Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

Pedro asked, “Benefice, what kind of prayer ritual did the Heletite ask of his converts?”

“Witnesses have told us that he instructed them to repeat prayers to Saint Santana in the evening while burning an offering of oleander leaves. The ritual is strange and unlike any of the Church’s other rituals. The monk in question is also not proving very helpful. He babbles like a fool of the wonder of Saint Santana, but seems unable to give us anything but the vaguest detail.”

I asked, “Oleander, isn’t that strange, as it’s a poison?”

The Benefice looked to me as his eyes narrowed. “There are many odd ingredients in rituals of sanctity and power. Oleander may seem a queer choice, but so could many others upon close examination. Some owe their use more to symbolism or tradition than their true properties.”

Irritated at having to dwell on a saint he’d never heard of, the Benefice’s face hardened. “Enough of that, let’s get back to the matter of Market Square. There are witnesses who claim you attacked the man with a knife, and there are others who said your escort,” he indicated Sef, “spoke a prayer to Saint Santana that turned the cultist into shadows and wind.”

With a tremor in my voice, I said, “I merely tried to help. I made no claims of saintly affiliation. I just heard a lady cry out and went to her aid.”

The Benefice could see my fear. “It became clear years ago that there was a pattern to the kidnappings, but the city has been slow to act.” He scowled at Lord Liberigo, offering the blame.

The Lord said, “The kidnappings have haunted us for years, it’s true, but until now there’s been no clue as to their cause. In the past, we’d looked into it as best we could, but in the crowded slums of Newbank…”

“For a Heletian, it’s impossible to tell friend from foe,” finished Kurgar, a frown marking his face. He went on, “Let’s not hide the truth; because it was restricted to the poorer parts of the city, coincidentally the Flet parts, it just didn’t seem that important.”

Lord Liberigo’s gaze dropped to the table. “That’s a discussion for another time, but we all know it holds some truth. For now, can we please stick to the problem at hand?”

The Benefice stifled a laugh. “If you feel it necessary, but in the end we all know that there is only one group to blame for this mess; those representing the rule of this once great city.”

Lord Liberigo rolled his eyes. “Can we please move on, Benefice?”

The fat man smiled, but with his point made he did. “The kidnappings carry the stink of the cults and forbidden magic, that can’t be denied. On that basis, and as guardian of the souls of this city, I’ve already sent a request to the most Holy Benefice Verrochio in the Sacred City of Baimiopia for assistance.”

My breath caught. The last thing I wanted to see was the Church getting more involved.

Kurgar’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of assistance?”

“The Inquisition.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as protests sounded from around the table.

Lord Liberigo demanded, “You did what?”

The Benefice ignored him, instead focussing on my paling face. “It was sent a while ago, well before this current sad chapter. We expect an Inquisitor to arrive any day, and when he does, we demand that the Church be given free access to all involved.”

Lord Liberigo raised his hands and said, “No demands can be made. We need to work together. There’s no one here who’s done any wrong or holds any guilt…”

Angry voices sounded from outside to silence him.

The main doors burst open to see a priest rush in. A couple of Lord Liberigo’s men gave chase while Jericho, the Lord’s assistant, appeared and bowed to his master. “My Lord, my apologies…”

Lord Liberigo waved him away and called off his men.

The priest went straight for the Benefice to whisper in his ear.

The Benefice’s face hardened, he then muttered a prayer before offering a hushed reply. The priest nodded and stepped back.

We all looked to Benefice Vassini, waiting for him to share his news, but he seemed to still be digesting it. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I have several things to share. Firstly, there have been two more kidnappings.”

We winced.

“Secondly, some children have been found – dead.”

Lord Liberigo sprung to his feet with questions while others cried out.

Pedro turned to me and took my hands, his own trembling. Both our minds ran with dark memories of moments of blood and power.

The Benefice raised his voice, “I am going there now. I suggest we all go, we should all see the horror of this thing.”

Lord Liberigo nodded and we rose.

Being a woman, I received several looks and even a whisper from Pedro and his father; I would be excused.

I didn’t want to go, but I had to. My feelings of guilt meant that I couldn’t just walk away. I needed to see it.

We walked from the council chamber to the Malnobla’s entry, Sef also with us. On the way we passed Pedro’s mother who stood there with Maria. She’d also heard the news. Pedro and I both kissed our sleepy daughter, leaving her for a little while longer in her grandmother’s care.

Our group was flanked by half a dozen priests and monks, and a dozen of the Lord’s own men. The front doors opened to let us step out and into the cool night. The air held a strong and bitter scent, seeing me turn to Kurgar and ask, “What is it?”

With wide eyes, he said, “Oleander!”

Across the square where the Cathedral and its spires rose above the city, a small crowd prayed by candlelight. Some of them tended smouldering braziers. From those burners and others unseen in the streets about us, the city wore a shroud of swirling smoke.

Saint Santana had found her followers.

Our sombre procession of coaches passed through the city’s empty streets, and everywhere we went the air hung heavy with the stink of burnt oleander, but it seemed like roses compared to what greeted us. We stopped in front of a disused port warehouse. It was huge, built of faded grey timber, and run down with its doors and windows boarded up. In front of its main doors stood four priests and two patrols of militia; they’d all tied cloths over their noses and mouths.

How could such a stench only now have been noticed? How long had the locals known something was wrong within a warehouse that reeked of a corruption so rich?

The militia captain handed out face cloths, hesitating as he reached out to me. He looked with apprehension, but I took the offered cloth before he could take it back, leaving him to shake his head as he continued on in his duties.

A masked priest came up to us. “They were found only this evening, it was the stink that gave them away. It looks like most of them have been killed elsewhere and then brought here.” He began to turn away, but stopped. “There’s no shame in revulsion, only proof of your decency.”

Behind him I noticed that some of the militiamen wore stained shirts. The sour smell of vomit lay as an undercurrent to the sweet reek of decay.

A crowd had started to gather. They’d followed the coaches and suspected why we were here. We’d arrived with a handful in tow, but now scores waited. Some of them wept while most stood in silence. They were waiting, waiting for answers.

Lord Liberigo looked to each of us and then nodded that we were ready.

A priest opened the door.

Six priests led us in while burning incense and chanting the prayer for the dead. The militiamen stayed outside and were glad of it, but many of Lord Liberigo’s men who’d accompanied us on the coaches now carried lanterns to light our way. We entered the dusty warehouse like a funeral march, and only to leave a rising tide of mourning behind us in the street.