Our Lady of the Snow Page 4

  The very fact that Marine either would not or could not say more told Nanta that this change must mean something momentous. Her friend Lulieth would have pressed for answers, and she felt a sense of quick, scathing contempt at her own timidity. But she was not like Lulieth; never had been or, as far as she knew, could be. From the earliest age she had been conditioned to obedience, patience, compliance, and the habit was too ingrained in her to be overcome. A model daughter; a model pupil. Too afraid to be anything else.

  Too afraid of what they would do to me if they knew what I have locked away in my mind.

  She shivered then, a sudden, violent shudder that had nothing to do with the cold, and huddled deeper under her blankets. She felt lost in this vast bed, and if she closed her eyes it was horribly easy to imagine that other presences were creeping in with her. Why had she been housed in a place like this? She was nothing, no one, unimportant. What did they—whoever they were, in the hierarchy of temple or Academy or both—want with her?

  She glanced at the wall behind her. On the far side of it Sister Marine was long abed in her own room. Nanta hoped she was asleep, for the thought that she, too, might be lying awake and aware in the deep of the night unnerved her. She had wanted to lock her door, lest Marine might come in to check on her, but the door had no lock or bolt. It suggested she was not trusted, and that made Nanta feel uneasy and vulnerable. If she should walk tonight, what then? With no conscious control over her actions she might easily walk into Marine’s room and, worse still, say something in her sleep that would betray the truth. Better to give thanks for an unquiet mind to keep her wakeful. Better that than risk the return of the vision and what it might lead to.

  But for all her resolve, tiredness eventually got the better of Nanta. As the lamp began to use the last of its oil and burn low, her head drooped and her body relaxed back among the piled pillows. The room seemed to be merging into another vista, vague and misty and filled with alien, languidly moving shapes. The first images of a dream started to take form.

  Then, as her mind crossed over the borderland between sleeping and waking, she realized that there was another presence in the room with her.

  Nanta opened her eyes. The lamp had gone out, but by the glow of a new, sourceless light she could clearly see the funeral bier that stood on the rich carpet beyond the foot of her bed. A figure lay on the bier. It was wrapped in an ice-blue shroud, the head covered so that no detail of face or hair was visible, but its hands lay free of the shroud’s folds; white hands, clasped together as though in entreaty.

  Nanta’s heart began to pound with thick, painful intensity. The image before her was a tableau, as motionless and unreal as a painting, yet although she knew that it was not real she also knew that she must respond to it in the way she always did. There was no choice; it was a compulsion and she could not defy it.

  She rose from her bed and walked slowly towards the bier. How many times had this same pattern been repeated? Each time she tried to remember, then tried to resist and make it happen differently, but she could never recall, and could never change the inevitable, inexorable train of events. Five steps, six. Were there always six? She was standing at the bier’s head, looking down at the shape muffled under the shroud. She knew what she would see when she lifted the fold back, and terror moved in her like a cold, deep current. But still she could not stop herself from reaching out, from grasping the material that felt so insubstantial and so bitterly, bitterly cold, and drawing it aside.

  The woman’s eyes were closed as though in sleep, but Nanta knew she was not sleeping, for her face had the glacial pallor of death. Her lips were like clay, her skin as devoid of life and color as alabaster, and the bloom of her sloe-black hair was dulled as though with old, dry dust. A single, pale blue poppy lay on her breast, like a morner’s last tribute. She was very beautiful; more beautiful, in fact, than any human woman could possibly be. But then, she was not human. Nanta knew her face, as did every child in Vyskir from the day it was old enough to learn its first catechism. She was the divine consort of the God—the Lady of the Snow. And she was dead.

  Nanta stared down at the Lady’s motionless image, as she had done so many times in this same vision. The air was growing bitter, darker. Cold snowflakes began to fall from nowhere, alighting on the Lady’s face and hair, flecking her shroud with silver. And a voice without source or timbre or inflection whispered a single word in Nanta’s mind:

  “Vengeance.”

  Chapter Three

  Perhaps it was just an effect of the late hour, but Prince Kodor felt a distinct sense of unreality as he walked in the midst of the procession that was making its way from the palace to the temple. The ancient tunnel between the two, customarily used only by the imperial family and the highest members of the Exalted Council, was lit by old-fashioned lanterns which gave off a thin, foggy glow, dimming the colors of faces and hair and gorgeous fabrics to a faintly unsettling neutrality. The procession looked, Kodor thought, like a parade of animated corpses. And most corpselike of them all, as though the effect were a harbinger, was the thin, stooped figure of his father, the Imperator.

  Arctor IX moved with the halting gait of old age and infirmity, supported by two of his personal servants while a page held the train of his heavy ermine cloak. Not for the first time Kodor felt a stirring of anger. The Imperator did not have the stamina for this. The day had been long and grueling, and he should have been comfortable in his bed a long time ago. But protocol had to be observed to the letter, so despite the fact that it was well past midnight, the rite of sanction must be performed and, fit or otherwise, the Imperator must attend. The procession followed the shuffling and painfully slow pace he set, and Kodor resigned himself to a further tedious hour of ritual before duty would finally be done for the day.

  Since the arrival of the delegation from Sekol, Kodor had had enough of duty to last him a lifetime; and today, the final day of the formalities, had been the most taxing yet. He had sat dutifully at his father’s side through the hours of talk and wrangle and rhetoric (though the negotiations concerned him more than anyone, he was not permitted to speak). Then, when the fine details were agreed and the thing signed and sealed, he had walked behind the Imperator and the Sekolian ambassador (who was overweight, loudly overcompensating for a smothered sense of his own inadequacy, and had a smell that would have been greatly improved by a thorough wash) in the progress to the banqueting hall, where he had dutifully played the expansive co-host in the feast that followed. The food, designed to please a Sekolian palate, had been too spiced and rich for his taste, and now his stomach felt distended and uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t just the food that had affected him. Despite the fact that he had long been prepared for this day, the knowledge that he would soon be a married man made him distinctly queasy, and the sensation was compounded by the fact that his intended bride was a complete stranger. He had always known that he would have little if any choice in the wife he would take, but when theory became reality it was still something of a shock. He had never even met the Marchioness Pola, and knew little about her other than that she was the only legitimate scion of Arec of Sekol, and heiress to his title when the time came (which, Exalted Father Urss had smoothly said to the ambassador, might it please the God was far in the future). Indeed, Kodor had not so much as set eyes on Pola in any shape or form before this evening, when the ambassador had presented him with a miniature cameo portrait. Kodor had looked very carefully at the cameo. He was well aware that court painters kept their positions by embroidering and flattering the truth, but even allowing for that he had to admit to himself that his prospective bride was not unattractive. Skin a little sallow, perhaps, and face a little long, but she had rich, dark hair, well-modeled features and quiet eyes. She looked intelligent, which was a blessing. Whether or not he would like her, or she him, was another matter entirely; but on first impressions at least, the choice could have been far worse.

  Not that there was a choice at all w
hen one looked at the matter pragmatically. Glancing at Father Urss’ gaunt, erect back view as he glided silently at the ambassador’s side, Kodor admitted to himself that, for all his long-held dislike of the head of the Exalted Council, Urss could not be faulted on any grounds for his loyalty to the crown he served. Negotiation with the Sekolians had been a long, hard wrangle, for there was no doubt that they held all the trump cards. Militarily stronger, geographically all but impregnable, and now ruled by a man with very distinct ambitions which he made no effort to hide, Sekol was rapidly becoming a palpable threat to its weaker neighbor. Vyskir, with its fertile land and well-placed sea and river ports, was a crop ripe for harvesting, and Father Urss took the view that if the harvest was inevitable, it was better to turn the scythe to advantage rather than attempt to repel its sweeping advance. What could not be resisted could, instead, be united. So one day Kodor and Pola would be Duke and Duchess of Sekol, and also joint Regents of Vyskir. That was a part of the agreement, and it was enough—though only just—to satisfy Duke Arec.

  Kodor recalled the difficulty that had arisen when the question of a dynastic match was first mooted. Arec had assumed that his daughter would marry the Vyskiri heir apparent, not a mere younger brother. He had known nothing about Prince Osiv’s affliction, and the first response from the Exalted Council, to the effect that such a marriage was out of the question, had resulted in a misunderstanding that could easily have turned very unpleasant indeed. Eventually, at Father Urss’ insistence, the Council had agreed to tell Arec the truth. Kodor had not been party to the intense discussions and negotiations that had flown back and forth between the two countries in the months that followed, and he doubted if even his father knew the half of what had been said and done. But at last the framework of an agreement was hammered out. Osiv could never rule in anything but name; Marchioness Pola might not have the ultimate title of Imperatrix, but she would have the power and the trappings of the title, and with that proviso written into the agreement, Duke Arec was content enough.

  Which left only the matter of Osiv himself.

  Kodor turned his head a little, and, with a practiced trick of looking without seeming to look, his restless grey gaze flicked back to another figure walking a little way behind him. He knew Grand Mother Beck by sight, of course; as head of Vyskir’s order of religious women she often had business with the court. But it was unusual to find her included in such a private occasion as this. She had played no part whatever in the negotiations—that was not the role of any woman, however high-ranking—and her presence now did not fit with the expected form. But Kodor’s high intelligence included a very well developed talent for speculation, and he had seen Mother Beck and Father Urss keeping company together a number of times recently. They were always engrossed in talk and had never noticed him as he passed them by; and he believed he understood, now, what lay behind Beck’s inclusion. With her knowledge, her connections and her well-known network of blue-robed spies among the Sanctum sisters, Beck was ideally placed to solve the problem of Osiv and the law that obliged him to be the first of the Imperator’s sons to marry. Urss must have set her to find Osiv a bride. And the fact that Beck was walking in the procession tonight was implicit evidence that she had succeeded.

  Kodor wondered who the chosen girl was. Not that it really mattered. Osiv’s only possible interest in his wife would depend on her willingness or otherwise to play with him. For a moment, with cynical amusement, Kodor caught himself trusting that the bride would bring a dowry of toy bricks with her, then he pushed the thought aside as unworthy and in bad taste. It would be kinder to feel a modicum of pity for the girl, whoever she was. But then, no doubt Beck would have done her research well and chosen someone whose compliance would be assured; the kind of vapid, hapless creature for whom Kodor had no time whatever. Besides, whatever the disappointments of marriage to Osiv, it was probably a preferable alternative to a future in the Imperial Sanctum.

  The procession finally reached the end of the tunnel, where liveried servants waited by a door decorated in gold leaf. They swung the door open, bowing low, and after a few moments” pause to allow the Imperator to catch his breath the group stepped through into the temple. From here a wide, shallow staircase gave on to a private upper gallery, which in turn led to the imperial box. More servants waited to open the box doors, and the Imperator and his immediate party went inside. As he followed his father and the Sekolian ambassador, Kodor was intrigued to notice that Father Urss had not joined them, as might be expected, but instead was moving away with the rest of the gathering. Grand Mother Beck was walking at his side. Kodor’s dark eyebrows lifted a fraction, and curiosity stirred his mind from the drowsiness that was creeping over it. But then he saw that the royal group was waiting for him, the ambassador looking back with more than a trace of impatience in his expression. Schooling his face into a bland mask, Kodor forgot Urss and Beck, and took his place in the box.

  ****

  As tonight’s ceremony was not a public one, the curtains and screens of the occupied cubicles were drawn back, so that all present had a clear view both of the bowl of the temple and of the occupants of other cubicles. A lesser priest was officiating tonight, and Father Urss settled to enjoy his vantage point without needing to pay any attention to the proceedings. He saw the Sekolian ambassador yawning and Prince Kodor trying not to follow suit, and his upper lip curled in private deprecation of their weakness. Everyone was tired, himself not least of all; but to allow it to show was a sign of poor discipline. Back and head erect, eyes sweeping the vista of the temple and checking that all was as it should be and nothing left wanting for this august occasion, he watched as the High Father took his place at the altar, followed by the Imperial Sanctum choir in full ceremonial dress. As the High Father’s powerful voice rose in the first of the Sanctification chants, Urss murmured to Beck, in her chair beside him.

  “The girl Nanta is no longer in the choir, I presume?”

  “No, Father.” Beck’s gaze flicked briefly to him. “She was removed from the Academy yesterday evening, and is now in the Sanctum under the care of High Sister Marine VerCoris.”

  “I see.” Urss’ mouth hardened a little. “I would have preferred it, Mother Beck, if you had consulted me before appointing a chaperone for her. I had assumed—erroneously, it seems—that you would undertake that task yourself.”

  Beck’s bulldog face remained impassive. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, “but with all the other calls on my time, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day for me to govern the girl as the situation demands. She must be supervised by someone who can give her their undivided attention. I trained Sister Marine myself and she was my second-in-command for many years. She has my complete trust and confidence.”

  “Then I must rely on your judgment, and trust in my turn that it proves sound.” Urss paused to give his point the required emphasis. “Have you told High Sister Marine why Nanta has been put in her charge?”

  “I’ve told her that the girl has been chosen as Prince Osiv’s bride,” Beck said, and added before he could voice an objection, “I considered it necessary to reveal that much, to ensure that Marine understands the importance of her task.”

  “Mmm.” Urss was noncommittal. “But you’ve said nothing beyond that?”

  Beck eyed him sidelong. “Naturally not.”

  The choir’s voices were rising in an ethereally beautiful anthem, but the sound washed over Urss and Beck and was ignored. Urss leaned forward, looking over the edge of the box. He gave the impression that he was gazing down at the priest and choir, but in reality he was covertly watching the Imperator. Beck, aware of it, said, “His Majesty does not look at all well.”

  “Indeed.” Urss’ eyes narrowed perceptibly.

  “I understand that his physicians are not optimistic.”

  “They are not. Candidly, Mother Beck, they hold out little hope of his surviving beyond midwinter, and I see no reason to disagree with them. For that reason, if for
no other, it’s vital that both the princes should be married as quickly as possible. If the Imperator were to die before either one of the weddings takes place, we could find ourselves in an extremely delicate position.”

  Beck nodded. With Arctor gone, Prince Osiv would be Imperator; and yet another complication of Vyskiri law stated that any royal marriage could only take place with the Imperator’s express public blessing. Osiv was not fit to bless anything, least of all in public, but the law was the law and could not be flouted. If Arctor died before both his sons were safely wed, the truth about Osiv would have to come out. That was unthinkable—and not only for the obvious reason. But the second reason was not something to be directly discussed, even in the privacy of the temple cubicle. When the Imperator was dead, it would be another matter. While he lived, Beck and Urss were both too wise and too experienced to risk even the smallest indiscretion.

  “For once,” Urss continued, “Duke Arec’s impatience is likely to work in our favor. It will be a strong factor in persuading the Imperator to the idea of an early marriage.”

  “Do you intend to speak with him soon, Father?”

  “In the morning.” Urss finally abandoned his scrutiny of the Imperator’s distant figure. “I foresee no problems. The Imperator is a reasonable man, and as aware as anyone of the situation with Sekol. All being well, I think the Council will be able to begin the preparations without any delay.”

  “Ah. Then the girl may be told soon?”

  He glanced at her, a cold look that had a hint of censure. “Soon enough, Mother Beck. I’ll make sure that you’re informed when the time comes.”