The Fall of Ossard (16 page)

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.

Bare wooden floors met us, only marred by the remains of broken crates. Cobwebs stretched about, some reaching up to cover the thick beams above our heads. The high roof was barely visible beyond our lanterns’light while the distant walls were also lost to darkness.

Pedro walked beside me, and for the first time since we’d met I found his presence reassuring. In that moment I needed him. We needed each other. All of us in that group did.

The air grew chill, a light mist giving each lantern a soft glow. The sombre voices of the chanting priests left me feeling as though we were crossing from one world into another – perhaps into the realm of the dead. Maybe for those moments we did.

Something terrible had happened here.

The floorboards we walked upon sparkled with frost.

The priests not already chanting began to recite prayers. They knew, and somehow I did, that the cold mist and dusting of ice remained as an echo of the magic that had been worked here. As if to remind us, the carpet of white crunched underfoot with each of our steps.

Gently, the voices in my head rose in a mournful chorus.

We were close now. It lay just ahead.

The men who carried the lead lanterns of our macabre march were the first to reach the victims. The sounds of their gasps and moans warned us, yet nothing could see us prepared.

The light spread with our arrival to show off the entire scene. The priests continued their chant, only faltering for a moment.

The floorboards rose up as though something huge had crawled into the warehouse to unload its gory cargo. Piled about that gaping hole, arranged in three towers, stood the bloodied remains of scores of children. Most had been dead for a good while, looming as mounds of discoloured flesh and bone. The iced and splintered floorboards surrounding the hole and ghastly monoliths lay covered in forbidden symbols, all of them painted in blood.

A chorus of gasps and moans arose from us. It was too much. The sounds of sobbing and the raw cry of retching filled the air. The chanting of the priests weakened, yet somehow continued - they never stopped.

My vision swam to take on the clarity that came with touching the celestial. With that I could see everything in all its horror and taste the terror of innocent death. And all about us a million celestial sparks danced in the colours of black, violet, and crimson as they glittered along blood-painted symbols. Some of them swirled through the air to be sucked up high and through a matching hole in the roof.

This place was damned!

The Benefice stood in defiance while the rest of us fell back. He bellowed in a voice that drowned out his priests and carried to the crowd in the street, “Behold the work of the dark powers that strive to ruin our city!”

I wiped at my tears and turned to Pedro, who just stood there pale and stunned. I looked to see what had caught his eye; it was the bloody outline of a diamond painted on the frosted floorboards around the closest tower of bodies. It was the same symbol they’d painted on his back when we’d first met.

I took his hand and squeezed it. For long moments he didn’t seem to notice until he turned and said, “We have to stop them, they could have taken Maria!”

Kurgar stood in silence beside us.

Lord Liberigo, normally a stern man with a quick mind, just stood staring at the pit. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how to fight this, I don’t even understand what
it
is.”

The pit yawned open, the lantern light unable to penetrate its depths. It came up from the city’s sewers. My celestial vision showed a constant stream of sparks drifting up on a nonexistent wind like the smoke of a smouldering fire’s steady breath. It seemed to be a residue, a celestial residue. Whatever had happened here was finished.

Benefice Vassini said, “Lord Liberigo, this is a site of powerful magic, ritual magic - a most serious crime. I must insist that we cordon off this building and leave it for the Inquisition to examine upon their arrival.”

Lord Liberigo, still stunned at the carnage, could only agree.

When one of us turned to go, the rest were quick to follow. Some of the priests stayed behind to make notes. In all we left one hundred and one bodies behind in three towers, each with a bloody monolith centred on a different symbol and ringed by more markings.

Together we stumbled out of the building to find a crowd waiting for us in the street. Their eyes and ears wanted answers, but their hearts demanded hope. Our pale faces offered neither.

At that moment, all I wanted from the cruel world was to hold Maria and to know that she was safe. I could see the same thought in Pedro’s eyes. He took my hand and squeezed it. The action stirred my heart. And us? What of us? Despite all that had happened, had we begun to build something new, something crafted of love amidst all this death?

We returned home via the Malnobla to collect Maria. My part in the afternoon’s dramas was not forgotten, but dwarfed by the evening’s events. Once home, Sef left Pedro and I downstairs as he carried our sleeping daughter up to my room and put her to bed. I knew he’d wait with her.

Pedro leaned against the wall and watched Sef go before turning to me. “It’s late and been a full day, as will tomorrow.”

I nodded. “They’re yet to question me…” my words trailed off.

“Are you worried?”

I looked to him hoping that he’d understand. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I saved a child, yet I fear the Church and what it will think of me.” I shook my head.

He stepped forward and put his hands on my shoulders, his touch gentle and warm. “You’ve nothing to fear. Like you said, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re no cultist, you worked no magic, and you’ve never claimed to have anything to do with this new saint.” He stepped closer and slid his arms around me. His embrace was reassuring.

We stood for a while savouring each other’s company - like husband and wife. Finally, he stepped back and let go. Smiling, he said, “Time for bed.” Then he turned and left me.

I wondered if he planned on going to my room or his own. We’d kept separate beds since our marriage and never shared, but tonight I could not only tolerate his touch, after seeing what I’d seen in the warehouse I wanted the comfort it would give.

Our maid watched from the shadows with her mouth open wide. She’d never seen the two of us show any affection for each other. In a flurry she turned and ducked away.

Pedro had already climbed the stairs. Not wanting to be alone, I followed.

I found him standing at his door. He was looking back at me as I got to the top of the landing. He offered a smile, one that was genuine if rosed by blush.

I matched it.

He looked down at his hand on the door before whispering, “Not yet, my wife.” And then he opened his door and passed through to close it behind him. For a while I stood there, but eventually I moved on to my own room.

Sef greeted me. “Are you alright?”

I nodded as I walked past to sit on the bed I shared with Maria. She lay under the covers, her face placid in sleep.

“Are you sure?” Concern filled his eyes.

With a weak voice, I said, “Did you see him?”

“Pedro?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Ah yes, Pedro.”

“He embraced me downstairs. He hasn’t touched me since…”

“Since you were a Mint Lady?” Sef offered.

“Yes.”

He softened his voice, “And did you mind him touching you just now?”

“No, I didn’t want him to stop.”

“Despite what happened when you met?”

“Sef, he’s changed.”

“Yes, he’s a different man, but one we know so little of. Take care in giving yourself to him even if it’s just hopes and dreams. Remember, he doesn’t know of your witchery yet.”

I nodded, and as if to emphasise the point the long and deep lament of Schoperde’s song of sorrow, a Flet prayer for the dead, began to rise over Newbank. Its lingering notes cut through the night while more voices sounded to join it. To Heletians the song was heresy.

Sef turned for the door, but stopped. “Please, Juvela, you’re like a daughter to me, I just want you to be careful.”

I nodded and offered him a smile.

He left.

The song rose strongly outside, it the only sound to disturb the cold night. It seemed my people no longer cared if the truth stood revealed. The parents, families, and friends of the missing demanded time to mourn, and if the Church of Baimiopia couldn’t protect the city from such calamity, then it also couldn’t harm them.

For my own part, led by the sorrow-filled voices in my head, I went to my bedroom’s balcony and joined in. Its long melancholy rose and fell across Newbank, soothing the wounds of loss and asking for mercy for the souls of the dead.

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