Read Online White As Snow (Fairy Tale) by Tanith Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanith Lee
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sky. “She thanks you for your offering, Draco.” The Smoke Crone of the Oracle never addressed a king by any title other than his name. “What questions would you ask?”
The court waited; on its edges the people of the town, peasants and villagers from the woods beyond. Draco thought they came to stare at him, and was quite wrong.
“Are we to be prosperous?” barked Draco.
The Oracle did not respond. That mysterious liquid rumble it sometimes gave did not come.
Draco shouted on hoarsely, “Is there more fighting to be done? Besides, will my new capital be built by winter?”
His questions hung, unimportant, on air. Then the Oracle gurgled . Draco started, nearly dropped the plate he still held. The noise in the rock was loud, and now suddenly the smoke gushed out, dingy and thick, and the king jumped back. So did the two priests. Only the old woman stood her ground, used to it.
Stupidly, Draco said, “Is it angry, lady? The other place—my
other city—it’s only to show them, there, I’m king. Belgra will still be my town.”
The Crone’s reptilian eyes glinted. She fed the lizards in the temple, he had heard, and fondled them like children. But that was because she was an old virgin.
“No, Draco. She isn’t angry. Build where you think fit. Today, the smoke is simple to read. Your lands will be prosperous, and there will be no more wars, not in your time. But your other capital, your city, will not be ready by winter. You’re never there long enough to see it properly done.”
A cloud crossed the sky. There was nothing in that. Nor in a gout of strong stinking smoke from under the stone. But the court muttered and Draco scowled, feeling he had been reprimanded in public by this old nanny.
She smiled, lowering her eyes and pulling her veil across her mouth to hide it.
Knowing now her mother was a goddess, the child had understood she would see her at once in the crowd. Her mother, the queen, would shine through all the others on the terraces, as a flame shone through the side of a lamp of clay or alabaster. Nothing, no one, could really come between them.
Had Coira decided anything concerning her mother’s always-coldness to her? Of course she had.
Gods must be worshipped. Even the gentle meek Christ demanded it, and his Father, Almighty God Himself, was jealous and raging if ignored. While Coira had not known to worship, what else could the goddess do but fail to notice Coira in turn?
The nurse drew her charge along just at the rear of the ranks of noblewomen, some way from the nurseries of Draco’s valued sons.
Showing off in their richest best, the noblewomen had no interest in this white-faced female child the king had probably forgotten.
One snapped at the nurse, “Keep back. She’ll tread on the border of my gown.” Humble, the nurse obeyed, hauling Coira away like a rowdy dog—for they must all descend decorously. Maids tenderly lifted the trailing trains of gowns, green as the woods, blue as the sea.
Coira looked, looked for her queen.
All that while (the nurse pushing and pulling her, the women swaying and frivolously pausing, everyone-and-thing so vastly high up, the adult world of giants), Coira had little room to behold anything else.
Then they stopped, and the sun beat down.
Trapped in the depths of this forest of dressed human forms, the child craned about. She did not ask the nurse where her mother stood. Everyone was now religiously quiet, as in the church, where Coira’s penalty for speech was a sharp pinch, and afterward three or four stinging slaps across her legs.
Now one of the priests was calling something out about the Virgin Marusa.
Somehow—obviously by divine design—the mass of gleaming women separated. A gap was there, like a window.
Coira stared through, and downward.
Her father (the king) was on a lower terrace, shouting as he did at supper in the palace hall. Coira did not listen. She rarely interpreted what was said by these giants. Even
The court waited; on its edges the people of the town, peasants and villagers from the woods beyond. Draco thought they came to stare at him, and was quite wrong.
“Are we to be prosperous?” barked Draco.
The Oracle did not respond. That mysterious liquid rumble it sometimes gave did not come.
Draco shouted on hoarsely, “Is there more fighting to be done? Besides, will my new capital be built by winter?”
His questions hung, unimportant, on air. Then the Oracle gurgled . Draco started, nearly dropped the plate he still held. The noise in the rock was loud, and now suddenly the smoke gushed out, dingy and thick, and the king jumped back. So did the two priests. Only the old woman stood her ground, used to it.
Stupidly, Draco said, “Is it angry, lady? The other place—my
other city—it’s only to show them, there, I’m king. Belgra will still be my town.”
The Crone’s reptilian eyes glinted. She fed the lizards in the temple, he had heard, and fondled them like children. But that was because she was an old virgin.
“No, Draco. She isn’t angry. Build where you think fit. Today, the smoke is simple to read. Your lands will be prosperous, and there will be no more wars, not in your time. But your other capital, your city, will not be ready by winter. You’re never there long enough to see it properly done.”
A cloud crossed the sky. There was nothing in that. Nor in a gout of strong stinking smoke from under the stone. But the court muttered and Draco scowled, feeling he had been reprimanded in public by this old nanny.
She smiled, lowering her eyes and pulling her veil across her mouth to hide it.
Knowing now her mother was a goddess, the child had understood she would see her at once in the crowd. Her mother, the queen, would shine through all the others on the terraces, as a flame shone through the side of a lamp of clay or alabaster. Nothing, no one, could really come between them.
Had Coira decided anything concerning her mother’s always-coldness to her? Of course she had.
Gods must be worshipped. Even the gentle meek Christ demanded it, and his Father, Almighty God Himself, was jealous and raging if ignored. While Coira had not known to worship, what else could the goddess do but fail to notice Coira in turn?
The nurse drew her charge along just at the rear of the ranks of noblewomen, some way from the nurseries of Draco’s valued sons.
Showing off in their richest best, the noblewomen had no interest in this white-faced female child the king had probably forgotten.
One snapped at the nurse, “Keep back. She’ll tread on the border of my gown.” Humble, the nurse obeyed, hauling Coira away like a rowdy dog—for they must all descend decorously. Maids tenderly lifted the trailing trains of gowns, green as the woods, blue as the sea.
Coira looked, looked for her queen.
All that while (the nurse pushing and pulling her, the women swaying and frivolously pausing, everyone-and-thing so vastly high up, the adult world of giants), Coira had little room to behold anything else.
Then they stopped, and the sun beat down.
Trapped in the depths of this forest of dressed human forms, the child craned about. She did not ask the nurse where her mother stood. Everyone was now religiously quiet, as in the church, where Coira’s penalty for speech was a sharp pinch, and afterward three or four stinging slaps across her legs.
Now one of the priests was calling something out about the Virgin Marusa.
Somehow—obviously by divine design—the mass of gleaming women separated. A gap was there, like a window.
Coira stared through, and downward.
Her father (the king) was on a lower terrace, shouting as he did at supper in the palace hall. Coira did not listen. She rarely interpreted what was said by these giants. Even
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