The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  Charlotte looked past them, to the stage. Maynard had grabbed the headsman by the arm and seemed to be scolding him with wild gestures. The man looked affronted, held out the sword, and gestured to the body. Dimly, she heard her own name mentioned, and turned to the crown prince with a questioning gaze.

  “I said, my lady, you seem quite composed yourself.”

  She lowered her eyes, nodding respectfully. “Death is but an end. We should look to life, for it is ever beginning.” Joseph pondered her for a moment, then nodded in agreement, and turned to her father. He still looked to the stage, as if transfixed. Walthere was imagining another head entirely. This man was merely a substitute.

  “Queer thing, though, Walthere.”

  The headsman and Maynard were looking over the blade, running their hands along the edges and speaking in hurried voices. Maynard cast a wary glance over his shoulder, into the crowd, and she thought he met eyes with her father, who turned slowly to the prince.

  “How do you mean?”

  The prince shrugged. “Your man’s first time?”

  Her father’s brows furrowed deeply. “He has long been a servant of our house.”

  “Pity. One might almost suppose that was purposeful. Any fool might have checked the blade before it was used. Far too blunt to do the trick.”

  “I am afraid I do not know what you imply, highness.”

  Joseph smiled and nodded knowingly. “Of course not. That would be cruel.”

  Her mother set Gerold back on his feet. Karlene looked at all of them in shock as she stepped toward Walthere. She told him she was going to take the boy back inside, to which he agreed. At his request, she turned to the Empress, and asked if she desired to accompany her. The Empress’s own son had quieted somewhat in the time between, but he still made a whimper every now and then, and the Empress stroked his head soothingly, and whispered gentle words of encouragement. At Karlene’s question, she only seemed to half-turn, still burying herself in her son’s hair. Her reply was muffled by it, but she seemed to acquiesce, taking her cousin’s hand in hers and using it to pull her and her son along.

  Joseph called to the soldiers ringing the yard, and a number arrived to escort them to the keep, alongside one of the white-cloaked Imperial blades. Karlene bid her farewells, giving deep and gracious curtsies to the prince and princess respectively. The Empress followed her cousin’s suit, though only half-heartedly, seeming nearly as stricken as her son. They were shuffled off toward the keep, a number of nobles breaking away to follow their procession.

  The bucketmen had emerged from beneath the stage, coated in blood. They hurried up the steps at the headsman’s beckoning, with water and rags and brooms in tow. One carried a basket, for the head, whose vacant stare remained, blind but open upon the crowd. A drop of blood had seeped into the white of one eye.

  “Do you still intend to leave on the morrow?” Charlotte’s father asked of Joseph.

  The prince’s gaze lingered on his departing step-mother. “I have much business to attend in Anscharde. The Council of Lords has been left too long with my brothers. And I must greet my uncle, and his men.”

  “Your uncle?” Alarm tingled at the edges of Walthere’s question. “I had thought Lord Mauritz was pushing claims in the west.”

  “Aye, and he returns. I recalled him to the capital as soon as Gerome died. I had need of his troops, and his senses.” Holding his arm out to his sister, Joseph motioned for them all to follow him to the keep. Sara took his arm, and they began to walk. Walthere followed close behind, hissing at Charlotte to follow as well, the palace guards forming rank and hemming them in. “I make no illusions, Walthere. This land is rotten. Gerome’s death only confirmed it, and Mauritz shares my view. We have a duty to the people and to our family to find out how deep this corruption goes, and root it out.

  “If even palatines can lose faith, then it is clear we need to shake the established order. I intend to lay plans in stone, in the event my father does not return from this expedition of his. We cannot cease to move, simply because he is not here to guide us. I must prepare for the inevitable. And to do so efficiently, I must remove those low creatures that would do us ill.” Looking Walthere dead in the eye, he continued: “My first intention is to replace the Council of Lords. They have served well, but their time has come. They are old fools now, more concerned with their own purses than the good of this empire.”

  Charlotte watched the color drain from her father’s face. He was stricken, fumbling for the words to counter this madness. No emperor had ever dissolved a Council of Lords. They had removed members, and some had died under suspicious circumstances, but the council had never been rebuilt from the ground up. Families had held seats there for generations. There would be outrage. Worse yet, it proved a point: if their future emperor thought this well enough within his power, then there could be other things as well.

  “Your Highness—” her father started to say, only to be cut off with a wave of Joseph’s hand.

  “Don’t. Cease your fears. I will leave the electors to their duties, for the moment. But I will have you know I intend to raise the Harfelds to the palatine. Good, faithful people, they. A recommendation from my brother.” He stopped at the door to the keep, and turned back to watch them both. There was no humor to his tone. It was precise, and critical. An unturnable course. “And do not fret the council so. It will remain more or less intact. But I shall be appointing Mauritz to its head, as my chancellor. If you have any suggestions, I am certain he would love to hear them.”

  Walthere blinked, stammering over himself as the weight of the prince’s words seized him. He looked down, and to her, then back. His smile was strained, but it held, waveringly.

  “Have you spoken with Her Majesty of these things?”

  Joseph darkened again, like a gathering storm. “Her Majesty does not need to be consulted about these things. The orders of succession are rather clear.” Turning back, he shouted for the Imperial Guardsman. “The notice, Bidderick.” Charlotte recognized the name, if not the face. Stories told of Ser Bidderick’s prowess with a lance, not his looks. Piggish of face and wide-eyed beneath his receding hairline, Charlotte could see why. With bowed head, the humble knight shuffled from behind, and plucked a roll of parchment from his belt. Without even looking at it, Joseph took it and handed it off to Walthere.

  Licking his lips, her father took it, and delicately unfurled it. It had not even been sealed.

  “I figured now is as good a time as any for preparation, as I said. And with so many here today, I have made drafts of some certain matters I will need the individual provinces attending to once I assume the throne. It is better to have them begin preparing now. The rot, after all, goes much deeper than the head. It’s seeped into the very hearts and limbs of our nation, Walthere. Why, I even hear some giving credence to some nasty whispers about you, you know.”

  Her father looked to him aghast. His wet tongue slipped against his mouth, started to defend himself and his family, but Joseph held up a hand to stay him. “Easy. I am sure there are no truths to such accusations. But the land speaks for itself. Something has to be done. Our neighbors in Ravonno have offered their assistance to such ends, through my brother. I think we shall find their aid most desirable, do you not?”

  Walthere was nodding, numbly, but his eyes kept slipping away from the prince to the letter in his hand. Chuckling softly, Joseph turned from the count, to Charlotte, and slipped his arm from his sister’s, that he might extend it to her. “Always a pleasure, my dear.”

  She dropped to a knee and kissed his hand as decorum dictated. She started to rise, only to be startled by his sudden appearance before her. The aging prince dipped low, grasping her hand as well, and kissed it tenderly. Without second thought, she committed herself to a grievous breach of decorum and ran her other hand through his hair, eliciting a sharp clank of armor as several of his guardsmen brushed a step closer to them. Joseph snapped back quick enough, eying her hand and her wi
th a mix of confusion and revulsion.

  In a heartbeat, she was at her knees again, and prostrating herself before him. Dark eyes stared coldly down at her. Shameful, utterly shameful. She could feel the other nobles watching her then, whispering. As if she hadn’t shamed herself enough.

  She quickly spoke, “My sincerest apologies, Your Royal Highness. I-I meant no offense. I am merely…unused to such attentions.”

  The prince snorted. “Do not take liberties well beyond your station, girl. I did you a kindness. Mark it.” Shifting back to her father one last time, he added, “Watch your girl, Cullick. It’s moves like those that cost her my nephew. And you haven’t much more to lose.” With a flick of his cape, the man turned and headed inside, closely followed by his guardsmen and his sister, whose eyes never left Charlotte as they were ushered through the doors.

  It was only after they had gone that she realized she was still on the ground. She started to rise, only to be seized by her father. He gripped her hand so hard it felt like she had been caught in a bear trap. He yanked her across the yard and tossed her against a wall, just out of sight of the other nobles.

  “What in Assal’s name are you doing, child? Are you mad? All these years on manners and decorum for this? Would you have me beat you like some urchin on the street?”

  She met his gaze defiantly. He reared back, and she feared he might strike her, but he hesitated as his eyes caught the hand that shifted from behind her back. Clutched between her fingers were several long, brown hairs. At that moment, he knew. There might have been respect in those eyes, but as it were, they simply settled into some sort of neutral being, and Walthere’s head inclined slightly to show his approval. Only slowly, his gaze left her, keeping an eye out for others, despite the guards that moved to guarantee their momentary solitude.

  “What of the note?” she asked, eager to shift subjects. Walthere glanced down at it, frowned, and shoved it off on her.

  “Representatives of the Inquisition are to be put at every court in Idasia, without question. Their will shall be answerable to Anscharde, and to the Church, alone. And any man, woman, or child of any class is subject to their inquiries. He means to roll us out, into the sea. Every one.” His teeth grated, and she could see the yellowed bits gleam angrily. “It begins in earnest.”

  “And the Empress?”

  Walthere stared across the yard, disconcertingly. Charlotte softly repeated herself, but he only looked to her and stroked a hand against her cheek. The other lifted the parchment from her, and he motioned her toward the door. “See to your brother,” he said, and started off across the yard, where Maynard waited, one of her father’s lords at his side.

  She did not care to dwell on his silence. It could mean anything, and it would do her little good to ponder where it led. The man was sensible, if anything. He knew what to do, and if he didn’t, she had to trust her uncle could guide him back to reason. She looked to the hairs in her hand and squeezed them tight. War was the path. Death, the cobbles of its steps. She scanned the windows for any sign of watchers, but the girl for whom she searched did not stare back. Overhead the clouds were gathering thicker, and she heard a man whispering of storms brewing to the east.

  The east, where war raged. She sighed and started off. A war without and a war within. No matter the nation, what manner of men could ever hope to ward such devastation? Her father said that peace would lie at the end. She had to believe him. Yet that elicited a chuckle from her, unintentionally. It was one of her father’s own lessons, risen again. Never trust anyone. But if you can’t trust anyone, then how could you ever live?

  That was one of the inherent flaws of faith. Belief without knowing. But worse yet: belief without action. It could be good in its own right. Beautiful, even, when embraced, but that had to be measured. Checked. Too many surrendered themselves to it. What they did not see was simple fact. Religion did not bring peace. It merely offered a means. It was up to man to create peace, and that was what her father did. Or sought to do. The path might not be easy—even cruel—but the ends were good. The dream. And it would be crafted in their own hands. Gods would have nothing to do with it.

  That was precisely the core of a Farren. The core of her being, and her faith—these things that could see her dead, merely for the holding. Worship Assal. Study His word and praise His works. But mind yourself. Mind your world. There is more to life than the heavens, and to know life and to make it all that it could be, one must go out into it and make of it what they would. They could not merely sit around and wait for Assal. Assal was in His children, and it was in living that they truly embraced Him. The pain of self-flogging, as some of the Orthodox practiced, was not the path. Hymns and parables and offerings were little fare before the simple act of being.

  She paused a moment, pondered. What was Kasimir? Had he been Visaj, or Farren? She thought of those eyes, white, blank, dead. Nothing, she thought. His religion was himself, and his family. Closing her eyes, she breathed, gathered herself and moved on, smiling at the nobles in her path. One of the guards dipped low to her, and she stepped around him, toward the door. She was of no mood to speak with these people.

  Inquisitors. She thought of the men that had seized the family Matair. How they had urged for fire and brimstone, only to be denied on virtue of the law. To have their ilk within the very boundaries of the Idasian home—it was a despicable and terrifying thought.

  The Orthodox believed that all men came into this world stained. Corrupt. Evil. Her mind wandered to Joseph, steered back. There were few better examples, she thought. According to the Church, it was only through one’s actions and their faith that men might prove otherwise. Or coin. They always did appreciate a touch of coin.

  In their eyes, heaven was theirs to gain.

  Farrens held the opposite. Heaven was theirs to lose. All men were pure at birth. It was society that corrupted and misled them. Rightly, it was through men’s own actions that they proved any less worthy of peace than any other men. For that, the Church called them heretics. What manner of god, she thought, could condemn a man for a mere difference in thought? How can one condemn another’s soul to Hell, and still say that they are right? Such things were petty, mortal. She herself was not above it. Nor her father, nor the Emperor and his sons. But the Orthodox called them devils, and said that Assal would see them burn. If anything refuted the Visaj, then, it was their own actions. If anyone should burn, was it not they?

  Hendensleuce’s wife had been carried from the yard. A good old Orthodox, that one, and her husband as well. They had burned their share. Charlotte looked across the yard, to the stakes buried in their own acreage. She wondered if her father would burn Farrens here, if the inquisitors demanded it. Did they fit into his plan? He had not rallied for the witch’s father, when he was taken on the road. Then again, there was nothing in his life. It was his death that served a purpose.

  It was a terrifyingly morbid thought, but one with many roots in history. Even corpses were symbols. Tools. Weapons. How many saints were made into martyrs? How many dead men stirred living men to action? Even corpses had purpose, or could be given one. A man could make himself an island his entire life, only to have reason itself laid about him, a fabricated existence. Identity became relative, history nonexistent. As they said, dead men told no tales.

  In her lingering, she spied one of her father’s gentry starting toward her. She picked up her feet again, tactfully discarding the man with a supposed need to treat with the Empress. He bowed out, leaving her to her own, and she was allowed to flee uncontested across the yard, putting both the stakes and the men who manned them at her back.

  At the very door to her home, she tarried a moment longer, possessed of a sudden morbid curiosity. Riveting back upon the stage, she spied the head, still laid upon its side. Its blank, lidless eyes watched the world timelessly. “I will go on,” she heard the dead man say. Then a hand fumbled over the paling skin and shunted it into a basket, to be carried off and mounted on a pole.
As it went, she might have sworn she’d seen it smile.

  But that would have been madness. She smiled to herself. Heretical, even.

  * *

  With darkness came light. Sunlight melded into shadow, the silver moonlight shone as bright as any flame. Time had no meaning there, in the bowels of the earth. It blended together, day after day, or minute after minute, and ceased to exist entirely—like a river flowing into itself. She might have passed a week in that hole, or a month. It no longer seemed to matter.

  Roswitte knew only waking and sleeping, and these ran independent of time’s procession. They were calculated not by the rising and the setting of the sun, but by fists and leering yellow teeth, and breaths as rotted as spoiled milk. By the sight and the smell and the feel of some rigid, putrid cock thrusting between her raw and bloodied thighs. Agony, in waking. Bliss in sleep, where no man and no devil could touch the inky blackness of her being, and her mind granted her the one mercy it had left.

  Sweet escape. The mind’s surrender. Close your eyes and let it go. No thought. No dreams. Too much to reconsider. Just let it go. Let it go.

  She had struggled at first. When her attackers came to her, she waited for them as limp as a rag doll. Let them get close. This was after Fallit. How long—no, she didn’t know. They came, rattling the ropes that knotted their breeches, one grabbing for her hair. Then she surged against her bonds with all her strength and gnashed at them with tooth and claw. But her raw wrists opened again as she fought them, and her teeth were useless as they pulled away. Only her legs did them any harm, and she drove one up under one’s legs, and kicked another in the shins. Then they seized her and they held her, some laughing, some moaning, and everything was…

  Darkness. Or so she told herself. Cover it up. Cover it all up. There’s nothing here. Nothing you can do and nothing they can do to you. They did things to that woman, to that bound and bleeding woman, but not her. They were separate, removed, as far as any soul can be from itself. They ravaged the body. They broke her mind. She had to guard what little remained.