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There is naught he can hear but the roar of the fire, naught he can taste but the smoke in his lungs. A voice, distantly familiar.
Wait here, Master. I’ll be right back.
Caspar’s back retreating into the library. The darkness, looming, coiling around him like a grinning maw, ready to swallow him whole.
“No!”
Andreas does not know where he finds the strength to rush forward with the fury of a madman, tearing and clawing like a wild animal at anything he can reach. Barely above the crackle of the flames, he hears Caspar yelling, first in surprise as his grip on the trapdoor slips and he falls bodily onto the hard stone of the crypt. Then in pain, when Andreas refuses to loosen his vise on Caspar’s arm.
“Master Andreas! Master An—ow, please, let go, you’re hurting me!”
“You can’t go in there, you’ll die!” Andreas shouts back at him. “I forbid you, do you hear me? I told you—” He shakes Caspar’s arm, uncaring of the boy’s wince of pain. “I told you to leave, but you just won’t listen!”
Caspar’s eyes are brimming with tears in the dim light, his face gone pale beneath the smears of soot. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Master Andreas, I was… scared for you.”
Andreas halts at the fear evident in Caspar's expression, feeling the frenzy drain from his veins until there’s nothing left but dizzying nausea, and he releases the boy as if his touch burns. Caspar instantly cradles the injured arm to his chest, his ragged breath coming out in uneven gulps as Andreas stumbles away to lean against the cool wall of the crypt. The ghostly heat of the fire is long gone from his skin, now breaking into cold sweat.
The thick stone muffles all outside sound in a strange way. Nonetheless, the din of the fight on the grounds above them grows ever louder, until Caspar looks up at the vaulted ceiling in alarm.
“What do we do now?” he asks. “Those soldiers… Are they going to kill everyone?”
Andreas slumps down against the wall, trying not to think of the sounds, of the enormity of tonight’s loss. His eyelids feel as heavy as gravestones.
“There is nothing we can do,” he intones, leaning his forehead into his hands. “Caspar. You have to go home.”
Caspar snaps his head towards him.
“… No.”
Andreas sighs. “Casp—”
“No,” Caspar interrupts him, voice growing thick with tears. “You said you would teach me after this was over. You promised.”
“But this is not over, don’t you see?” Andreas slams his fist into the floor, then immediately regrets raising his voice when Caspar flinches back. His pulse still racing, Andreas forces himself to draw in measured breaths until he can trust himself to speak again.
“It’s not… Whatever else he was guilty of, Brother Guy did not write those notes to Martin, or to Hanna, or me. Nor did he conspire with Prior Ferenc to murder Baron Rothvogel seven years ago. That was the Thread-Puller. And it’s only a matter of time before they come after someone else.” Andreas stares blankly into the dark of the crypt. “Unless I stop them.”
Caspar slowly sits up. “Then let me help.”
Andreas shakes his head. Caspar’s face twists into an uncharacteristic scowl in response. “Surely it would be easier if—”
“This has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re one of the few people who are blessedly uninvolved in any of this.” Andreas makes himself look at Caspar. There are clear tracks on his cheeks where his tears have washed away the ash. “You can go home to your parents, still make a life for yourself, make art for the joy of making art. I can’t…” His voice becomes strangled in his throat, and Andreas has to swallow a few times before it cooperates once more.
“I can’t go back. Otto…” He drops his gaze to the floor. “Otto was my friend. I can’t just leave like this.”
Caspar is making tiny hiccuping sounds, like he’s trying not to sob. With each aborted breath, his hands twist and tug at the hem of his tunic like he’s about to rip it apart. Every muscle in his body protesting the movement, Andreas leans over to lay his hand over Caspar’s.
“If you truly wish to help me, you should go home. Go home, forget about all this, forget about Tassing.” He pauses. “And if anyone asks, tell them I died here, on this day.”
Caspar turns to grip Andreas's hand almost hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Andreas can feel the boy's shivering in his bones. He abides the pain, the quiet, wounded animal noises Caspar fails to subdue. They sit still until Caspar’s breathing finally calms, and when he speaks, his voice is as small as Andreas has ever heard it.
“I will do as you ask.”
Andreas lets his shoulders relax. “Good.” He wearily stands up and surveys the crypt around them.
“What will you do—” Caspar falls silent at Andreas’s gesture, the commotion overhead growing louder with heavy footfalls racing through the church towards the nave.
With no time to spare, Andreas quickly scans the walls of tomb markers to identify the one that must hide the secret passage to the old aqueduct and drops to his knees. “Help me with this,” he says, and together he and Caspar lever the stone cover out of the way. A damp smell of old soil and standing water rushes out of the space behind and assails his nose when Andreas leans in to check the passageway.
“Do you remember the route we took through the Roman ruins?” he asks, to which Caspar gives a mute nod. “This should let you avoid the worst of the fighting, but you should still be careful.”
He turns back to Caspar to find him staring into the chasm with a glassy look in his eyes, and in that moment he looks painfully, terrifyingly young.
“I need you to live, Caspar,” Andreas whispers. Caspar’s face crumbles minutely before he blinks his eyes clear and nods.
“I will.”
He crawls cautiously into the passageway, feet slipping on the worn stone. He’s halfway into the shadows when he pauses and turns around. “Thank you, Master Andreas,” he says. “Thank you for everything.”
Andreas cannot bring himself to speak. He nods in acknowledgement, waits until Caspar’s footsteps have faded beyond his hearing, then carefully pushes the hatch closed.
And that was the last time he saw…
… the last time…
…
…
…the last time I saw Andreas Maler he told me—
The scratch of his quill against the paper stops abruptly.
He told me to lie, Caspar thinks, and I have lied ever since for eighteen years. He lied to his parents, he lied to the registrars tasked with settling the Maler estate, he lied to the people who took up his apprenticeship after the legalities were cleared.
Hasn’t it been long enough? Who’s to say his old Master is even alive anymore, after all this time?
The letter waits silently for his confession, as patient as a priest.
(“And if anyone asks, tell them I died here, on this day.”)
—he told me to return home. I only learned of his passing after I had reached Salzburg.
There are two things I would like to say about Master Maler. Firstly, that he was dedicated to advocating against violence and was deeply saddened by the bloodshed that ensued from the revolt.
Secondly, though he did not doubt the guilt of Brother Guy, he worried there was a deeper conspiracy at work. During our investigation, we discovered that several villagers were sent finely-lettered messages in an unknown hand. Master Maler himself received one, warning him not to pursue the matter further. He believed these messages came from a person, or persons, he referred to as the Thread-Puller. We were never able to confirm their identity.
I fear I cannot be of much more help to you, Mistress Druckeryn. Please note that despite the circumstances, I have most fond memories of Tassing and its people. Give your father my warmest regards. And as one artist to another, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours in the Rathaus.
God bless you,
Caspar Ziegler