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

by Colin Taber

  “What do you mean? Is she also here?”

  “The bitter half, she’s back in the mortal world, but I don’t know where. She’s forced herself into another soul, to nest in it. She’s amongst the living.”

  “Do you mean that she’s here amongst my people?”

  Marco nodded as the Prince answered, “Yes.”

  “Why? What’s she come to do?”

  Marco shrugged while the Prince said, “Who can know, perhaps just to claim life again – or perhaps something else. I hoped you would know something of her goals?”

  That was something I didn’t have to think about. “Revenge.”

  “Against you?”

  I was horrified that he thought so. “No! Against the Inquisition.”

  And then those other words were again whispered, “Grae ru.”

  The Prince said, “Juvela Liberigo, you have the scent of Death on you, but I figure you mostly innocent of such things. You have to watch for her and draw her out. To let her fester in the shadows is like letting a wound go sour, until it finally overcomes you.”

  I nodded as his company again chorused, “Grae ru.”

  He looked to Marco and then back to me. “We will go now that we have shown you to Marco, but be careful, this here is a place of peace. Do not bring the evil of the world inside.” With the last of his words, the mist-woven figures drifted away, leaving me with Marco.

  Marco smiled.

  I asked, “What is this place?”

  “It’s a wonder, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but who are they?”

  “They’re the Ogres, the dead fourth race of man.”

  “I thought they were supposed to be big ugly brutes?”

  He nodded. “Who live in rugged caves, from where they look for man-flesh to chew.” He shrugged. “Or so the nursery rhyme goes, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I laughed with the memory.

  “They’re a gentle people. These ones have told me that they know of none who still live in the Northcountry, just of lost and haunting souls like their own.”

  “And this place?”

  “It’s a monastery that used to sit above a city.”

  “A holy place?”

  “Yes, for it guarded a gateway to what they call a heartwood.”

  “A heartwood?”

  “They are the holy men and women of Life who attended the gate. It leads to a sacred grove, to a place where a tree’s mother-spirit grows.”

  “You’ve talked to them quite a bit?”

  He smiled. “I’ve had the time. You know, they came to aid me, sensing me lost between worlds.” He began to laugh. “And would you believe it, they recognised me!”

  “Recognised you?”

  “From when I was a child camping here with my father.”

  I laughed with surprise. “And what does that phrase mean, the one they keep repeating?”

  “Grae ru?”

  “Yes.”

  “It means, quite literally, too true. It’s very emphatic, meaning a profound truth has been spoken, not something soiled by lies or coloured by exaggeration. It’s just part of how they speak.”

  “Oh,” I paused and asked, “Is the gateway still here?”

  “Yes, but its heartwood died out long ago. They keep away from it, for it grieves them.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, saddened to hear such a thing.

  “So now they’re marooned here.”

  We stood in silence for a moment, before I asked, “What happened to this place? How long ago did it fall into ruins?”

  “They said it was an age ago, when the oceans rose at the end of a great war.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  He nodded. “There’s been a lot to take in.”

  “And what of you, Marco? Were you able to lead your wife and daughter away, or are they still ensnared in the celestial?”

  Some of the joy on his ethereal face faded. “They remain bound with what remains of your grandmother – the good part – in the celestial. I’ll try to return to them when my task here is done.”

  “And you’ve been here with us all along?”

  “Since you left the city, but I couldn’t make myself known to you until I arrived here. The Prince had to show me how, and he’d only do that on the condition that he’d first be introduced to you. They find you intriguing.”

  “Intriguing?”

  His manner seemed to sadden. “Yes, they expected you.”

  “Expected?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s complicated, and they don’t explain everything to me – but they knew you were coming, so have been watching you.”

  “Watching?”

  “I think they just want to be certain of whose side you’re on.”

  “Oh.” And I wondered; wasn’t it obvious?

  “Don’t worry about it, just be yourself and do what’s right. I’m sure they’ll come to be great allies.”

  We talked and the night wore on. It was good to see him, but during our conversation I came to be aware of a sense of caution that haunted both his actions and words. If the Prince was watching me, I came to realise that Marco was, too.

  I’d done something to give him reason to doubt me, to sour his trust, and that saddened me. Worse still, I knew that their concerns were right. I was guilty; I’d tried soul-feeding.

  I was a slave to it – and they knew!

  The thought saw my strength drain away, replaced by tears.

  They knew!

  “Marco, I’m so sorry, I’ve failed you and the others.”

  He just stood there.

  “I’ve failed not just those here, but all the followers of Life.”

  He remained quiet, standing there with a knowing look crafted from drifting mist. Something glittered in his eyes, catching the silver-blue moonlight like sparkling jewels, they were spectral tears.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve failed everyone, for I gave into the temptation of power, power I told myself I’d need to free my family, yet in truth yearned for because once I tasted it, I wanted only more. Now, I find myself craving to feed, and the cravings build until they’re agony!

  “I haven’t fed since I left Ossard, yet I know that the want is there. I fight it and know I mustn’t feed, but as the pain builds, I also know that sooner or later I’ll fail and give in. I’m enslaved to it!”

  His tears rolled from his mist-made cheeks, to fall free and land on the tower’s flagstones like starbursts. He came forward and embraced me, the feeling cool but sheltering. Finally, he said, “It’s alright, that’s the admission we’ve been waiting for. Have peace, we can’t remove your hunger, but the Prince can make it tolerable – for a time. You’re still the one destined to lead us.”

  “Oh, Marco,” I sobbed.

  “Sweet Juvela, tomorrow at noon we’ll come for you and take you through the heartwood’s gate. You must await us on the second terrace between the two fountain halls, and from there we’ll lead you and any who’ll follow you to a hidden place. The heartwood is a great sanctuary and will help you get through the winter.”

  “Marco?”

  “It’s very close. In it you’ll find a woman who’ll instruct you. Hopefully, her support and friendship will also make your condition more bearable.”

  I hugged him back. “Oh Marco, I don’t deserve this.”

  “Hush, Juvela, we’re all flawed. No one’s perfect. Lift your spirits, for tomorrow we’ll deliver you to a place that you and your people may visit, but must respect. You’ll enter the heartwood, and yes, its purpose has passed, but even dead it’s a glorious garden.”

  “Is it true?”

  He smiled. “As our new friends like to say; grae ru. Tomorrow at noon you’ll see it for yourself. Now go back to your husband.”

  -

  I awoke in the morning, wrapped around Pedro and nuzzled into his chest. For the first time in a long while, I felt great hope, enough to lift my spirits. My mood fired my love for him, and that also stir
red my lust. I began to stroke his breast, setting him to wake, and then together we gave into our pleasure. It came with an innocence that had been missing from our bed.

  Despite the heat of our passion, our chamber was cold, more so than the great fires of the common rooms or hot springs normally allowed. The answer for why was close at hand; a storm howled outside, gusting with a rage that came with teeth of ice. This was no taste of winter, but its cold heart.

  With our loving finished, my mind rose out of its relaxed daze to see me consider last night’s events. I got out of bed, for it was time to rise and begin the new day, a day I prayed full of wonders and fresh hope.

  Please, Schoperde!

  Pedro bid me come back to him, excited by my mood. “Juvela?”

  I went to him as he sat up and kissed him. “Come, husband, there’s a surprise for us today.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Something from ages past: The ghosts of this place told me about it last night and will reveal it to all later today. They also offered to try and help me heal.”

  He hugged me tight. “Tell me more.”

  I told him; of them drawing me out through the corridors and into the night, then to the lone tower across the water, and of me meeting them and being reunited with Marco, too. While I did, we washed each other with wet cloths before we dressed, and then we roused Maria, Kurt and Baruna, and our parents. I also told them what had happened, leaving us all hopeful at the news of the heartwood.

  I cautioned them. “We need to remember that it’s now dead, yet still a great garden, but not what it was. We must also respect it, for it’s sacred to our hosts.”

  Baruna asked, “But what exactly is the heartwood, and how can it be both alive and dead?”

  “From what I gather it’s a sacred grove centred on a mother tree. Maybe I can put it better if I call it a tree’s spiritual home. I think it’s the nest for a type of tree, from where the health of its green-race flows.”

  Pedro asked, “There’s a heartwood near here?”

  “It must be behind us in the hills. I’m sure of it, for both Marco’s wife and I’ve dreamt of a lush canyon hidden away there.”

  “But a heartwood for what?” asked Silva.

  I thought I already knew, but it was Angela who answered, “The rosetree, surely.”

  Pedro frowned. “But you said the heartwood’s dead, yet we know that the rosetree has returned?” And hope sparkled in his eyes, as he remembered not just my fevers and moods, but my miracles.

  I shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see. The rosetrees back on the ridge are something we know about, but maybe our hosts don’t. If that’s the case, we’ll have some news with which to repay their hospitality.”

  Silva shook his head, bothered by the unknown of it. “Let’s hope it’s truly a garden, for much of our grain is spoilt and what other food we have also runs low.”

  -

  A storm had rolled in, something that was building up to be a blizzard of snow and ice. Hard winds blasted Marco’s Ruin through the morning and continued to gather in fury. By mid-morning, word came that the front gate was no longer passable as the snow deepened, but none really cared – for most of us had our thoughts on what might happen later between the fountain halls of the second terrace.

  Not long before noon, rugged up against the cold, we gathered there; my inner circle and many others who’d heard the spreading tale. The snow was knee deep, but as noon approached the wind mercifully stilled.

  We stood between the two halls, by their fronts and under the shadow of the towers that loomed above us and over their doors. The air was frigid, yet, as cold as it was, I could feel the air chill even more. What little chatter and mumbled conversations had been amongst us, all of it suddenly died: We all sensed our hosts’ arrival.

  It was time for the heartwood to be revealed!

  We’d gathered around a circle, a space five paces wide. That space now filled with a blue mist that coalesced into the Prince and some of his people.

  Gasps sounded about me, for their size and strapping physiques were impressive, even in death. Before them also stood Marco, drawing a little cry from Baruna. Pedro turned to me, and I nodded, for this would be his first meeting with the ghost of the man who’d fought so hard to tell me where my husband and daughter had been taken.

  The Prince took a step forward. “We welcome you to our home, refuge and guardhouse, for that is what this place is. We ask you to respect it,” his eyes flashed, “or beware our rage.”

  And then came the whispered chorus from his fellows, “Grae ru.”

  I raised my voice, “We’re honoured by your trust.”

  He gave a nod before turning to face the distant cliff wall that rose between the backs of the two halls. He then gestured for our crowd to part.

  We did, all shuffling aside.

  There, between the halls’ lengths, spread a space that may have once been a courtyard, backing onto brickwork that rose at the base of the cliff. On that wall, half covered with snow-crusted ivy, curved an arch that loomed ten paces high.

  Overgrown and hidden by the ages...

  The Prince and his retinue strode towards it, followed by the rest of us. As we walked into the space, the Prince said, “This was once a garden that marked our sacred gate.”

  “Grae ru,” the ghostly voices of his fellows sadly whispered.

  Now it lay covered by snow, a white carpet that hid a layer of fallen stone and rubble, an age of dirt and countless generations of shrubs. Looking, I could see that there was room for a planting of at least half a dozen rosetrees.

  He continued forward before coming to a stop by the base of the cliff; there his fellows lined up with him to face the wall. Marco stayed back to be beside myself, Pedro and Baruna.

  The Prince called, “Grenbanden, show us your home!”

  And his fellows murmured, “Grae ru.”

  Grenbanden? That name sounded familiar?

  The wall groaned, the brickwork within the arch moving to the side to reveal a tall and dark opening.

  Standing there, half lost in shadow, was an old Flet woman. After a quick glance at the faces waiting to meet her, she then looked to the snow on the ground. With a shake of her head, she pushed back her long grey hair as the breeze stirred to drag at it. “Come inside, for this is no weather for my old bones.”

  The Prince waved us forward. “Go with her. Marco will also go with you. We return to our duties.”

  Their words whispered about us, “Grae ru.” And then he and his people faded away, as if dragged off by the rising wind.

  Marco said, “Come, she’ll not wait. She’s been by herself for too long.”

  I walked with Marco, also sided by Pedro and Baruna, while the others followed behind. I introduced Marco to Pedro, the man and ghost nodding to each other as they offered a greeting of sorts.

  The tunnel stretched ahead into the hillside, doing nothing but going on wide and tall, all lined with stone. In many places it leaked water, not in large quantities, but enough to see its flagstones sometimes slick and hazardous. Still, we marched on.

  Grenbanden went in front of us carrying a lamp filled with a strange green light. It gave me pause, as I called, “Grenbanden, what of those behind us who walk in shadow?”

  She stopped and turned to face me, then uttered a silent curse. “Sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve had living company.” She dug into her much-patched robes and pulled out some sticks of wood. She lifted each to her mouth and kissed them, and with the touch of her lips each began to glow. She then snapped them into three or four pieces, and gave them to us to pass back. “That should do for now, but tell them I need them back. I have so little left.”

  I couldn’t be certain amidst its green glow, but it looked to be canes of rosetree wood.

  On we went, the air heavy and damp, until we came into a room. At the other end was a huge open doorway, and beyond it the dim daylight allowed by the storm.

  She put h
er lamp down and turned to face us. “I’m not one for speeches, I just ask you to respect this place.” And then she raised an eyebrow. “It’s my home.” She cleared her throat before going on, “It once was also a place of power, but that time has passed, yet that means to me at least it’s still sanctified if but more like a grave.”

  Her words saw a ripple of unease run through my people.

  Before she turned away, I asked, “Please, tell us who you are?”

  She gave a weak smile and nodded. “I’m sorry, my name’s Iris Grenbanden, but you may call me Old Grenda. It was the name I had on the streets of Newbank so long ago. I’m originally of Ossard, but fled after being hunted by the Inquisition about twenty years past. My escape led me here.”

  At her words I remembered; she was the one that Sef had spoken of, the one whose truth had been revealed. She’d been Schoperde’s last priestess in the city, and now I understood why fate had brought me here.

  She went on, “Please, I know you’ve had trouble this past season and more now with the arrival of the cold. Come into the warmth of the heartwood, feel free to eat the fruits you see, but know that tonight you’ll return to the ruin, yet you may visit again tomorrow.” Then she turned and walked through that final doorway.

  We followed her into a great canyon at least two hundred paces deep. The air about us was warm and in most places filled with the lazy haze of a fine and haunting mist. Looking about, I could see that it was steam rising off deep ponds that shamed the warm springs of our fountain halls. And about it all, from dark soil, grew ferns, flowers, and other green wonders – even towering trees.

  Trees!

  Down here, so well sheltered, there was no wind, snow or cold, even though high above we could see the heavy clouds of the storm. The only way it touched the heartwood was to dim the light, but with warmth and so much green life about us, none of us cared, for it seemed we’d found paradise.

  Marco, Pedro, Baruna and Kurt spoke together as they continued on, followed by our parents and Maria, and then our people as they passed us by. It left Old Grenda and I to step back out of their way – it also left us alone for a moment.

  Grenda turned to me and said, “Now, Juvela, I knew that someone like you would one day come, but never expected it to be with Death’s taint. It’s you that all our hopes are placed in, so let’s see what we can make of you.”