Our Lady of the Snow

by Louise Cooper

  Nor had she been permitted so much as a moment alone with Nanta. She had asked, of course; any mother would ask. But her request had been firmly if politely refused.

  She glanced sidelong at Sister Marine. Impossible to see her expression behind the veil, but Karetta had thought earlier that Marine looked ill at ease. Possibly it was no more than natural discomfiture at being thrown headlong into court life; Marine was a woman of Spartan tastes and attitudes and would not have found it easy to adapt. But Karetta was no fool. Something was awry; something that Marine knew about but she herself did not. She would give a very great deal to find out what it was.

  She asked herself, not for the first time, what had prompted the Exalted Council to choose Nanta for this extraordinary honor above all the other possible eligible young women in the Metropolis. The house of EsDorikye was an old and noble one, but not prominent; indeed, as far as court circles were concerned it was relatively obscure. Yet Nanta had taken the Council’s eye. What especial quality had they seen in her? Karetta wondered. She had always been a strange girl; withdrawn and private and far from easy to understand. As a small child she had been prone to dreams and fancies that were quite beyond Karetta’s comprehension. She had grown out of them, or appeared to, and for a while mother and daughter had been relatively close. But since Nanta entered the Academy they had had little contact, and now she was a virtual stranger. The thought that the dry, detached priests and officials of the court knew her own daughter better than she did discomforted Karetta. But perhaps it was only to be expected; perhaps, even, it was a kind of poetic justice. Because—

  No. She thrust the unwonted thought down, aware of a momentary pang of something close to panic. She and her husband had kept that particular secret under lock and key for nearly twenty years; now, of all times, it would be unwise in the extreme to resurrect it. Nanta had been granted a great honor, and one which reflected on her family. They could only trust to the will of the God and the Lady, as they had done before, and give thanks for their good fortune.

  They were all inside the chapel now, and the last two women in the group, Nanta’s personal servants, closed the door. The chapel’s quiet, slightly chilly atmosphere wrapped around them and the outside world became meaningless. Everything was white and blue and silver here: the tiled floor, the hangings and adornments, the marble carvings, the cushions set ready for worshippers to kneel and pray or sit and contemplate. There were no windows and only the one door. But light shone from the center of the circular chamber, where the shrine itself rose in carved marble elegance from floor to ceiling. The shrine was simple; a statue of the Lady, twice human size, with face veiled to symbolize her mystery and hands outstretched in supplication to symbolize her role as intercessor between the God, her lord and consort, and his mortal subjects. There were vases and urns at her feet, and even at this time of year someone had managed to half-fill one with flowers. Mother Beck could not imagine who might have done such a thing, and suspected Nanta, with Marine’s connivance. She herself could not remember when she had last set flowers in any shrine. But then Marine did not yet know what she knew. Marine might suspect; indeed, Beck was fairly certain that she did; but she did not yet know and, being Marine, would not under any circumstances ask of her own accord.

  Which was, Beck thought, something that might need to be rectified in the very near future.

  Beck returned her thoughts to the moment as she realized that the others in the party were waiting to take their cue from her. She moved to stand before the shrine, bowed her head and said with dignity, “The tears of the Lady are the blessing of the snow.”

  “The tears of the Lady are the blessing of the snow.” They repeated the words dutifully, Marine’s voice rising a little more loudly than the rest. Beginning with Beck, each woman in turn then stepped forward, lit a candle from the eternally burning devotional lamp set at the statue’s feet, and placed the candles in the row of holders on the shrine floor. There were to be no group prayers. On occasions like these devotions were personal and silent, and with relief Beck stepped back from the shrine and moved to one of the high-backed chairs set by the wall. Sitting, she made a show of bending her head in private contemplation, while her ever-vigilant eyes kept watch.

  As Beck withdrew, Nanta came forward and knelt before the shrine. She was aware of Marine and her mother doing likewise, Karetta with a faint grimace as four days” jolting in a carriage took its toll of her muscles, but she did not look directly at them, only concentrated on the figure of the Lady before her.

  So, then. Her final few hours before the die was cast for ever, Tonight she entered her vigil as Bride-Prospective; tomorrow she would go to the sacred altar and become Bride Imperial. And tomorrow night…

  She knew in outline if not in detail what must take place tomorrow night. No one had instructed her as to the central duty of a newly married woman, but one of her servants had a lively tongue and had taken little persuading to tell her mistress what she thought her mistress should know. It had small meaning to Nanta. She dreaded it, just a little, but she was not afraid. The servant had said it could be very pleasant, if the man was kind. Was Prince Osiv kind? A day from now, she would find out.

  Bride Imperial. The prospect had become almost a commonplace, and it was hard to believe how little time had passed since she had been taken without explanation from the Academy and slotted into a completely new life. So much had happened, so many impressions, demands, obligations, that she had had no chance at all to stop, catch her breath and think. She was a cog in a wheel that turned faster and more urgently with every passing hour, and now the wheel had spun up to full speed and the journey was almost complete. A miracle that all was ready, but ready it was. The gown, the headdress, the shoes. The words she must say, the movements she must make. The public appearance. The banquet. What to eat and when, what to drink and when, whom to speak to and whom to acknowledge only with a nod or smile. Rank, precedence, propriety, etiquette. And titles. The Imperator would be “Sire” or “Majesty”, now and always. Kodor, the younger prince, must be addressed after the ceremony as “brother”, while his bride-to-be (Nanta did not understand why that second wedding was to take place so hard on the heels of her own, and no one seemed able or willing to explain to her) was “cousin” before her nuptials and “sister” thereafter, when the title of “cousin” would fall to her father, Duke Arec. So much to learn, so hard to remember each tiny but crucial detail. Marine had been a tower of strength in her austere way; indeed, without such austerity, like a rock in a stormy sea, Nanta believed that she would have been unable to bear the strain.

  But for all her virtues, on a personal level Marine was not easily approachable. And Nanta desperately wanted someone to talk to.

  She raised her head a little and looked surreptitiously at her mother, who was just visible beyond Marine’s upright figure. She had barely had a chance to greet her parents, and then only with servants and a court official in attendance, before they were whisked away in opposite directions; they to be shown to their suite, she to undergo last-minute instruction from a High Father on the purpose of tonight’s vigil. Nanta knew the purpose: to prepare her heart and soul for the solemnity of the marriage vows, and to pray earnestly to the Lady to make her worthy of her new role. Every bride and groom in Vyskir held vigil on the night before their wedding, and she knew the form by heart. She wanted to pray. She wanted it so much that something inside her ached with the pain of it. But the comfort the Lady might bring her was not the same as her flesh and blood mother’s comfort.

  Besides, the Lady never answered her.

  It seemed that Karetta intuitively sensed her daughter’s turmoil, for she looked up at that moment and Nanta saw the gleam of her eyes behind the veil. Then, smoothly, Karetta rose to her feet. Skirting Marine, who appeared to be lost in her own prayers, she moved quietly towards Nanta.

  “Ah, Karetta.” A shadow in the candlelight and Beck was there, interposing her bulk like a cloud over the s
un. She smiled a precise little smile that barely disturbed the jowls of her face. “I may take the liberty, I trust, of addressing you by your Godname?”

  Confounded, Karetta flinched slightly. “Of course, Grand Mother.”

  “Good; good. I see you have completed your devotions, and as Nanta and Sister Marine are still engrossed, this might be a timely moment for us to discuss a few last-minute matters.” She gestured towards the chair she had occupied. “Shall we…?”

  Karetta was a strong-minded woman, but few people had the courage to defy Mother Beck. Nanta watched them walk away. She was saddened and disappointed, but the feelings were dulled, as if she was separated from them by a glass wall. The low murmur of Beck’s voice reached her. Her mother’s higher tone, replying. Then Beck’s rich, throaty laugh, muted for propriety, that always sounded warm and kindly and in truth was anything but.

  Marine sighed softly. It was only a reflex; the Sister was unaware of what had just taken place. Her eyes were closed, her mouth moved silently. Nanta felt a pricking in her own throat, the herald of tears, and fought the sensation back. No crying. She had nothing to cry about. She was tired, that was all.

  She bowed her head, clasped her hands, and began to whisper, over and over again:

  “Lady, help me…Lady, help me…Lady, help me…”

  ****

  Beck, Marine and Karetta left the chapel an hour later. Beck saw no point whatever in staying; the formalities had been adhered to and there was no rule, written or unwritten, that obliged the entire party to undergo the vigil’s full tedium and discomfort. The Bride would remain, and she had her handmaidens and two attendants to supervise her. That was quite sufficient.

  Marine and Karetta did want to stay, but Beck would have none of it. Marine had already earned a debit mark for her lack of vigilance that had almost allowed Karetta a private word with Nanta, and Beck wanted them both out of harm’s way. So Marine obeyed a direct order, Karetta was easy to intimidate, and they left the chapel in Beck’s wake like chicks following a daunting mother hen.

  They progressed in silence up the spiral stairs to the Sanctum’s main entrance hall. Under the glow of a huge chandelier that hung on chains from the vaulted ceiling, Beck stopped and turned to Karetta.

  “Will you take some refreshment in my study, Karetta? I believe Exalted Father Urss will be there shortly, and I’m sure he is eager to meet you.”

  Karetta returned her gaze uneasily for a moment before looking down at the floor. “Thank you, Grand Mother, but if you will forgive me, I—I am rather tired. The journey was distressing, and tomorrow—”

  “Is but a few hours away. Of course, my dear; I quite understand.” The mention of Father Urss had had precisely the effect Beck had intended. “Your suite is in the palace’s outer court, I believe? I don’t suppose you know the way, so you shall have an escort.” She snapped her fingers and a blue-robed Low Sister came hurrying towards them. “Good night, my dear. My regards to your husband.”

  Karetta was led away. As she disappeared, Marine said, “Grand Mother, I—”

  “Marine.” Beck cut across her, at the same time turning to give her a basilisk look. “You were lax in the chapel. Did I not give you explicit instructions that Nanta and her mother are to have no private discussions?”

  Marine flushed. “You did, Grand Mother; but—” .

  “But is not a word I like to hear as an excuse, Marine,” Beck said relentlessly. “Fortunately, I was able to intervene in time. And, I might add, able to invent enough trivial small-talk to divert the woman away from what might otherwise have become a trying situation.”

  Marine looked penitent. “I’m sorry, Grand Mother.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now,” dismissing the subject, Beck started to walk towards the main staircase, “we all have a long day ahead of us tomorrow and an early night would be in order.” She looked back, saw that Marine was still standing uncertainly under the chandelier, and paused. “Was there something else?”

  Prudence urged Marine to say no, and forget the thoughts in her mind, but other words were on her tongue before she could stop herself.

  “Grand Mother…” You’ve gone too far now, Marine. Say it. You must. “Grand Mother, don’t you think that Nanta should be prepared for what she will discover tomorrow?”

  Beck stood very still. “Prepared?” she repeated softly.

  Marine twisted her hands together. She owed Nanta this, she told herself. Nanta, and her own conscience.

  “Yes.” Her voice was small but, to her own surprise, firm. “She has not seen Prince Osiv. She has no idea that he… is as he is. Yet tomorrow she must become his wife. It seems wrong.”

  Very slowly Beck walked back towards her, and stopped when they were only a pace apart. “And if the child did know the truth,” she said softly, “what difference do you think it could possibly make?”

  Marine was not prepared for that answer, and her face tightened. “I didn’t mean that it—that she—” she floundered.

  “That she would refuse him, is that what you’re saying? Of course you didn’t mean that. You know as well as I do that such a thing would not be permitted. So I ask again: what difference would it make?”

  Marine knew her argument was lost, and the look in her eyes told Beck so. “I only thought,” she said quietly, almost pleading, “that to lessen the shock would be a kindness. As things are—”

  “As things are, she has been thoroughly and intensively schooled to ensure that whatever shock she feels won’t disrupt the smooth progress of the ceremony and all that follows,” Beck finished for her. “She is a tractable and obedient child, Marine, which is the main reason why she was chosen. She will cope.”

  “Yes, Grand Mother, I believe she will,” Marine said. “But she is frightened.”

  “Natural enough. All brides are nervous on their wedding eve.”

  Marine shook her head. “I don’t mean nervous, Mother, I mean she is truly frightened. Tonight, in the chapel—did you not see how fervently she prayed to the Lady?”

  “You’ve already told me she is devout.”

  “Yes, yes she is; but…this is something more than devotion. I’ve observed her before. She prays with a kind of desperation, that runs far deeper than mere worship. I can’t shake off the feeling…” Marine paused and looked at her superior, wondering whether what she was about to say would be derided as nonsense. To her surprise, Beck was staring at her very intently.

  Beck said: “Go on.”

  Swim or drown, Marine thought. “Very well, Grand Mother. I can’t shake off the feeling that Nanta is beseeching the Lady to help her in some way. And that the Lady does not answer.”

  Beck was silent for so long that Marine felt she had to fill the void by saying something more. “You see, Grand Mother, it occurred to me…If the Lady does not answer Nanta’s prayers, there must surely be a reason. And if that reason should have some bearing on—on—” The rest of the sentence failed her and she stared down at her own feet.

  Still Beck did not speak. The refectory hour had just ended and the entrance hall was becoming busy with a traffic of blue-robed women hastening to their next duties or, if no duties awaited, to the recreation rooms. Curious eyes looked at the still tableau of Beck and Marine, and though none of the women would dream of approaching them, Beck suddenly did not wish to be in the public eye.

  “Come to my study,” she said abruptly. “I have something to say to you.”

  Neither uttered another word as they made their way along the blue-carpeted corridors to Beck’s private room. A cold, leaden knot of disquiet was sitting in Marine’s stomach, while Beck had made a blunt decision and wanted the necessities of it over and done with. Marine suspected enough to be told the rest. Her last, half-formed question had given her away, and whatever Father Urss thought, Beck believed she could be trusted. So, then: let Marine have the secret, and have joy of it. She would never divulge it to another living soul. She would never, ever dare.

/>   Beck’s chatelaine was in the study, tidying papers and making up the fire. Beck sent her away with a word so sharp that the woman flinched, and signed to Marine to sit down. Then she lowered herself heavily into the chair behind her desk, and folded her hands on the desk top.

  “What I have to say can be kept brief, and I think we would both prefer it that way. “Nanta is beseeching the Lady to help her, and the Lady does not answer.” Your own words, Marine. And you are perfectly correct.”

  She could see the tension spreading from Marine’s face through her shoulders and arms and into her entire body. The woman radiated it, like a flame emitting heat. As well she might. Unclasping her hands, Beck poured herself a glass of wine from a flagon on the desk. She fumbled a little, which angered her. Then she took a sip from the glass and her body and mind were under control again.

  “You know your catechisms as well as any Sister and better than most,” she went on. “They tell us that the Lady in her mercy answers the petitions of those who come to her in the proper way and at the proper times. And we know this to be true. We have seen incontrovertible proof of the Lady’s answers on many occasions. She sends miracles. She sends her servants, the frost sprites, to appear to her petitioners and guide them. To a fortunate few, she even manifests personally, in visions and revelations.” She paused. “You yourself came to the religious life as the result of such a vision, isn’t that so?”