The Fall of Ossard ot-1 Read online

  My mother answered in a voice cold enough to silence the heavens, “Your family is hearing of this right now, as is the mercantile, stevedoring, seafarers’, and Fletlander guilds. Our shame is becoming your shame, and there will be only one way to soothe it: You will marry her!”

  Both Pedro and I were stunned by the news. The shame of it all, the whole city would know by dusk!

  He glared at her, only to be distracted like all of us by the sound of urgent knocking from the front door.

  My mother called to the maid, “See to it!”

  We heard the door open, followed quickly by the stomp of booted feet. In moments the courtyard began to fill with men at arms in the livery of the Liberigo’s, a dozen of them, and amongst them Lord Liberigo himself. The men at arms arrayed themselves to either side of their lord, a tall, broad, but lean man, without his youngest son’s looks. Lord Liberigo stood stern and hard. This was a man who did business, and did it quickly.

  Sef moved to stand beside my mother.

  “Lady Van Leuwin, it is unfortunate that we should meet under such circumstances, but I came as soon as I received your message.”

  My mother answered, “My apologies for the harsh language within it, my Lord, but we share a problem that needs a just solution.”

  Pedro had paled at the sight of his father. He began in a quaking voice, “It’s not…”

  His father hissed, “Shut up, Pedro!”

  The front door slammed again, followed by the sound of hurried feet. My father appeared, his satisfaction plain to see as he took in the sight of the Liberigos. My mother nodded, indicating that all was well despite the presence of the armed men in livery.

  Put at ease, my father’s gaze landed on Pedro. He strode straight up to him, his eyes boring into him as his anger built. “Shameless bastard!” Then he raised his hand and slapped him.

  The solid blow reddened Pedro’s cheek and saw him struggle to keep his footing. He looked to his father, waiting for him to intervene. He didn’t.

  Lord Liberigo clapped his hands together and growled, “You deserved that, Pedro, and you deserve so much more!” Then he turned to my parents and said, “You have done well in forcing my hand. You have succeeded in shaming my family, and your own, by making Pedro’s part in your daughter’s condition public – but I don’t blame you. I can see you are merely trying to make the best of a bad situation. I imagine you want compensation?”

  My father’s fury settled, but he still stood angered. “You can’t buy us off, not in this!”

  Lord Liberigo shook his head and chuckled. “I’m not going to, in any case it’s too late for that. Instead, I’ll give you what you want. Pedro is a no-good playboy and has shamed my family with his exploits for years. It’s time he settled down. I offer him in marriage.”

  I nearly died.

  Pedro cursed, “Father, she’s a Flet, and her family of no consequence!”

  My father turned on the young man, slapping him so hard that he was knocked off of his feet.

  Pedro looked to his father, his lips quivering and bloodied.

  Lord Liberigo answered, “Pedro, you have much to learn. Yes, Juvela is a Flet, but so is much of Ossard. You need help, and I know of a good monastery that can see to it while your betrothed runs through her maternal peace.”

  If Pedro could have paled more he would have, he stood whiter than olive skin should go. I knew his fear; would the holy men of the church discover his shameful secret, his involvement with heresy?

  I hoped so!

  With his shoulders slumped, he whimpered, “I won’t do it!”

  Lord Liberigo hissed, “You will!” Then he turned towards my parents. “The union of our families has benefits for all. I lose responsibility for a troublesome son, your daughter salvages some dignity, and you receive the benefits of a close association with the most powerful family in Ossard. Will you be a part of this?”

  Inger looked to Josef, he in turn turned to me. I knew what Father was thinking; what better solution? He asked, “Juvela, will you abide by this?”

  Pedro turned to me, his pale face regaining some colour. This was his way out. He knew I didn’t want to marry him, not after what I’d seen.

  My parents expected me to say yes, it was my duty, but how could I?

  Pedro couldn’t help himself, a triumphant grin took to his face.

  He would win!

  Gently, like a chorus of angels, I heard the whispering voices rise again in my mind. This time they sang out, peaceful and welcoming, and lacking their previous confusion, they were led by one, strong and determined, it stirring to comfort me.

  Could I become a lady of magic, a witch? And if I did, would I be strong enough to control whatever it was that Pedro stood mired in? Could I be safe?

  He expected me to refuse, and to do it out of hand. The longer I stood there in silence the less smug he looked. Sensing my considerations, he began to panic. “This is insane!”

  In that moment I tasted power over him – and I liked it!

  He gasped, “This is madness!”

  I considered what an opportunity it was for my parents.

  He continued, “She’s looser than a tavern wench…”

  Could I do it?

  And then his own words doomed him, “…and just a plain-faced Flet!”

  I growled, “I’ll do it, and if the monastery can’t break him, I will!”

  And the blood drained from his face.

  4

  A New Life

  We married in a simple ceremony held in St Baimio’s Cathedral the very next day. My new husband spent the time in between confined to the Liberigo residence, and after our exchange of vows he was sent on to a monastery amidst the mountains of the interior.

  His father said it would be best for all of us, especially me, if Pedro’s selfishness was broken in such a place. He assured me that his son would return a new man.

  In truth, I feared what might come of it. Would the monks catch the scent of ritual magic? A commoner would be burnt alive for such heresy, but the son of the Lord of Ossard?

  Could I be fated to be a widow before I became a mother?

  There had been a time, albeit for only half an evening, when I’d been infatuated with him and hostage to all his charms. It seemed an age ago. Since then I’d changed, becoming something other than the childish girl who believed in lotus-fuelled dreams. Now I stood determined to control my future. Never again would I submit to him, but to ensure that I needed to awaken and master my own power.

  Throughout the term of my pregnancy, I sought more knowledge of the arcane. My mother was horrified at my interest. She begged me to abandon my search for answers. When I asked why, she’d just whisper the name of the Inquisition. At such moments I saw something in her eyes, something terrible.

  I asked, “Grandmother?”

  Tears came, running fast to flood down her cheeks. “Oh Juvela, they came for her. They took her away and burnt her at the stake!”

  I was stunned.

  The little they’d previously said about her death had led me to believe she’d died in the chaos of the riots, not in the mass burning that had triggered them.

  And all the while a new life grew within me.

  I prayed for goodly souls for my new family, for all three of us, but not to the Heletians’Krienta.

  I followed Schoperde, the god of life. She’d given life to all of us, and the world about us; that included her divine children, Krienta and so many others. She was one of the two original powers of the universe, and partnered to the other, her husband, Death. Together they’d made all that followed.

  Schoperde’s faith arrived in Ossard with the Flet refugees. While my people found themselves grudgingly accepted in the city-state, their gods were not. Officially they converted to the Church of Baimiopia, but their beliefs survived in secret.

  At the time, after having fled the bloody events of Def Turtung, enduring a harrowing sea-crossing, to only then be faced with the zealo
us Inquisition, the exhausted refugees of two hundred years ago had found the decision easy to make. Still, deep down, we Flets longed to practise our faiths openly.

  Ironically, my faith stood as forbidden as whatever dark religion stained Pedro’s soul. His spirituality was about death and power, while mine was about love and life. They couldn’t have been more different, but not in the eyes of the Church.

  The thought always brought a bitter smile: Pedro and I had more in common than we realised.

  I never received any report on Pedro’s progress. It left me wondering if his heresy had been discovered and fiery redemption granted, yet no word came.

  My feelings for him were confused. At the same moment I felt repulsion and hope, anger and anguish, but certainly no love. To make this work I needed to be strong, but also to soothe my bitterness. We had to coexist and build a life tolerable for each other and our coming babe. Together.

  Regardless of that understanding, even lukewarm feelings for my new husband struggled to find vigour.

  In the meantime, the marriage had restored some of my dignity, was profiting Father’s business, and had legitimised my coming child. I told myself that that was enough, but in the dark of night, I wondered if the best outcome was for Pedro simply never to return.

  The passing months became seasons, and so my belly swelled. I thought of Pedro often, him carrying his own burden as he no doubt suffered through demanding religious training and trials. Sometimes I worried that he’d return charged with the zeal of a missionary.

  He didn’t.

  Even ice holds more fire than what came back.

  He arrived a few days before the birth, at a time when I was plump and rosy. He stood with slumped shoulders, ragged hair, sunken eyes, and pale sagging skin that let his bones show through. He’d lost a lot of weight, but a good deal more spirit. It was as though Death had taken him for a lover, and when done, spurned him.

  His father was appalled.

  Pedro would say little in general and even less to me. He was empty and broken. The playboy was dead.

  I’d wed a phantom.

  The birth came when expected, was thankfully easy, and almost beautiful in its own way. I think that deep down I’d feared that I’d bear some kind of cult-spawned devil, instead I delivered a little girl, an angel with a thick crop of red hair.

  I wondered about that, thinking of the Flet boy who’d died at her conception. Any worries about her true nature faded after they gave her to me to hold. She was amazing, both cute and so very helpless. I knew then that nothing diabolical could hide in such a fragile shell. She was beautiful.

  Pedro had been aloof prior to the birth, but the change was stark.

  The maid and midwife wiped her over and checked her. They cleaned me, and then brought up the covers, while giving me a damp towel to refresh myself with. They were quick at it, getting us ready to receive my husband, parents, and in-laws. The midwife took the babe, wrapped her in fresh linen, and then sent the maid to fetch them.

  I looked to the open doorway, apprehensive. How would he react to his daughter, to the very thing that had imprisoned him? I tensed, trying to lean forward and get the midwife’s attention; perhaps she should just let him see our babe, but not hold her.

  He stepped through the doorway, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, ready to receive the ultimate reminder of his shame. Not a trace of interest or care marked his sallow face, he just wanted this over, not just the day, or the matter of his daughter’s birth, but I think his entire existence.

  He stumbled forward, pushed by two sets of grandparents trying but failing to hold themselves in reserve. Three more steps brought him to the midwife.

  I opened my mouth to warn her, yet my voice faltered.

  She offered him our babe.

  I tensed, reaching out a hand.

  He finally looked up.

  Her eyes remained closed, but her mouth occasionally opened. She didn’t make a sound.

  His eyes widened as he took in the sight of her, but he didn’t move to take her.

  The midwife held her out to him afresh.

  He raised his hands, his shoulders squaring.

  The midwife asked, “My Lord and Lady, what will you call her?”

  We hadn’t even spoken of it.

  My father looked over Pedro’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”

  The baby then yawned, leaning a little back as she opened her mouth. Her arms appeared, rising out of the linen wrap.

  My mother giggled. “She’s gorgeous!”

  And Pedro smiled.

  Lord and Lady Liberigo crowded past my father to also look upon their grandchild. My father-in-law said, “Beautiful indeed, and red hair – that’s not quite a Heletian trait!”

  His wife laughed.

  I found my voice, “Perhaps she needs a good Heletian name?”

  Pedro looked to me. “Yes?”

  I smiled, trying to offer something of a peace between us. “How about Maria?”

  His mother smiled. “A good name, your late grandmother’s name.”

  My mother added, “And the middle name of your grandmother, Juvela.”

  Pedro straightened his back, raised his head, and grinned as he drew his daughter to his chest. “She is beautiful.” He chuckled and then looked to me. “Our little Maria.”

  I nodded as both sets of grandparents gave a cheer.

  He said, “It’s a good name for such a beautiful little girl.” And with each word his voice grew stronger, finding some of its old depth.

  He stood there stroking her, marvelling at what had been made. I saw love in his eyes. My own heart softened at the sight.

  He had changed.

  In time Pedro and I built a better relationship.

  I think he came to respect me; my strength and determination, but there was certainly no love. Maria had bonded us together. Sometimes I wondered if he loved her more than I did – and that would have been a marvel!

  In her first season of life, she lost her red hair to have it replaced with something closer to Pedro’s dark locks, and that better matched her olive skin. From me she carried a Flet’s blue eyes and a petite nose. A child of two cultures, a bridge, she bound us together.

  My parents forgot their shame, and their household thrived with its close association to Lord Liberigo as did the family business. In so many ways I’d achieved everything I should have. All that was missing was love and its peace.

  I came to trust Pedro with Maria, anyone watching them could see the love there. He and I were another matter. Sometimes we sat and talked a little, managing to be company for each other, but more often we didn’t. I could never forget his part in the boy’s murder and the way he’d treated me, but I realised that I could live with it.

  As the years passed, he began to talk about his experiences at the monastery, something he shared with me bit by bit. I pitied him when he told me of the season he’d spent enduring confinement in a cramped cell, it damp, dark, and cold, and with the barest of rations. That imprisonment had ended when he finally accepted and confessed his sins.

  When he talked of these things he looked to me for understanding. Never did he mention the cults, and I still couldn’t get the words out of my ensorcelled mouth to ask, but I knew he stood ashamed. I think that’s why he wanted to tell me of his bleak time in the monastery. He wanted to show me that he’d not only been punished, but that he’d accepted that he deserved to be.

  He truly was a different man.

  To see him remorseful gave me hope; maybe I could share my life with my husband and perhaps even come to enjoy it. But such remorse came couched with what had delivered it, the dogma of the Church.

  We lived in a grand old house in Newbank not far from my parents. Pedro began working for my father, acting as a liaison between his own father’s contacts and my father’s business.

  My own time was lost in setting up our household and tending Maria. I often visited my mother. We saw less and less of Pedro’s fam
ily as they realised how much of a shadow he’d become; a man with no spirit.

  All the while the kidnappings continued to not only plague the city, but worsen, yet my own magic lay stubbornly idle.

  Four years after our marriage day, I took Maria to see an Evoran herbalist down near the docks. She suffered from a regular chill, something that came on seasonally, and that I’d come to think might be brought on by the flowering shrubs that covered the surrounding valleyside.

  I took our coach and driver, Kurt, and Maria’s bodyguard, Sef, who’d joined our own household. Ossard’s children were still being stolen, the problem now so bad that it even plagued the Heletian districts.

  The thefts occurred in groups twice each season. In each group five children would be stolen, all on the same day between sunrise and sunset. Lord Liberigo had tripled street patrols and called up the militia, yet the diabolical crimes persisted.

  On the day of the kidnappings, the Cathedral bells would toll out the number of children missing with each newly discovered crime. The macabre practice meant that the people of the city knew on the fifth ring that the danger was over – until next time.

  Despite the patrols, and the offering of a generous reward, none of the children were ever found. Rumours circulated the restless city, some blaming the Evoran slave trade, others the Lae Velsanans, or witches, and on occasion even the forbidden cults of the Horned God.

  On this day, such a day of misfortune, the Cathedral bells had already rung out four times. It meant that Maria never left my sight, and that we were always accompanied.

  The visit to the old Evoran’s shop had been successful. The dark owner had sold me some herbs to stew and give to Maria as a watered broth. As I left the store, I asked Kurt to take us home via the waterfront only streets away. It had been a long time since I’d escaped the confines of Newbank, and I was eager for some of the city’s other sights.

  The coach rumbled down the cobbled street and soon rounded a bend to reach the port. On one side stood tightly packed warehouses, stevedoring businesses, and a few rough taverns, on the other the wharves busy with a maze of moored ships and labourers.