Our Lady of the Snow Read online

  Osiv must see them! The thought came to his rescue as fear threatened to take too strong a hold, and it allowed him to snap back into rationality. The Lights would vanish when the sun rose; Osiv must be woken quickly and shown the marvel. He would delight in it, and crow, and hold his arms out to its beauty, and—

  His thread snapped as Nanta collapsed to the parapet floor.

  “Nanta!” Shocked, Kodor could only stare at her for several bewildered seconds. She had made no sound, given no warning; she had simply dropped like a sack of grain, and now lay prone with one arm outflung almost to his feet. Swiftly he crouched beside her, raised her head—she was breathing but her eyes were closed and her mouth hung slackly open. A faint, or a fit—not stopping to wonder what might have caused it, Kodor gathered her up in his arms and started to carry her, awkwardly in the confined space, round the parapet to the door. At the top of the staircase he set her down again, and relief clutched at his stomach as she began to stir.

  “Nanta!” He cupped her face between his hands, only just refraining from shaking her. “Nanta, what is it, what happened to you?”

  “Nnh…” She struggled with her tongue, which didn’t want to obey her. “I…fainted.” She sounded bemused and almost indignant, though in a weak, childlike way. “Ohh…so tired…”

  Kodor wasted no energy, hers or his own, on further questions. She could stand, if only just, and he took his own lantern, leaving hers to burn itself out, and started carefully with her down the stairs. She leaned on him for support, but she was no heavy weight and his anxiety for her gave him reserves of energy. They reached the tower’s foot, and as they emerged through a discreetly curtained door into the royal apartments, two women servants appeared.

  And so did Pola.

  “Kodor. I’ve been searching for you.” Pola’s voice did not quaver, but everything she saw and surmised was written in letters of fire across her face. She drew herself up with wretched dignity, aware that the two women were keenly watching this encounter. “The Corolla Lights have appeared. I thought you would want to—”

  “I’ve seen them,” Kodor said curtly. He turned to the servants. “The Imperatrix is unwell. She is under great strain, and tonight’s events have exhausted her. Take her to her private rooms, and see to it that she is properly cared for.”

  The women mumbled and curtseyed and shepherded Nanta away. She did not look back, but Kodor’s gaze followed her until all three turned a corner and were lost from sight. Then, reluctantly, he looked around for his wife.

  He heard only the quick beat of footsteps retreating into the distance.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time dawn broke and the Corolla Lights faded, the Metropolis was in a ferment.

  Father Urss had only just fallen asleep when he was woken by his flustering secretary, who in turn had been roused from his bed by a gaggle of agitated Fathers and High Brothers. Climbing to the roof of the seminary, Urss watched the last minutes of the phenomenon in thoughtful silence, then returned to his quarters and began to dictate an amendment to the proclamation of Arctor’s death, which was scheduled to be made an hour after the First Obligation chimes had rung. The gist of the amendment was that the return of the Lights was an unequivocal sign of the God and the Lady’s blessing upon the new reign of Imperator Osiv IV. Twelve days of thanksgiving would therefore accompany the beginning of Arctor’s official morning period, and all citizens would be expected to devote a minimum of one hour each day to private prayers.

  This last statement was superfluous, as the combination of awe, fear and bewilderment brought on by the Lights” appearance would be more than enough to cause a surge of mass piety. Urss, though, had more immediate and personal reason for concern, and the minutiae of the edict were of no interest to him. He authorized the document with a frown and a hasty signature, then returned to his bedchamber, giving a last, curt instruction to his secretary that he would see Grand Mother Beck in his office at the second hour before noon.

  In truth, Urss was worried. For all his general cynicism, he did not doubt for one moment that the Corolla Lights were a very significant omen. Tradition held them as a sign of the Lady’s literal presence in the world—yet for some time past, Vyskir’s high religouses had believed that the Lady no longer existed. The Lights” reappearance after a twenty-year absence had thrown a proverbial cat among the pigeons of that belief, and the question that burned in Urss’ mind and—as nearly as anything could—frightened him was: why? Had they been wrong in their assumption about the Lady? Or did the Lights have some other meaning; one they could not interpret? The timing, so close on the heels of Arctor’s death, was ironic at very least; and when Urss added certain other factors into the equation, the irony became downright unnerving.

  However, it was not in his nature to give way to irrational speculation, so he decided that the wisest course was to return to bed and try to sleep for a while, to allow logic to reassert itself in his mind. He did not sleep well. But when, in the morning, the proclamation was made and he was woken by the first sonorous sounds of Arctor’s death-knell booming through the city, he showed no outward signs of disquiet as he prepared to receive Mother Beck.

  When Beck arrived, Urss saw immediately that she too was worried. She lowered herself into a chair opposite his desk, and though her manner was composed enough, her eyes told him that she was as aware of the situation and its implications as he was. The cheerless and discouraging sound of the knell, tolled by the temple bells and the single great bell of the palace, was starting to grate on Urss’ ears and nerves. Doing his best to ignore it, he wasted no time but began:

  “The Lights, Grand Mother. I presume you saw them?”

  “No, Father, I did not,” Beck replied. “My servants woke me, but at my time of life the climb to a suitable vantage point is not an option. However, I can reassure you that I know all I need to about the incident.” She paused. “There is a great deal of turmoil in the city, I gather. Spontaneous displays of religious fervor are breaking out, and self-appointed soothsayers are already at work prophesying everything from glory to disaster.”

  Urss grunted. “Most of them are harmless fools, and those that aren’t can be dealt with easily enough. I’m not interested in rabble-rousing nonsense, Beck. My concern goes far deeper. And I don’t think I need to spell it out to you, do I?”

  “No, Father,” said Beck. “You do not.”

  “Then I’ll not waste my time or yours with speculation.” Urss wished he could rid himself of the sensation that an invisible presence was looking over his shoulder, and had to summon all his concentration to continue. “We cannot allow the reappearance of the Lights to alter our resolve. In themselves, as an isolated incident, they mean nothing, and if the phenomenon is not repeated then popular excitement will soon tail off and the event can be consigned to history.”

  “But if it is repeated?” Beck asked.

  He frowned. “As I said, in themselves the Lights mean nothing, whether they appear once or on fifty consecutive nights. We must therefore not be tempted to draw hypothetical conclusions from them, and until or unless the God should choose to grant us a clear revelation, we shall proceed as planned.”

  Beck looked uncomfortable. “Naturally, Father, I don’t question your judgment. But…” She paused, and Urss prompted a little edgily, “But what?”

  “A minor matter, and probably it means nothing. But several of my Sisters have had strange experiences in the wake of the Lights” appearance. They say they were visited by frost sprites in the hour after dawn. And one even claims to have seen…the Lady herself.”

  Urss stared at her. “Under what circumstances?”

  “A waking dream. The woman is one of my senior staff; highly reliable and not the sort to indulge in foolish imaginings. I questioned her myself, and I have to say that what she told me was uncannily close to many documented accounts of a true vision.”

  “And what did this “true vision” impart to her?” Urss was beginning
to sound extremely testy by now.

  Beck sighed. “Nothing that could be interpreted as a message or command. But if it were to be—”

  Urss interrupted her. “If, Grand Mother. If.” He folded his hands on the desk top, pressing the tips of his thumbs together. “Answer me truthfully. Are you saying that you believe the Lady did appear to this woman, and that our own conclusions are wrong?”

  “In truth, Father, I don’t know,” Beck admitted. “But I am uneasy. “

  Abruptly Urss’ black mood ebbed. Contrarily, and unexpectedly, her disquiet had brought an inverse reaction in him, driving away his doubts and replacing them with new confidence. It was only to be expected that a woman—even a woman like Beck—should be prey to irrational fears and illogical reasoning, and though he might disparage her weakness, he was generous enough to make allowance for it.

  “Beck,” he said more cordially, “I understand your anxiety, but it’s obvious that this woman has not been granted a true vision. She and the other Sisters have simply been infected by the general hysteria surrounding the Lights” appearance, and I have no doubt that the effects will wear off in their own good time. If they don’t, you must deal with the matter in your own way; or failing that, one of the High Fathers will speak directly to the Sisters and impose some penances that will bring them back down to earth.”

  Beck visibly bristled. “I’m quite sure that won’t be necessary, Father Urss.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it. Now, if your mind is set at rest, we’ll return to the purpose of this meeting.” His own mind was clearer than it had been since early morning; he had no doubt now that his instinct was goading him in the right direction, and he continued with certainty in his voice.

  “In one sense, Beck, this incident with your Sisters has highlighted the greater concerns about the Lights and their effect on popular thinking,” he said. “As of this morning Vyskir has a new Imperator, and the fact that his accession was accompanied by such a strong religious omen will give him an especial status in the eyes and hearts of the public that we could well have done without.” He sat back in the chair, regarding his intertwined fingers. “If last night’s phenomenon is not repeated, that perception will wear off. Our good citizens have a short attention span and soon tire of novelty. However, we can’t afford to make any assumptions, and if the Lights do recur, and keep recurring, it will jeopardize our long-term strategy. To put it bluntly, Beck, we can’t risk Osiv becoming a figure of adoration, or it will become too dangerous to remove him.”

  Beck, too, had recovered her composure, and the old, cold steadiness was back in her eyes. “Do I take it then, Father, that you intend to bring matters forward?” she asked.

  “Yes. Or at least to plan for that contingency. We shall wait and observe for five more days. If during that time the Lights don’t appear again, public interest will start to wane and we can keep to our original plan. But if they do, we must be ready to act. Flexibility and efficiency, Beck. They’re both of the essence from now on.”

  Beck nodded. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Your most important task is to keep the new Imperatrix busy enough to ensure that she sees as little of her husband as possible.” Urss frowned with irritation. “She seems to have taken a perverse liking to him and I’m told that they spend a lot of time in each other’s company. That must stop. It’s vital that she should guess nothing. However meek she may be, she can’t be trusted—and besides, we must have unrestricted access to Osiv in case we need to move swiftly.”

  Beck nodded a second time. “Marine will be useful. As cousin to the Imperatrix, and something of a friend—”

  “I’m not interested in the fine details,” Urss cut in impatiently. “Just ensure, if you please, that the thing is done. And your second priority is to distract the new Princess Imperial.”

  That did surprise Beck, and her face showed it. But then she began to see what lay behind the instruction, and her expression changed.

  “Ah,” she said, more than a hint of interest in her tone. “Then may I take it that Prince Kodor is not entirely…averse to the prospect of becoming Imperator in his own right?”

  There was a long silence during which they held each other’s gaze. Urss had not realized that Beck knew or had guessed so much of the truth, and he was more than a little chagrined. But then he reminded himself that he had chosen her as his co-conspirator for a very good reason. For her to have missed this or any other clue would have signified a failing both on her part and on his.

  He relaxed a little, and even allowed his lips to smile. “Ensure that Princess Pola is kept occupied, Beck, and I think you will have the answer to your own question before long.”

  Beck returned the smile, satisfied. “Thank you, Father. And I assure you of my absolute discretion where the Princess is concerned.”

  “I supposed nothing less.” Urss rose to his feet. “I have a great deal to do, and I don’t doubt that you have, too. The God go with you. Good day to you, Grand Mother.”

  Beck stood up and made a reverent bow. “Good day to you, Father Urss.”

  ****

  Nanta dreamed. She thought at first that her old nightmare had come back, for it began with the delusion that she was awake in her bedchamber and there was a funeral bier, coldly and eerily lit, in the middle of the floor. But the room was only a memory from her childhood, and she knew at once that the shrouded figure on the bier was not that of the Lady. Again Nanta felt a compulsion to lift the shrouds aside. For a moment she did not recognize the seamed face of the old man who lay there, and she spoke to him, asking him his name, though a deeper, rational part of her sleeping mind knew that he could not answer.

  But he did answer. His dead eyes opened, looking at her kindly, and his dead lips parted in a vague smile. She knew him then: he was Arctor, Imperator; her husband’s father. And he spoke to her; one word, an answer to her question.

  “Osiv.”

  “No,” said Nanta in her dream, and shook her head. Her hair stung and prickled her shoulders, and she realized that she must be naked. It didn’t seem to matter. “Osiv is asleep in his bed, with all his toys around him. You can’t be Osiv.”

  Behind her, a voice said, “Nandi!”

  She turned (very slowly; normal movement seemed. to be impossible) and saw Osiv, in his cloth-of-gold nightshirt, standing in the open doorway. He grinned at her—then suddenly he was no longer Osiv but something else, something silvery and frosty and not quite human, that raised unnaturally long forefingers to its own face and pressed the tips against its eyes.

  She woke then, suddenly, and found herself standing in front of a wall of her bedroom, with her nose a finger’s breadth from the tapestry hanging.

  The mental shock of realizing what she had done was worse than the physical shock of waking. This was her first sleepwalking episode since she had been taken from the Academy, and she had begun to believe that she had finally put that terror behind her. Now, that hope lay shattered. It was beginning again. And there must, could only be a connection with the appearance of the Corolla Lights in the hour before the dawn.

  A jumbled memory of the tower came crowding into her mind and she realized that her last memory was of watching the Lights and offering a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lady. The rest was a blank; she didn’t know what had happened, how she had returned to her rooms, who had or had not seen her. What hour was it now? What day? Candles blazed and the curtains were drawn; it might be noon or midnight or anything in between. She had no point of reference, and panic clawed like an inner animal, inducing a sharp, choking cry over which she had no control.

  They must have been listening at the door for the first sound she made, for the cry was no sooner uttered than they came hurrying in; three physicians and two of her own women servants, chirping with anxiety and surrounding her like a suffocating blanket. In the confused jumble of the next few minutes Nanta discovered that it was past noon; the physicians then subjected her to a further hour’
s rigorous examination before pronouncing that she had taken no harm, and the women fussed and fawned and wrung their hands over her until Nanta could have screamed from their attentions. Amid the clamor she gathered that it was Kodor who had helped her down from the tower, but still she could remember nothing between the moment of her faint and the shock of waking.

  Except for the dream.

  She tried to recall it again as the physicians bowed their way out and the women began to dress her for what was left of the day. But the first clarity had been snatched away by the interruption and, now, would not return. Osiv and Arctor and a frost sprite…the images were tangling in her head and she couldn’t make any sense of them; each time she tried they only became more confused.

  Then one of the women called her “Majesty”.

  Nanta froze where she stood, half dressed and with her unbound hair falling over her shoulders. In a voice that she hardly recognized as her own she said, “What?”

  An awkward silence fell. Then Dorca, who had newly joined the others, said gently, “Madam, do you not remember? The Imperator—the old Imperator—is dead…”

  “Ah…” said Nanta. Of course. That was why she had climbed the tower. A final chance to be private, to be alone, before she was hurled into the turmoil of her new role. Nanta Imperatrix. She shivered despite the heat of the fire, which the servants had insisted on building up. Dorca saw, and she and the other women exchanged knowing glances before Dorca added, “The vigil will have tired you, of course, madam; and I’ve no doubt that whatever the physicians say, you are suffering from the shock of your bereavement.”