keeping silent themselves. At a gesture the footmen hurried out, and Urss made his bows. Pola raised her eyes to his face but only nodded acknowledgement; Kodor, however, half rose to his feet, as if he already knew what the priest had come to tell him.

  When Urss gave the news, Kodor said, “I see.” His jaw worked briefly and he swallowed. “We can’t pretend that it was unexpected, can we?”