Our Lady of the Snow

by Louise Cooper

  Nanta’s mouth pursed slightly. “I expect I am,” she said. It was simpler to agree with Dorca than to try to explain that she had no feelings one way or the other, and suddenly she very much wanted to change the subject.

  “How is Prince Osiv today?” Belatedly she remembered that she should now refer to Osiv as “the Imperator”, but Dorca did not draw attention to the lapse.

  “A little fretful, madam. He had bad dreams and they have upset him.”

  So I wasn’t the only one… “I suppose his succession was proclaimed this morning?”

  “It was, madam; after First Obligation.” Dorca smiled sympathetically. “Though I don’t think that was what caused the nightmares. He doesn’t really understand what has happened. “

  “No,” said Nanta, “he doesn’t, does he? He can’t. No, thank you, Tariya,” as one of the women advanced on her with a comb. “I don’t want my hair arranged today. I will wear it loose, with no hood.”

  “Oh, no, madam!” Dorca protested. “Pardon me, but the imperial dresser is coming to discuss your morning gowns, and after that you’re to receive condolences from the emissaries of

  the city Guilds and all the highest families. We must prepare you properly!”

  Nanta sighed, giving way, and Tariya began to comb out her hair as Dorca chattered on.

  “I know how tiring it must be for you, madam; but these are obligations that can’t be put off. Mind you, I’ve turned away your other visitors, and given word that you shan’t receive them today. I hope that was right?”

  “Other visitors?” Nanta repeated. “Who?”

  “Well, Prince Kodor called just before noon, and earlier Mother Marine—”

  “Marine came?” Nanta’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Dorca looked surprised and a little offended. “You were sleeping, madam! If I had known you wanted me to—”.

  “Yes.” Nanta could feel the tugging tightness of her hair being braided, and wished she could wrench her head out of Tariya’s reach. “Yes, I should have told you. I’m sorry, Dorca. You did the right thing, of course. Did Mother Marine leave any message?”

  “Only that she might ask an audience when Your Majesty should see fit.” There was a faintly waspish edge to Dorca’s tone now. Privately, she thought that Mother Marine presumed too much for her station. But the Imperatrix seemed oblivious to Marine’s faults, for she only nodded and said,

  “Send word that I’ll see her this evening, after Pr… the Imperator has his meal.”

  “But madam, that is when the emissaries are coming. And before the Imperator’s meal, you will be too busy with the dressmaker.”

  A tight, hard knot of anger was welling up in Nanta. “Then Mother Marine may join my husband and me at table,” she said.

  That was unprecedented, and Dorca was shocked. “But madam—” she began.

  “Send word, Dorca. Do it!” Nanta breathed in harshly, struggling to control herself. “Please.”

  Dorca did not press the argument. She drew herself up with stolid dignity, said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” curtseyed, and went out.

  Nanta allowed herself to breathe out again. Tariya was finishing her hair and setting the gable hood into place, but there was palpable tension in both the remaining servants now, and they maintained a careful silence. It occurred to Nanta that a change had taken place; small, but significant. As of this morning she was no longer merely a princess but the Imperatrix. In theory it should have little effect on her servants” deference; in practice, though, it had exposed the fact that as Princess she had not quite wielded the authority of her rank. Now, her rank had changed. Suddenly the women were afraid of her. Dorca had protested a command she disapproved of, but she had obeyed without the wrangling that would have ensued in the past. For the first time in her life, Nanta had genuine power.

  Fascinated and unexpectedly heartened by the revelation, she stepped away from Tariya’s ministrations, turned, and smiled at both the women. “Thank you, ladies,” she said, with the gentle courtesy of true privilege. “I will be alone now.”

  No matter that her sleeve buttons were still unfastened, that the gable hood was askew and untidy wisps of her hair showed beneath the frame; the women made their obeisances and went without a murmur. When the door had closed behind them Nanta stood motionless for a few moments, savoring her new autonomy, which was like strong wine. She would not abuse it; she knew herself well enough to be certain of that. But in the coming times it would give her space to breathe when she sorely needed it. It would give her peace.

  She sighed, flexed her arms and turned to look into one of the dressing room’s many mirrors, meaning to adjust the lopsided hood. The glass showed her own figure and the reflections of the candles.

  And something else.

  Nanta froze, staring. Then, slowly, she pivoted around.

  It was standing between her high-backed chair and the table where Tariya had spread her combs and brushes. No taller than Nanta’s shoulder, it had a wiry, wispy frame, a slender neck supporting a head disproportionately large, and white-silver hair that seemed to be plaited into a myriad braids. It wore clothing, of a kind, but the garments were confused and insubstantial, like a motley of cobwebs draped haphazardly over torso and limbs, and the colors were pale and faded so that the overall impression was of a dull, frosty grey. Through the curves and angles of its body she could see, faintly, the outline of furniture and wall hangings.

  It met her dumbfounded gaze with eyes the color of ice, and it made a bow so strange and convoluted that a detached part of Nanta’s floundering mind thought its trunk would snap in half. Then, in a thin, high voice, it said:

  “Nanta Imperatrix!”

  With a colossal struggle, Nanta found her voice. “What are you?”

  It raised hands which had no thumbs but only four extraordinarily long, spatulate fingers, and made an incomprehensible gesture.

  “No name. To serve. To serve Imperatrix.”

  It wasn’t a frost sprite, she told herself. At least…it had something of the sprites about it,. but it was somehow more than they were. Or less? Her confusion was intensified by the fact that she felt no fear. Curiosity was her strongest reaction, and in the background of her mind, strangely, a stirring of affection. It was as if she knew this creature, had had many dealings with it and its kind. In her dreams? It was the only possibility; dreams which she had forgotten but which had lain dormant in her mind, perhaps for years.

  But if that was so, why had the being chosen to appear to her in her waking hours? And why now?

  She thought of the Corolla Lights. A harbinger of the Lady…Could this creature, like and yet unlike the frost sprites, be another? Nanta’s breath caught in her throat and without knowing it she advanced a pace towards the apparition, reaching out her hands in entreaty.

  “Did the Lady send you? Did she?”

  It twisted its strange, lithe body again, almost like a fawning dog. “Not send; not send. Come. Come to Nanta Imperatrix. Warn.”

  Gooseflesh broke out on Nanta’s skin. “Warn?”

  “Warn. Warn! Nanta warn, Imperatrix warn!” The being danced on noiseless feet, its arms describing flowing patterns in the air like a mime-show player. Then it stopped abruptly, raised its forefingers to its own face and pressed the tips against its eyes.

  The gooseflesh on Nanta’s body seemed to turn to a coating of solid ice. Her dream—the frost sprite had made the self-same gesture!

  “Tell me!” She advanced on it again, frightened now and desperate. “Why do you warn me? What is to happen?”

  The creature put its head on one side and said: “Osiv.”

  “Osiv… ?”

  “Osiv Prince Imperial. No harm. Osiv Imperator. Harm.”

  A hammer had begun to beat against Nanta’s ribs from the inside. “What harm?” she demanded. “What threat is there to Osiv?”

  The being opened its mouth as if to reply—and stopped. It flicked a glance at the doo
r, then abruptly sprang sideways, dancing towards the window.

  “No!” Nanta called after it. “No, wait, you must wait!”

  It paid her no heed. It reached the window, sprang up on to the sill, and melted through the patterned glass as if it had been water. Launching herself after it, Nanta’s hands slammed against the panes and she found herself staring down at a bare, empty courtyard and a steady fall of snow.

  Behind her the door opened and Dorca’s voice said, “If you please, Your Majesty, the imperial dresser is here.”

  Nanta’s breath was fogging the window and droplets of moisture condensed on her nose and forehead. Control, said her mind savagely. Dorca mustn’t know, she mustn’t see.

  “Is anything amiss, madam?” Concern laced Dorca’s voice, and Nanta turned round.

  “No.” She paused. “This room is too hot. I shall open the window.”

  Dorca did not reply with her usual litany about the bitter weather and her mistress” health and comfort, but only watched” as Nanta flung the casement wide. Arctic air flowed in and Nanta breathed it gratefully for a few seconds before speaking again.

  “The dresser is here, you say?”

  “Yes, madam. And Prince Kodor has sent a message that—”

  “Tell me later.” Kodor was the last person Nanta wished to see at this moment. Marine would come, though, and in the meantime Nanta had nothing do to but stand while the women fluttered and fussed and discussed and effectively ignored her. It would give her time to think.

  “Send the dresser in, please, Dorca.” Her mouth smiled so pleasantly that Dorca did not notice the haunted look in her eyes. “I’m ready for her now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Marine arrived as Osiv was being coaxed to his dining chair. Dorca, with censure written all over her face, showed her in, accepted Nanta’s dismissal with a sniff and retired to nurse her sense of outrage.

  Marine had spent much of the day in the Sanctum chapel, prostrated in earnest prayer. She had seen the Corolla Lights; later she had heard the stories of the Sisters” visions and had even spoken with one or two of them; though not, to her deep regret, with the woman who had been granted a vision of the Lady. Now, she was confused and more than a little afraid. The Lights” reappearance went against everything that Mother Beck had told her; everything the high religiouses believed. What, then, was the truth? Marine had prayed fervently for enlightenment, but had received none. And if, as she feared, Nanta had summoned her here to ask for her spiritual guidance, she would have no answers to give her.

  The fact that she was also in Osiv’s immediate presence added to Marine’s troubles. He was an idiot and he was the Imperator, and Marine had never in her life before had to contend with either. Not knowing how best to behave, she resorted to stiff and stuttering formality, uttering speeches rather than sentences and bowing her head every time Osiv looked at her. Osiv was hugely amused at first, but he soon lost interest, and as he turned to attacking his food Nanta was able to command Marine’s attention for herself.

  “Marine, I must talk to you. I need advice, I need it so sorely, and you’re the only person I can turn to.” Seeing Marine’s uneasy glance in Osiv’s direction she added, “Don’t mind him. He won’t understand, and even if he repeats a word or two of what he hears it will be taken as nothing more than prattle.”

  Osiv was methodically mixing three different fruit butters into a repellent-looking mélange on his plate; he looked up briefly at them both and smiled an angelic smile.

  “Please, Marine,” Nanta said. “I have little time; I have to see the Guilds delegates in less than an hour. And this cannot wait.”

  She poured herself a glass of wine. Marine was surprised; to the best of her knowledge Nanta had rarely, if ever, tasted anything intoxicating before her marriage. Change wrought further change, it seemed.

  Then Nanta’s next words put all other thoughts out of her head.

  “Today,” Nanta said, “something appeared to me. It was like a frost sprite, but it was more than that. It appeared in my dressing room, and it told me that my husband is in danger.”

  Stunned, Marine listened to the entire tale. Nanta did not mention her dream and the sleepwalking—that was part of the old secret, which she would not reveal to anyone—but she told the rest with a frankness born of the desperate need to share her fear.

  “I don’t know what the danger could be or even if the creature lied to me,” she finished. “But I feel that it told the truth. And I’m afraid, Marine. I’m horribly afraid.”

  A sensation like being deep in an ice-cold lake was taking form in Marine’s mind. Tautly, very quietly, she said: “Frost sprites do not lie.”

  “I know. But was it a frost sprite? Or was it—” Nanta spread her hands, trying and failing to express with a gesture what she could not express in words “—something else?”

  Marine had no answer to that question. Her own experience was too limited.

  “You see,” Nanta went on, words coming headlong now, “you see, I was at the top of the tower when the Corolla Lights appeared; I witnessed them, and I fainted, and when I was brought down I slept all the morning, and when I woke, the last thing I remembered was praying to the Lady—”

  “You prayed?” Marine said quickly.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. I wanted to give thanks; I’d never seen the Lights before, you see, and I—”

  Your faith was restored in that moment, Marine thought. I know, child. I know. Aloud, she said, “Have you been to your chapel?”

  Nanta shook her head. “I have so little time. Always there are people to see, papers to sign, things that must, must, must be done. And my ladies would want to come with me. I don’t want that, I want to go alone; but what reason could I give for excluding them?”

  “You are the Imperatrix,” Marine said gently. “What reason do you need?”

  Nanta recalled her brief and successful tussle with Dorca and Tariya earlier in the day, and uttered a peculiar, strained laugh that brought an answering crow from Osiv. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “They do obey me now; they have no choice. So perhaps I am a coward. Perhaps I’m afraid to ask the Lady for enlightenment, in case… in case…”

  “In case she does not answer?”

  “Yes.” A hunted terror lurked now in Nanta’s eyes. “In case of that.”

  Osiv said loudly: “Cock-doodle-do! Doodle-doodle, doodle-do! Nandi, you sing it!” He looked piercingly at Marine. “You sing, too! Doodle-do, doodle-do!” He giggled hiccupingly, then his expression altered. “You’ve got an ugly dress on.”

  Marine blanched. “Yes, Your Majesty…” she said helplessly. “But it’s—”

  “Ugly. Take it off. Put something pretty on, like Nandi.”

  “He seems to dislike religious garb,” Nanta told Marine in an undertone, forcing away the memory of why and how that had come about. “I must distract him, or he’ll become fretful and the noise will bring Dorca.”

  Marine watched uncomfortably while for the next few minutes Nanta pacified Osiv with a simple guessing game that she allowed him to win. At last he returned to his meal, Marine and the ugly dress forgotten in the new pleasure of shoveling roasted goose into his mouth at a great rate.

  Nanta sat back and sighed. “You understand why it is so difficult for me to concentrate.”

  “Yes,” said Marine. “I understand.”

  Someone, probably Dorca, was moving about in the next room with a lot of unnecessary banging and clattering; Nanta recognized the signal and knew that they would be interrupted again before long. “Marine,” she said, “I must ask something of you.”

  “Madam, anything I can do—”

  “Please, Marine, please call me by my name! I can’t tell you how much it…” She collected herself. “No; never mind; I realize it can’t be easy. Marine, in your new position you have the freedom of the court, and you are far better placed than I am to move about without your every move being watched. I want you to look, and to liste
n, and to—to feel what might be in the wind.” “Concerning…?” For prudence’s sake Marine didn’t finish the sentence, but her gaze slid sideways, meaningfully, to Osiv.

  “Yes,” said Nanta. “Concerning that. Anything, any hint or clue, however small it may seem.”

  Because the greatest rivers begin as a mere trickle, Marine thought. “And tell you of it?” she prompted.

  “And tell me of it. Me, and no one else. Will you do that?”

  Marine had never before envisaged herself as a spy. But that, effectively, was what Nanta was asking her to become. Her ingrained sense of principle urged her to refuse—and that begged the question of whether she could achieve anything anyway. But as she looked at Nanta’s troubled face she realized that she was her only resort. There simply was no one else Nanta could turn to. And the fact that she trusted Marine enough to ask this of her was a very significant factor.

  She said, “I will do whatever I can. Though it may be little enough.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Just to know that she had an ally was enough for Nanta at this moment. She swallowed. “I don’t know where the threat, if there is one, might come from. But I don’t want any harm to befall Osiv.” She looked at her husband, who had finished the goose and was now trying to use his blunt, round-ended knife to drink soup straight from the tureen. “I don’t want that.”

  Marine did not voice what was in her mind; that if any ill should come to Osiv, Nanta’s own future would be far from secure. Was there a danger? It had an unpleasant logic; a convenient death had been mooted when Osiv was a child, as Grand Mother Beck had told her, and only the stubbornness of the old Imperatrix, his mother, had put paid to the idea. But she and Arctor were gone now. And Vyskir had a new alliance, through Osiv’s younger brother, with a very ambitious country…

  Marine was no fool, and in the crannies of her mind she had been aware of this possibility for a long time. But she had thrust it away and out of reach, not wanting to speculate, not wanting to know. Now, suddenly, Nanta had brought it into the open. And the sprite’s warning added a powerful emphasis that couldn’t be ignored.