Our Lady of the Snow

by Louise Cooper

  All in all, the announcement of Prince Osiv’s betrothal had brought a very satisfying public response. Rejoicing was widespread and enthusiastic; it was a long time since the populace had such an event to celebrate, and Vyskir was en fête. The marriage date had been set for the beginning of the midwinter cycle, now only a month away. It would mean an unseemly scramble to have everything ready in time, but the combined goads of Duke Arec’s impatience and the Imperator’s increasing frailty persuaded Urss that sooner was safer. It also ameliorated the problem of Osiv himself. They would have to show him in public on the day of the wedding, but midwinter daylight—or rather, lack of it—would minimize the risk of his condition being noticed by the crowds. Arec of Sekol and his daughter would be guests of honor at the celebrations; the proclamation of the Marchioness Pola’s betrothal to Prince Kodor was to be made on the following day, and the Sekolians would then remain at court for a further month, when the second marriage would take place.

  On the eighth day after the betrothal proclamation, the Imperator took a chill. It was nothing serious, but in his state of health even a minor complaint was cause for concern, and the senior court physician told Urss privately that another such ailment could be His Majesty’s last. Urss was alarmed. He had assumed that the Imperator would live until both his sons” marriages were safely solemnized, but this news changed everything. Kodor must be married before Arctor died. There was nothing for it but to bring the second wedding forward, to follow Osiv’s by a bare few days.

  Thankfully there was a lull in the snowfall and the roads were still clear enough for fast horseback travel, so a message was sent immediately to Duke Arec, apprising him of the situation. Arec’s reply arrived after six days, and to Urss’ relief he raised no objections. His sole interest was in securing the alliance, and the fact that his daughter’s wedding would be a low-key and hasty affair didn’t concern him. If Pola was disappointed, she would simply have to live with it.

  The logistics of organizing two major celebrations in such a short space of time were a nightmare to contemplate, but with the resources of Grand Mother Beck and her Sisters at his disposal, Father Urss believed they would cope. He explained the situation to the Imperator and Prince Kodor at a private meeting in the palace, adding his assurances that, with the God’s blessing, all would go smoothly enough. Arctor nodded and sighed and said, yes, if that was what Duke Arec wanted, he would raise no objections. Let him be told what he must do and when, and he would play his expected part and be thankful when the whole thing was over. Kodor said nothing at all in his father’s presence. He had not been asked for his reaction to the news, nor for his opinion of the hastily revised plans. But when Urss rose, bowed to the Imperator and made to withdraw, the prince asked if he, too, might be excused. Arctor acquiesced with a gesture and a vague, weary smile, and Kodor followed Urss out of the room. When the door had closed behind them, cutting them off from earshot of anyone, the prince said,

  “Father Urss. A moment of your time, if you please.”

  Urss paused. Though their encounters were always punctiliously polite, he and Kodor did not like each other. Their views often conflicted, and in Kodor’s case the conflicts were openly expressed. Urss was not used to being argued with and took a dim view of anyone who tried. The Imperator did not try; he knew the proper way of things and had almost always been willing to defer to his advisors. Unfortunately, he had failed to instill the lesson into his younger son.

  Urss made a slight, wary bow and said, “Of course, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”

  In the low light of the corridor Kodor’s grey eyes looked like flint. “Just one question, Father. Has my brother been told about this?”

  Urss had not expected quite such a direct approach, but he did not let his momentary discomfiture show. “No, Your Grace, he has not,” he replied smoothly. “Naturally, until the Imperator himself had been informed—”

  “Of course. However, I wasn’t referring to the new change of plan. I meant, has Prince Osiv been told that he is to marry?”

  Father Urss’ eyebrows lifted with an eloquence that was an answer in itself, and Kodor smiled coldly.

  “I see. So amid all this hectic efficiency, no one has considered that it might be worth informing Osiv of the changes that are about to take place in his life.”

  Urss sighed. “Your Grace, I trust you’ll forgive my bluntness, but to inform Prince Osiv of anything outside the scope of his own simple concerns is…well, to put it delicately, it is a little challenging. His affliction—”

  He was interrupted. “Father Urss, I’m probably more familiar with Osiv’s affliction than anyone else at court, so I’m well aware of his limitations—and his capabilities. If matters are explained to him carefully and patiently, I’m quite sure that he’ll be able to grasp the basics. At the very least, it seems only the merest courtesy to try.”

  Urss was too skilled a politician to allow his irritation to show, and he made an acquiescent gesture. “Naturally, Your Grace, if that’s what you wish, it shall be done.”

  Kodor nodded. “Thank you. But I merely wanted an answer to my question. Now that I have it, I’ll tell Osiv myself.” He paused. “And what of his bride, Father? I know nothing whatever about the chosen girl. What should I tell my brother about her?”

  Urss’ irritation evaporated as, belatedly, he saw the nature of the game. This concern for Prince Osiv was a charade to disguise Kodor’s own curiosity. Pride prevented him from asking openly and directly about Nanta EsDorikye, but he wanted to know, so he was using Osiv as an excuse. The ploy appealed to what passed, in Urss, for a sense of humor, and his face relaxed into an expression that was almost benevolent.

  “Naturally, Your Grace, I’ll be pleased to tell you anything I can. Prince Osiv’s bride is of the northeastern house of the EsDorikye family. Her sire and grandsire—”

  “Yes, yes; I don’t doubt her pedigree’s impeccable, but that won’t interest Osiv,” Kodor said impatiently. “What does she look like? What is her character?”

  Urss suppressed a smile. “She is twenty years old, slight and fair-haired. I think anyone would judge her comely. Her character is pleasant-natured, modest and docile, and her Academy tutors speak well of her. I can’t imagine that Prince Osiv will take exception to her.”

  “I see. But will she take exception to him, I wonder?” Kodor’s look had hardened, and Urss saw a new and shrewd glint in his eyes. There was something more to this, he thought suddenly; something beyond ordinary curiosity. He looked quickly for a way to probe further, but before he could hone his thoughts Kodor added, “She hasn’t been told, has she? She still believes that Osiv is…normal.”

  Ah, Urss thought, we begin to move towards the nub of it. Aloud, he replied, “That’s so, Your Grace. Under the circumstances—”

  “Quite. We agree on that, at least. So she has no reason to doubt that one day, in the fullness of time, she will be Imperatrix in her own right. Which we, and certain others in my father’s court, know can never happen in any real sense.”

  Father Urss’ face was very still. For several seconds he was silent, then, quietly, he said:

  “Yes, Prince Kodor.”

  “What will become of her then?”

  Urss saw the light. Kodor wasn’t thinking of Osiv. He was considering the implications of his own future. On the brink of marriage to Duke Arec’s daughter, Kodor was in an unusual and, from his viewpoint, potentially disadvantageous position. As a wife the Marchioness Pola might theoretically be her husband’s inferior; in reality, though, she was anything but. One day she would be the rightful ruler of Sekol. Whereas Kodor was set to inherit only the position and title of Regent of Vyskir.

  Unless, of course, some misfortune should befall his brother. Urss had taken stringent precautions to ensure that no one outside a small, trusted cabal suspected the existence of a second and deeper dimension to the bargain made with Duke Arec. If the Imperator were ever to find out the truth, Urss and his abette
rs would die for their pains; and until this moment Urss had assumed, for safety’s sake if nothing else, that Kodor would share his father’s attitude. Now, though, it occurred to him that Kodor might view things in a different light. The Prince was an intelligent and energetic young man, with a sound grasp of politics, and a talent—when he chose to use it—for diplomacy. Though he would fulfill the Regent’s task well, he was very likely to find the role frustrating. A Regent was, to coin a phrase, neither fish nor fowl; he had the responsibilities of a ruler, but not the true power and certainly not the popular admiration or respect. It might well seem to Kodor that the reward for his personal sacrifice in marrying Pola of Sekol was not entirely adequate.

  Urss’ thoughts took form in a moment and were slotted away in his mind as quickly, and with an unchanged expression he answered Kodor’s last question.

  “I don’t think we need anticipate any real difficulties, Your Grace. Prince Osiv—in the fullness of time, as you say—will be Imperator at least in name, and I don’t think his bride is ambitious. Even if she were, she is a woman, and whatever her status in Sekol, women cannot rule in Vyskir. Whatever her disappointment, it will make no difference to her position.” He smiled. “Or to yours.”

  The last words were bland but deliberate, a morsel of bait to test the water and see if the fish showed any inclination to nibble. Urss was far too skilled and shrewd a negotiator in the maze of court politics to take risks, and at this stage he had no intention of offering any further hints. The next move, if any, was Kodor’s to make.

  Kodor, too, was shrewd enough not to react. Urss expected that and was content with it. The seed had been sown; for now, that was all he required. If nothing came of it, nothing would be lost. But if it did germinate and produce fruit, one major snag in solving the problem of Prince Osiv would be removed. For while Kodor’s opposition to the long-term plan was a dangerous factor, Kodor’s support would be a positive asset. In fact, Urss reflected, Kodor could be the ultimate asset, for his co-operation was a sure route to success.

  Still smiling, he said, “I hope I’ve been able to put your mind at rest, Your Grace. If you have any further questions that I can answer—”

  For once Kodor’s habit of interrupting him did not grate. “No, Father, thank you. For now, you’ve told me all I need to know.” He nodded once, briskly; a sign that the conversation was over. “I’ll speak to Osiv. And I shall also say a prayer for Nanta EsDorikye. Good day to you.”

  He walked away, leaving Urss wondering just what his last remark implied.

  ****

  Prince Osiv’s personal apartments were in a secluded part of the palace, well away from the hub of court activity. Entering this private area was a little like stepping out of the real world and into an extraordinary and slightly disturbing fantasy. Here were bright, patterned carpets, simplistically colorful pictures instead of fine art in oil or charcoal, jeweled mobiles turning and shimmering in every window embrasure. No gold-and-grey-liveried footmen; instead, aproned nursemaids bustled and skimmed on softly shod feet, their smiles as bland as their surroundings were gaudy. The sour note in the studied banality—and it was sour indeed—was the understated but unequivocal presence of two burly male servants, both without a tongue in his head, housed in cramped cells at a discreet but pragmatically convenient distance from the prince’s bedroom. Just in case of need.

  Kodor did not glance at the mutes” cells as he passed them, nor at any of the rustling women who moved like wraiths through Osiv’s microcosm of a world. The last corridor before the main apartments was deserted; relieved at the sudden lack of surveillance, and allowing himself to relax, he headed for his brother’s rooms.

  Then abruptly paused mid-stride, as something anomalous shifted at the far end of the passage.

  Instinct made Kodor move back against the wall, setting one of the pictures askew. The anomaly shifted again. For one moment his vision seemed to slip out of focus, so that he was seeing the thing not only with physical senses but also with another, subtler perception; and in that moment he almost—almost, but not quite—had its measure.

  A face. Human yet not human; too delicate and knowing and primordial to be mistaken, by a wise mind, for anything mortal. Its bones were too thin, its skin too fluid, its hues too close to the edge of the visible spectrum for it to be real. Yet it existed. It looked at him. It smiled a smile that could have been interpreted as mocking or conspiratorial. Then the face and the small, wiry body beneath it twisted and inverted, and the apparition was gone. In the space where it had been, a glittering movement as of snowflakes falling against moonlight showed briefly before it, too, ceased to exist.

  Kodor felt a cold flush of perspiration breaking out on his skull and down his spine, coalescing unpleasantly at a point on the small of his back. A frost sprite, one of the strange, elusive servants .of the Lady, who according to catechism existed and moved in the mortal world at her bidding. Bearers of her word, harbingers of her will…Only those with psychic sensitivity saw them. Kodor knew he had such sensitivity, but even so nearly a year had passed since he had seen such a manifestation; and the last occasion had been a far lesser thing, more like a waking dream than a genuine experience. But this was not imagination.

  He had to force himself to walk on along the passage. He did not want to pass through the space where the sprite had materialized; in dreams he had done that, and by the time he realized the nature of his mistake the icy hands were reaching out for him and it was far, far too late to repent his foolishness. But dreams were only dreams. This was reality.

  Kodor made his legs move. As he neared the spot there was a palpable drop in the air temperature, and a moist, chill sensation prickled his skin where his clothing did not cover it. Another step and he trod precisely on the spot—his mind was of the turn to note such things very accurately—and paused, waiting for the shift in his thoughts, the change of feeling and instinct that he knew would come. These beings never appeared to anyone without good reason. There would be a message in the form of a psychic mark on his emotions.

  It did come, and it was anger. The Lady, angry? On a detached level Kodor was surprised and puzzled, but the surprise was quickly blotted out by the greater part of his consciousness, which absorbed the sensation and reacted accordingly. There was suddenly a hot, bitter taste in his mouth, and with it came a surge of a dark, primitive desire to lash out, hurt, avenge

  He caught his foot in a ruck in the carpet, and stumbled forward out of the sphere of influence. The fury vanished like a snuffed candle flame, and Kodor was left only with the memory of it, acrid, but without power.

  Righting his balance, he looked back at the patch of carpet, then at the empty stillness where the sprite had materialized. Anger. It didn’t make sense. Yes, he had been feeling a form of anger towards Father Urss; but that was a minor, contemptuous thing, born of mere dislike and hardly worthy of the term. The message the sprite delivered went far deeper. Something was in the wind. Something that would touch him or one close to him. And this was an initial warning.

  He walked on to his brother’s suite of rooms. The outer door shone with care and polishing but bore no imperial crest or any other ornamentation to hint at its occupant’s rank. Kodor knocked. One always did; it was the protocol. A little time passed, then the door was opened by a nurse.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” The woman curtseyed, and Kodor acknowledged the gesture with a nod.

  “Good evening, Dorca. How is the Prince Imperial today?”

  “His Highness is well as usual, sir.”

  “Will he take amicably to a visitor?”

  Dorca had been in imperial service since she was six years old and attendant to Prince Osiv from the day of his birth. She smiled. “Of course, Your Grace. He is always pleased to see you.”

  The slight emphasis wasn’t lost on Kodor. He returned Dorca’s smile with just the faintest of edges, and allowed her to lead the way through several more rooms to the prince’s personal.


  chamber. This door had a brightly colored mural painted on it, depicting a garden full of flowers. It was closed, and noises came from beyond; a banging and jingling that was almost, but not quite, rhythmic. Every few seconds the sounds would stop, then there would be a brief silence, as though someone was thinking hard, before the whole thing began again at a different tempo.

  Knocking was not the protocol now. Dorca merely moved a simple but effective catch, and opened the door. The banging-jingling ceased instantly, and a voice said loudly,

  “No! Wrong!” The words were followed by a peculiar, hiccupping laugh, like water draining down a conduit, and in the room’s lamplight a younger woman, hair disheveled and a wide apron over her dress, straightened as the visitors entered. She was holding a tamborine; seeing Kodor, she bobbed to him, then hesitated, unsure of what was expected of her.

  Kodor nodded as he had done to Dorca and said, “You may go.”

  The woman scurried out. Something clattered raucously, its source hidden by the bulk of the door, and the strange laugh was uttered again.

  Kodor stepped into the room. He looked, smiled, and said: “Hello, Osiv. What game would you like to play tonight?”

  ****

  This, then, was the beginning of it. The quiet procession that made its way into the Sanctum chapel an hour after the Sunset Devotional had chimed comprized eight women, all dressed in blue to honor the Lady and all veiled. Grand Mother Beck led them, her hands clasped piously before her and her eyes under the layer of gauze taking in detail and missing nothing. Behind her, Nanta was flanked by the two women who would be her handmaidens at the marriage ceremony. She knew neither of them and had had no say in the choice; these were grace and favor appointments in which friendship had no place.

  Nanta’s mother followed, with Sister Marine at her side. The weather had taken a turn for the worse in the past three days and the EsDorikye party had only arrived in the Metropolis that morning after a slow and thoroughly unpleasant journey. Karetta EsDorikye looked, and was, tired; but her place tonight was at her daughter’s side, and even if she could have excused herself (which was out of the question) she would not have been willing to do so. It was little enough, she reflected, considering the fact that she and Nanta’s father had been informed barely an hour ago that their place in tomorrow’s proceedings was not to be quite what they had expected. They would of course attend the ceremony in the temple, and the celebrations and court banquet that followed. But despite the fact that they were the Bride’s parents, they were to be relegated to the second stratum of guests who, however noble, were not exalted enough to be included in the imperial party. No explanation had been given, and though she dared not show it, Karetta was very put out.