Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  ‘I brought some sackcloth for you to sleep on,’ said Sundra, gesturing to one corner. ‘And there are two barrels in the corner there. One for your ablutions and the other for …’

  ‘You found me a bedroom?’

  ‘We thought you should have some privacy.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked over her shoulder, back towards the furnaces. ‘That infernal racket will still get in but it is quieter in here.’

  Steiner looked around. The stony nook wasn’t much but it was his.

  ‘You had best get some sleep,’ said Sundra. ‘Your rib will not heal if you continue working like this.’

  Steiner sat down on his sackcloth bed and looked up at the priestess. He couldn’t guess how old she was, perhaps forty years or more.

  ‘You have a question,’ said Sundra.

  ‘I was curious is all,’ grunted Steiner.

  ‘The bones.’ Sundra frowned, picked up one of the corpsecandles in her hands. ‘Take this.’ The other tongues of fire winked out and Steiner stared her, incredulous.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ said Sundra. Steiner did as he was asked and the priestess passed the corpsecandle to him. The sliver of flame emanated just above his outstretched palm. It burned without heat, a ghostly white light, pale blue at the tip.

  ‘Good,’ was all she said, then knelt down and fussed at a pouch of black velvet on her hip. She laid the square of fabric on the ground and smoothed out the creases.

  ‘The bones are a form of divination, and no two sets are the same.’ Sundra took a deep breath and held up two fists, then splayed her fingers, revealing the contents. There were small fragile bones, a tiny copper leaf, an old rusty coin and thimble.

  ‘Not all of them are bones,’ said Steiner.

  ‘Just like a Northman to be so literal,’ replied Sundra. ‘For hundreds of years we used bones and bones alone, but more recently we use other items, anything that may hold significance.’

  ‘Right,’ said Steiner, finding himself remembering Tief’s opinion. It did seem to be mainly interpretation and nonsense.

  ‘Now think. Think hard. Think of a question you want the answer to.’

  Steiner’s first thought was his father, then Kristofine came to mind, but he settled on Kjellrunn. Would he ever see his sister again?

  Sundra cupped her hands together and shook the tokens and charms, then flung them onto the velvet fabric, scattering them.

  Steiner raised his eyebrows and held his breath. ‘And?’

  ‘The bird skull is facing away from the other tokens, meaning the way ahead is unclear.’ Sundra took a deep breath and frowned at the scattered tokens. ‘The thimble has landed tip facing up, meaning something is trapped inside, perhaps.’

  ‘Trapped inside?’ Steiner rolled his eyes. ‘I hardly need a divination to tell me that.’

  Sundra shook her head and continued. ‘The coin has landed far from the other tokens—’

  ‘My family never did have much money,’ said Steiner.

  ‘And the copper leaf is underneath the crow’s wing bone.’

  ‘Kjellrunn always preferred the forest, perhaps she’s the leaf.’

  ‘She may well have protection from an unknown source,’ said Sundra, as if this were a profound truth. Steiner couldn’t shake his incredulity and supposed the priestess caught his disbelieving look. She gathered her bones and made to leave. Steiner felt the whole ceremony had been disappointing, and was no closer to an answer than when he started.

  Sundra summoned the corpsecandle from his hand with a deft motion, then withdrew to the split in the cavern wall. Kjellrunn would be beyond excited to witness the many things he’d seen, yet all he felt was exhaustion.

  ‘Sundra?’ said Steiner, lying down on his sackcloth bed.

  ‘Yes?’ said the priestess, her grim face lit by the corpsecandle as she passed through the fissure in the rock.

  ‘Thanks for my room. And for the reading. I’m not sure it really answered my question, but thanks all the same.’

  The priestess nodded. ‘Your way ahead is unclear, but it will be hard, and there will be a high cost. Sleep now.’ And with that the corpsecandle extinguished, leaving Steiner in the darkness of his sanctuary.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kjellrunn

  The Emperor does not tolerate loose ends unless he can use them as a noose to hang the incompetent. Those who find themselves losing faith in his grand vision for a united Vinterkveld are often stationed at Vladibogdan until they are brought back into the fold. Those who do not espouse appropriate loyalty find themselves staying on the island indefinitely.

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

  Life in Cinderfell returned to its usual rhythm. An Invigilation was much like the turning of the seasons; there was a certain grim inevitability to it, like the shortening of the days in autumn, or the terrible midwinter cold. And while the townsfolk settled back into the comfortable rut of familiarity Kjellrunn found her life much changed. Her school days were done and all that remained was the cottage and its myriad tasks: she scrubbed flagstones, stacked firewood, cooked and cleaned and sewed. Her chores were carried out in silence while her father slept late or did a good deal of nothing in the smithy, only to retire to bed with a jug of ale or mead each night.

  ‘We’re low on firewood,’ said Marek as they ate that night. The lines on his face had put another five years on him. His beard was unkempt and his clothes rumpled. Money, which had never been abundant, had been in shorter supply since Steiner’s departure. Kjellrunn eyed the jugs in the corner of the room, now divested of their contents.

  ‘I know,’ said Marek, rubbing his forehead with the back of one fist. ‘I’ll put a stop to that.’

  ‘A stop? To what?’ Kjellrunn looked at her father, though his gaze was fixed firmly on his empty bowl. Fingers fussed with breadcrumbs where they lay in the grooves of the table.

  ‘The mead. The drinking.’ He fell silent, and the wind outside moaned and wailed, gusting over the rooftops of the lonely town.

  ‘I don’t mind you drinking,’ said Kjellrunn after a moment. ‘I just wish you’d do it at the tavern with Verner. You should be with people, not hidden away in your bed like an old man.’

  Marek considered this for a moment, nodding like a mule. His eyes flicked up, found her face. He leaned forward. ‘And you?’

  ‘It’s always been different for me. You know what the children at school said. Now we know it’s true.’

  ‘Have you seen Kristofine lately?’ said Marek, clearly keen to speak of anything but witchsign.

  ‘No.’ Kjellrunn thought back to the day Steiner had been taken; the fleeting moment of tenderness she’d been shown. ‘No I haven’t.’ She’d not spoken to a soul and found herself desperate to share a word with anyone but Marek. ‘I’ll head up to the woods tomorrow to fetch some firewood,’ she added.

  Marek nodded. ‘A good idea. We’re low and I’ve a busy day ahead of me.’

  ‘I thought I’d venture up to the old woodcutter’s chalet.’ She waited for Marek’s reaction, but none came. She’d thought of nothing else all week. Her fright had receded enough for her curiosity to be near-irresistible. ‘Does anyone live there these days?’

  ‘Live there?’ Marek shook his head. ‘Not for thirty years. I’m surprised the chalet is still standing.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They say he was a kind man, quiet but kind. His wife passed one winter. Something got into her lungs and wouldn’t let go. The fever was fierce. He had two years to grieve her before the Empire took his daughter.’

  ‘His daughter had witchsign?’

  Marek nodded. ‘After that he gave up. Lasted about six months, then sold what he owned and moved to Vannerånd. Can’t say I blame him.’

  ‘And no one moved to the chalet?’

  ‘No one would buy it from him on account of the witchsign.’ Marek cast his eyes across the room. ‘It will be the same
with this place.’

  ‘Witchsign isn’t contagious.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Marek smiled.

  ‘Well, no.’ Kjellrunn frowned. ‘Otherwise you and Steiner would have it too.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t?’ He smiled again, but Kjellrunn could only find his poor attempt at humour in bad taste.

  ‘I don’t know that you don’t have witchsign, but then you never told us anything about what you did before you came to Cinderfell.’ She watched his expression harden and matched it with a stern one of her own. ‘And you never spoke of our mother.’

  ‘And for good reason,’ said Marek. He stood up from the table and turned away from her.

  ‘Even now, with Steiner gone, you still won’t share your secrets?’

  ‘The things I know, the things I’ve seen, they’re not the type of stories you tell a sixteen-year-old child.’

  ‘Childhood ended the moment they took Steiner.’

  Marek’s face was pained with regret and he held out his scarred and battered hands to the fire for comfort. ‘That much is true. Just mind yourself around the Okhrana, Kjell. Of all of the Emperor’s dogs they’re the most wild, the most dangerous.’

  Kjellrunn nodded and cleared the plates, then busied herself washing the bowls to hide her alarm.

  ‘Goodnight, Kjell.’ He stumbled to bed sober; the first time since Steiner had left.

  Her anger faded after a time and her mind whirled with what tomorrow would bring. The few coins she’d hoarded under her pillow would come in useful, though she’d have to face a trip into town.

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ said Kristofine, though there was a tightness around her eyes and her words were clipped. ‘I’ve not seen you since …’ She offered a small smile to substitute the words omitted.

  ‘Since the day they took him.’ They stood outside the baker’s shop, each with a shawl wrapped around slender shoulders, headscarves tied tight against a bitter north-westerly that keened over rooftops. Baskets hung from the crooks of their elbows and each regarded the other with a wary gaze. Kjellrunn shuffled her feet and struggled to look the girl in the face. Woman, she corrected herself. Kristofine had undergone that subtle transformation, leaving Kjellrunn feeling scarecrow-like by contrast.

  ‘Has there been any word? From the island?’ Kristofine cast a look over her shoulder, but the street was quiet.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘I didn’t realize it was such an open secret,’ she added.

  ‘Only if you sit close to Verner when he’s drunk and maudlin.’

  ‘And all of those clichés about fishermen’s wives—’

  ‘Don’t seem so bad when you’ve listened to the men,’ said Kristofine. It was a well-known saying along the coast. They offered smiles of consolation to each other, feeling the silence between them, the wind more vocal by far.

  ‘I should let you hurry on,’ said Kristofine. ‘Your father will be waiting on his lunch.’

  Kjellrunn eyed the basket’s contents and nodded. ‘Yes, he will,’ she lied. ‘I’m sorry things were so strained between us when the Okhrana called at the tavern.’

  ‘I’ve heard plenty of rumours about the Vigilants in Helwick,’ said Kristofine quietly. ‘I’d rather not know if you know something. And I’d rather pretend you don’t know anything either.’

  Kjellrunn nodded and didn’t trust herself to say the right thing, yet she felt gratitude all the same.

  ‘Well met and take care, Kjell.’

  ‘And you,’ she replied. Kristofine headed up the steep hill to the tavern and Kjellrunn wondered why the woman had taken a sudden interest in her brother. Certainly they’d never been friends while at school. She narrowed her eyes and bowed her head, feet quick and light on cobbles that would lead her from the town, climbing the incline to the woods of the northern headlands. Three times she encountered womenfolk as she wound her way through the narrow streets. Three times they called out in reluctant greeting, her own wave and smile equally reluctant.

  ‘Probably only waving out of pity,’ she hissed to herself. ‘Probably surprised that Steiner was taken and I was the one left behind.’ She bit her lip and blinked away tears. ‘They’re not the only ones.’

  The trees were no less bare than they had been a week ago. The woodland was a damp and muddy misery but for the occasional pine tree, remaining resolute and green despite the season. There was no hesitation, her stride was not broken.

  ‘Better to do a thing than to stand and contemplate it.’ That’s what her father had always said. Though he said little these days.

  The chalet looked much as it had when she’d fled. The thatch still needed changing, the stones remained thick with moss. A plume of smoke drifted from the chimney and lantern light gilded the windowsills.

  ‘So, I didn’t imagine it.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps the fox will be there too.’

  The chalet was quiet but for the snap and pop of fire devouring wood in the hearth. Kjellrunn knocked on the door and felt a terrible dread turn her guts to stone. What was she doing here? Why had she trekked back to the old chalet in the bleak weather?

  ‘Who’s there?’ called a voice, accent heavy, most certainly from Solmindre. No way to know if it were angry or fearful.

  ‘My name is Kjellrunn. I’ve brought food. Fresh fish and bread still warm from the oven.’ This last was a lie, the autumn chill had sapped the warmth from everything, including her near-numb fingertips.

  The door opened to reveal a serious face. She was old by Cinderfell standards, where people rarely lasted longer than sixty years. A grubby headscarf was tied over grey hair shorn close to her skull.

  ‘I came to apologize for breaking in the other day,’ said Kjellrunn, holding up the basket.

  ‘Why should you apologize? I broke in myself,’ replied the woman. She didn’t trouble herself to look at the offering, intent on the girl shivering on the doorstep. Kjellrunn frowned and shuffled her feet. The introduction was not going how she had planned.

  ‘No one has lived here for thirty years,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘I don’t suppose you knew that, did you?’

  The old woman broke into a slow smile, though Kjellrunn didn’t care for it much. ‘So, you have spirit.’

  ‘Steiner says I look like a rusalka most of the time.’

  ‘I said you have spirit, not you are spirit.’ The old woman blinked, then chuckled. ‘It is rare in these parts. People in Nordvlast have brains of dung and no soul.’ The old woman glanced at the sky and the flurry of snowflakes descending. ‘Best you come in out of the snow, before you end up frozen to death.’

  Kjellrunn didn’t move.

  ‘I will not eat you, I’m not a witch. And you are too big for the cooking pot, even if I hacked off your arms and legs.’

  ‘You are one strange old lady,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘And you are a strange girl,’ said the old woman. Kjellrunn was suddenly aware that the old woman in the doorway didn’t look frail or unsteady like the old folk she knew in town. There was steeliness here, in mind and posture and movement. Kjellrunn set down the basket on the doorstep.

  ‘I must get home.’ She was overtaken by the need to be back there, as even the cramped and dim kitchen seemed preferable to being on the steps of the woodcutter’s chalet.

  ‘Come back soon,’ called the old woman as Kjellrunn picked her way across the snowy clearing.

  ‘Come back?’ Kjellrunn’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘So I can teach you.’

  ‘What could you possibly teach me?’ said Kjellrunn. She’d half a mind to take the basket with her.

  ‘To use your powers of course.’ The old woman crossed her arms and frowned. ‘That is why you came. You want to use your powers to rescue your brother on Vladibogdan.’

  ‘How do you know about my brother?’ Kjellrunn frowned.

  ‘I know so many things, Kjellrunn Vartiainen.’ The old woman lifted the basket and cradled it like an infant. ‘As you will soon find out.’
/>   CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Steiner

  Though few would dare to say so openly, Vladibogdan is the dark reflection of Arkiv Island in every way. Arkiv, with its many libraries, promises a wealth of knowledge and solitude between the stacks, whereas Vladibogdan is concerned with the physical. Arkiv enjoys a temperate climate, while Vladibogdan suffers bitterly cold winds or the searing heat of the furnaces. It is not only weapons that are forged on the cruel north-western island, but Vigilants, careers, and even destinies.

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

  Steiner woke to the usual cacophony, a backdrop of sound he could not ignore. He’d taken to wadding up bundles of sackcloth and holding them to his ears so he might sleep. A candle flared to life in the cave, a tawny glow revealing the barren interior, but also a guest. Steiner sat up, blinked, and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was all he managed. His shoulders and neck ached and his thighs were heavy.

  ‘Morning,’ said Tief, his voice gentle.

  ‘Is it?’ Steiner frowned. ‘How do you tell without daylight?’

  ‘I sneak up the steps first thing, to get a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘This is a curious sort of prison,’ replied Steiner, rolling his shoulders and yawning. ‘No locks on the doors.’

  ‘And no doors for the locks, just lots and lots of soldiers.’ Tief pulled out his pipe, running his fingers over the cracked clay. ‘The forge isn’t the prison, the island is the prison.’

  ‘And without a ship we’ve no way of getting away from here,’ added Steiner.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t tried.’ Tief sighed and looked back into the forges. ‘Here comes Taiga, I need to start work. Don’t be long with breakfast.’

  ‘What breakfast?’ asked Steiner. Tief slipped out through the fissure in the wall and Taiga replaced him a moment later, bearing a tray.

  ‘There’s porridge for you,’ she said. ‘You’re getting thin. Eat.’ She set both hands against the barrel of water in the corner and bowed her head.