Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’ A note of pique in her voice.

  ‘Concentrate on what?’

  ‘Shhh.’

  Steiner leaned forward and picked up the rough wooden bowl and slender spoon from the floor. The porridge was almost cold but that didn’t stop him devouring it. All the while Taiga kept her hands on the barrel and her head bowed. Steiner kept spooning the tepid porridge as quietly as he could and waited when it was gone. Finally Taiga turned to him and smiled. He could see her better in the candlelight, just a few feet from where he sat on his crude sackcloth bed. Her hair was a wavy bob of brown a few tones darker than her skin with ivy leaves woven into her tresses. The leaves remained a splendid green despite the ever-present soot of the furnaces. Her eyes featured the same cast as her brother, narrow at the corners yet delicate.

  ‘You never saw a Spriggani before you came here.’ Not a question.

  ‘My sister …’ Steiner felt his throat become thick, blocking words that would not come.

  ‘She believed in Frøya and Frejna, didn’t she? Told the old tales of Se and Venter.’

  Steiner nodded, wiped his nose on his sleeve and cleared his throat.

  ‘And you mocked her for it. Mocked her plenty.’

  Taiga came close and pushed his hair back from his forehead with a tender hand. ‘Tief tells me you’re talking about escape, but I just can’t see it.’

  ‘I need to think of something, focus on something, I can’t just stay here.’

  ‘Sundra, Tief, Enkhtuya and myself have been here for some years now. We’ve never found a way off the island. But things could change.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, I was hoping you might. You changed things just by sneaking up to the kitchens.’

  She withdrew to the split in the rock, framed by the ragged stone, silhouetted by the orange red of the furnace glow. Steiner eyed the barrel of water in the corner.

  ‘What did you do to the water?’ asked Steiner.

  ‘I made it clean, I made it pure. That is, Frøya did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I asked her to. You can drink it now. And you should wash. The soot will dry out you skin and become infected.’ Taiga smiled and turned away, obscured by the gloom outside.

  The following month settled into a routine. The furnaces had their own rhythms, replacing the rising and setting of the sun. Taiga would appear silently each morning, lighting a candle to rouse him and asking Frøya’s blessing to purify the water. Porridge would appear, the bowl always too small, the portion the same. The day was an endless trudge, carrying sacks of coal from where they landed at the bottom of an angled chute. Steiner, and the many cinderwraiths on the same detail, would ferry the sacks to each workstation, starting at the outer edge and working across the whole cavern. Only when all of the workstations had been supplied would anyone dare to approach the dais and deliver coal to Enkhtuya.

  ‘The cinderwraiths won’t go near her since she nearly snuffed one of them out,’ explained Tief. ‘Seems you’ve got the duty. Don’t say anything foolish. I’d rather avoid mopping you up off the floor.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Steiner shook his head and tried to ignore his aches and pains. His rib still troubled him with each jarring step, flaring into bright pain when he stooped to lift or drop one of the sacks.

  Lunch fell in the gap between the delivery of coal and the afternoon’s activity of taking finished weapons and carrying them to crates, where cinderwraiths packed them with old straw and canvas.

  ‘Straw? In a cavern of thirty-odd furnaces?’ Steiner grumbled. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘We need it for packing,’ replied Tief with a frown.

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances if any of this catches fire.’

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances at all,’ said Tief, rubbing tired eyes with the back of one hand.

  Northman and Spriggani sat on empty wooden crates and chewed on black bread, imagining butter or even a sliver of meat to liven the meagre fare. Taiga purified the water of the ever-present soot. Steiner closed his eyes and felt the grit beneath his lids. Wiping it away would do no good, just press more coal dust into his eyes.

  ‘Have you had any more thoughts on escape?’ he asked.

  Tief tugged at one ear, then shook his head. ‘Even if we could sneak out of here and across Academy Square, we’d still need to overpower the guards at the gatehouse. And once we’d done that we’d still be stuck with the basic problem.’

  ‘No ship,’ said Steiner. ‘What about the crates?’ He rapped his knuckles on the crate he was sitting on. ‘We could smuggle ourselves out.’

  ‘They inspect every shipment,’ said Tief. ‘Not a single crate of weapons leaves the island without being checked over.’

  ‘Your sister told me things will change,’ muttered Steiner.

  ‘Taiga hopes you’ll see a way out that we’ve missed.’ Tief rubbed a hand over his stubble and sighed. ‘But if we fail’ – the Spriggani nodded at the cinderwraiths going about their endless work – ‘we’ll be joining them.’

  Steiner lingered on the edge of sleep. A dull part of his mind knew that Taiga would appear shortly with her too-small bowl of half-warm porridge, but that didn’t stop him dreaming of meat. He could almost taste it. He could smell it.

  He lurched upright in bed, disorientated and blinking in the dark.

  ‘I can smell it,’ he croaked with a parched throat.

  Steiner dressed quickly, the scent of roasting meat maddening. His fingers fumbled with laces and he’d barely pulled his smock over his head before stumbling through the ragged split in the rock to the cavern beyond.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ he whispered.

  None of the cinderwraiths were at their stations, the constant percussion of hammers on metal was absent. Steiner cast his eye towards the centre where a great swirl of wraiths gathered like a raincloud, occluding whatever business was occurring on the dais. That business involved cooked meat, and it was a business he would be a part of.

  Steiner broke into a run, slowing when he realized how weak he was and how the motion jarred his rib. The last month had hardened his limbs, but also stripped him bare of any fat. His wrists were cruel knobs of bone, his fingers almost black where soot had stained his calluses.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, slipping between the insubstantial bodies of the dusty spirits. The crowd parted and Steiner realized why the cinderwraiths had downed tools.

  ‘And that’s how Steiner saved me from Shirinov, your highness,’ said Maxim, performing a low bow.

  ‘Is this true?’ said Kimi, regarding the boy with a wry smile.

  ‘Seems Shirinov is still spitting blood about it,’ replied Romola. She was flipping slices of meat in wide pan in much the same way Steiner had a month ago. ‘That’s why Felgenhauer sent him down here; out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘You have to admit,’ said Tief, ‘the boy has some stones.’ He was sitting cross-legged on the dais buttering thick slices of bread.

  The Yamal princess shrugged and looked away. ‘One Northman is much like another to me.’

  ‘You can’t judge all Northmen based on the deeds of the Solmindre Empire,’ countered Romola.

  ‘He is awake,’ added Sundra in a flat voice. She was tossing the bones on the square of black velvet and regarding the results with a dispassionate eye. ‘He comes now.’

  Steiner blinked. There was a dreamlike quality to the scene, as if he was invisible while they spoke of him, concealed by the press of cindery spirits.

  ‘Can I have some water?’ he croaked in a parched voice. All the living creatures on the dais flinched as he emerged from the halo of dark bodies.

  ‘There he is!’ said Tief. Taiga smiled, while Sundra muttered under her breath. Maxim beamed and held up a hand of greeting.

  ‘Hoy there, Steiner.’

  ‘Hoy there. How did you get down here?’

  Maxim puf
fed himself up. ‘I have my orders. I was told to bring some food down.’

  ‘By whom?’ Steiner frowned, but Romola interrupted before Maxim could reply.

  ‘Oh, Steiner,’ said the pirate. ‘What have they done to you?’

  He looked down at his limbs and the scrawny expanse of his chest. His britches hung from his hips, on the verge of slipping down. Even his boots felt bigger, looser somehow.

  ‘We’ve tried to feed him,’ said Tief.

  ‘But they send so little down to us,’ added Sundra.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Steiner asked Romola. ‘You’ll be killed if they find you.

  ‘I’m delivering mail. I brought Kimi a letter from her father, and thought I’d check in on Maxim. He told me about your little adventure raiding the pantry. It seemed like such a good idea I thought I’d repeat it. And I bribed some of the guards, just to be sure.’ Romola looked him over from head to toe. ‘I’m glad I did. Eat this before you fade away.’ She thrust a loaded plate towards him and he took it before slipping to his knees and spearing mackerel with a two-pronged fork. He chewed slowly, eyes closed with reverence.

  Maxim slunk from Enkhtuya’s side and knelt beside the boy, wrapping an arm around him.

  ‘I thought you’d come back,’ he whispered.

  ‘I wanted to,’ admitted Steiner, ‘but I didn’t want to get us both killed. Not when being dead isn’t the worst thing that can happen.’ He nodded to the cinderwraiths gathered around the dais, a shadowy choir with eyes burning bright.

  Taiga appeared at his side with a wooden mug of water and Steiner drank half and released a sigh of relief. He eyed the scrunch of parchment in Enkhtuya’s fist and looked to Romola with an awful pang in his chest.

  ‘Is there anything for me? From my father?’

  Romola looked away, turning her attention back to the sizzling fish. She took a deep breath and said, ‘I didn’t stop in at Cinderfell, Steiner. It’s not on my usual route. Never has been. People might ask questions if I suddenly started dropping anchor there.’ She looked up from the cooking. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Steiner acknowledged her with a curt nod, unable to shake the bitter pang of disappointment.

  ‘What I will do is make sure you start getting more food,’ said Romola.

  Kimi stood and took a step towards Steiner, towering over him. Steiner frowned up at her, then staggered to his feet still clutching his food.

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Enkhtuya. ‘That you raised your hammer against the Vigilant?’

  ‘Yes, he was using the arcane on Maxim and I stopped him.’

  ‘And you were brought here by mistake?’ added Enkhtuya. ‘You don’t have witchsign?’

  ‘No. My sister does. I was standing in front of her when the Vigilants noticed us. They assumed it was me, not her, who had witchsign.’

  ‘And you let yourself be brought here, to suffer in her place.’

  Steiner chewed his lip. It hadn’t felt like he had much choice at the time, but he’d stayed silent, gone along with the lie.

  Steiner nodded. ‘I wanted her to be safe, I wanted to keep Kjellrunn away from here. They say the arcane burns you up and hollows you out. I didn’t want that for her.’

  ‘It must be difficult,’ said Kimi, softly.

  ‘I was angry with her at first. Angry that she never told me, and angry with my father too.’ Steiner sighed; it was hard to speak of such things. ‘But I’ve made my peace with it now.’

  ‘And you gave blankets to the small ones on the ship?’ said Kimi.

  Steiner turned to Maxim. ‘You really did tell her everything, didn’t you?’

  ‘You really started something when you took a swing at Shirinov,’ said Maxim. ‘There have been more punishments for disobedience in the last month than in the last year. That’s what the older children say.’

  Steiner couldn’t keep the grin from his face as he imagined a small army of surly children making life difficult for the Vigilants.

  Kimi regarded him with hard eyes beneath an equally hard frown.

  ‘Listen,’ said Steiner. ‘Can you make it quick if you’re going to start with the hitting again? My rib still aches from the last time and I don’t want to go through all that again.’

  The hand that Kimi offered him was not a fist, but the open palm of friendship. Steiner reached forward, swallowed in a dry throat, noticed how his hand shook as he offered it. She clasped his forearm and Steiner returned the gesture.

  ‘Any enemy of the Empire is a friend of mine,’ said Kimi. ‘Even if you are a Northman.’ She turned to Tief. ‘We need to put some meat on his bones, and plenty of it.’

  They sat and worked their way through the remaining food, carving apples and pears into thin slices, and dividing the segments of a rare fruit Romola called a satsuma. The taste left Steiner speechless and he watched the strange meal play out in front of him, not altogether convinced he wasn’t dreaming.

  ‘What just happened?’ he whispered to Romola when she came to refill his mug with fresh water.

  ‘The Yamal take family very seriously,’ said the captain. ‘And Kimi Enkhtuya is a younger sister too. I’d guess she’d give anything in the world for a brother like you, right?’

  ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ said Romola with a smile. ‘Taiga has high hopes.’

  ‘High hopes for what?’

  ‘Leaving this place, of course.’

  ‘What about Sundra?’

  Romola grimaced. ‘Don’t worry about her, she dances to her own tune.’

  Steiner looked around the circle of his new friends, feeling as content as he’d ever been in the last dismal month, yet something in the pit of his stomach warned him it wouldn’t last.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kjellrunn

  Each of the Scorched Republics has its own cultures and personalities. Nordvlast people are dirt poor and ever stoic though somewhat sparse of humour. Vannerånd’s many lakes are said to be haunted by rusalka, which is why they are such a suspicious lot. That Vannerånd’s people produce so many children with witchsign is also cause for wariness. The population of Drakefjord pride themselves on being proud and upright citizens and loyal fighters, while Svingettevei is a land dominated by hills and winding roads, much like the minds of the people who live there. Getting a straight answer or a fair deal in this part of the continent is near impossible.

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

  Kjellrunn had never liked the smithy’s gloomy interior. She preferred the bleak Nordvlast sunlight on the days clouds did not obscure it completely. The sweltering heat generated by the furnace never failed to make her thirsty, and as her temperature rose so did a nameless anxiety. This had always been a place for her brother and father, sharing companionable silence as they beat metal into new shapes. Her own company, while occasionally lonely, featured fewer questions, fewer awkward pauses.

  ‘The place just isn’t the same without you, Steiner.’ She’d taken to speaking to him lately, entertaining the idea that the winds might spirit away her words and fetch them across the Spøkelsea. ‘What would you make of an old crone living in the woodcutter’s chalet?’

  She opened the kitchen door and trudged outside, a jug tucked under one arm. Snow had gusted in from the north-west since her visit to the woods. It fell in a stately fashion, hiding Cinderfell beneath a covering of grey.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a voice without cheer, the two words loaded with wariness. Kristofine and her father, Bjørner, stood a dozen feet from the smithy, wrapped up warm against the chill.

  ‘Good morning,’ replied Kjellrunn, ‘I was just taking my father some water.’ She hefted the earthen jug, then glanced at the door.

  ‘We’re here to see him too.’

  Kjellrunn nodded, not knowing what to say. She hurried to the doors, rapped her knuckles on the wood and lifted the latch.

  ‘Hoy there,’ said Mare
k, over one shoulder. ‘You must have read my mind; it’s been thirsty work this morning.’

  Kjellrunn didn’t reply, self-conscious in front of Kristofine and the tavern owner. The kindness on Marek’s face faded as he caught sight of the visitors.

  ‘Bjørner.’ He gave a curt nod and set down the hammer with a clank, then tugged on his fingers until the knuckles popped.

  ‘Marek.’ The tavern owner cleared his throat and smiled, though Kjellrunn suspected there wouldn’t be much smiling once he’d said his piece.

  ‘Is it nails? A new skillet? A knife?’ Marek’s tone was pleasant, but he’d not stepped forward to shake hands, remaining by the anvil.

  ‘No need for those today,’ said Bjørner. ‘Just a few words.’

  ‘I’m sure I can spare a few of those,’ said Marek, ‘and fortunately for you, words are free.’

  Kjellrunn crossed the smithy and passed the jug to her father, then waited, head bowed, curiosity burning. Bjørner looked from Marek to Kristofine and back to Kjellrunn, a brief frown crossing his face.

  ‘Perhaps it would best if you started on lunch,’ said Marek to his daughter. Kjellrunn opened her mouth to protest but Marek hugged her close and buried his face in her hair. ‘Listen by the door if you must,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Kjellrunn, then exited the smithy, noting how Bjørner and Kristofine retreated a step, staying beyond arm’s reach as if she were sick with fever. The smithy door closed and Kjellrunn stomped on the snow, walking on the spot, making her footsteps quieter with each iteration.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said Marek, voice loud despite the door’s obstruction. ‘Out with it then, Bjørner.’

  Kjellrunn leaned close, pressing an ear against the door.

  ‘It’s like this, Marek.’ Bjørner did not sound his confident self. This was a man on first-name terms with the whole town, a man who’d seen nearly everyone the worse for drink at some point. This was a pragmatic man who knew well the complexities of life. ‘The night before Steiner left—’

  ‘You mean the night before Steiner was taken,’ countered Marek.