The Fall of Ossard (10 page)

“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 zealous 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.