Our Lady of the Snow Page 20

  From beneath the seat the mutes produced shortbow, crossbow, several knives of varying length, and a cudgel. Kodor nodded. “Keep the shortbow and a knife to hand. We have company, and I don’t know what it is.” It could be a wolf, he thought; though wolves travelled in packs, not singly. A rogue? Possibly. But then, what wolf was capable of running on its hind legs?

  He looked out again. The shadow was still there, and for a moment he thought that a second one showed at the edge of the lamps” reach before merging back into the dark. Old tales of the forests” strange denizens came back to him; were-creatures, half-men, spirit-things that could change their shape and their nature…He tried to remind himself that most of the stories had been invented purely to frighten children into good behaviour, but that didn’t change the fact that something was out there, following.

  The mutes were alert now, one fingering the hilt of his sheathed knife, the other with the shortbow and several arrows laid across his knee. Kodor judged that they did not have much further to go. He did not think the mysterious followers would attack the carriage; if that was the game, they were likely to have made their move by now. But when they reached the rendezvous…

  Osiv slept on, his mouth hanging open, drooling slightly. Without a word, Kodor reached forward and chose a knife from among the mutes” small arsenal. Then he settled back in his seat, and waited for the journey’s end.

  ****

  The carriage arrived at its destination half an hour later. The driver shouted a command and the coach lurched and pitched as the horses began to slow down. They stopped with a final terrific jolt, and Kodor was on his feet ahead of the mutes, opening the door and jumping down into fine, smooth snow.

  Acute, almost deathly quiet surrounded them. The horses were steaming, moist clouds rising into the cold air; here in the shelter of dense conifers the snowfall was reduced to a few patchy flakes and the ground covering did not even reach Kodor’s ankles. The shadow was gone and there was no sign of any untoward movement among the trees. Nonetheless Kodor made a complete circuit of the carriage before telling the mutes that they could bring Osiv out.

  The sleigh waited in the lee of a massive pine whose branches spread overhead like a roof. Eight dogs were harnessed in the traces, their breath condensing from lolling tongues, their intelligent eyes glinting with a peculiar, nacreous reflection in the snow-light. The sleigh driver, a squat man swathed in so many furs that he looked almost spherical, waddled forward to bow reverently to Kodor, then stood back as Osiv was carefully transferred from the carriage. Osiv stirred and mumbled, but the drug was still working and he did not wake. Kodor waited until his fur-wrapped form was safely stowed in the sleigh, then turned to stare back along the pale ribbon of the road.

  And saw the two shapes that stood watching him from the cover of the trees.

  They were grey shapes, intangible and ghostlike, and neither animal nor human but an uncanny meld of both. One had the ears of a wolf, and a bird’s wings where its arms should have been; the other seemed part pig and part deer, but with a boy’s face and an old man’s eyes. They made no move either towards Kodor or away, but only gazed steadily at him, without hostility and without fear.

  Then a third figure stepped out from the darkness between them, and Kodor recognized the frost sprite.

  It was the same creature that had haunted the courtyard before their departure; he was as sure of that as he had ever been sure of anything. And it had been with Nanta on the tower, he knew that, too. Her guardian and her friend.

  “Why have you followed us?” Kodor’s voice carried like the ring of glass in the quiet. “What do you want?”

  No answer.

  “My brother won’t be harmed.” For reasons that he didn’t understand, Kodor had to give that reassurance. But the sprite knew it already. It must know. Was this nothing more than curiosity on its part? Or did it have some obscure motive, some purpose of its own?

  He cast a rapid glance over his shoulder, to where the mutes and the coach-and sleigh-drivers stood motionless behind him. The mute with the bow had nocked an arrow and held the weapon half raised, but he would not be so foolish as to shoot. To harm a frost sprite was impossible, and even to attempt it courted a lifetime’s bad luck.

  “Get into the sleigh,” Kodor ordered the mutes quietly. “Look after the Imperator.”

  He heard the shuffle and creak as they obeyed, and he looked at the frost sprite again. Now for the first time it did move; a slow nod of the head which seemed to signify approval.

  “They’ll take him to a safe place,” Kodor said aloud. “They’ll guard him. It’s all I can do.”

  The sprite nodded again, more emphatically this time. Then it raised its hands, pressed the tips of the spatulate fingers together, and made the slightest of bows. As it straightened, it smiled a small, cold smile; then the fingers touched its mouth, its eyes and its ears, as though to say: nothing said, nothing seen, nothing heard. It was a clear signal, the making of a pact of privacy between them. If Kodor kept his part of the bargain, the sprite and its strange companions would watch over Osiv in their own way.

  He didn’t see them go. They simply melted from sight like his own breath misting and vanishing. One of the sleigh dogs yipped uneasily and the rest started to whine until a snapped threat from the driver silenced them. The coachman was at the horses” heads; they too were suddenly restless and stamping, and a wave of sweating heat chased through Kodor’s body as one kind of tension was replaced by another.

  “Go,” he told the sleigh-driver. “Quickly, before it grows late.” He forced something approximating a smile. “And don’t fear anything you might meet on the road.”

  The squat man nodded understanding. He climbed aboard, then his whip cracked and the sleigh began to move. It turned a clumsy, wallowing circle as the dogs strained in their harnesses, then abruptly it was gathering speed, skimming away into the night with a hiss and a bow-wave of flying snow.

  The carriage-driver needed no command from Kodor, for he was already on his box and gathering up the reins. Kodor scrambled inside; even as he slammed the door the driver yelled at the horses. A minute later there were only two sets of wheel and runner tracks, and a patch of scuffed and footprinted snow, to show that anything had come to disturb the silence.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As the procession made its dignified way through the private tunnel between the temple and the palace, Nanta slipped a hand under her veil to rub at her eyes, which were prickling with the combined effects of tiredness and incense smoke. She longed to be free of the veil, the formal gown and the rest of the imperial entourage. All she wanted was to rest, with nothing and no one to make any demands on her attention.

  The temple ceremony had been one of the most tedious she had ever attended, seeming to go on and on until she half believed that it would never end. Twice she had almost fallen asleep, and several of the ladies-in-waiting had certainly done so; one even snored until her shin was hastily kicked by Dorca. Only Pola had appeared to be unaffected, as far as anyone could tell. She had sat rigid as always, hands clasped tightly in her lap, not looking to right or left and never once speaking. Now she walked behind Nanta, still silent, her whole manner precluding any possibility of a friendly move. Nanta disliked being followed so closely. Pola felt like a second shadow and, irrationally, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was some ill omen in her presence. She thought again of trying to crack the icy wall that existed between them; then, again, let the idea drop. She simply didn’t have the energy.

  Halfway through the tunnel, they heard running footsteps ahead. The men of the escort were instantly alert, hands moving quickly to the sheathed swords they carried, and abruptly Nanta felt an inward lurch of foreboding. She stopped walking; the rest of the party halted too, Dorca and the other women gathering protectively around their mistress as the escort called out a challenge.

  A voice shouted a reply, and brighter lights appeared ahead of them, swamping the dim
glow of the wall lamps in their brackets. Then a group of people appeared, with Kodor at their head. Nanta had time to recognize the senior physician, one of his assistants, and three servants whose names she could not recall, before Kodor slid to a breathless stop.

  “Find Exalted Father Urss, quickly!” He addressed the leader of the escort. “Tell him to come to the Imperator’s suite—hurry, man!”

  The leader ran back towards the temple, and Kodor snapped to Dorca, “The rest of you, go on to the suite. Don’t ask questions; there’s someone there who”ll tell you what to do!”

  Nanta’s foreboding swelled into something far stronger and she stepped forward, throwing back her veil, pushing the milling women aside. “Kodor, what’s happened?”

  He turned to her, his face pallid and strained. “It’s Osiv,” he said.

  “What about him? What?”

  He didn’t answer the question, only approached and put an arm tightly about her shoulders. “You’d better come,” he told her. “Come with me; we’ll go back together.”

  Nanta had one glimpse of her bewildered ladies, with Pola standing immobile and isolated in their midst, before Kodor was hurrying her away along the passage. Behind them the paralysis of shock broke and the women started after them, twittering agitatedly. Kodor didn’t even glance back. On to the tunnel’s end, through the door that connected with the palace, along carpeted passages, running now. Her own and Osiv’s apartments—the doors were shut but there were people gathered outside, and a woman’s voice was wailing and lamenting.

  “Kodor!” Nanta dragged him to a halt, staring in horror at the scene. She had started to shake uncontrollably.

  “All right.” His arm went round her again. “All right; we’ll go in, but I’m going to take you directly to your private rooms.”

  “Where’s Osiv?”

  “In his bedchamber. But it’s best if you don’t go in there. Not now; not yet.”

  He led her forward again, very slowly now. Nanta’s feet dragged; she was reluctant to approach the rooms and the people, who were all gazing at her with shock and pity in their eyes. Then Dorca came running from behind, calling, “Madam, oh, madam!” She tried to catch hold of Nanta’s sleeve, and bemusedly Nanta saw that tears were streaming down her face. The physician was at Dorca’s heels, his expression grave. Suddenly Nanta knew what he had already told her servant.

  A strange, inexplicable calm washed over her and she stopped again. Voice perfectly level, she said, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, madam…” Dorca covered her face with her hands.

  Nanta regarded her silently for a moment, then turned to Kodor. “Was he murdered?” she asked.

  A stunned silence fell as those nearest heard her. Kodor’s face turned white, and for a single instant Nanta saw horror in his eyes. The horror, she thought, of a man with a secret to conceal. Then the incriminating clue was wiped from his expression as though it had never existed. He said softly, harshly, “Murdered? By the God, Nanta, of course not! Who in this world could wish to harm him? Get a grip on yourself!” He flicked a gaze over the company at large. “The Imperatrix is greatly distressed. Leave us, all of you. Exalted Father Urss has been sent for, and he will take charge.”

  The crowd parted like diverted water as between them Kodor and Dorca hurried Nanta through the doors and into the suite. Her numb senses registered the familiar oppressive furniture, all so neat and well ordered; then they were entering the next room, and there were two more doors, one leading to her private apartments, the other to Osiv’s.

  The urge came so quickly and unexpectedly that she acted on it without pausing to consider. Throwing off Kodor’s arm, evading Dorca, she ran to Osiv’s door and through it. The playroom—but he wasn’t here; Kodor had said he was in the bedchamber. As she burst in, two servants and another physician started to their feet. Their faces registered alarm and they made as if to step between her and the bed, but their awe and Nanta’s momentum cast any such thought aside. She reached the bedside unhindered, and stared down.

  Osiv had been covered by a sheet. For an entangled moment reality collided with Nanta’s memories of her old dream of the bier and the shrouded figure, but then the dream spun away. This was not a mere nightmare. She was fully awake, and this was here and now.

  She reached out a gloved hand, and lifted the sheet back.

  “Madam!” Dorca was there. Nanta had not heard her come in. Rank was forgotten and Dorca was trying to pull her away. Nanta stared. Kept staring.

  “Oh, madam…” Dorca’s voice was breaking with grief and anguish. “Come away, my lady, come away. You must. There’s nothing in this world that you can do for him now.”

  Nanta raised her head. Her eyes saw, though her mind did not register, the gilded, moulded ceiling, and the shadows cast by candlelight, and the reflection of the fire in the hearth. Then, not knowing what she did, she opened her mouth and a shrill, ululating cry echoed ringingly through the imperial apartments, rising higher and clearer and more piercing, until all who heard it felt it vibrate through their bones.

  And from a sky still thick with falling snow came a fearful and formidable answer as, impossibly, the sound of a gargantuan thunderclap bawled out over the Metropolis and rumbled away into the night.

  ****

  The lights of the palace burned until morning. In the Exalted Council’s main chamber Father Urss, Prince Kodor and all the senior councillors, physicians and high officers of the court were closeted behind doors guarded by grimly silent officers of the imperial household. At the temple the highest Fathers and Mothers of the religious orders were kneeling in prayer before the image of the God, while devotional candles flickered in every cranny and the smoke of incense hung like fog in the air.

  Beyond the city, far away to the north, the sky glared with the eerie luminescence of the Corolla Lights. They danced a ragged and unruly dance tonight, as if responding to some violence pent below the horizon, and in the wake of the isolated thunderclap they seemed to presage something very ominous.

  In the imperial suite, Nanta lay pale and still in her bed. She had collapsed as the thunderclap roared above the city, and when she came round the senior physician had administered a strong sleeping draught before she was conscious enough to refuse it. Everyone agreed it was for the best. Sleep was a healer of both the body and the mind; sleep would help the Imperatrix to recover from the shock of this tragedy and overcome her grief. And while she slept, they would not have to face the look in her eyes. So Dorca kept vigil with her, while on the other side of the bed Mother Marine knelt in silent and earnest prayer for the soul of the. Imperator and the comfort of his widow.

  Marine’s arrival had been Grand Mother Beck’s doing. No one had thought to wonder how Beck had heard of the calamity so quickly; there were too many other preoccupations for such a small anomaly to be noticed. Besides, Beck had sent such eloquent word of her personal sorrow that any possible suspicions didn’t even arise. She had also sent Marine, “to help in any way that she can”, and though Dorca did not especially like Marine, on this occasion she was glad of her company. The thunderclap had struck terror into Dorca; a deeply superstitious woman, she was unshakeably convinced that the God had sent it in direct response to Nanta’s terrible cry. The presence of a high ranking religious was, to her, like a safeguard against any further show of divine disapproval, and helped to ease her fear.

  It did not occur to her that the thunderclap might have had another source entirely.

  Marine was suppressing a fear of another kind: the twin burdens of guilt and horror. The frost sprites had forewarned Nanta that the Imperator was in danger, Nanta had confided in Marine and pleaded for her help, and Marine had failed her. She tried to tell herself that the failure had been inevitable. The Imperator had died of a sickness, not by an assassin’s hand, and no one could possibly have predicted the occurrence, let alone prevented it. But the sense of her own inadequacy still clung to her like mire, and alongside her prayers
for Osiv and Nanta she also included a plea for forgiveness.

  Dorca, of course, knew nothing of this. And neither did she know, as she watched sadly over Nanta’s still, quiet form in the great bed, that in her drug-induced sleep the Imperatrix dreamed. Nanta’s consciousness was deeply buried, and dreams should have been impossible.

  But she dreamed…

  ****

  The clap of thunder was the first thing to come sliding out of her memory as the dream began. But now it was not thunder. Instead it was a voice, booming down from the sky in a huge, distorted wave of sound, and the sound formed a word that vibrated into the marrow of her bones.

  “YOOOUUU.” It was drawn out into a roaring tide of echoes, and Nanta fell to her knees in the city street, clamping both hands to her ears as tears of fright streamed down her cheeks.

  “YOOOUUU.” There was a calm, appalling inevitability in the word; it was recognition and acknowledgement and accusation all three. Nanta struggled to cry back a denial, but she was dumb, and even if she could have uttered a sound it would have been deluged by the gargantuan voice from the sky.

  In her mind she screamed: Why are you angry with me? What have I done? But the voice only boomed out its dreadful indictment once again. For twenty years it had been searching for her. Now, finally, it had found her, and it would not listen, it would not reason. For her, it had no mercy.

  Now she was running, through unlit night streets where she was a stranger and no one came to help her; and something was pursuing her. She could not see or hear it but she knew it was there, far behind as yet but catching up. She couldn’t outdistance it. It was tireless and she was not, and one day, however far in the future that day might lie, there would be no breath and no strength left, and she would stop, and it would move upon her and over her and then would come the eternal dark.