4

Why could she never be happy? Why did she feel so guilty? Had the myriad Gods Themselves in all Their glory knelt before her, each granting her a wish, she could not have dreamed of an arrangement better than this.

True, she was soaked to the knees by the snow and Maya was a dead weight in her arms, fretful and difficult. But she was free of the court, free of pomp and ceremony, free of playing at being impress. The old count and countess—wallowing gamely through the drifts ahead of her—were dears. She had found sanctuary. No one could be more reliable than Hardgraa. She would not have to fight off Ylo by day, or submit to her husband’s attentions by night. As far ahead as she could see, she had no worry except Maya, and her daughter was her joy and most welcome duty.

White Impress had sailed away into the cottony snow. The path was, as Eigaze had said, steep. In places the trees had shielded it, but mostly it was thickly drifted and very hard going. Even Hardgraa was having trouble under his load. All four adults were sweating and gasping out puffs of steam in the bitter air.

But obviously Yewdark was big, and isolated, and private. Eshiala could not have invented so wonderful a refuge, a personal paradise.

Eventually the path emerged from the woods and vanished into a tangle of thorny bushes that had once, perhaps, been a rose garden. Straight ahead was the great sprawl of the house itself, inscrutably gray in the drab winter evening, crouched under its burden of snow. Its innumerable windows were dark, the walls furred with ivy. The only touches of color were the tall orange chimney pots, one of which trailed a welcome banner of smoke.

“There!” The countess had paused to catch her breath. “It’s delightful, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” Eshiala agreed, wondering what her parents would think of such a mansion being left to decay while lawyers argued over its corpse. ”See the pretty house, Maya?”

“These thorns will be tricky, ma’am,” Hardgraa growled. His craggy face was flushed and shiny from his exertions, for he was bowed under an enormous pack.

“I think we can go around them,” the proconsul said, head thrust out like a turtle’s, as usual. “Let’s try that way. Front door’s round there.”

He was right. A few minutes’ easy walk brought them to wide steps, leading up to the main door. It was open.

Hardgraa grunted. He slipped out of the straps and dropped his burden to the ground. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he bore a legionary’s short sword, and now he drew it. “Centurion!” Ionfeu exclaimed.

“Don’t like this, my lord! Smoke? Door open?”

“Obviously no one has trampled this snow.” The old man gestured at the untrodden white.

“But it looks like we’re expected!”

“Nonsense!” the count snapped. “There’s no danger here! Come, my dear.”

Nevertheless, Hardgraa went by him and strode ahead, leaving his bundle where it lay. Eshiala followed the unsteady old couple. By the time they had reached the entrance, the centurion had vanished inside. The others paused for a moment in front of that ominous dark opening. Before any of them moved, a figure emerged from the shadows within, advancing to meet them.

She was short, and round, and her wizened face peered out from a strange collection of clothes. In one tiny, gnarled hand, she brandished a five-branch candelabra, flames dancing faintly in the daylight. Filmed old eyes blinked blindly at the sun. “Where is he?” she shrilled.

The newcomers stopped in astonishment. Maya screamed and buried her face in her mother’s collar. Eshiala herself could not hide her twinge of alarm. Eigaze had mentioned an elderly housekeeper, but had given no warning of this apparition. She was swathed in innumerable misassorted garments. Ball-gown lace trailed around her boots, overlain by gowns of wool and taffeta of many colors, the inner layers revealed at neckline and cuffs; there must have been at least six of them, and three or four cloaks over them, at least two with fur collars. Her head was draped in several shawls, capped by an incongruous antique hat, a man’s hat topped by an ostrich plume. A wide sash tied around her in an enormous bow made her look like a badly wrapped parcel.

“Wrong!” she exclaimed, waving the candelabra. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!”

“Mistress Ukka!” Eigaze exclaimed. “You remember us, of course? And—”

“Where is he? They said he was coming!”

The countess fell back a step, colliding with her husband. “Who was coming? I mean, who said?”

“The voices said!” The crone peered around suspiciously. “The duke! Duke Yllipo? Where is he?”

The newcomers exchanged uneasy glances. How could this ancient hag in her hermitage have possibly known about Ylo? It must be coincidence, surely? Ravings? Eshiala wondered what had happened to the centurion, although he was likely just exploring the warren.

“Oh, he is probably still in Hub,” Ionfeu said. “The property has changed hands, weren’t you informed? The imperor deeded it to—”

“The imperor is dead!” Ukka exclaimed, and cackled. “Good riddance! Bloody-handed old bastard!” She fell silent for a moment, her wrinkles writhing in amusement. Then the urgency returned. “But they said he would be here, said he was coming at last.”

“You are mistaken. . .”

Then the old woman’s uncertain gaze seemed to light on Eshiala for the first time. She opened her mouth, displaying a few rotted pegs of teeth. “Ah! It is you!”

“Who? I mean, me?”

“His love!” cried the housekeeper. “The Promised One!” She flung the candlestick away and fell to her knees in the snow before the impress.