Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  ‘Drink up now,’ said Marek, and she did. The stairs to the loft seemed many, and harder to climb than ever before. How had she become so tired? It had been a long day, true enough, but she fell into bed still dressed, too exhausted to rise again. She shucked off her boots, and curled into a ball.

  ‘Where are you, Steiner?’ she whispered to the darkness, but no answer came.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Steiner

  Cinderfell holds especial importance, lying as it does on the North-western coast of Nordvlast. It is the last stop before taking ship to Vladibogdan, and the last town that many of the taken children will ever see. The people of Cinderfell have watched us take scores of children year after year. I fear that if there is some uprising then it must surely occur in Cinderfell, or close by. We must be watchful.

  – From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.

  Steiner had not meant to be late. It seemed as if all the people of Cinderfell had crowded around the lonely stone pier to witness his leaving. He descended the rutted track leading to the coastal road, not bothering to call in at home. He had no wish to speak with those who had cast him to the fate awaiting him on the island. The crimson frigate lay at anchor and rowing boats headed back and forth, ferrying cargoes of children with witchsign from all across the Empire and Scorched Republics. The sky resembled a vast quarry, inverted, the clouds all arrayed in shades of brutal grey, jagged and dangerous.

  ‘There he is!’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. Heads turned and the crowd parted. Steiner’s head was a dull throb of pain and his guts fared no better. Pieces of straw clung to his tunic, evidence that he’d spent the night in a stable. Better that people not know which one.

  ‘Took your sweet time,’ said a gruff voice.

  ‘They’ve almost got all the children aboard,’ chided another.

  ‘Thought you’d try to run,’ said another voice.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ replied Steiner, senses too dull to form a more biting response. He walked and glowered and walked some more.

  ‘Not such a smart-arse today, eh?’ said Håkon, the butcher.

  The crowd withdrew from Steiner as if the taint of the arcane was contagious. Men and women and dozens of children watched; a few kissed their fingertips as he passed – the old sign for warding off evil. Steiner struggled not to curse at them. At least Kristofine was not among the townsfolk, he was glad of that. She was the last person in Vinterkveld he trusted; he’d rather she’d be spared witnessing his departure.

  The pier was clear of everyone but soldiers, six of them forming a cordon to keep back any desperate parents, though none had followed their offspring north from the other Scorched Republics. Hierarchs Khigir and Shirinov lurked together, all folded arms and stooped shoulders.

  ‘I told you the boy had spirit,’ said Khigir in his deep drone. The frown on the plain bronze mask was no less strange.

  ‘I was about to order the sacking of the blacksmith’s cottage,’ said Shirinov from behind the silver smile.

  ‘Sorry to have made you wait in the cold so long,’ said Steiner. ‘Must be hard when a chill gets into old bones.’

  Shirinov slunk forward, then raised his hand.

  ‘Steiner!’ The shout came from the crowd.

  The Hierarch stopped and looked at the newcomer but Steiner had no need to turn. He knew the voice well enough.

  ‘Steiner, I have something for you.’ Marek’s statement was a plea, but Steiner had no care to answer it. ‘Steiner, please?’

  He flashed an angry glance over his shoulder and saw the blacksmith and fisherman side by side, held back by soldiers. Kjellrunn was nowhere to be seen, probably for the best with Vigilants so close at hand. Marek held a rough sack and offered it towards him.

  Steiner walked to the cordon of soldiers and eyed the sack.

  ‘What am supposed to do with this?’

  ‘It’s for the journey,’ replied Marek, his expression pained.

  ‘Keep it,’ replied Steiner. ‘I want nothing from you.’

  ‘Steiner, I’m sorry.’ Marek’s voice cracked.

  ‘Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell.’

  ‘Steiner.’ Marek looked crushed but Steiner couldn’t find it within himself to feel much pity. He turned on his heel and walked the length of the pier, away from the cordon of soldiers, away from the despairing eyes of his father. The sound of the Spøkelsea washed over him and several gulls pierced the quiet with mocking calls, setting his nerves on edge.

  ‘You turn your back on family?’ It was Khigir, the frown of the pitted bronze mask no less intimidating up close.

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘There are some who are taken and never truly let go of their previous lives.’ Khigir looked back towards the crowd. ‘Yet you are not one of them.’

  Steiner shrugged and watched the rowing boat leave the ship.

  ‘You are a contradiction, yes?’ added Khigir.

  ‘I’d say I’m straightforward if you’ve a care to know me.’

  ‘Straightforward how?’

  Steiner took a step towards the Vigilant. ‘When I’m happy I smile and when I’m angry I frown. I don’t need a mask to hide behind.’

  ‘You will change in time. You will have a mask soon, I think.’ Steiner thought he heard a mocking tone in Khigir’s words.

  ‘Why would I need a mask?’

  ‘Come now, boy,’ said Khigir. ‘It is time to depart.’

  ‘I’m not your boy,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘My name is Steiner.’

  The wind gusted across the bay and the townsfolk drifted along the coastal road in threes and fours, like frail autumn leaves. Steiner glanced down the pier one last time and saw the crowd part around Marek as Verner led him away. Anger burned brightly even as a stony desolation filled his chest. A light rain began to fall, making a susurrus on the surrounding sea.

  Shirinov was elsewhere as Steiner descended from pier to boat, shouldering his way between surly children who scowled as he sat down. Steiner struggled to keep his composure and he bowed his head, clenching his hands into tight fists.

  The last words he’d said to his father rang in his ears, Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell. Anything to keep her out of the hands of the Empire and its Vigilants. Rain dripped from his nose and down his temples.

  At least no one will notice if I shed any tears, he thought.

  The Hierarchs struggled to take their seats, aided by the arms of four stronger, younger soldiers, who joined them. The effort of embarking ushered a coughing fit from Shirinov, who slumped into a doze when the wracking passed.

  They were halfway to the frigate, bobbing across the dark green waters, when another rowing boat passed them. Romola was aboard, stood at the front without a care, heading towards the stone pier. A few crew manned the oars and shot sour glances at the Hierarchs and darker looks at Steiner himself.

  ‘Romola?’ said Steiner.

  ‘You have seen her before?’ intoned Khigir.

  Steiner nodded. ‘Does she work for the Empire?’ he asked, annoyed he’d let the Vigilant goad him into conversation.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Is that the same manner that murders children?’ asked Steiner.

  ‘Such spirit,’ Khigir leaned forward, ‘will not last for long. Vladibogdan changes everyone.’

  Any romantic notions of sailing Steiner entertained were quickly drowned. He’d not had a chance to take in his surroundings before being forced into the hold. There were no seats, only old crates, the smell of salt water and darkness. The sole chance to fend off the spiteful chill was to choose from a selection of mangy blankets, though lice roamed the folds of the fabric causing children to squeal as they shook them loose. It was difficult to count just how many captives were confined in the gloomy hold. Steiner had not expected the ship to groan and creak and struggled to keep the alarm from his fac
e. The motion of the sea did nothing for his hangover and he settled down between two crates and closed his eyes.

  Invigilation began at age ten and continued once a year until a child left school at sixteen. Many children dropped out of school long before then, required to attend the Invigilations all the same. Steiner had heard tell of cunning parents who sought to keep their children off the school registers in remote villages, far from the prying eyes of the Synod. None of their efforts mattered in the end. A vast network of the Synod’s clergy scoured the continent, sending their finds north and west until the children fetched up in Cinderfell, escorted by soldiers.

  Steiner recalled his father’s words from the previous night. The thing is, the children sent to the island aren’t executed.

  At least we don’t think so.

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Steiner to no one in particular.

  He was answered by a whimper and opened his eyes to find a boy of ten squatting down and clutching himself. He had a hint of Shanisrond blood in him; his delicate eyes were at odds with his plump, olive-skinned cheeks.

  ‘Hoy,’ said Steiner. ‘Get yourself a blanket.’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘M-Maxim.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a blanket?’

  Maxim raised a hand towards a pile of crates where a blond-haired boy sat atop an improvized throne. ‘He won’t let me.’

  Steiner pushed himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He felt scores of eyes upon him and realized he was the eldest by a couple of years, and certainly he was the largest.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said to Maxim. The boy nodded and his bottom lip quivered with misery. Steiner crossed the hold, stepping over huddles of children until he stood before the pile of crates. The boy who sat at the summit had nestled among a dozen blankets, looking impossibly smug.

  ‘And who might you be?’ Steiner asked with arched eyebrow.

  ‘I am Aurelian Brevik; my father is the richest man in Helwick. I won’t be staying long.’ He smiled. ‘Once my father has paid off the Empire I will return home.’

  ‘Is that so, son of the richest man in Helwick?’

  ‘Of course.’ Aurelian pouted. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t possibly have witchsign, not like these disgusting creatures. Not like you.’

  Steiner guessed Aurelian was around sixteen years old. He had eyes as cold as the north wind and was dressed in sheepskins dyed red, splendid and expensive. His heavy boots were fine and new.

  ‘How about you hand over some of the blankets?’ suggested Steiner.

  ‘I think not,’ replied Aurelian.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Steiner, voice low. ‘I’m hungover, I’ve just lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I didn’t pack much in the way of patience.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be intimidated?’ sneered Aurelian. He stood up but the smile slipped from his face. The throne had given him the impression he was taller than Steiner. They stood face to face and Steiner knew Aurelian wouldn’t back down. Money never did.

  ‘Why don’t you crawl back to your side of the ship like the peasant you are and I’ll forget—’ Aurelian got no further as Steiner’s fist took him on his left eye and nose. He fell back against his improvized throne and released a whimper, holding a hand to the source of his pain.

  ‘You dare strike me?’

  ‘I dare just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘And I’ll dare again if you don’t shut your stupid face.’

  Steiner took the bundle of blankets from the throne of crates and began handing them out to the children that lacked them.

  ‘Shake it out. Get rid of the lice,’ he said to one child. ‘Calm yourself and dry your eyes,’ he said to another. ‘Here you go.’ He passed a blanket to Maxim and before long he’d drawn an audience of fifteen imploring faces, all sensing protection was at hand and drifting towards it.

  ‘Ugh,’ managed Aurelian from across the hold, but he held his tongue.

  Steiner settled down among his adopted charges, massaging his aching knuckles, then cleared his throat.

  ‘All right, stop crying. I know it’s a sad business being taken from your families and all. And I know you’re scared. Hel, I’m scared too.’ More faces appeared at the huddle.

  ‘How will they kill us?’ asked a painfully thin girl, perhaps eleven summers old.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Steiner. He wanted to promise them they wouldn’t be killed at all, but it was a promise he couldn’t give in good faith. ‘All I know is that we’re being sent to an island called Vladibogdan. Stay together, work together, you’ll need each other if we’re to survive this.’

  It was strange to have such a rapt audience. He’d spent his life being the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the strange girl. He’d largely been ignored by the teachers at school. No one had paid him much mind before Kristofine. His face contorted as he thought of her, thought of never seeing her again. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

  ‘And I don’t want to see any more of this kind of foolishness.’ He gestured towards Aurelian. ‘All we’ve got is each other now.’

  The younger children settled down and the older children spread word through the hold to other pockets of children. Maxim wriggled beside Steiner and fell asleep in his lap. Kjellrunn had been much the same when she’d been five and six. The memory of it brought tears to Steiner’s eyes, tears of frustration and tears of loss.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kjell?’ he whispered. For long moments he sat, head slumped, resigned to his misery. The feeling of being watched pressed against his awareness and he raised his head to find Romola peeking over the edge of the hold. She was not smiling as she had done in Cinderfell, nor did she give any indication she recognized him.

  The Spøkelsea was not the serene expanse of water Steiner had hoped for. The ship lurched and rocked with each wave that broke against the hull. A few of the children began retching and the hold filled with the unmistakable scent of vomit.

  ‘Frøya save me.’ Steiner covered his nose. ‘I had to choose today for a hangover.’

  Maxim looked up with sleepy eyes. ‘Wha?’

  ‘Nothing, but if you throw up on me I’ll toss you overboard.’

  Maxim nodded with a solemn expression that said he would do the same if their places were reversed. The boy wriggled closer and went back to sleep.

  ‘How long does it take for a frigate to travel twenty miles anyway?’ muttered Steiner, just as a member of the crew climbed down from the deck above. She was a hard-looking woman with a black headscarf and a faded tunic the colour of mud. It was her britches Steiner liked the most: broad stripes in black and white.

  ‘I like your britches.’

  ‘Thanks. You Steiner?’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘You tell me.’ The sailor shrugged. ‘Captain wants to see you. Follow me, and don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re already a good five miles from Cinderfell and I doubt you can swim that far.’

  Steiner cocked his head to one side and considered it.

  ‘Trust me,’ said the sailor. ‘The current is strong and you’d likely fetch up in Shanisrond. In a few months after the fishes had nibbled on your corpse.’

  Steiner dislodged the sleeping Maxim as gently as he could. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said when the boy whimpered.

  ‘Didn’t realize you had a little brother,’ said the sailor.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Steiner followed the sailor onto deck and was certain Romola had overheard him speaking to the children, just as he was certain she would have informed the Hierarchs. He didn’t relish another conversation with Khigir and Shirinov; they might suddenly realize the witchsign was mysteriously absent and throw him overboard. All these thoughts weighed on him like the coils of rope on deck, damp with mist and sea spray.

  ‘Here you are,’ said the sailor. She jerked her thumb at a door and then reached out a hand to steady herself as the ship lur
ched.

  ‘How much longer until we get there?’ asked Steiner.

  ‘The wind’s not on our side, so we’re not able to sail as the crow flies.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Steiner.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The captain. What’s he like?

  The sailor smiled. ‘Best you see for yourself.’ And with that she opened the door and ushered him into the gloomy cabin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Steiner

  The uprising against our draconic masters cost Vinterkveld dearly. Many men and women lost their lives. It should be noted that the various pockets of Spriggani, who infest the forests like fungus, did not answer the call of revolution against the dragons. It is for this reason they are not, nor will they ever be, members of the Empire.

  – From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.

  The cabin was full of curios and oddments from across Vinterkveld. Here a tankard with the embossed crest of Vannerånd, there a bone dagger with a hilt bound in lizard skin, while the floor was home to a yak-skin rug. The cabin’s two lanterns contained coloured glass, shedding red and blue light over everything, yet it was the music that entranced Steiner most of all.

  Romola sat with her back to him, one hand strumming the strings of a long-necked instrument with a rounded body. The tune was restful yet carried an undertow of melancholy. Each note was a tiny miracle, each chord a sound from dreaming. No one in Cinderfell had ever had the money for such things; there had barely been money for food when the winters were bad. Music had remained as rousing song and hearty claps to keep time, the stamp of boots and hollered choruses. Instruments belonged to another world somehow.

  ‘Where did you get such a thing?’ Steiner asked in a reverent whisper.

  Romola looked up from her playing and regarded Steiner from the corner of her eye. ‘I took it from an old lover. It’s called a domra.’ A sad smile touched her lips and she sighed. ‘He and I had a parting of the ways when I discovered he’d kept certain truths from me.’