So many changes. The diehards and pessimists still shook their heads and muttered about the folly of it all, but their influence, too, was diminishing and before long they would be consigned to history along with the jetsam of so many other pointless encumbrances. Rules were made to be challenged and, if found wanting, broken; and many things that in Arctor’s day had been deemed impossible or unthinkable had proved astonishingly simple to achieve.
It had been Pola’s idea that the populace should be told the truth about Osiv’s apparent return from the dead, and about his affliction. Perhaps, Kodor thought, she had more faith in human nature than he did—which, under the early circumstances of their marriage was hardly surprising—and her earnest argument had hinged on her belief that to lie was wrong and they should trust and respect their people enough to be honest with them.
Kodor had gambled on her instinct, and the gamble had paid off. Far from reacting with anger, the people had responded with sympathy, both for Osiv’s plight and for his brother’s. A wrong had been done, but the perpetrators, Urss and Beck, had been punished (for everyone’s sake the truth been had diverted down a small tributary in that regard) and all was well. Osiv had officially abdicated. Such a thing had never happened before, but the innovation was readily accepted and Osiv was a figure of great affection now. The people had adopted him in their hearts, almost as children might adopt a pet, and had even given him the new and affectionate nickname of “Vyskir’s Baby”.
Osiv himself had voyaged through the turmoil and upheaval of political change like a bird on a summer breeze. His time was divided between the palace and the hunting lodge, and in his limited way he had blossomed as never before. Recently he had developed a strong affection for Pola, and viewed her prospective child as a personal gift from her to him, a playmate to be nurtured and protected. Now and then, in the night, he cried for Nanta; but Dorca alone knew that secret and kept a still tongue.
Kodor could not yet truly say that he was contented. But as time passed he was becoming reconciled to a life which, as he privately acknowledged, was kinder to him than he probably deserved. Pola’s forgiveness of his cruelties had been instantaneous and unequivocal; anyone knowing the whole truth and looking at the matter detachedly would have called her a fool. But it was not Pola’s way to bear grudges. She loved Kodor, and slowly, gently, patiently, she was teaching him to love her. Time was on her side; they were both young yet. And if there was still a rival for his affections, that rival was now so far removed from the everyday world as to present no possible threat.
If Pola wondered at the revelations about Nanta’s and Kodor’s true natures, and feared them, she had never shown the smallest outward sign of it. Kodor had told her everything, and she had accepted the truth with a calmness that astonished him. To her Kodor’s heritage was unimportant; he was her husband, and to all intents and purposes as human as she. That was what mattered, all that mattered. Besides, she had added in her quiet, thoughtful way, with the God’s power broken and his presence gone from the world, Kodor’s human self was surely strengthened. Let the past be; set it to rest, and look towards the future.
It was wise advice and Kodor tried to take it. Pola knew he was trying, so when in his dreams he called Nanta’s name, or spoke of strange and intimate secrets not meant for her own ears, she only stroked his brow and pushed away the pangs of hurt, knowing that they had no real power. Pola Imperatrix was a patient woman and an optimist. She had already won the day. Now it only needed time to soften the harsh edges and make them smooth.
And, strange though it seemed, in that ambition she believed she had the strongest ally of all.
She did not know and did not feel the need to question why she liked to spend a little time each day in the Imperatrix’s private chapel of the Lady. But something about the still, quiet chamber seemed to call to her. It was a place of rest, of peace, and within the embrace of its walls Pola found a tranquility that soothed her soul. At first she had preferred to go alone, but in the present stage of her pregnancy she was suffering fainting fits and needed someone to attend on her. So her companion in the chapel now was Mother Marine. Pola had grown fond of Marine; despite the difference in their ages and backgrounds they had more in common than either might have guessed. And Marine was a restful companion. There was no need to speak at all unless either had something in particular to say. They could simply sit together, absorbed in their prayers and meditations, both content in the knowledge that the Lady heard them.
One day, Pola hoped, Marine would feel able to talk of what she had witnessed in the forest on the night that had so changed all their lives. As yet, though, the wonder was still too close and the awe too great for any words to be possible. Observing the older woman, Pola believed that it would be a long time before she recovered fully from the shock. But Marine was strong, and her years of self-discipline were coming into their own. And she had her work. The legacy of Grand Mother Beck’s political and religious cynicism was already cracking under Marine’s influence, and soon it would crumble altogether, swept away by the fresh and genuine devoutness of her successor. Where the chapels of the God now stood empty and all but disused, those of the Lady flourished as never before. For the Lady—the new Lady—looked kindly on her human worshippers, and would not forget them. Even I, Pola thought, who misjudged her and was cold and did not understand. Perhaps it’s for Kodor’s sake, but no matter. The Lady blesses me. The Lady blesses us all.
So now, tonight, in the chapel with Marine silently praying at her side, Pola Imperatrix was content. In their suite in the palace Kodor was playing with Osiv and probably getting a little too drunk for his own good. But she understood why, and when it led to laughter instead of anger, as it always did these days, there was nothing to forgive. When he fell asleep she might climb to the top of the tower, if her sickness and dizziness did not return, and watch the nightly dance of the Corolla Lights. And tomorrow she and her husband were to drive in an open sleigh through the streets of the Metropolis to show themselves to the populace and be cheered from one end of the city to the other.
Pola’s prayers were done. Smiling faintly to herself she rose and moved quietly to the foot of the shrine. She had brought a small bunch of evergreen leaves (all that could be managed at this time of year, but it was a daily ritual with her now and she would not dream of neglecting it) and crouched down to set them in one of the vases at the statue’s feet. When the leaves were arranged she looked up at the carved, serene figure of the Lady rising above her. That veiled face, symbolizing mystery…Pola smiled again. She knew what lay behind the veil. And when she whispered, softly, “Thank you,” she knew, too, that her words would be heard.
I will watch over you. Nanta’s last words to Kodor, and a promise to them all. Pola straightened, smoothed the folds of her skirt and moved back to where Marine sat watching her. They exchanged a look, then Marine, too, stood, and silently they left the chapel together.
The door closed, causing the votive lights to flicker briefly before settling back to their customary stillness. Then a soft breath exhaled through the chamber, and it might have seemed to an observer that the statue was no longer quite a statue but something more. Life stirred in the white marble. Shades of blue and gold glimmered faintly and briefly, and for a moment, just a moment, the sculpted figure appeared to be moving. Then the mirage faded and was gone, leaving only an echoing sense of peace that spread like a ripple in a pool, out of the chapel, to encompass the city and the world beyond.
About the Author
May 29, 1952 — October 21, 2009
Louise Cooper was born in Hertfordshire in 1952. She began writing stories when she was at school to entertain her friends. She hated school so much, in fact—spending most lessons clandestinely writing stories—that she persuaded her parents to let her abandon her education at the age of fifteen and has never regretted it.
She continued to write and her first full-length novel was published when she was only twenty years old. Sh
e moved to London in 1975 and worked in publishing before becoming a full-time writer in 1977. Since then she has become a prolific writer of fantasy, renowned for her bestselling Time Master trilogy. She has published more than eighty fantasy and supernatural novels, both for adults and children. She also wrote occasional short stories for anthologies, and has co-written a comedy play that was produced for her local school.
Louise Cooper lived in Cornwall with her husband, Cas Sandall, and their black cat, Simba. She gained a great deal of writing inspiration from the coast and scenery, and her other interests included music, folklore, cooking, gardening and “messing about on the beach.” Just to make sure she keeps busy, she was also treasurer of her local Lifeboat station.
Louise passed away suddenly in October 2009. She was a wonderful and talented lady and will be greatly missed.
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