Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

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.

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.

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.