Our Lady of the Snow Read online

  She cried for the snow, for she knew that the snow could save her. But though the city streets had changed to beaten tracks, and the buildings had turned into trees, the snow would not fall. Nanta tried to make it fall, calling it down with all the willpower she possessed. But it did not fall. The forest was laughing at her, mocking her terror and her grief (why did she grieve? She didn’t know, she couldn’t remember) as she ran like a hunted deer. Above her, flickering and leaping between the stark branches of the pines, the Corolla Lights danced their stately minuet. She thought she could hear them singing, sweet and clear and pure, and if she could only reach the place where they began, that far place behind the north wind, they, like the snow, would shield her from the thing of hate and vengeance that followed her through the night and would never, ever tire of the chase.

  Onward and onward. Strange, small faces peeped out at her from the green-black forest canopy, but she had no time and no breath for them and they darted away again. Once, she saw a sleigh, skimming fast in the air ahead of her. The dogs that drew it were grey and they yelped on a high, terrible note; the driver turned his head to look back at her and he was a tusked and bristling boar; and she knew that among his cargo was a dead man whose eyes could still see. She tried to race the sleigh, not knowing why she did it, but the driver laughed a grunting, snorting laugh, and the dogs yelped anew, and the whole vision curved upwards, upwards and away into the sky, leaving her far behind.

  She found her voice then, and screamed to the frost sprites. They had come to her before; they had shown her, warned her, helped her. But on this dreadful journey there was no such help to be had. The sprites wanted to answer; she felt the pull of their presence and their urging. But they could not reach her. Nothing could reach her. There was only Nanta, and the thing of hate at her heels.

  In the opulent bed in the palace the Imperatrix sighed, halting Marine’s prayers and bringing Dorca to her feet. But the white face did not change, the eyes did not open, and after a few moments the watching women lapsed back to their patient vigil.

  And in Nanta’s dream, suddenly, there was snow.

  She heard the singing of it first, like the pure voice of the Corolla Lights but smaller, closer and more intimate. Then the soft whiteness began to fall down through the trees. It covered the ground and the bending branches; it touched her cheeks and her eyes and her lips, so that she drank in its coldness as though it were sweet wine. She felt her strength returning as the snow cloaked her hair and arms, clothing her whole body, protecting her like a coat of ermine. The thing of hate was drawing closer, but she was no longer afraid. Her running steps slowed, slowed, stopped, and she turned to meet it as it flowed through the forest and bloated towards her, shapeless and nameless and yet cruelly familiar.

  The vast voice boomed: “YOOOUUU.”

  “I,” said Nanta. The forest answered her: I, I, I. And the thing of hate was still.

  Ice cracked as Nanta raised her hands. Her pursuer could not harm her now. She had a strength that matched its own, and somewhere within her, locked away still but closer to consciousness than ever before, was the knowledge of how that strength could and should be used.

  She said: “Go. I am beyond your reach. Leave me. For I know what you are, and I pity you.”

  It shrank from her; only a little but the shrinking was enough to tell her that she had won this battle, if not the war. Her head turned, to right, to left, and the frost sprites stood beside her, their gazes fast on her face.

  “Go,” she said again, though gently now. “Go.”

  She felt the thing of hatred fade. Sadness tore at her as it went, but she put the emotion aside, and when it was truly gone she sank down in the snow. The sprites came to her, stroking her hair, touching her hands. Nanta smiled up at them. Then the smile drained away. “Who killed him?” she asked the sprites. “Tell me. Who murdered Osiv?”

  Darkness was closing in from the forest. The Corolla Lights were gone and would not return tonight, and a cloud-bank moved across the sky, blotting out the stars. The sprites gazed down at Nanta.

  “Ask,” said one.

  “Your brother,” said the other.

  In the bedchamber of the palace, Nanta opened her eyes.

  For some time she did not move, only lay gazing up at the ceiling as the dream pieced itself together in her conscious mind. When the picture was complete, she shifted her gaze carefully first to one side and then to the other. On her left Dorca, nodding sleepily in a chair. On her right Marine, kneeling, head bowed and hands clasped. Nanta was glad to see Marine, glad that someone had sent for her. But there was one other person she wanted to see.

  She spoke, startling Dorca out of her doze and bringing Marine’s head up with a sharp movement.

  “Where is Prince Kodor?”

  There was a momentary pause, then Dorca scrambled to her feet and leaned motheringly over the bed.

  “Oh, madam, you should still be sleeping! The physician said—”

  “Where is Prince Kodor?” Nanta repeated.

  Marine was staring at her in consternation, though she made no attempt to speak. Dorca’s face creased and she replied, “He is with the Exalted Council, madam. In the main chamber.”

  Yes, Nanta thought. He would be. “When the Council’s business is finished, send word to Prince Kodor that I want him to come to me immediately,” she said.

  She could feel the strain in the silence that followed. Marine’s gaze had slid away and Dorca twisted her hands together nervously. She seemed to be struggling for a reply but was unable to find one.

  “What is it?” Nanta asked sharply. “Why don’t you answer me, Dorca?”

  “Madam, I…can’t send such a message.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” But Dorca started to flounder again, and it was Marine who finally spoke for her.

  “He is no longer Prince Kodor. He is the Imperator now, and cannot be commanded.”

  A frigid little knot seemed to form in the pit of Nanta’s stomach, and she said softly, “Oh…” She had known it, of course, but until this moment it had not really come home to her. Kodor was no longer a mere regent, ruling in his brother’s name. The throne and the title were now his by right.

  And in the wake of her dream, Nanta did not believe that he had gained that right by a stroke of chance.

  She said: “How did my husband die?”

  Dorca sagged back on to her chair and began to weep softly, and Nanta noticed for the first time that her eyes looked sore and reddened, as though she had done little but cry for many hours. Which was probably true, for Dorca was one of the few in the palace household who had felt genuine affection for Osiv. She, if anyone, would tell the truth. But Dorca was too upset to answer the question with any coherence, and again Marine had to come to her rescue.

  “The imperial physician believes that a disease was to blame,” she told Nanta quietly. “The Pilgrims” Plague—it’s very rare, but when it does strike, the effects are swift and devastating. I understand…I have been told…that it kills within a very few hours of the first symptoms” onset.”

  “I saw his face,” said Nanta, triggering a choking moan from Dorca.

  “Yes…” Marine replied pallidly. She had not seen Osiv’s corpse—Father Urss had given orders that no one should come near once the physician began his examination—but she had heard the reports of those who had seen it, and though she was not squeamish the descriptions had turned her stomach.

  Nanta added, almost detachedly: “Is that what the disease does?”

  Marine nodded. And Nanta saw then in her eyes what she had already detected in her voice: the fact that Marine harbored doubts of her own.

  “I see,” she said. “Yes. I see.” And wondered what Marine suspected that she either could or would not reveal. Had she learned, just too late, some vital piece of information that might have turned this bitter tide? Nanta ached to know, but could not ask until she had a chance to be alone with Marine.


  “Dorca,” she said, “will you fetch me some food?”

  “Madam… ?” Dorca looked up, her face tear-streaked and her expression bemused. Probably she was shocked by the idea that her mistress could even think of eating, and taking pity on her Nanta made her expression soften into a smile.

  “I need all the strength I can find, Dorca,” she told the woman gently. “I can’t allow myself to become weak, can I?”

  “No…no, madam, of course.” Dorca got to her feet. “I’m sorry; I should have thought. I’ll go myself—I’ll fetch something to tempt your appetite…Oh, my poor little prince!”

  She fled from the room, and Nanta and Marine heard her burst into a fresh flood of tears outside. They looked at each other, and Nanta said, “So Kodor is Imperator now, and his wife is Imperatrix. What does that make me?”

  “I believe your title will be Imperatrix Dowager,” Marine replied cautiously.

  “Imperatrix Dowager.” Nanta nodded. There was a pause; then, in a perfectly ordinary voice, she added, “Do you think that Kodor killed Osiv?”

  Marine’s grey eyes widened in shock, and Nanta realized that the idea, the possibility, had never once occurred to her. She was surprised, and a little disappointed. From a woman of Marine’s intelligence and acumen she might have expected a greater degree of realism, or perhaps even cynicism. This reaction struck her as almost naive. It did not occur to her that only a very few months ago she herself would have been as naive and more.

  She told Marine then about her dream. Marine listened with increasing dismay, and when Nanta finished she sucked in her breath with a soft sound. “The omen is clear,” she said. “But the thought that Prince Kodor—I mean, the Imperator—” momentarily she looked guilty at using the title—”could countenance murder…He always seemed so fond of his brother.”

  Nanta’s eyes glinted. “But less fond, perhaps, than he is of power.”

  Marine didn’t know Kodor well enough to form a judgment; all she had was the logic of her own small observations, which suggested that Kodor could not possibly be responsible for Osiv’s death. Marine did not even truly believe that Osiv had been murdered. Yet the frost sprites” message to Nanta could hardly have been clearer. Ask your brother. Whom could they mean but Kodor?

  Nanta spoke again, her voice suddenly low and urgent. “Did you learn anything, Marine? Did you find out anything at all?”

  Marine shook her head. “I failed you,” she said unhappily. “I thought I had done my best, but it wasn’t enough. If only—”

  “No.” Nanta interrupted her. “You did all you could.” She looked around the room, frowning thoughtfully. “Whatever lies” behind this, it’s hidden too well and too deeply for you or me to unearth it. But for the sprites I would have suspected nothing; so how can I blame you for any failure?”

  “Perhaps,” Marine said, “they will return?”

  “Perhaps they will.” Then the fleeting thought went through Nanta’s mind: or if they do not, perhaps I shall make them.

  She gasped as a shiver assailed her, Startled Marine, asked anxiously, “My dear, what’s amiss?”

  “Nothing.” The feeling, and the thought that had triggered it, were gone, leaving Nanta confused and unsettled. Make the sprites return to her? She could not do that. No one could; they were not subject to human will. And yet…

  The train of thought was broken by the return of Dorca, carrying a tray laden with what she thought were dishes suitable for a newly bereaved widow. Delicate things, bland things; the kind of foods that the physicians had always said were good for Osiv but which Osiv himself had despised. Nanta did not want any of them; to appease Dorca, though, she made herself taste a morsel or two. There was no more talk for some time. Anything else Nanta and Marine might have wanted to say to each other could not be uttered in Dorca’s presence, and Dorca now seemed so over-full with misery that she was unable to speak at all. From another part of the suite came unfamiliar sounds. Nanta surmised that the servants were laying Osiv’s body out, making him fit—or as fit as was possible in the circumstances—to lie in state while Vyskir officially morned him. The lying in state would occupy several days; she recalled that from Arctor’s funeral. It seemed an age since Arctor had died, though in reality it was a very short time indeed. Did she truly feel any more grief for Osiv than she had done for his father? Hard to say. She had been fond of Osiv, there was no doubting it, but the fondness had, of necessity, had its limitations. She pitied his fate and in a shallow sense would miss him. But there had been no scope for anything deeper. Maybe that explained the absence of any real feeling inside her, except only for a sense of guilt that she did not care more passionately.

  But one flame was alight within her. She wanted to know, beyond any shadow of doubt, the truth about how Osiv had died. If her suspicions were right, she wanted to see the truth exposed and justice done. That was important to her. Very important. In fact, she knew with certainty that she would not have peace of mind until and unless it was achieved.

  She set down her knife, pushed away the tray, then glanced at Marine. There was nothing more to be said, not yet.

  “I’ve eaten my fill, Dorca,” she said calmly. “You may take the tray away. And then both of you, please, leave me. I want to sleep.”

  And perhaps, she added silently to herself, I will dream another dream.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The days immediately following Osiv’s demise were an exhausting and stressful time. To begin with there were now two Imperators to be morned, which meant extra demands on the public face presented by the court and all concerned with it. Father Urss, efficient as always, orchestrated plans for national morning on an unprecedented scale. Osiv’s funeral would take place in fifteen days, and would be attended by rites and ceremonies the like of which had rarely been seen in Vyskir’s history. In the meantime, behind the scenes and hidden from the public eye, the more practical formalities were quietly completed. Firstly, the imperial physician’s diagnosis was confirmed and announced: the Imperator Osiv IV had fallen victim to the Pilgrims” Plague. The source of the infection was unknown, but stringent examination of all persons connected to the court had confirmed that it was an isolated case. There was no danger to any citizen of the Metropolis, and the populace were exhorted to give fervent thanks to the God that he had seen fit to spare the lives of all other members of the imperial family. Amidst this pious rhetoric, the accession to the throne of Kodor VI was duly and ceremonially declared, and on a morning bitter with frost, under a leaden sky threatening yet more snow, the new Imperator processed through the city streets to give thanks at the temple for his own deliverance.

  Nanta played no part in these early rituals. It was accepted, even expected, that an imperial widow should go into seclusion during the first days following her bereavement. Messages arrived at the palace in their hundreds, and many of the wealthier citizens sent condolence gifts, all of which were solemnly accepted and placed on display in one of the palace annexes. But Nanta herself remained closeted in her apartments, away from the gaze of all but her personal servants.

  Other demands, though, were made on her, and many of them were far from pleasant. After lying in state in the throne room for a day and a night, the corpse was returned to the imperial suite, where it and all its trappings were set up in the outer reception room. Nanta could not leave the apartments without passing through that room, and she quickly came to dread the sight and atmosphere of it. Brown carpets to deaden sound, brown draperies to block out what little daylight might otherwise have crept in, and a hundred brown candles burning night and day around the huge, ornate catafalque. The room was kept unheated to slow down the onset of decay, but even so a distinct and unpleasant smell was beginning to emanate from beneath the coffin’s closed lid. Nanta had had no more portentous dreams, but she was beginning to suffer nightmares in which Osiv, wrapped in his shroud, came to her bedside and held out his arms to her, saying, “Hug me, Nandi, hug me,” while the stink of putre
faction clogged in her nostrils and throat. Three times on the first night of these dreams she woke screaming, bringing Dorca and two other women running to comfort her, and by the third night she was too afraid to sleep at all, but sat by her window until dawn, staring down into the bleak little courtyard and trying to blank all thoughts from her mind. Dorca, greatly concerned, sent for the imperial physician, who prescribed a calming tincture. It tasted vile but it put a stop to the nightmares, and on the fourth night Nanta slept soundly and dreamlessly.

  No word of any kind had come from Kodor. Rationally, Nanta knew she could expect none; with both his brother’s death and his own new position to come to terms with, the demands on Kodor’s time and energy were greater than on anyone else’s. But the dream she had had on that fateful night was festering in her mind like an open sore. The thing of hate, pursuing her relentlessly through the city and the forest. What was it? In the nightmare she had known that it had been searching for her, waiting to find her, through the whole of her life. But what did that mean? What had happened twenty years ago, that was returning to haunt her now? She prayed and prayed for a further revelation, but no answer came; and the frost sprites did not appear again, either in dreams or in her waking hours. She wanted to see Marine, to talk further about the suspicions that plagued her. But Marine could not come to her. Grand Mother Beck had placed her in temporary charge of the Sanctum, to oversee the Sisters” preparations for their part in the state funeral, and she had no time to spare for anything else. When the funeral was over, Nanta’s servants assured her, things would be different. She would move out of this suite to a smaller apartment, kinder and cosier for her; her duties would be fewer and less onerous, and she could start to put the unhappy memories behind her. But until then, she must be patient. There was no other choice.

  So Vyskir morned, and the Metropolis made ready for its solemn farewell to Osiv. Since his death the Corolla Lights had not appeared again. Father Urss was surprised but not overly concerned. The Lights” absence could easily be explained to the populace as the God and the Lady’s own grieving, and the fact that they were no longer dancing would help calm any residual unease in the city. For himself, Urss was more preoccupied with secular matters, including the forthcoming arrival—weather permitting—of Duke Arec and a large retinue. Word of the tragedy had been sent to Sekol by the fastest possible means, and this morning the courier had returned bearing an appropriate message of Arec’s “great sorrow”, together with the news that the Duke would set out immediately for the Metropolis. There was a great deal of nonsense in the letter about Arec’s desire to comfort his beloved daughter and son-in-law in their time of grief, but his real motive was obvious to Urss. Arec wanted to make quite sure that Pola’s position, and the alliance, were thoroughly and properly assured. And he doubtless also had some “advice” of his own to give to the new Imperator; advice that Kodor would do very well not to ignore.