The Taint: Octavia (2 page)

The Divine infants sought out her large, dark nipples and latched upon them, suckling noisily. Octavia moaned as small trickles of blood streamed down her breasts and stomach, staining the nightdress red. At last, satiated by her maternal offering, the golden twins curled up in their mother’s lap and their large blue eyes closed. Their soft, baby lips closed over their wickedly sharp teeth. Their snow-white, feathered wings lay flat against their smooth skin, and their small chests rose and fell with the peaceful cadence of sleep.

With her head lolling back against the chair, dimly aware that the pain had stopped, Octavia slipped in and out of consciousness.

...Emerald green gloom, as if she lay submerged deep beneath the rolling waves that encircled the Isle, each breath seemed to correspond with an answering surge of dizziness, each faint heartbeat drew darkness closer...A flash of light upon a wing, creamy golden flesh, two, breathtakingly beautiful creatures flying in lazy, graceful spirals before her dream-filled eyes. A soft, weak laugh. Such folly... Delightful delirium slowly claimed her, leeching at the panic that hovered at the edge of her reason...Floating peacefully in a world free of...

A jolt. And a lance of sharp and piercing pain. Tiny, burrowing creatures gnawed at her tender white flesh, sucking at her energy, her lifeblood, with gentle slurping sounds.

Octavia woke with a scream, struggling to rid herself of the parasites that clung to her. Recognition returning, Octavia ceased her frantic movements and with a soft, maternal murmur she stroked the infants that suckled at her injured breasts. Octavia sighed deeply, slumping further into the chair.

As the Demigod twins drank their fill of their mother’s milk and blood, their golden skin glowed and they began to grow before her very eyes. Their golden blond curls became locks and their limbs lengthened. Octavia marvelled at the miraculous process, filled with a mother’s wonder, and with the reverence of a Mortal who gazes upon the Divine.

‘You are Meng,’ she whispered to the boy child who sat upon her lap, regarding her with serious blue eyes, ‘and you, my beautiful girl, are Meabel.’ Meabel smiled delightedly.

But what would be their fate at her husband’s hands? Surely he would not dare to hurt them? Octavia remembered his words of accusation with a surge of bitter resentment. Their matrimony was not born of love. She had accepted the Anghard King’s decree that she wed Warrick with the silent resignation of a woman born to a noble house.

How different it would have been if she had been born a boy? Or indeed if her infant brother had survived instead of dying in his mother’s womb, effectively killing them both. If only her father had lived long enough that Octavia might have been wed to another, rather than having this fool of a man thrust upon her, mere days after her father’s funeral. The Anghard King’s refusal to consider Sinistrari—Octavia’s Uncle and her father’s surviving brother—as the next Thane of Tinne heightened the insult to her noble family’s name.

But wishes were things of fancy and air, and nothing would come of them in this Mortal world.

The blackwood door opened, drawing Octavia from her thoughts. A chambermaid hurried into the room bearing a tray. Placing it on the floor she rushed out and the door closed again, the bolts sliding home once more.

In response to the sudden incursion Meng wiggled free from his mother’s arms and took to the air, flying excitedly around the room. Meabel leapt to chase him. Octavia watched them wonderingly with no strength to rise.

As the sun set and the room sank into darkness the twins returned to her lap. Octavia held them close and stared into the shadows, waiting for hope to return.

With the passing hours came sleep; both mother and children claimed by the gentle grace of slumber. Velvet black night flowed into vermilion dawn, and daylight, diffused and hindered by the vines, slowly crept into the room. The sounds of the nearby city drifted up to the Lady’s prison tower, waking her.

As Octavia looked to her newborn children she gasped. In the hours since sunset the twins had grown at a phenomenal rate. Their curls had lengthened into glossy locks and their cute, cherubic faces had gained definition as their chins and cheekbones had become more pronounced. Both children had lost much of their baby fat, and now stood as tall as a three year-old Mortal child.

Despite her increasing fatigue—a weakness that was now tinged with nausea—Octavia again offered the nourishment of her breasts. This time, as their increased size prevented them from sharing their mother’s lap, the twins bickered over the privilege. Meabel won out through a vicious determination at odds with her seemingly sweet nature. Meng sat at his mother’s feet, scowling petulantly.

The day crawled by. Octavia sat wearily within her chair, mesmerised by her children. In contrast to their mother’s dwindling energy, the twins scurried about, intent on their activities. Meng investigated the room’s contents by way of banging objects against the floor or on other pieces of furniture. As each article shattered or fell into a collection of components, he seemed momentarily content, poking at the remains with a talon tipped finger. Meabel had taken to flying around the room’s lone, dusty chandelier, warbling a strange yet harmonious set of sounds.

Octavia’s bittersweet melancholy deepened as the waning light took the golden hue of evening.

The Demigods continued to play. Meng swung from a chandelier, letting go with opened wings to glide to the ground. Meabel laughed happily at her brother’s antics, her blue eyes glowing with delight. She launched herself at him, knocking him to the ground and engaging in a mock battle that soon saw Meng growling angrily, then distancing himself, there to sit sulkily, offended at the rough play. Immune to, or uninterested by her brother’s black humour, Meabel continued to circle him tauntingly, giggling happily at his hisses and snarls.

The blackwood door swung open and four of the Thane’s guards entered the room, uniforms gleaming and booted feet resounding.

Octavia started from her reverie, her stomach clenching in fear. Meng sprang to his feet, snarling angrily. Meabel slowed her flight, a perplexed frown on her exquisite face.

The guards separated, the first pair stepping to either side of the door, the second advancing to stand before Octavia.

‘My Lady. You are to accompany us...’

Meng snarled. He thrust himself in front of his mother, as if to protect her. Meabel circled in agitated state above them.

‘No!’ Octavia cried. She watched in horror as the guards drew their swords.

As Meng leapt, bearing one struggling guard to the floor, Meabel gave a spine chilling shriek and hurtled down upon the other. A shower of bright red droplets splattered across the room.

As one of the remaining guards fled the room, calling loudly for reinforcements, the other drew his sword and ran to aid his beleaguered comrades.

Raw white light exploded, radiating out from the Divine twins.

The guard fell to his knees, gazing at the twins with eyes that wept bloody tears. His weapon clattered to the floor.

The flare rapidly receded, coalescing into golden glows around each of Sol’s beatific twins. As the Demigods feasted on the flesh of the newly fallen, their bodies grew and changed once more. Their arms and legs grew longer and more slender, and their hair lengthened, flowing into silky, golden locks. Their immaculate wings arched up above their slender, matchless shoulders, each feather, each barb impeccable. Meabel’s infant chest swelled into budding breasts while Meng’s chest broadened, growing a light fuzz of pale blond hair.

At last replete, bloodstained, awash with gore, ethereal and radiant, they turned from the grisly remains. The spellbound guard knelt before them, pressing his forehead to the floor in abject worship.

The thud of many booted feet sounded again from outside the door.

Octavia was spurred into action. ‘Go.’ she said to her children in a strangled voice. ‘Fly from here. Leave the city!’

Meng smiled at her. He wrapped his arms around Octavia, engulfing her weakened form.

Octavia firmly pushed him towards the window. ‘Quickly! They’ll kill you both! Go!’

Meng clung to her, his smile wavering.

‘Please Meng! Take Meabel. Protect her!’ Octavia pleaded. Steeling herself against her own wretchedness and Meng’s look of wounded reproach, she placed Meabel’s hand in his, and pushed him again. ‘Go!’ she shouted. ‘Go!’

Meabel struggled to free her hand. Meng tightened his grip and snarled in return.

The guards spilt into the room in a rush, weapons raised.

Meng looked at them and growled menacingly.

‘No!’ Octavia screamed. She shoved violently against Meng’s broad chest, rushing him backwards through the vine-covered window, his wings rupturing the organic barrier in a cloud of dusty, green debris. Meng struggled vainly to right his fall, one taloned hand grasping wildly for purchase, the other pulling at Meabel.

With a final cry of pained bewilderment, Meng tumbled backwards, dragging Meabel behind him, into the Mortal world.

*****

Octavia turned to face the guards.

As a contingent left to pursue the twins and to inform the Thane of the recent events, the remaining men milled about uncertainly.

A tense silence fell, broken only by the low moan of the surviving guard who still knelt amid the grisly bones and pools of congealing blood. His eyes were wide, one scarred to milky white, the other a pale shade of blue. A red wash of tears continued to stream down his ashen cheeks.

Octavia took charge. She swept the hood of her robe up and over her hair. Then, clasping the garment tightly to her, she lifted her head high. Barefoot, weak and dizzy, Octavia wove an air of dignity around her, refusing to show anything of the loss she felt. It would not do for a daughter of Tinne. She strode with purpose for the door.

When it became clear that Octavia was about to exit the room alone, the guards hurried to escort her. The procession passed in silence down the narrow, curving stone stairs, then through the open courtyard of the Keep. Octavia quickly searched the sky for sign of her children. She could only hope that they had escaped and that they had the sense to avoid the castle. Entering the West Tower, the guards trailed the Lady up the flight of steps to the audience chamber, where the Thane stood before a large stone table, surrounded by his Ministers and hangers-on.

Octavia drew on the remains of her flagging vigour to regard them haughtily.

The Thane dismissed the assembled men. The guards saluted, then stepped back to stand stiffly by the huge double doors.

‘You will be escorted to the harbour to board a ship to the Isle of Saille. There you will enter a convent of the Goddess, where you shall remain for the rest of your days.’ Warrick didn’t look at her as he declared her fate in a tone of flat finality.

Inside, Octavia raged—outside, she schooled her features into a countenance that portrayed a regal nonchalance. So now she must leave—her children and her home, to sail to the Goddess Isles. Never to see them again. Never to hold them in her arms. Death would have been a far more merciful punishment than this—death at least was a release. Such a life as he had ordained for her amounted to nothing more than a slow torture of days and nights filled with boredom and regret. Yet she knew that he would appease himself with the thought that he had acted with leniency and compassion.

Octavia dug her fingernails into the soft palms of her hands. However much she longed to loose her tongue, to voice her grievances, she refrained from such an undignified display. She swallowed her bitter recriminations, feeling that she might gag in the process. Instead, Octavia curtsied, a gesture so swift and slight as to offer the only insult she might allow herself at her husband’s expense. The action proved too subtle.

A look of sadness settled on the Thane’s face. ‘It is regrettable that this must be, but I can see no other way. Perhaps in the service of the Goddess you may gain some measure of peace...’ he said.

Octavia turned her head away, the duplicity of his words and actions too great to forgive. His words of pity and remorse were salt in her wounds. She would prefer anger now. That at least would allow her mortified dignity, as she was forced to sail away from all she loved, and the man who had stolen it from her.

‘Escort the Lady to the harbour,’ Warrick said, and turned his back as if to end his involvement in the matter.

‘Sir,’ Octavia said demurely. ‘If I might first ask a boon.’

The Thane turned around, surprised by her tone and by the question itself.

Octavia steeled herself. ‘Let me walk out onto the balcony, there to gaze upon the city of my birth and to say my farewells.’

The Thane looked relieved. He nodded once, and then stepped aside to let her pass.

Octavia smiled graciously. A thought had been growing in her mind, now too large to ignore—she could not leave this Isle—could not and would not. On Tinne she belonged, not on some distant and foreign shore but here, on the isle of her birth, close to her children.

As she flung wide the tall, arched door and stepped onto the stone balcony, Octavia drew breath. The dying sun’s rays had transformed the white city of Tinne. The broad, cobblestone streets were rivers of molten gold that flowed past buildings in shades of honey, amber and sienna. The sounds of music and genteel laughter drifted up from the more affluent regions that lay beyond the castle’s curtain wall. Although the evening was yet young, it was clear that many of the noble citizens entertained this night.

The merchant quarters and the docks still thronged with the bustle of business. The sea, on which the reflected sun lay like an artful streak of gold paint applied by a master’s brush, moved with a gentle ebb and flow. Octavia could just make out the vessels at port, and the brightly painted hulls of the Fools Ships that housed the city’s miscreants, at permanent anchor far out in the harbour.