The hall was even emptier and even more oppressive now.

Mildred and Mauritz were gone, a handful of servants had taken away the platters and cups.

Adebar sat at the table, alone with Berchthold, the tall wildman glowering into empty space. They had things to discuss, that much was evident.

“You think of moving all winter, von Bolstedt?”

A pertinent question. Adebar himself had thought very little about it all, partly because he slowly came to realize how embarrassing his situation was becoming with each day he spent at Gostahof castle. These people were struggling to put food on the table, and, frankly, he was a strain. They hadn’t kicked him out yet, but the question couldn’t remain unsolved.

“If I am honest, Lord, I would prefer to be on the road, I suppose. I wouldn’t wish to rob you of your goods and time more than necessary.”

Berchthold von Gostahof inclined his head, eyes still fixed on something only he could see in the patterns of the wooden table.

“The roads are hard now. What happened at the inn will repeat.”

The Lord was, of course, right. Still, what other choice did he have?

“I can only hope for the benevolence of Sigmar.”

An empty hope, ashen on his tongue. Sigmar did not love him.

Ever since Diesdorf he’d only met with misery.

The inn had only been the pinnacle of suffering. He didn’t even want to think of Missen, where the men of the village nearly drowned him in the freezing River Stir for trying to recover the daughter of an outlying farmer and bring her back home after the villagers had kidnapped her alongside a herd of cattle.

He was tired, very, very tired. Still, where could he go? He couldn’t stay, so he was condemned to merely wander.

“I would offer you shelter until the end of winter. Ulric is an unkind master.”

Berchthold was clearly uncomfortable, squirming about on his chair.

Von Bolstedt took care in his next words.

“What would you require in recompense? As I told you before, I am poor in coin.”

Green eyes locked into Adebar’s, hard and uncompromising, yet also desperate like a cornered animal.

“I need you to kill someone for me.”

The words hung in the hall for a while, savoured like an aged wine, breathed in like smoke from a fire.

“The people of my holdings have long known an old crone named Fulda. Much to my shame I thought as they still do. I thought her a wisewoman, a healer, filled with the knowledge of Rhya.“ The Count rose from his chair, slowly pacing before the fire as he continued. “She is not ordained, that much I know now, but she has been a healer and advisor to my subjects since before my rule. I fear that I now know better than my father did, and even than I did.

Mauritz tells me that he found the woman by the stream three weeks ago, reading from the guts of a fish. That very night, as if Mannslieb had eaten them, a third of the people’s livestock disappeared. I only noticed when my tallyman put my attention to the matter. Suffice to say, I believe that Fulda had a hand in that.”

The accusation seemed strange, yet, somehow, the way the Count spoke rebuked mirth.

“Worse, I believe we’ve been harbouring a witch in our midst for decades.”

A small part of Adebar wished to question how the seemingly so wild and rural Talabeclanders could even know a witch, if Rhya seemingly was such an easy covering for witchcraft, but he suppressed his natural prejudice just for now.

“I understand, Lord, but, if one may ask, what stops you from starting an open prosecution?”

A snort, a chortle, a growl, the noise was hard to pin down exactly.

“My people hide her. They have become obstinate as of late, they distrust me and my men. It's even spread to some of my wife’s maids.”

The Count von Gostahof turned to regard his guest with uncomfortable intensity.

“Usually I would not care for spiteful looks, a ruler cannot be loved and respected by all, yet when even the most loyal subjects turn away from me and mine I cannot help but suspect the very worst.”

The corruption of Old Night. Men led astray from the dream of the Empire, breaking their oaths of loyalty and betraying all brotherhood. Insurrection.

“I see.” Adebar took a moment to appreciate the task ahead. “You would have me go among your people and find this Fulda, and dispense judgement?”

Berchthold inclined his head.

Witchcraft. If Adebar was honest, he knew nothing of such things, outside of the common hearsay, of hexes and old crones that ate children, who poisoned wells and made cows fall ill. Such things had always been below his notice, in the coddled von Bolstedt manor, or at the university. Such things had been put off as countryside problems, if they were taken seriously at all.

His palms tingled, he held them to the night and saw the glistening sheen of sweat.

There was no choice involved. Staying in Gostahof was the wisest choice he could make if he didn’t aim to seek out death on the frosty road. He owed the Count his life, the very clothes he wore right now.

There was no true way to decline the request. He’d spoken too arrogantly to Mauritz to deny the chance, he owed too much to deny his services to a man that had been more than charitable.

Gods be damned! Once more it seemed fate conspired against him.

“It will be a challenge, but it will be done.”