Turning his head fractionally towards Father Urss, he was relieved when the priest caught his eye and gave the smallest of nods. Urss comprehended. He would bring the ceremony to a close as fast as was diplomatically possible—Osiv’s replies to most of his prompts had been nonsensical anyway, so the look of the thing was all. that mattered. Then there would only be the hurdle of the procession through the city to overcome. Osiv was likely to enjoy that, though he would see little enough through the coach’s screened windows.
The Bride, though…
Well, Kodor thought, at least that part could be over and done with before they reached the palace. The girl would have time to get over the shock and compose herself again. She had done well so far; she was unlikely to cause trouble now, and the rewards of her new position would compensate for the failings. Kodor would do what he could in the short time he had before his own marriage, and if Nanta was then left to sink or swim, she was probably intelligent enough to swim.
He would meet his own bride soon. In a faintly indolent way, he was looking forward to that. Certainly he was curious to see if the reality of Marchioness Pola matched up to the legend. He didn’t like Duke Arec, but then he had not expected to. Though an improvement on his ambassador, the man was still vulgar almost to the point of boorishness. He boasted about the value of his possessions as though that were some proof of nobility, and his daughter was blatantly included in the list. Still, he would be gone back to his own domain soon, and Vyskir would be secure. If it all came down to prices, Kodor reflected, he could have made a far worse bargain.
He realized how far his mind had wandered when the sudden resurgence of the choir made him start. They were singing the Valediction—Urss must have cut the ceremony short by a good half-hour. Grudgingly acknowledging that the man had truly excelled himself this time, Kodor risked a quick, raking glance over the congregation. No one seemed to realize that anything was awry. Like him, they were probably just thankful that the tedious part was over and the secular celebration could begin.
Osiv said, loudly, something childish about his bladder, but his complaint was providentially eclipsed by a sudden crescendo from the choir. The attendants were flowing forward, preparing to lift the thrones and carry them down the long aisle to the temple’s vast main entrance. Pulling his mind away from diversions, Kodor took his own place next to Arec as the cumbersome process of turning began again. The congregation was on its feet, a sea of faces in the flaring light, and the mingled sounds of the choir and the bells swelled like a tide. There had been no sign, no omen from the God or the Lady, Kodor reflected. Probably just as well; anything the God might have to impart about this particular pairing might be better left unrevealed.
Father Urss was leading the exodus from the altar; grunting and straining, the throne-bearers lifted their burdens and followed, and the attendants fell into step behind as the nuptial procession began its slow, solemn way down the aisle.
****
The coach had been prudently designed to travel on wheels or runners, depending on the weather. Winter had not yet advanced enough to make runners necessary, but two hours ago it had begun to snow again and now the white flakes were falling thickly. The eight caparisoned horses, four chestnut and four dapple-grey, stamped restlessly in the shafts, disliking the tickling wetness of the snowfall, but nothing touched Nanta and Osiv as, in a private courtyard, their headdresses were removed and they were helped out of their thrones and into the coach’s plush seats.
The coach interior was gloomy and Nanta was still veiled, so even now she could see little of her husband. He was well-made, she could tell that much; sturdy but slim, with a fresh and youthful air about him. His face, though, was still hidden from her. On entering the coach he hadn’t spoken to her, or indeed seemed the least interested in her; instead, he had turned his attention immediately to the window, rubbing away condensation with a gloved fist and peering out with the air of an eager puppy. Nanta watched his back uncertainly. Should she say something, try to breach the barrier? She had received no instruction about that, and was still debating with herself when, to her surprise, Prince Kodor climbed into the coach. He was holding something in his hand; he glanced at her, his features vague and his expression invisible thanks to the gloom and her veil, then took a seat opposite his brother. The door closed; the coach lurched on its springs and began to move.
Osiv turned round at last and Nanta saw his face for the first time. He was handsome—good bones, a wide, generous mouth, clear blue-grey eyes with a lot of humor in them—and she felt a tingle of relief mixed with sudden hope. But there was one anomaly. His skin was extraordinarily, almost bizarrely smooth. Like a small child’s, without a single line of care or experience.
Then, like a child, Osiv thumped both clenched fists down on his own knees and declared in an extraordinary, high-pitched voice, “Want some cake!”
Nanta started, then froze. Kodor was looking at her again; after a moment he broke the contact and held out the thing he had been carrying.
“Here, brother. Sweetmeats.”
“Cake!” Osiv repeated mulishly. “You promised!”
“I know, and as soon as we’re back in the palace you shall have as much cake as you like. But you must be good until then. You remember that, don’t you?”
Nanta stared in horror as the truth began to dawn. She couldn’t move, couldn’t outwardly react in any way; the noises of clattering hooves, clanging bells and, distant but growing closer, the cheering of the vast crowds lining the processional way through the Metropolis seemed to fill not only her head but her body and mind until she thought she would burst apart with the pressure.
Osiv snatched a sweetmeat and crammed it into his mouth. He chewed it, made a satisfied noise and demanded another. Kodor gave it to him, all the while watching Nanta clandestinely. Then, lowering his voice as far as was possible in the general background clamor, he said, “They didn’t tell you, did they?”
Nanta tried to reply, but all that came out was a feeble, throaty whimper. They were out of the courtyard, rocking and swaying towards the temple’s outer precincts, and there was enough light now for her to see Kodor’s young, slightly harsh features, and the strain in them.
“No,” he went on. “I see they didn’t…He’s harmless. Very gentle, in fact, if you learn how to handle him. You can make him like you, if you’re patient and kind.”
Still Nanta couldn’t answer. Kodor spoke again. “I can’t see your face, sister, but it doesn’t take genius to imagine your expression, and I’ve no doubt that you’re grateful for a veil to hide it. I must ask one thing of you. Show nothing; above all, show nothing to my father, the Imperator. He’s ailing, and it would not be good for his health to have any…distress attached to this occasion. What must be must be, and we all have our appointed roles to play. Play yours. Do I have your word on that?”
His words, and the fact that he had probably prepared and rehearsed them, passed Nanta without truly registering, but for one thing. He had called her “sister”. Illogically, it made her feel that in this sudden and grotesquely unexpected twist of events he was prepared to be her ally.
At last she was able to force a single coherent word out between her colorless lips. It was a surrender, an admission of total and hopeless defeat. But it was all she had.
She whispered, “Yes…”
Chapter Six
They had married her to an idiot. A man with the mind of a five-year-old child, who would never grow up but would exist in his own infantile world, unfit to rule, unfit to have a wife, unfit for anything but to be protected and cared for to the end of his days. The knowledge pounded in Nanta’s head like a litany, a cruel lyric accompanying the melodies of the orchestra players who filled the palace’s vast ballroom with their music, entertaining the wedding guests. No matter if Osiv was kind. No matter if Osiv was handsome. He was an idiot.
The Imperator’s immediate party was secluded in a smaller gallery above the ballroom, aloof from
the livelier celebration beyond yet another filigree screen. The ordeal of being presented to Arctor on their return to the palace had been a small one. Lifting back her veil as she had been told, Nanta had been confronted by a tired, slightly bemused man with kindly eyes, who spoke a few vague words of welcome to her before patting her hand and nodding his permission for her to move on. She had had no further contact with the Imperator, despite the fact that they now sat side by side on gilded chairs while the rest of the gathering moved around them like quiet satellites.
There were no more than twenty people here, few of whom Nanta recognized. Father Urss was in conversation with Duke Arec, while Prince Kodor seemed more interested in the selection of wines than in anything else. To Nanta’s great surprise Sister Marine was present, in attendance on Mother Beck and looking extremely uncomfortable and out of her depth in formal court clothes. Nanta had tried desperately to catch her eye, but Marine seemed unwilling or afraid to respond, and Nanta dared not move from her place to speak to her, or to anyone else.
Prince Osiv was not in the gallery. For Nanta the progress through the Metropolis had passed in a daze of shock, as had the lengthy trial of the formal presentations at the palace. Nanta and Osiv, their headdresses restored, had been set like exhibits in the colossal grandeur of the entrance hall while a seemingly endless queue of nobles and dignitaries filed past at a discreet distance, each one bowing or curtseying and offering their felicitations. The distance, and Kodor’s close attention, had avoided any trouble with Osiv, but the whole thing had taken upwards of two hours and by the time it was over Nanta was reeling with strain and exhaustion. A drink proffered by one of her attendants had. restored her strength somewhat—the Lady alone knew what manner of drug was in it this time—but then, as the Imperator’s party prepared to retire to this gallery, Osiv had started to cry.
The memory of those few minutes still made Nanta shiver. Torn between pity, embarrassment, anger and disgust, she had pretended to notice nothing as Kodor and several servants made valiant attempts to pacify Osiv, and then, when that failed, hustled him away through a side door. She had stood rigid in the terrible gown, looking and feeling like a waxwork and politely ignored by everyone, until Kodor returned to announce blandly that Prince Osiv was tired and would rest in his rooms rather than join the festivities. Nanta felt ashamed of her own relief.
But now Osiv was gone and the proceedings in the gallery were a little less fraught as a result. None of the guests in the ballroom, of course, had the least idea of what had transpired. Nanta had a black desire to tell them; run to the screen, throw it back and scream down to them all that their Prince Imperial, her husband, was a helpless and hopeless imbecile without chance of redemption, and that they might as well abandon their revelry now, for there was nothing, nothing, nothing in the world to celebrate. The desire swelled and ebbed: each time it swelled she forced it back; each time it ebbed she blinked away the tears that started under her veil, and gazed at the floor until her composure returned.
Though Nanta thought herself isolated in the stiff formality of the gallery, several people were in fact watching her closely. Grand Mother Beck’s interest was no more than pragmatism laced with a little mild curiosity. Her task was to see that the Bride Imperial behaved as she should, and to dispatch Marine (who was here solely for that purpose) to deal with any unforeseen problems. Prince Kodor was also curious, but on a more personal level. He had gleaned some idea of the depth of Nanta’s misery and was surprised, for it implied that there was more to this girl than cynicism and experience had led him to expect. Title and position seemed to mean nothing to her; she was genuinely frightened and disillusioned, and rather to his own surprise Kodor felt sympathy in his heart.
And Pola, Marchioness of Sekol and heir of Duke Arec, stood with her chaperone and watched both Nanta and Kodor. A tall, slightly mannish figure in her stiff Sekolian court dress, Pola had not yet been presented to her husband-to-be; protocol demanded that they would not exchange their first words until the great banquet began at midnight. But what she had seen thus far, she liked. Kodor was not handsome in any classical sense, but his face was well-modeled and his looks and coloring attracted her and made a good match with her own black hair and olive complexion. Pola was aware that she was not a beauty; but she was not ugly either, and she dared to think that when her veil was finally put aside and Kodor saw her face, he would be content with it.
She turned her attention again to the Bride Imperial, lost and lonely on her magnificent chair. Pola had learned about Prince Osiv’s affliction when her own marriage contract was first being negotiated, but she gathered that Nanta EsDorikye had only discovered the truth once the marriage bond was sealed. Pola pitied her deeply. When she and Kodor were wed and Nanta was her new sister, it would be a kindness to try to make a friend of her.
Last of those watching the Bride Imperial was Father Urss. As far as anything ever truly pleased him, he was pleased with her conduct today. She had behaved impeccably, fully justifying Mother Beck’s forecasts, and though she now knew the truth abut Prince Osiv she showed no outward sign of anything amiss. The first test had had a more than satisfactory result. The second—well, that was a matter for Osiv rather than for her, and Urss was confident of the outcome. Later tonight they would know, and if all went according to plan then the girl could gradually be prepared for the third and most delicate stage. The ultimate stage. Duke Arec had dropped another of his unsubtle hints soon after their arrival in the gallery, and though he disliked the man and despised his lack of finesse, Urss knew how vital it was not to try his patience more than necessary. The girl would be compliant, he was sure of that now. When the time came, she would put no obstacles in his path.
Or, if she did, she would soon learn the folly of it.
****
A voice at Nanta’s elbow said, “Your Highness. It is time to take your leave.”
Nanta was not accustomed to her new title, and for a moment did not realize that the words were being addressed to her. When she did realize, she turned and saw Grand Mother Beck at her side, with Marine hovering a few paces away.
“The banquet will begin in less than an hour, and it takes time to seat all the guests,” Beck continued in an undertone. “The progress to the nuptial chamber will occupy several minutes, and—”
“The nuptial chamber?” The words were out before Nanta could stop them, in a sharp, hissing whisper that expressed a mixture of revulsion and disbelief. They could not think, surely they could not expect that she and Osiv would—
“Appearances must be maintained, Your Highness.” Beck’s expression was impassive, but her eyes looked like steel. Unseen by anyone else she slipped a hand under the drape of Nanta’s sleeve and took hold of her arm. In principle this was an unthinkable presumption now; in practice, Beck knew that Nanta had neither the courage nor the experience to object. She was right. Nanta allowed herself to be ushered from her chair and steered in a discreet semi-circle to approach the Imperator. Nanta curtseyed. Arctor nodded and smiled and made a limpid gesture that could have meant anything. By the door, Nanta saw now, her escort was gathering; men and women holding garlands of silk flowers and leaves. They would accompany her to the door of the nuptial chamber, they would festoon the garlands about her head and shoulders, and then she would go in to where the Bride Imperial’s appointed handmaidens would be waiting to prepare her for her marriage night.
Nanta almost wanted to laugh. But she did not. Instead she went with Beck, who was taking care to make it look as if Nanta and not she were leading, and took her place. All the company bowed or curtseyed to her; even Kodor. One last image of the scene was imprinted on Nanta’s mind as, below, the orchestra struck up another stately dance tune. Then she was moving like a sleepwalker (no, she told herself, no, don’t think of that) out of the gallery and away towards her new lodgings.
The apartments prepared for the Prince and Princess Imperial were in fact Osiv’s own rooms, hastily but thoroughly redecor
ated to accommodate the new scheme of things. The crude, gaudy pictures had been taken down, and Osiv’s toys now occupied only two rooms instead of being strewn liberally throughout the suite. Nanta had a bedroom, dressing room, bathing room and office of her own; the dressing room abutting Osiv’s bedchamber and connected to it by a gilded door.
The women who waited for her were both elderly. One was hatchet-faced and intimidating, the other powerfully built, kinder looking but silent. They removed her headdress, setting it carefully aside, and untied her hair from its dragging knots so that it fell about her shoulders once more. Then began the long process of disassembling the gown and all its fitments. The relief when the blocked shoes were finally unlaced and she was permitted to kick them away was like a physical shock. Nanta gasped from sheer thankfulness, then, testing her own authority, timidly asked for a glass of wine. It was brought instantly and without demur or disapproval, and a shred of confidence began to return to her. Prince Kodor had said that Osiv was kind; and in everything but years he was a child. She surely had nothing to fear from him? Indeed, he was probably asleep by now, and would remain so for the rest of the night. She could at least look forward to a few hours” rest, and tomorrow could be faced and coped with when it came.
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