The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  Grateful, I took my hands away from my face.

  Her supportive sounds died as her eyes filled with horror.

  Behind her, Sef took a step back in surprise.

  What was wrong?

  She reached for my cheeks with hesitant hands. “Oh Juvela!” With trembling fingers she wiped at my tears – they came away bloodied. She whispered, “Just like your grandmother!”

  And that is how it began.

  2

  -

  The Mint Ladies

  -

  I tried to forget the dark happenings of the previous week by losing myself in the preparations for my coming-of-age.

  It didn't work.

  Nothing relieved the sense of guilt that haunted me. I just kept seeing that poor boy’s innocent but deathly face.

  I'd witnessed one of the child thefts, and the true nature of the crime; its link to magic was as much a problem as the abduction itself. Simply, I'd seen something I should've been blind to. To report it would incriminate myself.

  The Inquisition might be forbidden to enter Ossard, but the Church could easily arrange my arrest and send me to them. I had to be careful. Such an arrest and consequent journey to the Holy City of Baimiopia wouldn’t end well, particularly for a young woman, and even more so for a lonely Flet.

  Mother demanded that I say nothing – and damn the stolen boy!

  As a reward for my grudging agreement, she finally offered to explain something else; my bloody tears were a sign of my own awakening. She then made me vow never to speak of it again.

  It was a vow I couldn’t keep.

  Two days later, I asked her about what she'd said regarding my grandmother. She snapped at me and reminded me of my vow. Her anger came fiery and quick, but it wasn’t built of fury, instead it was founded on terror.

  I am not and never have been stupid, even for a girl forced to suffer an education of little more than grooming, appropriate conversation, and how to smile without showing too much red lip or teeth. I suspected that my long-dead grandmother had also held an affinity for the forbidden arts, but confirming that wasn’t going to be easy. Certainly, it was something that would take time, and that meant it would have to wait until after my traditional outing for my coming-of-age.

  -

  Ossard crowded at the Cassaro River’s mouth, the river’s waters passing through the city after snaking along the valley that stretched out to the east. Its chill flow ran for days through the rugged Northcountry, marked on its way by rapids, waterfalls, and a wild and icy source up amongst the interior’s snow-capped peaks.

  Those mountains rose up not just inland, but all about the Northcountry. They were dotted with exhausted silver mines – the same mines that had long ago fuelled the city's growth. Today, they hosted the miners’ graves, along with gangs of bandits, and a thick spread of impoverished farming hamlets.

  Once the Northcountry had built Ossard, now it fed it.

  And just as the land had once brought riches to the city, now the sea likewise delivered. Its deep grey waters, Ossard's lifeline, brought food, trade, and on occasion even refugees.

  The Flets, my people...

  My family and I are descendants of refugees, from the thousands upon thousands who fled a war waged against our people by the Lae Velsanans two centuries before. Those dark days, Def Turtung, The Killing, lay behind our people, but far from forgotten.

  We Flets are proud survivors of such catastrophe. In truth, if such calamities were omitted from our history little else would remain.

  Today, the Flets of Ossard met passing Lae Velsanans with animosity and distrust, but preferably not at all. In such a climate, violence between our two peoples wasn’t unknown.

  Myself, I'd never seen any blood spilt in the feud, but for that matter I'd never even seen a Lae Velsanan in the flesh. I’d been told that they looked like us, but stood taller, leaner, and, it was grudgingly admitted, finer. I found it hard to picture such beings as Flet-hating beasts.

  Since arriving in Ossard, our family's bloodline had mixed on occasion with our more numerous Heletian hosts, but our roots remained obvious – as they did for one third of the city. My family, with its blonde and blue-eyed Flet heritage, had never been able to climb above the rank of a relatively successful mercantile family, even with a good portion of luck. As I grew older, I realised that my birth had marked the end of that good fortune.

  My mother had suffered a terrible labour delivering me, something that had threatened her life, savaged her health, and brought bloody ruin to her womb. My parents needed sons, not a solitary daughter. Even before I’d taken my first breath I’d failed them.

  Despite the disappointment of having only one child, and a daughter at that, our household was still full of love.

  Our family stood as one of the most successful within the Flet community, we had not only wealth, but also respect – being generous benefactors to the Flet Guild. Due to our family's well-known civic nature, we even shared some goodwill from the Heletians, but in the end, to them at least, we were still Flets.

  Growing up in a place where one's people are victimised can be a cruel experience, but also builds character. As my coming of age approached, and with the lotus warming me to the idea, I became determined to catch a man's eye that would help my parents. Simply, I had to marry a Heletian, specifically the son of a powerful family or a wealthy widower.

  In Ossard, coming of age happened on a young man or woman's seventeenth birthday – a year late compared to most Heletian League states. As with so many things, Ossard was slightly out of step with the rest of the League, partly due to its Flets, but also because of its isolation. Regardless, when the day came I was ready.

  At seventeen I stood slightly above average height with long arms and legs, all of it topped by blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. It was often said I had been blessed with the attractive looks of my mother.

  Politeness is double-edged.

  It’s true that my skin lay smooth and unblemished, but it’s also true that my face hung only neat and plain on an unremarkable frame. At the time I hoped it would grow into something worthy of the compliments. It never did.

  It was the day of my first outing, an Ossard tradition at a young lady's coming of age. In essence, I would be dressed up, reminded of my manners, and then put on show with a chaperone. An outing's new lady was referred to as a Mint Lady, meaning fresh.

  Wearing a new dress gifted to me by my proud parents, I was to be escorted out by a young group led by a distant cousin. On that sunny afternoon, my father and beaming mother saw our two open-topped coaches off at the door with Sef.

  My father had arranged for us to go to a fine establishment that overlooked the sea north of the main port. The venue, Rosa Sorrenta's, was the place for the young of the Heletian upper ranks to be seen. In all, it was an outing someone such as myself should aspire to, but never too seriously expect to achieve. That I was going at all was a gift in itself.

  We were all dressed in finery; in the lead coach my cousin and his new wife, and another relation with his betrothed. Also accompanying us were two family friends, both Flet Mint Ladies in their own rights. We three mints sat in the final coach.

  I was so dosed up on lotus – courtesy of my anxious mother – that I kept forgetting my companions’ names. Lost in that haze, I just knew that my objective was to find a husband, and looking at the competition, I felt that I wouldn’t be hindered despite being so plain. Forgive my unkind honesty, but one sat as burdened as a heifer, while the other had the face of a horse – an old horse fed on lemons. We spoke little, those nameless girls and I, but we all knew the truth of the day. Following the coach of our chaperones, the three of us sat studying each other and exchanging the most cordial of pleasantries, Horseface, Heifer, and me – Plainface.

  The three of us wore similar dresses in the fashion of the time. They were all substantial, well covering, of rich fabric, and showed off a little of the curve of the hip and bosom – a taste if
you like. White lace showed through in places as a symbol of our purity, but lay amidst the strong colour of the main body of each dress; mine a deep blue, Heifer's an emerald green, and Horseface's a brave violet that verged on burgundy. No one wore red; that would have sent out a whole new round of messages, none that our families were ready to associate with.

  The main streets of Ossard were cobbled, seeing our meandering ride towards the northern district in the late summer sun as one of lazy pleasure. Before long we were earning glances from men alongside the road, all flattering and good-natured. Our duties of maintaining fixed, polite, but disinterested smiles in response to their looks and whistles became a challenge in itself. The longer it lasted, the more we gave in to quiet giggles as the iciness between us melted.

  During our progress through Ossard’s streets another challenge brought itself to my attention; my undergarments were too tight. Some of the lacings felt as though they were cutting into me, a thing made worse by the constant rocking of the coach. I began rehearsing the conversation in my mind, the one that saw my mother scolding me for bleeding inside my dress. My reply would be that she shouldn't have laced me up quite so strictly just to hide one of my more popular attributes with the gents, my breasts.

  The streets flew by, the buildings changing in nature from the stout stone buildings of the market quarter, all signed and well kept, to the less affluent districts that would never be as successful as those on the high ground and main streets. Here the buildings were predominantly wood, some little more than daub-and-cane.

  Horseface spoke, dragging me from my whimsy, “There was another kidnapping last night.”

  I paled.

  Heifer asked, “Where?”

  Horseface indicated a passing alley. “This district, another boy stolen from his bed.”

  Looking down the shadowed lane, a place lined with litter, occasional stalls, and a steady flow of residents, it seemed so unlikely. I asked, “Another Flet?”

  “Of course,” she said with exasperation.

  My father had said that the crowded slums, the most poorly governed districts of the city, were simply the logical place for such diabolical crimes. They were also home to the bulk of the Flet population, not just in Newbank, but also to a lesser degree in the low-lying districts on the Cassaro’s other side. It was just a matter of circumstance. Regardless, we all knew it would take the theft of a Heletian child before the city’s authorities took action.

  In a fading voice, Heifer said, “My nephew disappeared a week ago.”

  Had he been the redheaded boy?

  Horseface and I didn't know what to say. Her words left me numb, but nonetheless I found myself reaching across to pat her knee. “The Guild’s looking to help, my father’s talked to Heinz Kurgar, its head.”

  Heifer nodded as she fought to hold onto her composure.

  Horseface thankfully changed the subject, putting on a mischievous grin, “Look, we're in the port!”

  She was right, and we were all glad of it.

  We passed along the edge of the district, one side of the road spreading as a seemingly endless row of warehouses, while the other lay thick with taverns, hostels, and brothels. We were supposed to be ignorant of the latter so we tried not to stare, but still took our time to look them over.

  The amount of attention we gained from the stevedores, sailors, and other big men who worked the port thrilled us. From the small crowds outside taverns, to men walking the streets. None of them were shy or polite, and few of them settled for just a smile or a wink. They were free with suggestions, both in voice and action, and bold enough to see us blush while they cheered.

  In front of a bar, to the roar of a crowd, one burly but drunk Flet stevedore pulled down his britches to let his proud manhood out.

  I should have been mortified, instead I could barely contain myself.

  I’d had far too much lotus!

  We left that seedy place, heading up a rise to the northern district of the city. The quarter was built upon a small hillock that rose from the valley-side to loom over the port, it holding the homes of Ossard’s elite. I looked upon the ornate facades of the exclusive homes we began to pass, many with manicured gardens, walls, and even guards. With few exceptions, the district held an exclusively Heletian population.

  Fate would allow a few maidens of Flet-blood to be married to the district's eligible sons, but less than a handful every year. My plain looks could jeopardise my greatest hope. For a moment I considered my travelling companions; if I doubted my chances, what hope could they have?

  For all of us, I slipped into nervous misery.

  We passed by Ossard's second cathedral, Saint Baimio's, its two spires dominating the skyline of the quarter, and from the hilltop the city below. As with all the spiritual places within Ossard, it lay as part of the Church of Baimiopia, the only legal faith in the lands of the Heletian League. The stone building, vaulting and carved, stood exclusively for the wealthy locals, stopping them from having to mix with the commoners in Ossard's first cathedral and lesser churches.

  While the city stood united in faith, it knelt divided in prayer.

  Our coaches finally turned for the cliffs at the west end of the district. My heart fluttered, the sight of gulls and the scent of the sea telling me that we were nearly there.

  In moments, I’d be helped out of the coach and into the glory of Rosa Sorrenta's.

  I prayed, a silent thing offered up to Schoperde, the Flet god of love and life. “May today find me a caring and wealthy husband, one who can uplift my family and me.” Our people maintained no public temples to her or our other gods, but we kept our secret beliefs alive. The Heletians’ faith didn’t ring true to us, although we did feign piety.

  The coaches rounded a bend and came into a street of brightly painted buildings, many fronted by window boxes full of well-cared-for blooms. There were wine bars, high-class taverns, theatres, and finally, up ahead, Rosa Sorrenta’s. Upon sighting it a tingle of excitement started in my belly and grew.

  Our coaches slowed to a stop, waiting for one parked ahead at Rosa Sorrenta’s doors. I tried not to stare, but its dismounting passengers were young gentlemen, Heletians at that, and all tall, dark, and handsome.

  I noticed the blue, red, and black crest of the Liberigo family, the rulers of Ossard, on the opened coach door. The Lord's youngest son then stepped out from the coach to the street. His appearance left me stunned and anxious.

  Pedro Liberigo was tall and solid with an olive complexion of near perfect skin, well-tailored clothes hugged him tightly, showing off a good frame covered in muscles’ meat. He turned to look at our waiting coaches, his sculpted face thoughtful and finished with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He exuded confidence, just like the man of my lotus-fuelled dreams. For a moment his mouth moved with the beginnings of a welcoming smile.

  He then looked away to break the spell.

  Horseface and Heifer gasped, one of them whispering, “He looked at us, did you see!”

  Such hopeful words...

  Then, as we watched, he glanced back and gazed directly at me.

  My fellow mints let out another round of gasps.

  In a heartbeat the moment was over. He and his friends had gone inside and their coach was leaving. It left me breathless, but also meant we were free to go forward: It was our turn to join the parade.

  Rosa Sorrenta's stood three floors high with its exterior covered in a subtle pink render, something akin to that of sun-bleached oleander blooms. Planters full of flowering geraniums nestled beneath window frames finished in gold leaf, it all giving a taste of the reputed beauty within.

  For my own part, I wanted to see the glory that had given the establishment its name, its rose garden – the cliff-side courtyard was said to be amongst Ossard's delights. But now, most of all, I wanted to catch another glimpse of Pedro Liberigo.

  Had he really been looking at me?

  Two doormen came forward to help us down from our coach. They w
ore cobalt blue uniforms, white leggings with matching caps, and reached up with white-gloved hands to steady our descent upon a set of portable steps. Once down, I looked about as I waited to be joined by Heifer and Horseface, and when reunited, we all shared a moment of innocent joy.

  My cousin met us, leading the rest of our party.

  Once everyone stood ready, he nodded to the doormen. Impassively, and in perfect unison, they swung open the gold leafed double doors.

  The doors opened into a wide hall to reveal a beautifully chequered pink and white marble floor, from which the walls rose covered in burgundy suede, and highlighted in gold. Alongside both sidewalls climbed staircases leading to private dining rooms.

  A uniformed host awaited us. Without speaking, our host dipped his eyes and gave a welcoming bow, then rose and turned to lead us through the hall and towards the open doors of a dim lounge. The room spread full of comfortable seats, all of them accompanied by small side tables lit by lamps capped with amber-tinted glass. We passed through the room towards another set of double doors manned by two more doormen.

  The lounge was a social place, a space for fine liquor and smoking, and a place at the moment half full. Looking around, I was astounded by the faces I saw. I'd never met any of these people first hand, but I knew of more than half of them. Predominantly, they were of the establishment, and all here to socialise and do business. As we passed, conversations stopped and heads turned; the passage of Ossard’s latest mints always demanded attention.

  We left the lounge through double doors that opened onto a hall servicing half a dozen different rooms, and at its end we entered a long and light space; the Sunroom.

  The radiance and beauty of the Sunroom can only be described as otherworldly. All the woodwork had been painted white, with an absolutely decadent amount of glass fitted into one wall and part of the roof. A floor of white marble spread before us sporting clusters of chairs, all wooden and whitewashed, with matching cushions. An assortment of lush potted plants, huge and outrageous, worked to break up the brilliant space. Groups of patrons sat back enjoying the room’s light and ambience.