by Colin Taber
And then, as though rising from a pleasant slumber, the true Lord and Lady of Ossard shifted a little from side to side, their hands sliding up to rest on their breasts. With a soft sigh, their throats both bobbed to swallow, and then their eyes fluttered open.
Pedro gasped.
I held my breath, waiting for one of them to make a sound.
Angela turned a little, her eyes finding focus. She seemed to see Pedro and me, and then Silva lying beside her. She swallowed again, and then reached with her closest hand to take her husband’s.
The motion caught his attention, seeing him turn to her.
Their first sounds weren’t words, but sobbing, and then, with moans of pain and groans of discomfort, they rolled to embrace each other.
Here was sadness; the mourning of their own deaths – and they knew that’s what they’d been through, and yet, at the same time, here flowed tears of joy at a miraculous second chance.
Watching them, Pedro and I leaned over them to embrace each other, our own tears running to join with theirs.
And about all of us flowed my power, running to heal them and then drain away. It was the last of my store from my soul-feeding, and as it left, I felt both cleansed of it, yet aching, for the hunger that had fetched it – the divine addiction – remained.
-
Dawn came with as much joy as had the middle of the night – and a surprise. For eventually, as Angela and Silva, and Pedro and I recovered from our tears, we noticed that the light of the lamp above us had begun to falter.
My first thought was that the lamp’s oil was running low, for a good deal of time had passed, but as I looked up, I realised that something was blocking the glow of its flame: At a glance, the lamp seemed to have sprouted leaves.
Leaves?
Together, we all rose to our knees, bringing ourselves closer to the lamp. Upon inspection, we could see that it wasn’t the lamp that had sprouted leaves, but instead the wood of the cart’s roof frame.
Two sets of supple timber, oiled and well kept, crossed above to support a canvas canopy where I’d hung the lantern, and from where they’d begun to prickle with red shoots. As we watched, the new growth sprouted along the timbers’ lengths as it came to life. More and more came forth, growing only thicker until it began to not just obscure the light of the lamp, but also the canvas of the cart’s roof.
Pedro’s mother whispered into a stunned quiet, the silence only broken by the rustle of unfolding maroon leaves. “Oh Juvela, what have we missed?”
I couldn’t answer her.
Pedro, for once without a trace of fear, marvelled. “It’s a miracle!”
His father agreed. “Yes, another from a long night full.”
Angela said, “Truly, for I’d thought them all gone.”
We all turned to her.
Meeting our gaze, she asked, “Don’t you recognise it?”
None of us did.
“It was lost before the coming of any of us into the world, but I’ve seen it in collections as pressed leaves and dried flowers, and on tapestries, paintings and flags.”
I still wasn’t sure of what she meant.
She went on, “It’s a rosetree; Ossard’s symbol.”
As we turned back to it, the first of its buds pushed forward through spreading leaves. Quickly it fattened and swelled, edged in a healthy red, and then, with a snap, burst open to spread white petals.
With reverence, she whispered, “It’s beautiful.”
We could only agree.
A commotion of voices saw us reluctantly turn from the blooming lamp and go to the back of the cart. Pedro pushed aside the canvas, revealing the men who’d camped outside, rising in growing alarm in the last of the predawn grey.
They were staring and pointing at the cart – not us, but its frame.
Quickly, they came forward and helped us down, as the cart’s boards began to groan, crack and shift.
Stepping back, we could see groping roots run out from each of the cart’s four corners to reach for the ground. On finding it, the tendrils flexed to burrow down deep, seeking the softer soil at the sides of the road. Meanwhile, maroon leaves sprouted from atop the cart, appearing through tears in the roof.
Between the noise of the surprised men around us and our own joy, others awoke. Soon, amidst a growing crowd, as the eastern sky coloured pink, orange and gold, we watched the rosetree return to the Northcountry.
The rosetree grew taller, tearing the canvas apart and letting the planks of any other timber or metal in the cart’s frame fall to clatter on the gravel of the trail. I realised then that it wasn’t one tree, but four, with one rising from near where each corner of the cart had been.
Before the sun had cleared the horizon, the cart was just a pile of timber, wheels and loose gear upon the road. Meanwhile, the rosetrees now stood leaved in maroon, already maturing into a deep green, while blooms of white dotted the canopy. And at the heart of it, of that lush living roof, still hung the lit lamp.
Someone in the gathering crowd cried, “Who can doubt Ossard’s Rose?”
And the call was taken up.
Before I knew it, there wasn’t a small group of dozens there, but hundreds, and it kept growing. Baruna and Kurt were suddenly beside me rubbing the sleep from their eyes, as were Maria and my parents.
My daughter called out, excited, but oblivious to the rosetrees, “Grandma, Grandpa!” and ran to the Liberigos.
Truly, it had been a night of miracles.
-
Despite the wonder at dawn’s events, I insisted that we get our people to break camp and get back on the road. While the Loyalist refugees would have mostly stopped with nightfall, they’d already be resuming their disorganised march, bringing them closer.
I hoped that they’d not follow us up the hillside. I wanted them to take a different way, ideally heading further east up the Cassaro or to the vales that could be found to the south. In my mind, I thought it too dangerous for our two groups to meet; people would still be confused, angry and frightened so soon after Ossard’s fall. With such raw feelings anything could happen. Besides, if any did share our road, we needed to be the first to pass through whatever villages we might yet see: We didn’t want to be finding only markets or farms with nothing left to sell, or, worse still, to arrive and discover Marco’s Ruin already claimed.
I was waiting for word of our readiness to move, standing by the rosetrees, when I noticed something on a low hanging branch.
Seeds!
I took them. They were small, shiny and black, like a snake’s eyes, five in all, and as hard as rock. As I put them in a pocket, I checked the nearest branches for more, but there weren’t any.
Not yet...
Baruna called, “We’re ready, word’s been passed along!“
I nodded. “Alright, let’s go.”
And then, as Baruna and I began to climb aboard our coach, we heard the first of many calls rise from further down the ridge.
We both stopped and turned.
It wasn’t clear what the commotion was, but soon, amidst the odd captured word yelled up the zig-zagging trail that marked the hillside – and perhaps more from the sight of people pointing back down the curving valley to the west – we realised that something had been seen.
Loyalists!
There they were. First a few, then a group, then more, all marching around the bend of the valley and coming into view. The beginnings of their number looked to be a disorganised rabble, and I think the ones that led the procession were, but soon we began to see that there was a pattern to them, and not just that, but that they carried banners of white and yellow, and flags of black, navy and gold.
The sounds of singing came to us, the chorus distant and weak. They were the songs of the Church, being offered up as thanks to Krienta for sparing the singers from the city’s doom.
Compared to what we’d witnessed spilling out of Ossard’s northern gates, it was obvious that someone had organised them.
&
nbsp; Anton?
Their fluttering banners certainly spoke of their allegiance.
Baruna asked, “What shall we do?”
“Nothing. Hopefully they’ll take another road.” And then I called out so that those on the ridgeside below could hear, “As planned, we move off to seek shelter. Move quickly, but with dignity.”
We turned back to the coach. Baruna again climbed up to sit beside Kurt, him helping her and smiling as she nestled in beside him.
I said, “Lead off,” as I stepped up and into the coach’s cab. Inside, on one side sat Lord Silva Liberigo and Lady Angela, while on the other facing them were Pedro and Maria.
Pedro put his arm around me while Maria smiled and wriggled to get comfortable. My husband said, “Is all well?”
I nodded. “Well enough.”
Silva and Angela smiled at us, glad to see some warmth there.
I said, “It’s time for some explanations and recounting of events since you were all kidnapped...”
Silva raised his hand to quieten me. “Not now. You’re exhausted, we can see that, and you’ve done so much for us, even if we can’t comprehend how. Rest and sleep in your husband’s arms. Later, when we’re all rested, you can tell us of the doom that has overrun Ossard.”
Despite my exhaustion, I wanted to tell them of all that had happened, to share the burden I felt at having so many people depend on me. But I was tired, so very tired, and his words, like a charm, drew me into sleep. My eyes closed, and then all I knew was the comfortable seat, the rhythmic rocking of the coach, and Pedro’s arm about my back while my loving daughter lay across my lap.
It was time for my family to sleep.
Chapter 2
-
Sef
-
Sef came to, finding himself sprawled out on his back in the dark, sore and stiff. He shifted, suddenly aware of uncomfortable lumps between his shoulderblades and the damp flagstones of the floor. He groped about beneath himself, picking something up and bringing it to his bloody and swollen nose. Even in the battered state he was in, he could place the pungent smell.
Garlic?
The cell seemed empty, but for himself and that mysterious dusting of cloves. As he rubbed carefully at his head, he thought it all so strange, but what hadn’t been of late?
The world was changing...
By all the gods, he hoped so!
He could also feel something else; a link that Juvela had forged between them, a kind of divine mark. It wasn’t one of hate, but instead of life and love. He didn’t know how it worked, but he could sense that she’d learn almost everything that’d happened to him, and that it’d also serve to offer protection. Wiping dried blood from his battered face, he figured that was exactly what he’d need in the coming days.
Not just a little protection, but a lot of it!
The thought saddened him, and as he lay there alone in the dark absolute, he came to the edge of hating himself, for nothing good would come of his fate. Not locked away under the Malnobla with his life in the hands of Kurgar and his fellow cultists. Now, when they came for him, poor Juvela would know of every agony until the final moment of his death. Despite what protection she might offer, in the end, if they insisted on carving out his heart or taking off his head, he would succumb to such a mortal wound.
And poor Juvela would no doubt blame herself.
Sweet Juvela, I don’t know how you’re sensing this, whether you’re conscious of my every thought, or whether it comes to you in quiet moments, or as whispers in your dreams. Regardless, you need to be strong and ignore my fate, because you have so much else to do. Grieve not, just think well of me, for you’ll be my soul’s respite in my coming trials.
You are my final sanctuary.
Sef sat up and groaned. With a slow movement, he stretched out his hands and gathered what cloves he could find, wondering how long he could put off having to eat them. Somehow, he doubted other food was going to arrive any time soon.
After Juvela had left the rooftop with her family, he hadn’t even been able to watch her go before Seig had set about knocking him senseless, joined by half a dozen of his former brothers of Kave. Now, here he was, who knew how long after, sore and sorry, and locked down below. Yet, at least he knew that Juvela had come into her truth, accepted it, and escaped.
In the end, the only bad outcome was of his being left behind – and while that was bitter, he’d stomach it.
It could have been so much worse!
He groaned afresh as he made to stand, his movements awkward and pained. He wasn’t certain, but nothing seemed to be broken, if but close to it. To be honest, he was surprised he was still alive. What he could remember of the beating had been severe, of boots and fists, and even a club, and then being thrown down a set of steps. That’s where his memory of it ended.
But Juvela’s grace remained. He could feel its tingle as it aided his bruised and tired body, working to heal his many pains.
He began to move in the dark, a thing so complete that nothing could be seen. The air was stale and stank of the damp, with no other sound but his shuffling steps and ragged breathing.
After a moment, he became aware that in that he was wrong. There was something else; another set of lungs also worked the same wet air. He stilled himself and listened.
A regular wheeze sounded from somewhere nearby.
He whispered on reflex, without thinking if it wise, “Who’s there?” For already the darkness had become a sprouting seed of misery.
After a moment, an answer came, sounding as little more than a strained gasp, “By all that’s holy...” the voice was that of a Heletian man, gurgling up from blood soaked lungs.
“Speak to me, man! Where are you, do you need help?”
The next few heartbeats held only silence.
“Talk to me!” And Sef felt about in the dark to discover stonewalls on three sides and a set of heavy bars on the fourth. He stood there gripping them, begging, “Friend, I’m here! Talk to me?”
A gasp sounded, some wet coughing, and then the rustle of someone dragging themselves across the floor’s damp stones. The sound came from his right. A voice then rose, stronger this time, but still painfully fragile, “I... I’m coming to the bars, towards your voice. Talk to me, talk please, for I fear I’ve not got long left.”
Sef winced, the big Flet squatting down and reaching through the bars, and around, to find the bars of the neighbouring cell. While he did, he kept talking, “Come to me, man. I’m here with my hand on the bars of your very own cell. Come to me, for I offer comfort and anything else that I might be able to do to help!”
The poor man’s rasping breath strained, marked by the gurgling of blood. Sef could hear the man close, and then a cool and clammy hand clumsily grabbed at his own.
The contact filled Sef with relief.
He gripped it tightly. “Take heart, my friend, for like me you’re no longer alone. We’re in this together.”
And with Sef’s words power flowed, of life, healing and hope. It was a blessing from Juvela.
Sef held the man’s hand, yet felt the grip relax. At first he panicked, holding him tighter, but then he calmed as the sounds of a soothing slumber arose from the dark of the next cell.
-
Sef awoke later, still holding the hand of the man in the cell next to his. His friend remained asleep, but now lightly snoring, a sound quickly joined by Sef’s stomach as it offered up its own growling commentary.
He had no idea what time it was, though he figured at least a day had passed, but there was no way to be sure. The two of them seemed to have been locked away and forgotten – after they’d received their beatings.
Thankfully, Sef seemed to have received a less savage affair than what had befallen his friend. The poor wretch had been barely able to move before Juvela’s grace had come to take him into a healing slumber.
Sef wished him good health.
He didn’t want to be alone down here, even if it was
only to be for a brief time until someone in the Malnobla above remembered him locked away.
And that was the real question; what then?
Such thoughts brought Juvela to mind – and another prayer.
Juvela, almost my own daughter, and indeed my saviour, don’t feel any guilt at my being left behind.
I now have company in a nameless friend, even if he hasn’t yet spoken beyond a gasp. I hope he’ll heal more, and in that lays both my resolve and my short term happiness. Wish me well, but don’t fret, for I’ll face whatever comes with no regrets – and hold only love for you.
You are our world’s last hope and my soul’s refuge.
Sef gave the man’s hand a gentle squeeze and then got up to stretch out his own sore limbs. After that, it was time to explore his surroundings.
The cell was of a fair size, about four paces by four, with the ceiling not far over his head. There was a drain in one corner, something that caught the gathered damp from the walls, but also stank to indicate that it was to be used as a privy. The drain lay in the same back corner that shared a wall with his neighbour’s cell.
Sef wondered; did it end at the city’s sewers or perhaps just a dead end cesspit?
With a brave face, Sef rolled up his sleeves as he got down to the floor, and then with a wince more belonging to a princess, thrust one of his arms down its slime-covered throat. He couldn’t help but groan as he groped around in the dark.
He wanted to find something to offer him hope, some convenient loose stones would have suited, something that might see him able to widen the drain and then slide through the tight and rancid mess. Instead, he just found himself stirring up foul lumps of filth and a whole new round of stench.
The hole dropped a hand-span before merging with a similar opening from his neighbour’s cell, and then, together, the joint tunnel fell away from the back wall towards an unknown end.
After taking a deep breath, he thrust his arm down again and even his head, trying to discover what he might about the tunnel’s final run. He felt about gauging what he could and wondered; was it wide enough to be of any help?
