by Den Patrick
‘I’m not going to turn you into a toad, you fool.’ She regretted the words the moment they left her lips. The fisherman looked away, hurrying in to town. No doubt there’d been a good deal of talk about the blacksmith’s son, and hadn’t everyone always assumed it would be his daughter that would fail the Invigilation? Hadn’t she always been the strange one? Not Steiner, so strong and dutiful. Not Steiner, who dreamed of hammered metal in his sleep. Not Steiner, though he struggled to read and had no head for numbers.
Her strides became longer, quicker. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, and Kjellrunn felt them keenly, as if they meant to suffocate her. The cobbles gave way to a road of hard-packed earth, the cottages replaced by hedgerows and sickly evergreens. She hadn’t intended to head north and the wind admonished her with every step. Each breeze and gust was light but the chill it carried was bitter. Kjellrunn shivered and clutched her shawl tighter, glad when she reached the edge of the woods.
‘Hello, my friends,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve much need of you today.’
The trees did not whisper back. The stark bare branches of the oaks had no welcome for her, while the pines stood dark and silent. Gone was the ecstatic susurrus of summer, trees whispering in a joyous hush. Gone were the many sounds of life, bird song and the commotion of woodpeckers. The ground was a sea of fallen leaves, consumed with the gentle business of decay. The ferns, so abundant in summer, so vibrant and green, were now an unlovely brown signalling their intent to rot. They would return to the very earth that had nurtured them.
‘How nice it would be to simply slip to the floor and do nothing but dream of spring, speak to no one, see no one, be spared Cinderfell and Nordvlast and the Empire.’ She brushed fingers against an oak tree’s rough bark. The tree was a marker, the tiny clearing a spot she retreated to, an enclave away from the town. ‘But not today,’ she whispered, pressing deeper in to the woods. Marek had warned her it was unwise to wander so far from home, but she refused to turn back. Chilled fingers gathered the odd stick of wood; the idea of going home empty-handed was not a welcome one. Her father may not notice, lost to grief as he was, but they’d need firewood soon enough.
She journeyed deeper into the forest, lost to her thoughts and picking out sticks of firewood when she remembered. The chalet was as unexpected as it was unremarkable. A single storey with the thatched roof and short chimney so common to Cinderfell. Moss grew in a rich blanket across one wall, finding purchase on the slope of old thatch above. Windows remained shuttered against the day, yet the door was ajar, though only to the keenest eyes.
‘It can’t hurt to take a look,’ she reassured herself.
A wide stump of wood emerged from the earth between Kjellrunn and the chalet door, marked with cuts now dark from rain and moss. A woodcutter’s chalet then. Her father had mentioned it before, but she’d never given much thought to where it was.
She drew closer, curiosity making her bold. No light flickered from the gap in the door. No golden glow escaped the shutters’ edges. A trio of sensations gave her pause: unease at being alone in such a secluded place, cold at the dictates of the wind that found a way to her, even here deep in the woodland. And of being watched, yet that was the work of a foolish mind, she chided herself.
‘I’m not scared,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’ll not jump at shadows,’ she said, keen to reassure herself.
The snap of a branch beneath her foot made her flinch so hard she slipped and fell amid the dead leaves. The firewood she had gathered lay all around her. No sooner had she recovered herself than two crows called out, strident at first then settling into a brooding silence.
‘You might have warned me about the branch.’ Kjellrunn favoured the crows with a dark look. The first hid its head under a wing, while the other raised tail feathers and released a jet of watery droppings.
‘Would it kill you to show some manners?’ Kjellrunn turned her back on the birds and regarded the chalet. It was less imposing now she’d scared herself insensible. She reached for the door and once again the crows called out. Kjellrunn froze; a wary look over her shoulder confirmed the raucous birds were agitated. They flapped wings and fussed until one knocked the other from their perch, causing Kjellrunn to smirk.
Steiner wouldn’t be deterred by a couple of noisy old crows.
One of the birds stared after her, the other flapped about on the ground, aggrieved.
Her chilled fingers pushed the door open and Kjellrunn blinked in the gloom. She remained in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold, hoping the meagre daylight would reveal some clue about the derelict dwelling. Nothing stirred in the darkness yet Kjellrunn’s curiosity burned brightly. She crossed to the hearth, hands held out to ashes, palms rewarded with the faintest warmth. Someone had been here, just last night perhaps. A puddle of water had collected in the dust nearby. Kjellrunn traced the source to a cloak hanging from an iron peg. She had a vivid impression of stumbling through the woods late at night, wet to the skin and desperate for shelter.
The chalet was not so different to her own home. Three chairs attended a table standing in the centre of the room. An unlit lantern hung from a hook by the door, soot-black and rust-red. Leaves lay strewn about the flagstones, collected in drifts at the corners, the alcove beside the fire deep with them. Dead ferns and twigs added to the debris. Rustling sounded and Kjellrunn stared with widening eyes. A breeze gusted through the doorway, making her shiver. Wild thoughts summoned the spirit of a long-dead woodcutter, appearing to defend the home he had loved so much in life. The leaves in the alcove continued to shake. Kjellrunn lurched towards the door as a bleary-eyed winter fox appeared, snuffling about the cold flagstones.
Kjellrunn released a long sigh. ‘Sorry to wake you.’
The winter fox blinked at her, white fur spectral in the darkness.
‘It’s fine,’ said a voice from the back room, rusty with sleep.
Kjellrunn’s heart kicked in her chest and she was running before the thought had occurred. Her elbow glanced painfully off the doorway as she fled through it and she was under the grey sky again, panic gripping lungs that sought air to speed her on. Feet slipped and skidded on mud, tree branches reached for frantic eyes and all was blind panic. Only when she reached the opposite side of the clearing did she stop, listening to her ragged breathing, eyes fixed on the chalet door.
No one emerged, living or dead. Not the phantom woodcutter of her imagination or the slumbering winter fox. No one chased after her, nor did they peer from the doorway with a frown. The crows called out, mocking this foolish frightened girl, she imagined.
‘Shut your beaks,’ said Kjellrunn, not taking her eye from the lonely chalet. The occupant did not sate her curiosity by stepping outside.
‘I was more frightened than the fox was,’ she muttered. Still nothing. No sign of the voice in the darkness.
Kjellrunn gathered the scattered firewood as she departed. Perhaps I imagined the voice. A figment of a scared girl in the woods alone. She knew full well her imagination needed no provocation.
The chalet was almost lost from sight when she stole a glance over her shoulder. A curl of smoke drifted from the chimney, faint grey but unmistakable. Someone had lit a fire, but who?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Steiner
The Solmindre Empire is ruled from the capital at Khlystburg, where our most benevolent Emperor receives counsel from trusted advisers. There is, however, another locus of influence. Arkiv Island is a vast library where Vigilants are invited to meditate and research. Rumours persist that Arkiv is home to moderates within the Synod, those uncomfortable with the Emperor’s more direct approach.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
Steiner was marched up to the fifth floor of the academy building, past circular portals large enough to admit men three abreast. Everywhere they went novices mopped floors or polished banisters. Patched britches and simple smocks for the boys, shawls, blouses and peasant s
kirts for the girls. Steiner regarded their naked dirty feet and shivered. None of the children looked up from their work as the soldiers stamped by. They were ten or eleven at most, heads bowed in obedience or fear. Steiner wondered if Maxim had survived, or if he had been maimed by Shirinov’s power.
Silverdust remained silent on the short journey. Grit floated into the air with each step the Vigilant took, combusting into brief flares of silvery light every few heartbeats. It was difficult not to be awed by such a vision, and the heat caused Steiner to sweat.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, unable to keep the question to himself any longer. ‘The heat, I mean.’
The Vigilant turned to him and Steiner saw his face reflected back, warped and foolish in the blank silver mask.
I have long been used to the heat. The words crawled on the air, not quite a whisper. Steiner wondered if he’d imagined them, or if the Vigilant had spoken at all.
The waiting room outside the Matriarch-Commissar’s office was a windowless chamber devoid of decoration. A lantern stood in each corner of the room on a mahogany stand. Red glass bore the geometric symbols of the Empire, making the walls seem doused in blood. Steiner swallowed in a dry throat and clenched his fists, more to keep his fingers warm than from fear or frustration. The soldiers flanked the door, maces in hand, feet spread apart. There would be no warning. If he tried anything he’d been bludgeoned to death. Silverdust turned to leave and Steiner called out.
‘Surely that can’t be your real name.’
More of Silverdust’s words appeared in his head.
A moniker given to me by the children many years ago. I gave up my real name, just as I gave up my old life.
‘And the other Vigilants? Do they have such names?’
Shirinov is called Shatterspine, but never to his face. Felgenhauer is Flintgaze and Khigir is known as—
‘Corpsecandle,’ said Steiner.
You are not as foolish as you look. Silverdust inclined his head. Wait here.
The mirror-masked Vigilant departed, leaving Steiner in the company of four soldiers but not for long. The Matriarch-Commissar swept into the room, closely followed by Shirinov, who hobbled to keep up, his stick clattering on the flagstones. Khigir waited in the corridor beyond, the tongues of flames around his boots pale and yellow.
‘This is an outrage!’ seethed Shirinov as the Matriarch-Commissar entered her office. ‘How was I to know the peasants have access to those sorts of artefacts?’
‘Because you’re a Vigilant,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘And you’re supposed to be vigilant. The aura an enchanted item emits is quite a different signature to witchsign.’ She slammed the door to her office, leaving Steiner in the waiting room with four soldiers and Khigir haunting the corridor beyond. The closed door made no difference; the Hierarch gave free reign to his anger, voice clear despite the heavy wood. The Matriarch-Commissar could barely be heard by contrast.
Steiner regarded the soldiers, ruddy in the lantern light. Only Khigir offered any reprieve from the endless red gloaming.
‘Why aren’t you in there?’
‘I do not have the sight for such things,’ replied Khigir.
‘The sight?’
‘I cannot detect witchsign,’ explained Khigir. ‘I have worked hard to serve the Empire in different ways, but in this respect I am flawed.’ The pitted bronze mask dipped forward, looking melancholy, lit from beneath as it was by the spectral flames.
‘So why were you sent to Cinderfell if you can’t detect witchsign?’
‘Cinderfell held no interest for me. My business was elsewhere.’
Sent to investigate the murdered Vigilants in Helwick, Steiner decided.
Khigir made to speak but paused as more shouting issued from behind the Matriarch-Commissar’s door.
‘I say we throw him in the sea!’ shouted Shirinov. Steiner straightened and glanced anxiously at Khigir.
‘This is your mistake,’ countered the Matriarch-Commissar as she opened the door. ‘I should throw you in the harbour for being so inept.’
‘What will happen to me?’ whispered Steiner.
‘There will be plenty of time to decide what to do with you,’ said Khigir. ‘There is always time on Vladibogdan.’
‘Get out of my sight,’ yelled the Matriarch-Commissar.
‘The boy is trouble, mark my words!’ Shirinov exited the office with as much dignity as he could, his limp pronounced, one hand pressed to his ribs where Steiner had struck him. Shirinov leaned forward until the smiling silver face forced Steiner to take a step back.
‘He’s just a scruffy boy from Cinderfell. Who cares if he lives or dies?’
‘What did you do in Cinderfell, boy?’ said Felgenhauer, framed by the circular doorframe.
‘I was training to be a blacksmith.’
‘There’s our answer.’ The Matriarch-Commissar crossed her arms. ‘We’re short of workers. He can tend the furnaces with Enkhtuya.’
‘This is most unusual,’ spluttered Shirinov. ‘I will be filing a report to the High Patriarch at Khlystburg. Even your friends at Arkiv will have trouble helping you this time.’
‘You must do what you must, Shirinov,’ said Felgenhauer in a level voice. ‘The failure was yours, I am merely dealing with the consequences. Something you have yet to learn about.’
The stooped Hierarch muttered something, lost behind the smiling silver mask, then shuffled away, one foot all but dragging behind him. Steiner watched as Khigir fell in beside him and conferred in a low voice.
‘Boy.’ Felgenhauer’s voice was quiet. ‘Step into my office.’
The soldiers took a step forward but were stilled by the Matriarch-Commissar’s outstretched hand.
‘I think I can handle one boy, don’t you? Without his boots and his hammer he’s not so fearsome.’
The soldiers took a step back yet none released his mace. Steiner slunk into the office and the Matriarch-Commissar pointed to a seat. The heavy wooden frame was covered with smooth leather and he sank into the chair. A wave of tiredness swept over him as the tension abated.
The office comprised shelves all lined with neatly ordered leather-bound tomes. More books than the school at Cinderfell owned, though Steiner had never had much use for them. The desk was wide and imposing, made from dark wood. There was nothing in the room to indicate even a mote of character or personal preference. The floorboards lacked a rug, so popular with the people of Solmindre and Nordvlast. The walls were plastered and whitewashed yet no pictures adorned them. The room’s focal point was the Matriarch-Commissar herself, looming behind her desk. Steiner bowed his head to be spared her weighty gaze.
‘You make quite the entrance, Steiner Erdahl Vartiainen. A peasant arriving on the island with these.’ She held up the boots. ‘Not to mention striking a Vigilant on the first day.’ She placed the sledgehammer on the table with a reverence, the way his father would hold a newly finished piece of work. Nothing remained of the imperious Felgenhauer he’d seen in Academy Square. ‘It usually takes a student a year or two before they attempt rebellion.’
‘He was hurting Maxim. Is he …?’
‘Alive?’ Felgenhauer sighed. ‘Yes, the boy is alive. For the moment anyway.’
Steiner relaxed into the chair a little more.
‘It seems to me you might be useful,’ said the Matriarch-Commissar. ‘And only a fool kills useful people. Can you promise to stay useful?’
Steiner nodded and clasped the arms of the chair, his breathing quick and shallow.
‘Good.’ Felgenhauer nodded slowly and folded herself into her chair. ‘I’m putting you to work in the deepest, darkest part of Vladibogdan. It will keep you out of Shirinov’s reach if nothing else. I suggest you stay there.’
‘What’s down there?’ said Steiner. Whatever waited below the island was preferable to being cast into the frigid Spøkelsea.
‘A smithy, of sorts. Work hard and you’ll stay alive. There’s no room for weakness down there.’
‘Stay useful,’ said Steiner, wondering how dreadful the underworld of Vladibogdan could be. ‘Stay alive.’
‘Go now,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘Tell the guards to deliver you to Tief, and pay no mind to Enkhtuya.’ The angular features of the mask were at odds with the soft, almost wistful sound of her voice.
‘Who is Enkhtuya?’
‘Go now.’
Steiner rose from the seat, still unable to make eye contact with the Matriarch-Commissar.
‘You don’t have to worry, Steiner, I won’t turn you to stone.’
‘Y-you can do that?’
Felgenhauer nodded. ‘With nothing more than a look.’
Steiner performed an awkward half-bow and stumbled against the chair as he left the room and was almost through the door when she spoke again.
‘You’ll need these if you’re to work in the furnaces. Stockinged feet have no business around hot coals.’ She rose from her chair and passed him the boots and the sledgehammer. ‘Now get out of my office and don’t strike any of my Vigilants. I have an island to run.’ Steiner backed into the waiting room as the circular door slammed in his face.
‘Stay useful, stay alive,’ he muttered before releasing a breath of relief. He took a moment to lace up his boots and the soldiers shifted. He could feel their questions, keen on their lips.
‘Can you take me to Tief? In the furnaces?’ he said, rising from the bench.
‘We are soldiers,’ said the tallest of the four. ‘We are not here to escort the likes of peasants—’ The soldier fell silent as Steiner crossed the wide door of Felgenhauer’s office and raised a hand to knock.
‘Wait,’ said the soldier, the word heavy with the Solska accent.
‘Reckon I should have phrased it better,’ said Steiner. ‘The Matriarch-Commissar wants you to take me to the furnaces and deliver me to Tief.’ He hefted the sledgehammer; it was nice to have power, even if he was only borrowing it from Felgenhauer.