The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  Or been freed. Either way, there was little doubting where he had gone, and days scouring the woods had not turned him up. Kasimir had Sirche, the jailor, publicly flogged for his incompetence, but rejected summary requests by the Inquisition to put him to the question in the hope of garnering a confession. It was likely as much for his own protection as Sirche’s.

  The men stayed in Kasimir’s estate and ate his food as they made their inquiries. Roswitte didn’t like it. Neither did Merten, her lord’s steward, and to that end, he had made it a habit of keeping tabs on the men, and doing his best to conveniently divert their attentions. Questions could hold no good for any of them.

  Isaak, sitting closest to her, leaned over to his father. “Now, I think, would be a fine time to dispatch to Count Witold,” he whispered. Kasimir inclined his head at the young man, but said nothing. Neither’s eyes ever left the soldiers as they spoke.

  Alongside one another, she realized how unalike the pair looked. Both were quiet, but in different ways. Isaak had more of his mother’s build, like his brother Rurik, but there the similarities ended. Isaak’s eyes were a murky green, his skin somewhat darker, his frame slighter. Kasimir’s stare was piercing, contemplative. Neither smug nor arrogant, but distinctly unnerving, Isaak’s was one of relaxed understanding.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. Isaak was spun tighter than a top. She often wondered who was more the danger. Kasimir was a fierce opponent, but he came on directly. Isaak would sidle up sideways with a smile and a mug of ale, and stab you in the throat without a shred of remorse.

  Isaak had been against this meeting from the start. She still remembered wincing at the sound and the fury of his voice, echoing through the hall. They had been summoned. All of them—the Matair family, from youngest to eldest. Only Lotte—Ivon’s wife—managed to beg off, for her infant son’s need to feed. The rest were to gather in the chapel to meet with the soldiers and their inquisitor pets.

  “Send them away immediately,” Isaak had shouted. “Nesse can take the girls and the children—but they need to be gone by the time the sun is down. Suicide waits within that room.”

  Her lord had not disagreed, but nor could he ignore an order from the duke’s men. His sense of honor would not allow it. Silence had been his only rebuke. Isaak stormed out, one of his great hounds loping behind him.

  And here they all were, delivered into the hands of the devils. So to speak. She did like to think she was a woman of Assal, too—at least when she was of a mood for redemption.

  “You’ve been unable to find him?” the soldiers’ captain asked, still inquiring of Chigenda.

  Kasimir’s dark eyes gently dismissed him. “We have not. We search the forest, but its shadow is long. If he is still here, my men will find him, but he has many places to go.”

  The soldier snorted, turned aside. Roswitte herself nearly started at the show of disrespect. However low, Kasimir and his family were nobility. This creature before her merely bore the standard of one. Respect was in order, and not just because of his rank.

  With such flagrant disrespect, she immediately formed a cautious loathing. Such low creatures would not make such shows if they did not have reason.

  “My lord shall not be pleased at this.”

  “And when has your lord ever been pleased?” Kasimir offered.

  That took her by surprise. But he said it with as much calm and grace as he did anything else. There was no shred of scorn in Kasimir’s voice, though she did not doubt it lurked there.

  The soldier’s upper lip tightened, and he puffed out his chest. Offense summoned another snort, as the half-dozen men arrayed behind him whispered their own disapproval. As emissaries of a high noble they were likely unused to hearing such talk. It gave her a twinge of pleasure to see them taken down a peg.

  “More importantly, what are they doing here?” the lord’s daughter Liesa quipped jaggedly. One long finger pointed accusation at the robed men.

  An inquisitor put out the palms of his hands. “We go merely where the law beckons, child.”

  “You should have stayed in Ravonno, where they believe such nonsense.”

  “Liesa,” her father said sharply. She turned away with a furious huff. “My apologies. She sometimes lets her fires get the better of her.”

  The inquisitor said nothing.

  Perhaps sensing the undercurrent of anger burbling through the room, Anelise’s wide, uncertain eyes twitched from Isaak’s daughter squirming in her lap, and met hers. Roswitte tried to reassure her with a fleeting smile, but it felt false even to herself.

  Roswitte did not like the idea that she was the only one of Matair’s men here. Two others waited in the hall beyond, but in this room, she stood as the only thing between the family and the open hostility of their guests. She did not think she belonged here. Antagonizing the priests with the presence of an armed woman might seem offensive, and there was certainly quicker steel elsewhere. But she had been called, and she always went when beckoned.

  “I think we have found enough,” another of the inquisitors said. He, as all of them, hid behind the wide brim of his hat.

  “We concur,” the soldiers’ captain replied.

  “When may we go?” Little Anelise asked of her father.

  Liesa gripped her hand fiercely.

  “My lord Matair, it pains me to say it, but I must ask you to accompany us. You are to be remanded into His Grace’s custody.”

  Roswitte’s heart skipped a beat. Surely they would not dare. Yet no one laughed. The duke’s men hardly moved a muscle. The Matairs, though, were a conflict. Kasimir’s shoulders sagged breathlessly, some of the tension going out of him. He had expected it. Liesa burst from her seat, hurling a series of how dare you’s and gesturing madly. Anelise looked around, first to Roswitte, then to her father, shrinking away in terror. Roswitte wanted nothing more than to scoop her into her arms and carry the child from the room, but she had her place.

  Then there was Isaak. He shook his head, whispered something into the darkness as he closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat.

  “Liesa,” her father ordered. “Stay yourself.”

  “I will not! They have no right.” The vast oceans of her eyes shot a scathing look at the ducal guard. “In whose pocket do you come, messar, that you would so degrade my father?”

  “That is enough,” Kasimir said. His voice was cold, commanding. Liesa wavered. “Look after your sister. You trouble her. And you,” he redirected his attention back to the startled soldier, “I would know the charges laid against me before I commit myself to such.”

  “Of course,” the man said, his cruel smile spreading. He’s enjoying this. “Treason. Harboring a fugitive of His Imperial Majesty’s justice. Barring His Imperial Majesty’s justice. Upsetting the peace.”

  “And whom did you pay to say all that?” Liesa said in hushed tones, already withdrawing to her sister.

  “Most disagreeable,” Isaak added neutrally. “From whence do you base such accusations?”

  “We have the goodwill and testimony of many honest men within his lordship’s own grounds testifying to the presence of your exiled kin. We know that he was ferreted beyond your manse’s grounds, though we know not where. We know that the black devil was travelling with him, in his miserable little company. That we come to find the boy and find not the devil either, we can only presume that if one has been ferreted away, so too has the other. And the time in between has been spent deceiving His Grace’s humble servants, to garner time for their flight. These are serious charges, ser. His Grace will want to attend them personally.”

  “To aid such as he is to undermine the whole community of your faith, as well,” one of the inquisitors added. “We believe that there is heresy afoot here. All heretics are allies in their endeavors against the people of the faith.”

  Isaak shrugged casually. “This last is baseless. Visaji. Each of us. Check church records of our contributions. Speak to Father Imjesch. For that matter, you
need look no further than this very chapel. It is done in the good fashion.”

  “And verily, the lowliest serpent may lie amongst the greatest flock. And you shall not know him until his fangs are bared,” the inquisitor replied, quoting scripture. Isaak shook his head again, but said no more. Some battles could not be won.

  “But these matters are greater than one man,” the soldier was saying, “and concern a son stripped not merely of a father, but of a family. We can only conclude that the entirety of your household may be at fault in this, my lord. They shall be joining you in His Grace’s presence.”

  Isaak’s eye twitched. His wife Nesse, paling, laid a hand against his shoulder.

  “What does that mean,” soft-spoken Anelise asked her father. Even Kasimir winced, as though they had just stabbed him in the gut.

  “It means these cretins waste our time with lies they know to be untrue,” Liesa roared anew. “Despicable. What gives you such right to treat us this way? You stretch yourselves too far above your place.”

  The captain’s face became an only vaguely-restrained firebrand of wrath. “His Grace’s voice lends us credence, goodwoman. We speak with his authority. I trust you remember it before you wag that traitorous tongue again.”

  “How dare you.” Liesa looked ready to grab at her father’s sword, but he took her calmly by the shoulder. Whether comforting her or restraining her, Roswitte could not say. Even so, she could see the intensity in his own sharpening gaze. That they would address his own daughter in such base manners were inconceivable. Men were flogged for less.

  “If I did these things—”

  “Father!” Liesa and Isaak shouted in unison. Anelise cringed. She looked ready to cry.

  “Hush. If I did these things, I assure you my family is not to blame. They had neither cause, nor knowledge. Leave them. I will go with you willingly.”

  But the soldier was not dealing in pleas. He shook his head dismissively, even scoffed at the idea of it, like he was an honorable man offered a bribe. Roswitte wanted to throttle him. She wanted worse for the inquisitors.

  Assal have mercy on our souls.

  “I have given you all I know.” But Kasimir’s eyes said, “I have given you all I have.”

  “Oh, all men think that,” the inquisitor said with a smile. It was a crooked, terrible thing. “But there is always more.”

  * *

  Charlotte lurked in the corner, watching as her father dismissed his guards and Usuri’s maids. They did not like to leave him in the presence of the witch, but such were their orders.

  The witch hung from a chair, legs dangling, head drooped down and over the seat, stretching her toward the ground. So she could feel the blood rushing where it belonged, she said. So she can feel anything, Charlotte thought.

  Sweat still stood prominently on the witch’s brow, her skin waxen from illness. Her maid-gaolers had told Boyce that her body was as frail as her mind. One could but wonder if it was truly the devil magic, or some remnant of the scars on her arms.

  There was a smile when he said the name. Matair. Charlotte smirked as well, but she kept it to the shadows, lest the woman turn on her. She did not trust the witch, but more than that, she had also come to feel unease about her person—not fear, she liked to think. Fear was for her father alone.

  Two days after their ritual, she had seen the bird and its message. Prince Gerome, fourth in line for the Imperial throne, had been murdered at the hands of the Veldharts.

  How low some creatures fell. She hoped it was coincidence, but she doubted it.

  Usuri looked almost hopeful for a moment. Then Walthere delivered the news. Rurik had gone home, he said. Rurik. The foolhardy adventurer from every child’s tale. Did he wear a feather in his hat as well? Give to the poor when he wasn’t kissing all the wealthy women?

  Charlotte felt a chill where he had kissed her neck, so long ago. She chose to ignore it.

  There was nothing they could do, and truly, it was so. Walthere may have set the wheels in motion, but Usuri would never know that. The family Matair had done more than touch Count Cullick’s daughter. Now the family had violated Imperial decree. For that, heads would roll.

  She had advised her father against telling the witch. Her mind was already feeble, and a jolt like this could destroy her. Better now than later, Walthere had decided.

  Charlotte cringed at the clatter as the witch slid unwomanly from her chair, toppling into a heap at Walthere’s feet. Dirt-encrusted skirts pillowed about her legs as she struggled into an upright position. If it weren’t for that stare, Charlotte might have found her comical. Pitiful, as well. Like their jester, Dogbee. As it was, she found it hard to meet.

  Like weathering a storm atop a raft.

  “You did this,” Usuri seethed.

  “I have done nothing of the sort,” Walthere balked. “I have kept fully apart from the situation, as you asked me to. I cannot help what your little fool does on his own.”

  Like a slap, the witch reeled. Charlotte thought, for the faintest moment, she might spring at her father. The woman’s claws dug into her skirts, thumbs rolling at the frills. Nervousness, Charlotte recognized. Usuri was nervous. Anger was there, but further back.

  “And Roo?”

  Pet names. It would seem she had something else to wrinkle her nose at now. How quaint.

  “…Rurik?”

  Count Cullick shook his head. “He eludes them. Escaped, I am told. His family, though…this will be grave for the Matairs.”

  “But Rurik is—”

  Walthere dismissed the girl with a tawdry wave. “Why do you care so much for him, when he obviously cares so little for you?”

  Changing subject. Her father’s way of cutting off accusation—changing trains of thought to suit his own needs. Walthere needed her with no one, and nothing, as she was supposed to be. A weapon with naught but blood in her eyes. He could not have Usuri asking questions, any more than he could afford her clinging to a notion.

  That was all Rurik Matair was: a notion. Charlotte knew that as well as any. The boy was good as dead, thanks to her momentary indiscretions. Some people might have felt shame for that. She did not. Rurik was, after all, merely one possibility in a hundred that might have been—one path, one end. That he had suffered, rather than some other nameless face, was merely chance. She could not feel sorry for something that was merely a result of his unlucky character.

  Do not go there, the witch’s look seemed to say.

  “How many times have you shown him love, only to have him cast you off like some common whore?”

  Usuri’s knuckles paled with her grip, and her already-tattered skirts tore beneath her fingers. “Stop it!” It was a resonating scream, and the thought slammed through Charlotte as though it were her own. Charlotte blinked, shuddered. It wasn’t. Even her father seemed taken aback, but he regained himself quickly enough. Usuri was red-faced, gritting beneath that thin veneer.

  Charlotte could feel her father’s smile. The question of love had been a shot in the dark, but one could see it in the witch’s eyes. Just as any man could hear it in her voice’s desperation.

  “He already has a love, does he not? Though I daresay, I cannot see how well that love is. For if he has it, it must truly be a poor thing for her, given what he does to the women in his life.” Going in for the kill. “I have anger for my daughter. It’s true. But I am not the only one. How many has he rutted in his insatiable hunger? Love? The boy lusts, and nothing but. Yet he says he loves some half-blood tart. More’s the pity for you, I’d say. For cruel as he may be, she at least hears that little nothing whispered in her ear at night.”

  “Stop it,” Usuri whispered breathlessly. She looked as ready to cry as to strike. If she were a softer woman, Charlotte might have felt something for her. As it were…

  “And you? You love, without any hope of having it returned to you. You love, without being loved. He does not look at you. Nor whisper it to you. Has he so much as looked for you since your
father’s death? His eyes stray, and never once do they come to you, oblivious to all that you are. You give your heart to him and he uses it when need be, but he does not even give you the courtesy of a lie.

  “This is what you love? This is what you wish me to spare? I am a man of my word, and so shall it be, but know that I pity you, child. The rich and the noble must often forsake love, for the sake of duty. What good then, could ever come to the dutyless masses, if they cannot know love in turn? We cannot have both, I often find. But to have neither? Aye, now that is terror incarnate.”

  Tossing Rusthöffen’s letter at Usuri’s feet, Charlotte’s father looked down on her with conjured regret.

  Somewhere far away, she felt that someone was weeping. Usuri merely turned aside.

  Chapter 10

  They left with morning’s light, just as Kasimir said they would.

  A column of horsemen led the way into the shadows of the trees, Ivon amongst them. As good as his word, he neither spoke to nor saw Rurik and his friends at any point that morning. They were among the last to depart, relegated to the ranks of the Gorjes, the blood-tipped falcon wafting in the breeze. Rurik and his company had no such banner to so distinguish themselves.

  At that hour, all of Verdan was beginning to rise with them. Smoke wafted over thatched roofs, as dozens gathered along the paths to watch them go. Mothers and daughters and sons. Some waved, some wept, few spoke. A handful neared the lines for a final embrace or an exchange of one sort or another. Tokens and treasures passed like kisses.

  Then Brickheart barked and they all went streaking away from the lines.

  They faded into the distance much more slowly than Rurik remembered. Some trailed after, reluctant to let them go, but as the forest swallowed them, the last of the stragglers disappeared, and the only remainder of home was the smell of burning wood and broiling stew, and it was not long before this too faded away.