The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  * *

  “My lady, His Grace gave the strictest orders.”

  “And so he did. But this is my family’s home and my family’s cells, and I’ll not have them barred against me. By what right do you bar a noblewoman her right to speak?”

  “My lady—”

  “Allow me to make this clear,” Charlotte said, carefully enunciating each word. “You stand on the land of a palatine, whose law is answerable so only to the Imperial family. A family, I might add, which lies but a few flights above your petulant head. If I must wake them from their slumbers, of what mood and mind do you think they might be? Shall we see? No? Then, peasant, if you wish to continue to please your master in this rather peaceful obscurity, I would suggest you take your hand from that door and let me in. Your ward shall find me peaceable enough. If that settles your stomach.”

  “I’ll make as sure none disturb you, milady.”

  “So you shall.”

  “Percy, catch the cell for the lady.”

  The prison doors were laid bare before her and the guards retreated to their posts, save one. Their eyes were vigilant, but their spirits checked. One or two sized up her companion—the indomitable Dartrek. As all large men were wont to do, they locked their eyes and bowed their heads, in some quaint sort of salute to their individual power. She was confident simply in the fact that none of them, should the occurrence arise, could handle a blade half as well as he.

  Unimpeded, Charlotte stepped into the cell, raising her torch to dispel the clinging shadows. A squeaking drew her off, following a rat between the bars. Clutching a bit of molded bread, it twitched its head at her and disappeared through a tiny hole into the next cell, where yet another Matair lay in wait, and scorn.

  Somewhere distant, and lower, a moan arose, only to fall silent with the crack of a gaoler’s club.

  Bundled in the corner of a cell that smelled of urine and rat droppings, she found her man, sitting at the chair and table they had provided out of the goodness of their hearts. He held a hand against her, and quiet as a dormouse he whispered, “Put your light away.”

  The cell door clanged shut behind her, though the guard left it unlocked. He hovered just beyond, hands resting near to his mace, in case of trouble. Dartrek waited just inside, his sunken eyes riveted on the aging lord.

  But there would be no trouble. This man’s predicament could hardly worsen, but it did not take a great man to see the convictions in this fallen lord. Such lofty things, setting him above the rabble. They would take much from him in the days to come, but never these.

  Conviction was always troublesome. It hefted some portion of the spirit beyond breaking. To get at the yolk of it, one was often forced to break the man himself. Far more effort than it was worth. Some men, in turn, were already too broken, and from them there was nothing to gain at all.

  Shifting the light out of her eyes, Charlotte held it aloft at her side, casting phantoms across the stones. She wondered, for a moment, if the son lay just beyond, ear pressed to the wall, trying to hear what they might say. She traced a finger down the rock and thought of another Matair, so different from he. Yet that one had more of the other’s look than the father did. It was comforting in a way, to have him locked over there, out of sight and out of mind.

  “Do you know me?” she asked.

  The old lord raised his head, squinting at her. “I do.”

  “I would welcome you to our home, ser, as you once welcomed us to yours, but I think we might be past such endeavors at this present venture.”

  She paused there, expecting him to comment, but she might as well have waited for the rivers to carve the mountains fresh. She remembered now how little he had spoken when she had first met him, leaving that honor largely to his children and their families. To one boy in particular, and his all-together tomboyish sister.

  “Are you…comfortable?”

  Kasimir nodded.

  “This is good. Prisoner you may be, but one must still afford a noble their proper dignity.”

  The mention of dignity seemed to stir him. Likely he had some other theories on just what trait they were exacerbating in this dank and dreary tower. Still, Matair had the dignity not to mention it.

  “Well then. I will get right to it, ser. Others might tell me to ask you, for your own good, to give up your son. I think we both know that would avail me little. You would not give, and my father—we both know he would not relent. Not now.”

  He was staring at her with those piercing eyes, as though it were she set before the trying eyes of the Inquisition. Judging her words, and weighing them accordingly. In there she thought she could see, however, some momentary glimpse of gratitude, for not demeaning them both in the asking.

  “As it is, though, you make quite the scene, I should say. Nobles both near and far ride to see your trial.”

  “My execution, lady.”

  His frankness took her aback. “Your…yes, well. Quite. You seem awfully content for a dead man. Do you know what waits for you, then?”

  The look said he did, but she wasn’t certain. Men often said they did, without the benefit of meaning it. Senseless bravado. Any number of reasons could summon up the lie: pride, honor, or merely the desire to appear grander than they were.

  The executioner’s axe would fall about Matair’s neck, and that was the lucky end. If the Inquisition had its way, he could have very well burned, traitor that he was. His only saving grace was the forces at work between church and empire. The Empress would never stand for the Church’s interference. Nor could the Church risk her wrath. They waited for the sons and their supposed return to the Visaj brand of “reason.” If they forced their hand too soon, they could find themselves wrested from the whole country before that day would come. Then their task of rebuilding and resetting the reformist clock would be an altogether more difficult task.

  A pity, really. Her father had always hoped they would be so bitter stupid. One could not have everything, though. So the patient waited.

  In the meantime, each side settled into uneasy truce with the other, and such men as Matair might find some sense of liberty in their silence. So far as such things went.

  In the end, death was death. No matter the pretense.

  “They will cut off your head.”

  Too late, she cursed herself for that. Far too forward. Worse yet, she hadn’t considered the fullness of his thought. Suppose he was following in the existentialist principle. Death was always there, lurking, all around. The death of the body, but the freeing of the spirit. Some great beyond. Perhaps he knew each and every pain that might be wracked upon his body, and merely guessed at ends. And now, now he might think her hostile.

  Fool.

  Kasimir, for his part, merely inclined his head and settled a little deeper into his chair.

  She proceeded more cautiously. “If it is your wont though, ser, I think you should be honored.” He stirred slightly, his looks growing quickly cross. “If you had not heard, the Empress herself joins to sit your trial, as well as several of our dear royalty. It may do well for you. You are a friend of His Imperial Majesty, are you not? I understand you rode with him in your days at court. Surely that means something.”

  He smiled faintly. A ghostly thing.

  “Why do you not speak? If you fear I come to bait or jest at your expense, I assure you I do not come so encumbered. It is your family I came to speak to you of.”

  Matair leaned a little closer, a distinctly vicious tone settling about his gaze. She could feel Dartrek shift behind her, patting the hilt of his sword to let the prisoner know the fate that awaited folly. Charlotte shook her head dismissively.

  “Do not misunderstand my intentions. I do not threaten. Think of them. If you admit freely to your guilt—whatever they might put before you—and draw it upon yourself alone, you may yet save them. If not, you must surely know they face the same trials as you. All of them. I wish to see no more heads upon our yards than our notions of justice might demand. Chil
dren. Families. These are not within my notion of justice.

  “I do not know what shall happen to land or title, ser, but surely life is enough. You surrender yourself for a son. Surely you would do it for the rest. I have seen your youngest. A grandchild, scarcely a year into being. Could you bear to see his mother and father put to the sword?

  “Admit. That is all you must do. The people shall still have their show. My father shall get his heart’s desire. And you—you may go to whatever end you think you shall face, knowing that you shall be the only one.”

  She did not say the alternative. Hold your tongue, and watch my father work. Give him time, give him trouble, and friend or foe, he shall see you torn asunder for the effort. You and all your family. Children and grandchildren, wives and husbands alike. He would burn out their lives and their homes, and leave no earth for his obsession to shelter in. Then he would take what he had stolen and repurpose it to his own ends.

  It was a methodical process, and one Matair rightly should have been terrified about. However, the mindful lord gave the slightest nod of his head and stroked a hand across his sparsely peppered chin.

  The nerve of him. She could hardly contain herself. Here she was, going out of her way, risking the offense of her father, trying to do something she very well did not have to do. For all she should have cared, he and his entire family could die, their heads rolling in the streets beyond her family’s keep. But every time she thought of them, she could not help but think of Gerold. Picture those perfect little eyes staring expectantly up at her as the axe swung down at his neck. She could not bear it.

  That was why she very well deplored the thought of parenthood. It made one weak. Irrational. She need look no further than her father for that. Revenge. Honor. There were so many higher pursuits to which he dedicated himself. So many aspirations. Yet this incessant need still wormed its way inside, and consumed a part of him entirely. How much more could he do without the need for avenging some invisible wrong against his daughter? They would never know. Not until the day an assassin’s blade caught up with Rurik Matair.

  “I’ve spoke my piece. If you would have me go, then I shall go. Is there nothing you would speak of? I may well be the one voice for you unattached to polished axes and stale food.”

  The silence lasted long enough Charlotte thought he would not speak. Then he said, “Yes. My son. Did he truly touch you as you say?”

  She paused a moment, to consider the grains of truth. Things said, and things known. Truth was in the eye of the beholder. As sure as beauty, or wit, or strength.

  What she gave was: “Men are always willing to believe two things about women. That they are weak, and that they are attracted to them. Men prize their foolish women for their silence. I am no fool, ser, but I know enough to hold my tongue. The question you must ask yourself is how well do you know your son?”

  Kasimir snorted, settling back into the shadow of apathy. “You may go.” His eyes did not leave her, but his look had already dismissed her. “And I thank thee, lady.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Showing me I did not make a monster, merely served them.”

  Sleep was to be a solace. An unstormable castle that separated her from the troubles of the world.

  But her mind seemed determined to draw her back. That night, Charlotte dreamt that she was again in Lord Matair’s cell. Her, but not her, like her soul had been encased in amber, leaving her to watch through her own eyes but unable to move. One moment, darkness, and the next, she was already there, sitting at his feet as though his humble dog.

  She wanted to turn and to cry out for the guards, but she could not compel herself to do so. Kasimir’s hand reached out for her, shaking as it cupped her cheek, like a father comforting a weeping child. The torches in the hall were dim, leaving his cell largely to shadow. His face was more an outline in it, of nose and eyes and lips, yet faceless. Faceless as the deep.

  Much to her own horror, her hand reached up to clasp his own, caressing it gently. He seemed to shrink at this, shaking his head and receding into his chair. He withdrew his hand, and her own hung in the air, but sagging, as though held up by strings.

  “I wondered, child, when you would be about.”

  Her? He wondered when she would be about? Has he gone mad? Mere hours had passed. Had he forgotten or…No. Surely he does not mean to imply…never. He was much too old, his stone-chiseled looks far too gone from her perception of a man. This is absurd.

  She wanted to say she would carve out his entrails if he ever touched her. What she said was, “Neither bar nor wall could keep me.” They were a dizzying blow. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her at all. “They could not keep you. Oh no.”

  “Your father—”

  “Is dead. Burned him. And they will burn you, too. All of them. Monsters. Greedy little monsters.” Blackened nails clutched at his leg. “Let me take you away. Far, far.”

  “There are times when men must die.” Kasimir’s lips curved hopelessly in the dark. “They would stop you.”

  “They would burn if they tried.”

  “You let your anger rule you. Do not. We get but one life. Do not squander it.”

  “Such talk. How unlike the lord. Please, please come.”

  He shook his head, seemed to sink deeper into his chair. How can the guards not hear this? Were they there at all? She would have their heads, all of their heads, for this.

  “Even if you could take me from here, my family would pay the price. Rurik already suffers for my incapability. I would visit no such torture on the rest.”

  There was a scream, like rippling thunder through her mind. Charlotte could feel herself reeling, crying out, but there was no sound. No motion. The eyes through which she looked remained level, the body fidgeting but undeterred. She bit at her own lip.

  “Who? Who does this? I’ll kill him.”

  “Usuri—”

  “All of them. The royal family. Dead. They’re here. I can do it. I know. Cullick gives me leave. Gives me capability. But I’ll kill him too. I’ll kill him if only you’ll—”

  “Usuri.”

  She snapped to attention, suddenly quivering. Anger and terror, like two great fronts, colliding in the air above her head. There would be a rain of blood.

  “Do not do this. Vengeance. It is a plague. Life is not lived beneath it, and far too many are consumed by it. My son, who would throw his life away for it. My country, which would throw away lives for it. And you, sweet child, where have you gone, and how did you come? Is there no way to spare the child that was?”

  “The wise can oft but wonder why as the strong set out to die. She died in the flames. Do not let it trouble you so.” She smiled with her eyes, an intense and spiteful thing. “But for you, many more will burn.”

  “You will not listen.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

  “I will not. Nor will you.” She winced, turned aside. Something wet was rolling down her cheek. “Is there nothing? You are the only ones…the only ones…” Like a little mouse, whimpering in the corner, she started to shake with sobs, and all the world was surrounding her, and growing more distant from her. Tiny little creature, in a tiny little hole.

  “Vengeance stirred is vengeance earned. Vengeance dealt is vengeance stirred. Vengeance is sought, but never found.” The old soldier seemed to shy away from her tears. These only made them all the deeper. “I care not how you came to be here. Go from this place. Find my—Rurik. Would you rather not find peace with him, than death and madness here?”

  At this, she grew rigid. The sobs ceased. She hiccupped once, looked down. Turned aside. Looking everywhere but at him. Her hands writhed over themselves, clawing at the already cracked skin. Then she grimaced up at him, nails digging into her skin as she heaved the words that Charlotte’s father had put between her lips.

  “He would not have me.” She winced, speaking very softly as she shrank. “Not yet. Once they are dead. Once they are all dead. I can rest and he—he will ha
ve no fears. None of them. Whatever they want—or don’t.”

  Lord Matair remained silent, but for the soft sigh that parted from his lips. He seemed a man exhausted and much diminished, and growing more so by the instant. Sadness defined him. Every inch of him that looked on her was misery.

  “Do you fear?” she asked, voice wavering.

  “All men fear the end.”

  “Not all. If I cannot save you, I can at least protect you. Fear. Pain. These things I can take away. Go. Go Kasimir to your end, and know not the binds that have us all.”

  Usuri leaned forward to embrace him, as one might embrace a kinder father.

  When Charlotte woke, Usuri was sitting beside her bed, gathered deep in the folds of a thick, black gown. Charlotte thought of crying out for Dartrek, but she feared what the girl might do. Hiding herself behind her covers, she started to speak, but the witch cut her off, not even looking at her as she did.

  “So you see,” Usuri said, “what it is to be a friend. And what it means to kill.” The storm eyes leveled on her sharply. “Give me more, that I might lose myself in devastation.”

  And unsaid: for this life is already lost.

  * *

  Rurik tore into another cartridge, pouring the resulting load of powder down a barrel of his pistol even as the sapling beside him shattered beneath the force of a stray bullet. He jumped, but his own lead shots followed after, packed down into their barrels with a ramrod. Each plunged into the mass below. He did not bother looking to see if he struck. Amidst the mass of bodies, it was nigh impossible to miss, though whether the dead would be friend or foe was a luxury of a guess he did not care to make.

  He looked for Essa amidst the tumult, spied her sheltering with her horse amongst a copse of pines a few yards to the west. She and a smattering of crossbowmen tipped their weapons and let loose a volley that sang through the air and into the unfortunate mass below.

  Rowan and Chigenda were nowhere to be found. Somewhere in the mass. Rurik had last glimpsed Rowan just after the lines met. Essa’s cousin parried a sword that had been meant for one of their fellow riders, turned it aside, and fell on the assailant in turn. Men loped around him as others poured on, and somewhere in the breach, Rurik lost sight of him. Chigenda had leapt from his own horse when it was shot out from under him, and he and his spear started a path through the mass.