The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  Curiosity got the better of her. She always liked to hear what men would sell their souls for. Trailing a dish of salmon across the hall, Charlotte proceeded toward them, all smiles and graceful steps. A few stray eyes cast her way. Most nodded and averted again. She pretended not to notice.

  “My lords,” Charlotte said, circling around to join her father and uncle. When she arrived, she curtsied to them all. “My apologies if I intrude.”

  There was a glimmer of knowing in her father’s eye. Nodding to her, he said, “My lords, might I introduce Charlotte, my eldest.” His hand extended toward her, as if in offering.

  All three of the gathered lords rose for her, and bowed in turn. Such was their rank and their chivalric demands. She spared a pleasant glance for each, though she recognized only the older men. One was young, but plain-faced. The others were older, silver-haired, dressed extravagantly, but each notably unremarkable. Petty horse lords. She smiled from one to the other, and gently inclined her head.

  “You don’t intrude,” the younger one exclaimed. “It would be an honor to have you, lady.”

  “A pleasure,” said one of the older.

  “We have heard much of the beauty of House Cullick, my lady. An honor to finally see it with mine own eyes,” the younger added.

  “You flatter me, ser,” Charlotte replied with a calculated blush. “But I am afraid, I am unfamiliar with our esteemed lord.” He seemed eager to answer, but her father answered first.

  “This is his lordship Tiskel, of Ronesbelm. Surely you remember his father, our lord Insley.”

  A face flashed to mind, white-haired, body ridden with gout. It had been some time since Lord Urill—the lord Insley—had departed from his home. It was said the agony of raising himself up had become too great in recent years, and he did not travel anywhere his servants could not carry him. It was not something one mentioned in polite society. He still ran his estate, supposedly, but his son was said to do all the day-to-day business now. This, then, was him. She could see little of the father in him.

  Charlotte’s face became a measured mask of concern. “Of course. I am sorry your father could not join us, Lord Tiskel. I trust he is well?”

  “As healthy as a horse, lady,” the lord said, his face nevertheless setting grimly. “He sends his regrets, but I am certain it will warm his heart to hear you asking after him.” She parted with a weak smile for him.

  Walthere Cullick gestured toward their chairs. “Please, sit.”

  Charlotte slid into a chair beside her father, but she could tell from the look on Tiskel’s face that it was a great effort not to run over and hold her chair for her. She directed her looks on him, smiling with her eyes. The rest sat down only once she herself was seated.

  “So what brings the lady to our table this eve?” Tiskel asked.

  “I merely wished to see what fine men my father was entertaining now. Plotting our doom?”

  “Oh, to be sure,” young Tiskel answered with a wry grin.

  Lord Carstoff, one of the older lords, adopted a placating tone. “Nothing so dramatic as all that, lady. Merely a touch of business. It would bore you, I’m sure.”

  She kept her smile. “Very little bores me, ser. I keep a very active mind.”

  “A treasure amongst your gender then, I am certain.”

  “And I believe that business concerned the ranches in the glens,” her father interceded. “Fine steeds, if you would have them, Dwisen.”

  The third lord nodded humbly. “Aye, that they are. That they are. And fine land for them as well. You will draw it up, if I might be so frank?”

  “With mine own hand.”

  The elder lord stroked his beard a moment before smiling. “I think I shall take a good hard look at the man I know. Time does have a play at one’s perceptions.”

  “But of course. That is all I ask.”

  “And I must ask how you believe you can acquire these things, my lord,” Carstoff asserted himself. “Before I so color myself further. There are certain systems in order. And you have no place amongst the order of those places.”

  Count Walthere kept his face carefully measured, expressionless. “Kind graces await me in higher places than your supposed order. You will have them. I am a man of my word. And you must take it or leave it, trust me or no.” Folding his hands, he leaned back in his seat. “It is well that you do take care in your colors. Yours, or others’.”

  “I am quite certain a great many have trusted you at some point, lord. I can’t imagine it has ended well for them. Nevertheless…my gryphons are in great thirst of late. The bloody birds drink like those Zuti camels, but with none of the mind to hold it in.”

  “A touch of water for them, then. It is a basic necessity in life. You might take yourself to a dip in the Jurree, of a time. A clearer drink there is not.” Walthere glanced to his brother, who related a fine description of one of his own treks along the river’s edge. Carstoff bobbed agreeably at the telling. When he was finished, Walthere laid his hands on his cultivated belly, and calmly reasserted himself. “Will that be all, sers?”

  They hesitated, as if considering what else they might press for, but Cullick’s hard stare ushered them into compliance, and set them to their feet. The mouth said more. The eyes said flee.

  “A pleasure. I hope good fortune finds you.”

  Then he turned to Charlotte and it was as if they had simply ceased to exist. The elder men shrank away, smiling and whispering amongst themselves, but the young tarried a moment longer, stretching out his hand to Charlotte. “A pleasure,” he said, and she offered out her hand in turn. He took it, bending down to kiss the knuckle daintily, before pulling back. Her father’s gaze shifted back to him, and it was less than pleasant. Tiskel smiled faintly, turned, and casually fled the field.

  “Why father, I do so believe you frightened him.”

  “As well. A man must know his station, and fear’s as potent a thing as greed. If they’re sensible, they’ll heed both.”

  “And what did our young lord turn for?”

  Her father took a swig of his red wine before answering. “Much less.”

  “You seem quite certain of your presence in Witold’s land.”

  “When in doubt, go to the source.”

  She did not question it. Something in her father’s tone suggested that she drop it, before his temper seized him. A servant wandered near, setting down two plates—one of vegetables, another of fresh fruit. The first course. The last of the guests must have arrived. Her stomach growled its desires. How long had it been since she had eaten? A day, perhaps. Unhealthy, but it would not be the first time. She must have lost track of time. There was so little of it in a day.

  For the moment, however, she refrained from the first course and rendered her faithful duty unto her father. “Rusthöffen’s picked up Hendensleuce. Soon as he walked in the door. I barely had a word for him before.” She adjusted herself so she could look out beyond Dogbee and his dancers, peering past the silks to seek the count and his hijacker. She could not spy Hendensleuce, but Rusthöffen had returned for a word with one of his knight retainers. It had not been a long or terribly troubling conversation then.

  “Just as well. I will speak to him once we are all settled in.”

  Her father took another sip, and turned hawkishly aside, obviously distracted. He was focused on the door, though his eyes wandered occasionally, happening along one guest or another. None of them seemed to hold his attention for long.

  Spearing a small chunk of potato, Charlotte allowed her focus to drift to her uncle, whose gaze was likewise restless. As soon as he felt her watching, though, his gaze settled on her, and he smiled pleasantly. She leaned forward, savoring the last bit of her tiny portion before opening her mouth to speak.

  “And how are you getting on, nuncle?”

  “Pleasant as one might expect. Would that I might have some moments with my son and darling niece, but it would appear I’ve lost the one, and the other’s much too
popular to long detain.” He patted her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “You catch the eyes as ever, princess. Do you fair as well as you look?”

  “I trust I look as well as I fair.” She smiled playfully, felt it brighten as he returned the gesture. Maynard nodded and leaned back in his chair, contented. “I shall find Berneigh once we have a moment’s room to breathe, and then we may all enjoy it whilst it lasts.” Straightening back into a proper form, Charlotte creased the lines of her skirts and began to rise. When she spoke again, the words came more formally addressed, for all in attendance.

  “If you’ll excuse me. I believe there is more mingling to be done.”

  Maynard tipped his cup to her. Her father merely nodded, not looking at her. So she left, wandering back into the crowd, sighting out anyone of particular interest. Rusthöffen spoke with Lord Surrel, one of her father’s poorer hounds. The numbers around Lord Anesley had thinned, but had been replaced by his insipid daughter. Charlotte could not stand that girl. She was slow as a cow, but her tits were as mountains. Men flocked to her, tongues wagging, and she was nearly oblivious to it. One day she would have children, and that would be all that she was good for. Just as well. Most men seemed to like that in a woman anyhow.

  She drifted back toward the doors as the herald was pulled out into the hall. Curious, she drifted nearer, trying to see what had beckoned him. He re-emerged a moment later, looking thoroughly flustered. His voice cracked as he shouted for attention. Clearing it, he called out again, louder, waiting for the crowd to quiet.

  When at last heads began to turn toward him, they wore mixes of annoyance and inquisitiveness. The almighty question of vanity: who could be so important as to garner more attention than themselves? Charlotte teetered to see as well, slipping past the hulking frame of Lord Gardesl, another of her father’s bannermen.

  “It gives me the greatest pleasure to announce the arrival of her Imperial Majesty, the Lady Surelia, by the grace of Assal, of the House Jerantus, empress of Idasia, queen of the Shield Isles, princess of Banur, duchess of Corvaden and Walim, queen margravine of Arlaine and Momeny, the serene mother of the Empire.”

  As soon as the words had slipped from the herald’s mouth, two trumpets blew from somewhere beyond the door, muffled by the heavy oak. The doors pressed inward and a train of women swept hastily into the room. Lords and ladies high or lowborn alike all bowed and shrank away at an instant, their shock no match for engrained custom. Charlotte shifted with them, as startled as the rest.

  There were six in all, flanked by the black-armored men of the palace guard. Behind them, there was more motion and vying for attention, and the herald vanished back into the hall, a pale-faced mess, but all eyes were on the women. Each was dressed to their station—such glitter and finery to rival any in the hall, but finest among them stood the Empress, bedecked in gold and jewels, fine lace and finer silks, a mink scarf, and a furry black hat likely crafted of the same. Her eyes shone like sapphires, and though she was somewhat broader in waist than Charlotte might have imagined, and her hair had begun to gray, there was not a one who could say she was not fair upon the eyes.

  Attached at her hand, a golden-brown haired youth peered over the crowd with all the curiosity common to one his age. Charlotte guessed him to be about five years—less for how he so clung to his mother and more for the childish glint in his darkly blue eyes, and her knowledge of his blood. The lord Lothen, as the child could only be, was the Emperor’s youngest. Her distant relation. As befit his station, he came swaddled in extravagance, all silk and lace, though it likely meant as little to him as it might have to Gerold.

  The woman started in as though wading through a pond, and she giggled stupidly as her ankles sifted through the retreating nobles. She swiveled, searching for someone, and her eyes alighted as they crossed Charlotte’s path. An excited sound burbled from her lips. On instinct, Charlotte struck a knee, but the woman near-sprinted toward her, clapping her hands together as she stopped before her kneeling personage. Charlotte blinked, staring up at her in confusion, but careful not to meet her eyes.

  Though her father spoke fondly of the Empress, she had never met the woman before. Did I do something wrong? Surely she had adhered to custom. Yet this woman did not appear to be doing the same. This was her mother’s dear cousin?

  Plump lips pursed into a sickeningly sweet smile. “You must be Charlotte. Oh, treasure. You are the sweetest thing. Come now, off with the knees. I’ll have none of that.” She swung around then, addressing the room. “Up, all of you.”

  “Me, my lady?”

  “Yes, come now,” the Empress said brusquely. “Let’s have a look at you.” The Empress even took her hand, helped her rise to her feet. Charlotte felt naked before her, uncertain of what to say or to do, but the woman merely looked, running her eyes up and down, head bobbing approvingly. Abashed, Charlotte diverted her gaze away, settling instead on the child beside her mother’s cousin. She smiled at him. He only stared uncertainly back. Then after a moment, the Empress concluded, “The very sweetest. Darling child.”

  “Th-thank you, Mour Majesty.”

  Tugging on her son’s hand, the Empress nudged him toward her. “And this is my darling child. Lothen. Greet our dear coz, Lothen.”

  Only then did she see the boy’s demeanor waver, but even then he managed a trained little bow, and a sheepish, “Cousin.”

  The Empress opened her mouth as though to add something more, but as abruptly as her attention had come, it shifted away again. “My good lord count.” She beamed, turning from Charlotte and striding off to catch Walthere’s hand. “Oh it is so very good to see you.” She clutched his hand firmly between both of hers, and smiled as giddily as a child. Charlotte looked to Rusthöffen, trying to gauge his reaction, but the duke had shrunk into himself, and was hastily downing another glass of wine. Doubtless the reminder of the Cullick family’s close relationship with the crown did little to help his alcoholism. She wondered if he had known of her approach.

  Lord Walthere touched a hand to his chest and bowed his head humbly. “My apologies that such greetings must come under such clouds.”

  “Clouds?” The woman looked honestly puzzled. Then, after a moment, “Oh, quite right. Quite right. But such things are swiftly done. And I do intend to call for some time, my friend.”

  Charlotte came to two epiphanies in that moment.

  One was a sense of utter hopelessness for the crown. The day her husband died, this woman, this perfect vision of a man’s woman, so like her mother in countenance and mannerisms, would never sit the throne. The Emperor’s sons would butcher her and she might never see it coming. Her children would die of the misfortune to have such an unassuming mother. If she were lucky, someone like her father might use her. Might keep her alive to service their own ends. But the bloodshed would be inevitable. Royalty would die and a great many besides, in far greater numbers than her father’s witch could ever hope to muster.

  The second was the realization of hopelessness for the family huddling in their dungeons. Against such minds as these, no man could pull himself up again once they had fallen down, and Matair had fallen far and away from any ledge to grab hold of. He was falling still, and if he wasn’t careful, he would drag his whole family with him.

  The image of her father and the Empress embracing and smiling with all the countenance of brother and sister, was not merely a case of ego for the house. It was a symbol, and one she now recognized her father had hoped to cultivate all along. The timing was perfect. Whether it were true or not, all men would ask if it was Rusthöffen or the Empress that had decided Matair’s fate when all was settled. They would take one look at Charlotte’s father, and they would know. Or they would think they knew. It was a sign.

  Death was coming.

  * *

  Again! There it was again. Every time he turned his back it seemed the boy was touching her again. Their bodies seemed to drift together of some subtle magnetic attraction, reverberating beneath th
e skin. It was maddening.

  Voren caught himself, breathed, tried to force the anger and the jealousy and all the ill feelings out with the breath. Once, twice. I do not hate. I do not hate. Hatred had gotten him nowhere. He needed to breathe, lest he draw himself further down. There is nothing to hate.

  “Breakfast everyone. Enjoy, enjoy.”

  At the moment, the touch was on her back, a playful caress along the curvaceous trail rising from her rear. She bent against him, into the crook of his arm, and smiled delightfully.

  They were always touching. A graze of the leg. A squabble of feet beneath a table. Hugging, caressing. Impropriety at its worst. It was disgusting in the manner such things could only be when one desired the same for himself.

  So the baker took his small pleasures where he might. As now, in breaking them apart by the pretense of food. Handing each a quarter loaf of bread, he crouched down before them and waited for them to comment. He could tell by the look in their eyes that the bread wasn’t any good. He knew it. Everyone knew it. The camp didn’t have quality to share. Merely quantity.

  There is nothing to hate.

  Essa touched his arm, thanking him for taking such good care of them. He could feel himself start to blush, but he fought it back, inclined his head, and thanked her for the kind words. It was just good to be of assistance. Especially in a place such as this, where such kindnesses were rare.

  Rurik nodded with everything Essa said, attaching himself to them like a parasite—don’t hate—but then quickly added that the bread, like the people, was still a bit stale. They shared a laugh. Voren started away again.

  “You didn’t expect it to get better in a larger camp? More people don’t change the seasons…”

  He dispensed the rest of his smuggled goods to Rowan, who cheered him on with a whistle and a tip of his hat. “The bread man cometh.” Essa’s cousin was a good man, he thought, if a bit odd. Always laughing. Always joking. Rolling off life as though it were of no concern. Good for Essa, to be certain. She was always such a beacon—had to be, with such darkness shrouding their assembly. It was nice to see another there to alleviate some of the burden.