by Den Patrick
‘Steiner, I think I’m ill.’ Still no answer.
Her thoughts were like dandelion seeds drifting on the wind.
‘Steiner?’
No need to dress, her rumpled clothes were testament to her collapsing into bed late last night. It must have been a long day. She became very still in the darkness of the loft.
The Invigilation.
To call it running would have been inaccurate, but her body did its best to obey her wishes, her feet slipping and catching on the staircase down. No need to search the smithy or the kitchen. She was out into the street and loping towards the bay with her heart beating fierce and insistent. The sun was well up past the horizon, up behind the blanket of frail grey cloud that hung over Cinderfell day in and day out.
How could I have slept in on a day like this?
She ran on, her senses becoming clearer, the cold air jagged in her lungs and throat. Her fingers burned with cold. She hadn’t even noticed the light rain until she almost slipped on the slick cobbles.
How could I have forgotten what happened yesterday?
Through the town and past cottages with plumes of grey smoke drifting from their grey stone chimneys, down the street with dark grey cobbles shining wetly in the rain. So much grey she could almost feel it, leaching the life out of her, leaching hope.
Steiner. He was all she could think of, and though her calves burned with pain she ran onward. Pinpricks of agony stabbed at her lungs, and still she ran.
Steiner. Kjellrunn knew he’d gone before she’d reached the pier. The dark red frigate was nowhere in sight, only a flat expanse of the Spøkelsea. Kristofine stood on the pier, a lonely watcher, head covered with a shawl. Gulls keened above them and the wind gusted into land, bringing showers like formless spirits trying to return home from the sea.
‘He’s gone,’ said Kjellrunn, unable to think clearly, tears tracking down her cheeks.
Kristofine turned and opened her mouth, closing it quickly to still her quivering lip, then answered with tears of her own.
‘Where is everyone?’ asked Kjellrunn. A deathly stillness had come to Cinderfell, and not a soul could be seen except for the woman beside her.
‘They’ve all retired home,’ replied Kristofine, her voice flat and tired. ‘They came to watch him leave.’ She paused a moment, a shadow of frown crossing her face, a fleeting sneer on her pretty lips. ‘They came to make sure he was taken. A few even watched the ship sail away, but they’ve all slunk home now like whipped dogs.’ She took Kjellrunn’s arm in hers and led her back to the town, beginning the incline up to the tavern.
Kjellrunn wanted to speak, but her mind remained blank and the words wouldn’t come. No sobs wracked her slight frame, but new tears appeared every few heartbeats, new tears that burned with cold as they dried on her face.
‘There are a few dozen old sots at the Smouldering Standard and half that at my father’s,’ said Kristofine. ‘Most people are home with their loved ones, I expect.’
‘Grateful their own weren’t taken,’ replied Kjellrunn, gazing ahead and holding tight to woman beside her.
‘Yes, I suppose they are. Nothing like this has happened in Cinderfell for decades.’ Kristofine sighed. ‘I see them take the children away every year, but somehow witchsign was always something that happened to other towns, other countries, other people.’
‘Like an accident,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Like a cart that overturns and kills the driver.’
Kristofine stopped and looked into her eyes.
‘Are you unwell, Kjellrunn? You seem, I mean I know what’s happened to Steiner is awful, but you seem drowsy—’
‘Or drugged,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the bitter tang of the hot milk that Marek had given her. ‘My father drugged my milk so I wouldn’t wake this morning and cause a fuss, wouldn’t tell them …’
‘Tell them what?’
Tell them not to take Steiner, tell them that’s it’s me with the witchsign, it’s me they should be taking to the island. This is all my fault and—
‘Tell them what, Kjell?’ Kristofine’s words silenced the deep ocean of guilt and the undertow of shame. Kjellrunn swallowed and stared into her eyes.
‘Tell them not to take Steiner, of course.’ For a second she wasn’t sure if Kristofine believed her. Kjellrunn dropped her gaze.
‘My own father drugged me so I wouldn’t wake. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’ More tears tracked down her cheeks, though it made small difference in the rain. Kristofine pulled her close and woman and girl resumed their walk up the hill to Bjørner’s tavern.
‘I can’t come in with you,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the flat, unfriendly stares she’d received yesterday and Håkon’s looming presence.
Kristofine inclined her head and circled the building, leading Kjellrunn through a side door. A small sitting room waited for them, shrouded in darkness. Kristofine lit an expensive-looking brass lantern.
‘Wait here, build up the fire if you like. I’ll make you some tea to warm you up. And I’ll bring a blanket. We should try and dry your clothes or you’ll catch a chill.’
Kjellrunn could only nod, too stunned to smile. No one had ever fussed over her so tenderly. Marek was a good father, but his was a functional mind, only affectionate when he remembered to make the effort.
‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn, an uncertain smile on her slender face.
‘I’ll be right back.’ Kristofine left the room and her footsteps sounded on the stairs in a series of creaks.
The sitting room had three armchairs, all draped with blankets and cosy with cushions. Kjellrunn wondered what it must be like to have another room besides the kitchen and a place to sleep. Another door led from the sitting room; the rumble of men’s voices could be heard through timber. She guessed the door must lead to the tavern itself.
‘Bad enough he was a half-wit that couldn’t read, but to have the taint too,’ said one voice.
‘He was no half-wit, and there’s no shame in not reading,’ replied another. ‘There’s plenty of us that get by without words.’
There were a few sullen grunts at this admission.
‘They say it runs in families,’ said Håkon; Kjellrunn would know his gruff tone anywhere. ‘We need to keep an eye on that girl.’
‘She passed the Invigilation,’ protested a woman’s voice. ‘Let her be. She’s just lost her brother.’
‘Mark my words,’ replied Håkon. ‘There’s something unseemly about her.’
‘You mean unearthly, you dimwit,’ said another voice, and the room filled with mocking laughter.
‘Kjellrunn, you’re white as a ghost.’ Kristofine had returned, a blanket slung over one arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe for me. I don’t know what I was thinking. Your father told me I wasn’t welcome here.’
‘I brought you here,’ said Kristofine, quiet yet defiant. ‘You’ve just lost your brother and you’re wet to the skin. Now come on, off with those clothes and get this blanket around your shoulders.’
Kjellrunn stared at the woman, just two years between them but worlds apart. She felt tears fill the corners of her eyes once more and stony grief weighed on her chest.
‘Come on now,’ whispered Kristofine. Kjellrunn shucked off the wet clothes and pulled the blanket around her quickly. Slipping into an armchair and pulling her knees up to her chest.
‘I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing,’ said Kjellrunn.
‘Oh, that.’ Kristofine shook her head. ‘It was a year ago.’
‘I didn’t know you a year ago.’ Kjellrunn paused, watching the woman hang her clothes out by the fireplace. Kristofine knelt down and stoked the fire, adding a few logs.
Why are you being so nice to me? she wanted to ask.
Kristofine smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite.
‘Strange you mention my mother. I was just thinking about Steiner, he told me that you never knew yours. He said he can
barely remember her. That must be hard.’
Kjellrunn nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. Hadn’t Verner said that she took after her mother? Hadn’t Marek said the arcane burned people up and hollowed them out? Her mother might well have passed on to Frejna’s realm.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ said Kjellrunn, so quietly the words were almost lost as the fire crackled and popped.
‘I suppose I know what it is to miss someone,’ replied Kristofine. ‘I didn’t always see eye to eye with my mother, but I’d give anything to have her back.’ She leaned forward in her chair, rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together. ‘I imagine you feel like that right now about Steiner. And your mother too.’
The rumble of voices in the tavern fell quiet and Kjellrunn turned her head, ears straining for a snatch of sound or some clue.
‘Come here,’ said Kristofine, and led her to the wall where the timber’s grain formed a whorl, a knot of wood. Kristofine picked at the knot until something came free.
‘It’s a cork from a wine bottle,’ said Kjellrunn.
Kristofine nodded and held a finger to her lips, then gestured to Kjellrunn to peek through the hole in the wall. The view of the tavern was a good one, though Kjellrunn had to go up on her toes to see through the hole.
Bjørner stood behind the bar, one brawny hand resting on the polished surface. It was the only thing polished about the tavern; Steiner used to joke that Bjørner spent more time caring for the bar than he did himself. Håkon leaned against the wall nursing a pint and fixing an unfriendly stare across the room. Two men in black stood beside the door, cowing the room into silence. Kjellrunn pulled back and gestured that Kristofine look.
‘What will you drink?’ said Bjørner, his words too loud and too forced in the sullen quiet.
‘They’re Okhrana,’ whispered Kristofine, pulling back from the spy hole.
‘Imperial?’ replied Kjellrunn.
Kristofine nodded. ‘Has your father never told you of the Okhrana?’
Kjellrunn pressed her eye to the hole again. ‘My father never told us lots of things.’
The men in black had moved out of sight, but the sidelong looks of the townsfolk told Kjellrunn the Okhrana hadn’t left. She saw the furtive glances and faces lined with worry. Hands grasped at pints and even the most bellicose of the townsfolk became as field mice.
‘They are the Emperor’s watchmen, his bloody left hand,’ said Kristofine.
‘And the soldiers?’
‘The soldiers are his bloody right hand,’ replied Kristofine. ‘The mailed fist used to ensure obedience.’
‘And where does that leave the Synod and the Vigilants?’
‘They are the Emperor’s heart. The Emperor is one of them, after all.’
‘The Emperor is a Vigilant?’ Kjellrunn frowned.
‘Does your father tell you nothing?’
‘He tells me to brush my hair and wash dishes. He only scowls when we mention the Empire, and the meisters at school refuse to acknowledge anything east of the border.’
Kristofine peeked through the spy hole once more and then stoppered it with the cork.
‘We’ve never had Okhrana here before. In Cinderfell perhaps, but they usually stay at the Smouldering Standard. They never darken our door. Why are they here?’
‘Because of what happened at Helwick,’ said Kjellrunn, her eyes straying to the sitting room door, expecting the Okhrana to enter at any moment.
‘What happened at Helwick?’
‘I have to go,’ said Kjellrunn, and began pulling on her damp clothes.
Kristofine folded her arms and watched the girl dress from the corner of her eye, disapproval written clearly on her sullen pout.
‘What happened in Helwick?’ she repeated, and all trace of the kindly elder sister she’d pretended to be disappeared.
‘A Troika of Vigilants were killed. Or went missing. Something like that.’
‘A whole Troika?’
‘All three. A traveller told us just yesterday morning as he was leaving town.’ Kjellrunn hated lying but how else would she know if not for the fact she knew the killer?
‘So why don’t the Okhrana search Helwick? Why are they in Cinderfell? Why are they here?’
Kjellrunn pulled on her boots and shrugged, then looked away, unwilling to add to the tangle of deceit.
‘I have to go,’ was all she said.
‘Fine,’ replied Kristofine, ‘I need to get to work, my father will be wondering where I’ve fetched up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn awkwardly as she fumbled with the door handle. Kristofine didn’t move from the fireplace, watching her leave with an accusing gaze.
The sky was full of keening wind and cold rain as Kjellrunn trudged home, and remained so for many hours to come.
CHAPTER NINE
Steiner
There can only be true peace when the Scorched Republics give up their foolish notions of autonomy and join the glory of the Empire. Once we are united we will crush the city states of Shanisrond in the south. Until then, the Empire waits for war and all its chances for glory.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
The creature remained unflinching, unmoving beneath writhing fire. Steiner dared himself to look away. The newcomers were not alone; other girls and boys lined the edges of the square, ranging from ten to twenty years old. All were pale with tiredness and sullen-eyed. They wore quilted coats in mottled scarlet that reached their knees, while heavy boots and mittens completed the attire. Steiner guessed them to be novices, cargoes from previous years, other lives separated from their loved ones. Here was the living proof they would not be executed after all. The children hunkered in the doorways of buildings many storeys tall, others hid in shadows beneath brightly coloured awnings.
The soldiers filed into the square behind the new arrivals, blocking the archway beneath the gatehouse. There would be no frantic dash down the steps to Romola, no desperate begging to escape. The soldiers unslung their maces and held them close to their sides, hidden along the line of their cloaks. The dragon remained still, even as the fire continued to roil about it.
‘It’s a statue,’ said Steiner after a moment. He stepped forward and held his hands up. The fire at least was real, he could feel the warmth even at a distance of several feet.
‘This one has a brain,’ said Shirinov. He moved through the throng of children, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he went.
‘You are almost right about the statue,’ said Khigir, but was prevented from explaining further as Shirinov bellowed at the new arrivals to form three rows directly beneath the maddened gaze of the dragon.
‘There’s been some mistake,’ muttered Aurelian. ‘If you could just get word to my father he’ll see you’re handsomely rewarded.’ The blond-haired boy preened. ‘I don’t have witchsign, I can assure you.’ He was duly cuffed by Shirinov for not standing to attention.
‘For years you have been told that children with witchsign are cleansed.’ Shirinov let the last word hang in the air. That the far side of the square was crowded with children undermined the threat of any cleansing, whatever the term had implied.
‘You are not to be killed or cremated. You will in fact be quite safe. At first.’ Shirinov’s silver smile was, as ever, at odds with the words emanating from behind it. ‘You are to become the next generation of Vigilants in the service of the Solmindre Empire, new blood for the Synod.’
The novices at the far side automatically stood straighter at the mention of the Empire, a few standing to attention, almost snapping out salutes.
‘You can do this willingly, or you can serve the Empire in a less pleasing but infinitely longer fashion.’ Shirinov lifted his gaze to the dragon, regarding the massive form as if it were some great work of art. ‘There will be some of you who are reluctant to use your powers, and some of you,’ the Vigilant paused, clamping one hand on Steiner’s shoul
der, ‘remain unknowing.’ Shirinov hobbled a few paces and thrust his face towards Maxim. ‘But there is witchsign upon you, within you, and we will draw it out. If you must be tainted with the arcane then you will use your powers in service to the Empire.’
‘I’m sure if you test me again you’ll see—’ Aurelian’s protest was cut short as Shirinov knocked him to the ground with a gesture from several feet away. The boy yelped and several children flinched on instinct. All stared, mouths slack with shock, faces frozen with disbelief that Shirinov could mete out punishment from afar.
‘You will demonstrate your abilities,’ continued Shirinov, ‘just as I have demonstrated mine.’ He paced along the row to where Aurelian had fallen. ‘You can demonstrate them willingly.’ He leaned low over the blond-haired boy, his silver mask falling into shadow. ‘Or under duress. The choice is yours. I suggest you make the most of it; you’ll have few choices available in the years ahead.’
‘You don’t have it, do you?’ said Maxim under his breath.
‘Have what?’ replied Steiner.
‘The witchsign. I can tell, I could sense it on everyone in the hold, but not you.’
‘Don’t say anything,’ growled Steiner. Shirinov was shouting at a rake-thin girl who looked ready to collapse.
Maxim frowned at Steiner again and muttered, ‘Tell them. They’ll let you go home.’
‘No, they won’t,’ replied Steiner. ‘Now that I’ve seen the island there’s no going back.’
‘Tell them,’ urged Maxim.
‘Tell us what?’ grunted Khigir. Whereas Shirinov had been visible and loud, Khigir remained silent, haunting the back of the crowd like a lost soul. Somehow Maxim had missed the Vigilant standing nearby, despite the many tongues of fire that danced around his boots and the hem of his coat. ‘Tell us what?’ repeated Khigir.
‘Nothing,’ replied Steiner, though he knew the ruse would be over shortly. They’d ask him to demonstrate witchsign in some form and nothing would happen. Then would come the consequences; what would happen to him? Would the Vigilants return to Cinderfell? Would they return for Kjellrunn?