The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

  She winced at the thought as she closed her eyes to the world. A proper father, with a proper daughter. Her own father had never done any such thing for her. Sometimes she wondered if she was ever meant to be born at all.

  * *

  Voren was shaking as she left, and he still shook as he poured another mug. The wenches would not look at him. They sniggered at his misfortune. It was merely fuel to the fire. Already called him stumpy, when they thought he wasn’t listening—mocked him behind his back, but never to his face.

  He waited for them to go to their pimps and cocks before he slid the extra vial from his pocket. One more round, she says. A final touch of whiskey, a pinch of arasyl for effect. The baker stirred it, and stirred it again, knowing it was tasteless, but terrified of the possibility of her noticing. He could not watch it as he did it. It was all Voren could do not to cry as is.

  Essa hated him, despised him, and it was all his fault. He didn’t mean it as she took it. Yet the silence—he should have known—how could he do that to her? It was for him. He had to have it. Voren feared what might happen if he watched her every day, spoke to her every day as normal. Her presence made him weak. He would change his mind if he had to face it. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t turn back now. Everything was set in stone, but looking at her only made it more difficult. It was for the best, Voren told himself, but even he couldn’t believe the words as they came.

  If that was true, how could he feel so rotten for doing it? The woods were her place for silence. Amidst the living, her life was sound, and he took it away from her, shrank from her when it was the boy he meant to spurn, not her. Now more than ever, Essa needed him. The boy was losing himself, and losing her. Essa was tired, heartbroken. She ached for him, and Rurik did nothing about it. How blind that boy can be. Yet in the hour of Essa’s greatest need, Voren too had turned aside. Instead, he turned to fueling Rurik’s addiction, hoping he would drown whatever shreds of the man Essa loved still remained.

  Who, then, is the greater fool?

  Anger. He had to control his anger. The alcohol settled, clear as a pond. The ripples had gone out of it. He had not expected her to confront him. In truth, he should have expected no less. There were a dozen ways he might have reacted to it, and he naturally chose the poor one. How he hated his mind. Letting it show like that was a fool’s thing.

  When she wakes, what will keep her from thinking it was me? From knowing?

  On unsteady arms, he bore up their drinks, pausing at the door to add another little pinch, lest all his stirring have diluted the effects. Soon he could put all this behind him. Once Essa saw, it would be easy. No one would laugh at him any more when they saw her on his arm. No one would spurn him. If she so wished, they might even slip away in the night, away from this horrid place. He would take her back to mother, maybe—he knew Essa would like her. Or the woman she once had been. No, there was too much risk in that. That, and he did not want his mother’s attention. They could do as well in any other place, as long as they had each other.

  They were still at cards when he approached, but Voren cautiously regarded the scene before him. It had shifted, curiously. Rurik and Essa sat apart, Essa coddled in the Kuree’s lap, rebuking the flirtatious glances Rurik directed her way. Essa’s cousin looked bizarrely cowed, and the conversations between them all had faltered to a standstill. It was cruel, perhaps, but Voren felt a sudden elation in his own sullen heart.

  “Another round, in penance, friends. I have been a boar this eve.” He set the tray of mugs at the center of the table, each facing their respective owner. Less suspicious if he didn’t hand them to them. Rowan waved his off, still working on his first. Ignoring the surprised stares and snappy jests that greeted him, Voren turned a smile to Rurik, who promptly clapped him on the back in thanks. Voren scarcely gave it credence. “And for several nights, I dare say. Particularly to you, Rurik. I don’t—I just…I do not deal well with death, my friend, and I know that is no excuse but you—you deserve better. Please, forgive me.” He lingered long enough to watch Rurik’s drunken smile turn uncertainly, and as it did, Voren offered him his hand. Rurik stared at it before taking it, and Voren was satisfied as the boy’s smile slowly spread anew. Taking Rurik’s empty mug in one hand, he rounded the table for the last.

  Will you be smiling in an hour? The baker could see it, the lust and love all turned to horror. Depressed, they claimed the boy was. Well, soon enough, he would give Rurik something to cry about. Then let him see what the horrors of life were really like. He thinks the road is bad? Poor little noble boy, lost in the sad, wide world.

  Lastly, he came to the great hurdle. Essa sat, not alone, but on the lap of the children’s guardian. Voren swallowed hard, hoping his terror did not leak onto his face. When Alviss nodded to him, he tried his best to nod back. Then there was Essa, whose eyes popped open at his approach, half-lidded, as though he were not worth the effort. Setting Rurik’s mug down, Voren cautiously bent over her, and took her hand in his.

  “Forgive me,” he said. Alviss was staring him dead, and he wondered if he wasn’t supposed to ask for permission first, but he didn’t particularly care. Let him hear. “I act a fool. A bitter, petty fool. You give only the best of yourself, and in turn, when you need it most, I give only the worst in turn. I have no fine excuse. I would say it a thousand times if it could help me, Essa. I am sorry.”

  Her gaze simmered on him, carelessly regarding him, and then it seemed to drain itself of any feeling at all. Essa tugged at her hand and he reluctantly released it, feeling suddenly parched. The Kuric shifted, drawing himself up a little straighter, staring down at him even whilst sitting. Voren felt alone, and small, and suddenly hating the northerner with all his will, wishing against all hope that he might simply vanish at the thought. He did not.

  His love drew her hand back slowly, whispering, “That you are, Voren. Sorry.” Her look dismissed him, as she simply turned from him with a smile and rejoined the others’ game.

  Voren hovered there, caught somewhere between shock and despair, waiting for something, but she ignored him, a gesture all the crueler for its utter lack of emotion. The exile asked if he was alright, said he looked pale, and Voren jerkily bobbed from his place at Essa’s side.

  “Been dipping into your own stout, Voren?” Rowan snickered.

  Voren chuckled with them, though it came out awkwardly, for the desiccation of his throat. He might have nodded—he wasn’t sure. Only the pair beneath him looked ill-amused. Alviss, he realized, was watching him with those wild eyes, with a look that belied bloodshed. Voren felt himself wilting before that stare, and a panic rising, for fear the Kuree might see through him to all those dark and ambitious thoughts he had locked away within the deepest depths. He nearly stumbled over himself in his haste to get away.

  A final passing quip from Rowan set him wincing. He hated them all, he realized. Every last one, for each was or had something that he did not. Even what he had been was taken from him by their arrival. A bitter thought. He twisted back, with a sudden vigor stirred by wrath, but it melted away again as soon as he met the Kuric’s still-leveled stare. Essa watched him out of the corner of her eyes in sympathy, maybe pity. The northerner nodded at him, and he nodded back before he fled, uncertain his legs would carry him all the way to the kitchen.

  Seeing that there was no one left about, he practically flung himself into a corner of the kitchen, and put himself into a ball, sheltering from the world. What ale remained had been taken by the whores. There was still some whiskey left. He poured a belt down and shuddered at the onslaught. It was a fire in him, burning down. Liquid courage, some of the soldiers called it. Vile poison, seemed more like to him. Shuddering, he tried to calm, but his heart was beating faster and his hands would not still. He downed the last shot of whiskey, and waited.

  He wore their skin. Pinching it between his fingers, he tried to make it bleed, stifled his cry in the crook of his arm. The skin reddened, but would no
t break. He wore their skin and he walked their walk, but it didn’t matter what he did. Love or hate. Different, or subverted. Even those outcasts like him abhorred him.

  He was just the tag-along. Just the baker. No one cared for him. The little boy remained. Still stuttering, still hiding. He buried his head in his arms.

  It doesn’t matter.

  The deed was done. He hated himself for it, but even Father Imjesch had said that evil could sometimes be used for the greater good. He tried to comfort himself with that, but he could not shake that look on Essa’s face as she put him wholly from her mind. It was the knowledge that even she could divorce him from her thoughts that held the darkness in his mind. Soon, though, that would all change, whether she wanted it or not.

  This was the moment. There was no stopping it now—and all at once, at the greatest hour of his glory, Voren hated himself all the more.

  * *

  Perhaps I was too cruel, she thought, as Voren slunk away. Alviss hadn’t helped. Their guardian’s icy stare alone could have run off much stronger men than Voren the baker, but there was no telling Alviss to stop. He had picked up on her tension and acted accordingly, regardless of whether or not that was how she actually wanted him to behave. It only made her feel worse. He was merely doing the only thing he knew how to do, just as Voren was.

  The old man squeezed her a little tighter and she laid a hand on his to let him know her affections, but inside her mind was a bedraggled mess. One boy lost to drink and one boy lost to stubbornness and her own lack of kind. She was doing well.

  The night was blossoming into one massive headache. The after burn of Voren’s whiskey—a libation she was very thankful for—seemed to deaden the pounding, but the chattering from friends and family alike only drew it back again. Rowan was gradually regaining some of the courage he had lost from her cowing, and Rurik seemed to be getting bolder in his flirtations. Essa hoped he hadn’t taken Rowan’s words to heart.

  What she needed was water. Ice cold water, with a little bite to purge her system. Yet for all the snow in the world, there was none of that here. With a sigh, she settled back against her guardian, and rubbed at her temple. None of this will do. One day, she had no doubt she wanted exactly what Rowan had described…though better worded, she might hope. She peeked one eye open at the boy as he laughed at another of Rowan’s jokes. That was the one, she knew. One day. It would hurt, she knew that much. It would not be pleasant, but it would open a door to other places. Fonder places. Like Rowan’s parents—such simple perfection.

  She loved him. Essa could say that without fear—though not without blushing. She loved Rurik, and she knew that he loved her.

  That's part of the test, isn’t it? If you could still love someone despite their flaws, that meant something. Doesn’t it? She could see Rurik’s flaws, could see them slapped on the table before her, but she still loved him. It only made her want to help him more, to hold him tight and never let go. If she could weather all of this and still feel that way, it had to mean something. Love was to take a person into your heart, body and soul, for all the baggage that came with.

  Rurik’s hand edged against hers again, and Essa inched her own away. It sparked a buzz under her skin, but she ignored it. She was not in the mood.

  Love sat in constant contention with lust, though. The question was: did his love extend beyond his lust? She told herself yes, but there was always that seedling of doubt. That what if. What if she was just like the other women. What if they ended up like her parents. She took another drink, hoping to drown out that worry, but it only made her thirstier. Alcohol was an insidious little disease.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Essa caught Voren peering nervously from the kitchen. Twice now he had started to step out, hesitated, and pulled back. She felt a wave of sympathy for him, but made no moves to redeem herself. A sort of petty vengeance, perhaps, but she was only human, and he had been an ass.

  Still, Essa couldn’t say he deserved it. Such a sweet boy. He tried. If there was ever anything to say of Voren, it was that he tried. But that thought only riled her more.

  Why can’t I stay angry for once? That in and of itself was frustration incarnate. Adding to it was the nagging reality of something Rowan had told her moons before. Perhaps Voren did like her. Assal’s breath, that would be a disaster. Is this just your own childish way of showing it? She hated it. Hated the way men thought. They never simply said what was on their mind. No different from children. It was the woman’s role to dance around, they always said, yet they were no better. Instead, they chucked rocks at one another and called one another names, waged wars and burned homes to prove their fickle points. It was exhausting, really, and terribly impractical. She wanted a man, not a boy.

  Even if that boy did have a pretty face. Odd, though, without the flour to go with it.

  She would have to talk with him, eventually. However, no amount of alcohol could make her any more eager for the task. Warm, though. It definitely made her feel warm.

  “Essa…”

  She turned her gaze back to Rurik, whose hand had inadvertently slid over her own again. She started at that, though she did not immediately drive him off. The feel of his hand on hers, the calluses riding against her skin in delicate circles—had he gotten closer since the last time? It seemed he was creeping closer by increments. Essa felt a spark of warmth in her belly at that—a familiar touch between her thighs. Was he…she shook it off, folding her legs over one another as she shifted in Alviss’s lap. Not here. She felt her cheeks warming as the flush came on, and she hated herself for that. She did not want this, not in Alviss’s lap, and not amidst her fury. It just felt…wrong. Unnatural.

  She paused at that, retreating a pace into herself. Odd choice of words. She trailed her tongue along the rim of her mouth, pondering. Surely she was not that far gone already.

  Encouraged by her silence, Rurik’s finger began to trail up her wrist, and she rounded on him as soon as he did. She slapped his hand away. “I said no.” He recoiled as though her nails dripped with poison. Even the smack, however, elicited a spark that shuddered up her skin.

  One of her cousin’s eyebrows arched conspiratorially. “Careful not to rouse the frost queen, now, dear Rurik.”

  Essa shot him a scowl surely as frigid as the name, but the warmth gathering in her begged to differ. She rolled her legs against one another, blushing a little deeper as she felt the slick wetness bundling there. A silent prayer stirred in her. Why, why, why. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, but the eyes followed her even there, and she had to admit, it was a guilty pleasure finding them there, each watching, waiting, dreaming. She smiled, even as she pressed them down deep, to focus on the present. The urge abated, but did not entirely subside. Idly, she pondered what the night would bring. The drink always gave her dreams. If they had anything to do with this…

  She snapped back to attention all at once, and greeted them all with a scowl as she found them staring at her oddly. They hastily settled back to their cards, and Alviss reached around her for his own, but she stared longingly out to the whiskey, pondering the final plunge. The pounding in her head was growing, despite the flutter in her chest, and it would not seem to leave her. This is surely how father got where he did.

  * *

  This was how arasyl worked. It was quick, it was ruthless, and it left no stone unturned. So it goes. Voren adjusted himself at the doorway, both pleased and distasteful of his work, but content to see it through. Drink by drink, Essa would fall, and she would never even know. Mostly. He tried to think back on his own experience with the drug, but that was different. He knew he was taking it. If he hadn’t, it would’ve all just been a pleasant evening. One of the few.

  Timing, though, timing was everything. That was why Voren watched her so carefully. He had to let it settle before he had his word. The others were the real danger here.

  Just a few moments of her time, that’s all Voren would need. He had it all rehearsed, down to the
word. The baker would ask to apologize, again, away from prying ears. They would have their words, and more, as he confessed himself. A few touches, a timed embrace—and he would tell Irdlin he was knocking off early for the night, for once, that he might wake in good order for the march the next day. Essa would handle the others. Simple as that. Then it would be him and her and his own meager lodgings for the night. Voren could feel himself hardening at the prospect, and he shifted to press himself a little deeper into his clothes. It would be unseemly for the others to catch sight of his stiffening ambition.

  He yelped as a hand yanked him by the shoulder, spinning him face-to-face with a smiling Irdlin. “Alcohol, is it?” Voren blanched, started to explain, but his wrinkled supervisor cut him off as he tried. The last he had checked, Irdlin had been sleeping in the stores. “Don’t mind it. I’ll keep your little secret. You have to fill in for a friend of mine, though, pinky.” He grinned toothlessly, and Voren had the feeling of being sized up for dinner.

  He was almost afraid to ask: “Where at?”

  “Oh, somewheres special, Voren. You’re ‘bout his height, so’s armor should fit you well ‘nough.”

  “Armor?” Voren felt his heart in his throat. His skin felt like a field of needles. “I am a baker, messar, and in supply. They—I can’t do that. Why don’t you ask one of the men out there? Blackmail the Kuree, if you must.”

  “You can do whatever I order you to,” the supply master snapped back. “Think ol’ Irdlin’s stupid, piss-pot? Half these men is sauced themselves, an’ the rest wouldn’t do it when I asked ‘em sober. Not without pay.” Voren tried to cut in, to little avail. “An’ the Kuric—hell, I like my asshole where it is. Unless you want to be reported, you’ll damn well do it. East barracks. Now.”

  “N-now, messar?” Voren stuttered under the pressure. “I—c-c-can’t you wait an hour, perhaps, or—”

  “Now, Voren. An’ d-d-don’t terrupt’n me. Out, or I’ll have you lashed by the dawning.” As he started back for the kitchen, the supply master paused to add, “Try not to lose another finger while you’re out. Won’t be much good around here, then.”