Free The Taint: Octavia by Georgina Anne Taylor Page A

Triple Goddess Achaiva-Urania-Iachema, moved briskly around the chamber preparing for the birth. The purple sash at her waist marked her as a Midwife of Urania, and the thin, grey band of sheer cloth that masked her eyes declared her to be of the highest of orders. Long-tapered candles burnt on a table near Octavia’s bed, emitting a sweet-smelling smoke that drifted slowly in soft, grey ribbons across the chamber and out the open windows, while an infusion of healing herbs brewed in a large, silver cauldron that hung over the glowing embers in the white stone hearth.
    Octavia sighed and shifted awkwardly upon the bed in a futile attempt to relieve her growing discomfort. Her gaze was caught by a shaft of sunlight on a nearby tapestry, a rippling breeze adding sinuous life to the meticulously stitched silver griffin, transporting her imagination to the world outside. Yet her days of freedom had ended with her marriage. The forays out into her fair city, the gay parties, the congenial conversations with the noble blooded families of Tinne, all had ceased as her husband had enforced his jealous nature.
    Octavia felt a twinge of unease as she thought about her husband and the impending birth of her child. While some might appreciate the honour that the God had bestowed upon their wife, she knew that Warrick would not look upon the Divine seduction in a favourable light. His own position was precarious. He needed an heir, not only to ensure the continuation of his line but also to authenticate his marriage to Octavia and thus his claim to Tinne. Without a child born of the bloodline of Tinne—Octavia’s blood—Warrick would remain an outsider, an interloper, the Anghard King’s puppet.
    Shifting her bulk once more Octavia attempted to shrug the feeling aside. Warrick was not a cruel man after all, she reasoned, if anything he was weak. He had not a fraction of the strength and might that her father—the last true Thane of Tinne—had possessed. If the child within resembled its Mortal mother, the subterfuge would go unnoticed, and if it did not...
    Octavia gasped as a sudden, acute and piercing pain flared deep within her womb, swiftly rising to an unbearable peak. She bit back a scream. The pain slowly receded. As she struggled to catch her breath, the Priestess gently pressed a cold cloth to her fevered brow, murmuring soft words of encouragement.
    A second bolt of clenching pain struck. Octavia’s heart thudded and her pulse raced madly. Her skin felt cold and clammy, and she could feel her face contort in a grimace as the pain swiftly escalated into unendurable agony, sharp as a knife, deep and wrenching, so intense that she arched up off the bed and a scream escaped from between her clenched teeth.
    ‘My Lady, in the case of the first born, the labour is often long. Conserve your energy. Slow your breathing. Do not hinder your body with unnecessary fear,’ the Priestess chided gently.
    Octavia panted, sweat and tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes were wide, the veins at her temples throbbing as one long continual contraction wracked her womb. She twisted, her long nails ripping at the silk sheet beneath her. Her hammering heart raced the blood through her veins in a vertiginous onslaught.
    Screaming. Wailing. Howling curses at the world. The agony became torturous, a terrifying crucifixion, as if her limbs were dislocating and her womb tearing open, careless of whether she lived or died. Nothing existed, save for the direful rending and stretching—the burning, searing pain as the creature inside pushed its way out.
The bloody red head emerged.
The white sheet turned crimson.
The infant sat up.
    Unfurling soft, white feathered wings, the newborn Demigoddess regarded the world around her with large, beguiling blue eyes. Then, as if satisfied with what she saw, she seized her own umbilical cord between her small, sharp teeth and severed her tie with her mother with one, quick bite.
    Octavia moaned and drew on