The Fall of Ossard (9 page)

I would have screamed, but one of Pedro’s hands had come up to stroke my cheek seeing him inadvertently cover my mouth. I tried to meet his gaze, but he was looking the other way, and with his bulk astride me I was pinned and unable to move about. So, while I tried to get his attention, he just kept working me.

Deeper and deeper…

The robed men stepped out of the darkness to close around us in their long blacks, their features lost to hood and shadow. With them came a chill that stirred a fear in me that was nothing but primal.

We had to get out of here!

The voices in my head grew louder, no longer whispering mumbled words, but joining together in a rising wail.

I tried to scream to get my lover’s attention, but his hand, once a tool of gentle pleasure, now pressed down so heavily that I barely raised a sound. Confused, I bucked, thrusting my hips up into his as I tried to throw him off.

He just rode out my efforts.

Harder and harder…

And then one of the robed men stepped forward.

Pedro turned his head in their direction, but instead of showing surprise, he nodded in greeting. My lover, with sweat from our efforts running down his brow, growled, “Hurry!”

He knew them!

The leader nodded and started a chant, the tongue of it foreign, but its rhythm making it ring out like a prayer. The others were quick to join in.

Panic finally overtook the alcohol and lotus in me, yet I lay helpless under Pedro’s weight.

What could
I
do?

What were
they
going to do?

Were they all going to jump on top of me once Pedro had finished?

It was then that I realised I knew their leader. I was staring into the same cold eyes that had arrogantly watched me as he stole the redheaded boy away. As if in answer to the thought, he snapped his fingers, and the same child appeared, pushed forward to stand mindless before us.

The voices sounding in my head climbed higher, their choral wail growing more intense.

They were terrified!

I struggled again, trying to force Pedro off. His weight made it impossible, and my bucking only seemed to give him more pleasure.

I had to do something!

I bit down on his hand, but he barely flinched. Blood came into my mouth, but he just kept working me.

Faster and faster…

The leader stood there with the child in front of him.

The chanting built in crescendo and then finally peaked.

Casually, as if filleting a fish, the leader opened the child’s throat with a blade and a quick flick of his wrist.

Pedro gave a throaty growl, pushing down so hard into me that I yelped. And with that deep movement my own body responded, trembling as it found its own release.

Then it was done, both he and I, and the red haired boy.

All of us finished.

I lay there with Pedro slumped on top of me, both of us wearing nothing more than sweat; his of exertion, mine of terror.

The boy still stood, held by two of the robed men. They were draining the life from his body, directing the red flow from his wound into a bowl of silver.

The robed leader wet a brush in the bowl, and then began painting something on Pedro’s back.

I shivered.

The leader finished his marking, and then looked to me. He leaned down, his breath on my cheek, and uttered something in the tongue of the chant before kissing me.

Slowly, Pedro removed his bloodied hand from my mouth.

I tried to scream, but no sound came.

All of them laughed at my horrified surprise, even Pedro.

Their leader said, “You will remember this, all of it, but you will never be able to speak of it.” And then he grinned.

He stepped back into the shadows, as did those with him. In a moment, only Pedro and I remained.

The alcohol had long ago relinquished its grip on me, replaced with horror and shame. Pedro knew, but refused to let me become a prude. He pulled out of me as he rolled off, and with his closest hand squeezed one of my breasts. “Perhaps I’ll see you again, Juvela, you are too special to let go.” Then he got up, turned around, and fetched our clothes from where they lay on the paving.

Under the silver-blue moonlight, I could see that the cultist had marked a four-sided diamond on his back. Painted in blood, it now trailed long dribbling lines from the base of his neck running all the way to his butt. He looked to me and smiled, but it wasn’t of shared joy, instead it was of selfish power.

We seemed to be alone, leaving me to wonder if I was safe. I also worried about the time; Isabella had been gone for far too long.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted Sef.

Pedro dressed himself and then helped me. He pulled me up and off the lounge, forcing me into my dress with well-practiced hands. I wondered with disgust; how many other women had he been with?

Then we stood facing each other.

I scowled at him.

Would he or his robed associates ever want to see me again? I hoped not.

This would be the end of it.

He regarded me. “Your dress looks as it should, but let me fix your hair. He fussed over me, his touch lingering, and then he wiped away tears I didn’t remember shedding.

As if nothing had happened, he asked, “How am I, orderly enough?”

Shocked and numb, I whispered, “Yes.” He actually looked magnificent, truly alive and vital, as if he’d been blessed.

He took my reluctant hand and led me along the path.

I felt stunned and confused. My guilty flesh still carried his memory, worse still a part of me revelled in it.

I’d unwittingly been part of a ritual that saw my previous silence on the redheaded boy’s kidnapping mature into the guilt of being present at his murder. I’d also shamed my family.

Voices rose from the stairs, we turned to meet them. I let go of Pedro’s hand.

It was the rest of our party.

I would try and tell them, I had to.

Pedro stepped forward to greet them.

Horseface and Heifer looked tired and bored, but I couldn’t hold their gaze.

My cousin carried the bouquet of roses. The sight of them hurt me; my perfect dream dead.

I tried to speak, to say that a boy had been killed, that forbidden magic had been worked, but my mouth would simply not move. Despite my efforts, neither my voice nor jaw would follow my command.

Pedro watched me. A sparkle in his eye told me that he knew of my plight. I could see his relief.

Isabella appeared out of the darkness behind us.

Had she been there all along?

Her face gave away nothing.

My cousin said, “It’s a good night for a rooftop stroll, but unfortunately the evening must come to an end.” He looked to Pedro and continued, “I must thank you for your invitation to dinner.“

Pedro bowed and looked to me. “It was a pleasure, and a pleasure I’d very much like to have again.”

I shivered.

3

The Coming of Shame

I went through the next few days as if in a trance.

My mother worried, I think she thought I was drifting off, somehow becoming lost to the magic. Struggling with my own guilt, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t have been able to in any case because of the binding their leader had put upon me.

Slowly, I pulled myself out of the haze, helped by my mother reducing the amount of lotus she added to my meals. In the end, I reminded myself, it hadn’t been me drawing the blade across the boy’s throat. I was just a witness. If anything, I was also a victim - if perhaps a luckier one.

And so I went on, trying to soothe my troubles away. It didn’t work, not at first, but soon I found some solace and my malaise began to fade.

Pedro didn’t call on me, and for that I was glad. I even began to think I could put the whole thing behind me and settle for a simpler man.

Until I discovered I was pregnant.

Before long I wasn’t the only one who knew. My mother realised and told Father. The maids overheard, and through them the news of my shame spread.

Pedro’s next visit started without the charm of our first meeting.

I was sitting in our household’s courtyard, a place I’d tried to find peace in by greening like Rosa Sorrenta’s famed garden. My efforts had shown some success, but early autumn in Ossard was no time for new roses to take.

I heard the bell ring, and listened as one of our maids attended to it. I expected it to be a messenger - since word of my pregnancy had got out, my parents’friends had stopped calling, all too embarrassed by my condition.

Soft voices hummed, followed by quiet as the maid hurried away to seek my mother.

My parents weren’t speaking to me. They hadn’t since I’d confirmed my pregnancy, something feared by my mother since she’d seen the state of my torn undergarments. Worst of all, she’d also forbidden Sef to talk to me.

The little I did want to say in my defence couldn’t be said; the cultist’s casting blocked every one of my attempts to talk of it. It left my mother and father, and even Sef to think the worst of me.

I heard the click of the front door’s latch; our caller had either left or let himself in. The curiosity as to which saw me turn around. At the same time, a gentle whisper of warning swirled about me.

I looked up to see Pedro step through an opened door that led into the courtyard. Once on the cobbles, he just stood there and gazed at me. After a pause he swallowed and said, “Juvela, how are you?”

“I’m well,” I said in a shaking voice as I got to my feet.

He came forward, retrieving something from his belt. He stopped before me and then moved to offer it; a small leather pouch. As our hands met, he looked to me and said, “This is medicine from Evora, it will end your
malady
.”

Speechless, I didn’t accept it.

His eyes widened. “You must take it. Have your maid mix it into a broth…”

“May I help you?” My mother’s voice cut off his words.

We both turned to see her stepping into the courtyard, the maid behind her in the shadows. Sef also stood in the house, watching, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword while his face flushed red. I’d never seen him so tense.

Pedro turned and bowed, closing his fist over the pouch. “Lady Van Leuwin, I am Pedro Liberigo.”

She stared at him. “I know who you are.” And it was obvious that she did. “Have you come to belatedly ask for her hand?”

Pedro stood stunned and for once his charming tongue lay still.

I paled at the suggestion.

My mother stepped forward. “Well, have you?”

To his credit, he stood his ground. “No, I’ve not come to ask for her hand. I’ve come to speak with her regarding topics of mutual interest.”

I spoke up, my tone weak, “He’s come to give me a brew to kill
our
child.”

Pedro winced.

My mother’s eyes gleamed, as if given permission to slake her thirst for his blood. She growled, “What kind of man are you? No Fletman would hear of such a thing. You Heletians have no honour!”

He nearly choked, his own face turning red. Finally, fired by his wounded pride, he spat back, “Maybe so, but Heletian men can’t have any less honour than Flet women - she is looser than a tavern wench!”

My fists bunched and my lips trembled. “You liar! You have dishonoured me and my family, and stolen something precious and dear!” and then the rest of my words died, my jaw locking as my rage saw me try and tell of the ritual, his corruption, and the murder. Frustrated, I could only curse.

Pedro grinned, realising that his master’s sorcery had silenced me. He turned back to my mother, but as men do, he lost his courage in the face of a woman so enraged. In that moment she had all the power - something I was famished for.

She walked up to him and pointed an accusing finger. “You will do the right thing, and there is only one right thing to do.”

He stared incredulously. “What, marry her? A plain Flet maiden from a common family?”

My mother answered in a voice cold enough to silence the heavens, “Your family is hearing of this right now, as is the mercantile, stevedoring, seafarers’, and Fletlander guilds. Our shame is becoming your shame, and there will be only one way to soothe it: You will marry her!”

Both Pedro and I were stunned by the news. The shame of it all, the whole city would know by dusk!

He glared at her, only to be distracted like all of us by the sound of urgent knocking from the front door.

My mother called to the maid, “See to it!”

We heard the door open, followed quickly by the stomp of booted feet. In moments the courtyard began to fill with men at arms in the livery of the Liberigo’s, a dozen of them, and amongst them Lord Liberigo himself. The men at arms arrayed themselves to either side of their lord, a tall, broad, but lean man, without his youngest son’s looks. Lord Liberigo stood stern and hard. This was a man who did business, and did it quickly.

Sef moved to stand beside my mother.