Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  ‘Yes. Taken, of course. So, he stayed in the stables at the back of my tavern.’

  ‘I had wondered where he fetched up that night.’

  ‘I found him in there that morning, fairly reeking of mead and looking terrible.’

  ‘I see,’ said Marek. ‘I wonder how that mead made its way out of your tavern and into my son?’

  Kjellrunn strained to hear, trying to imagine the look on Kristofine’s face.

  ‘The thing is—’ Bjørner cleared his throat. ‘The thing is now people are saying Kristofine has witchsign, and that she should offer herself up for Invigilation when the Empire returns.’

  ‘If she’s not tainted then she’s nothing to fear,’ replied Marek. ‘Witchsign isn’t contagious. It’s not a plague.’

  ‘That’s what I said, of course.’

  Kjellrunn pressed her ear closer to the wood, thinking she had missed something. An ugly pause curdled between the two men.

  ‘What do you want, Bjørner?’ said Marek, and Kjellrunn knew the expression on his face would be flinty upon hearing the words.

  ‘With everything that’s happened,’ said Bjørner, ‘all the rumours about Kjellrunn, and now this business with Steiner …’

  ‘Go on,’ said Marek.

  ‘Some of us think it best you moved on, set up shop in Helwick. I’ve a wagon and horse I could lend you for the trip.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Marek, but Bjørner missed the hard edge to the blacksmith’s voice, blundering on.

  ‘Perhaps you’d want to go further. Steinwick is a busy town. People are always saying how pretty Vannerånd is—’

  ‘Get out,’ said Marek, so quietly Kjellrunn almost failed to hear through the stout wooden door. She did not have the same problem the second time. Marek’s voice boomed, equal to the hammers he wielded.

  Kjellrunn moved too slowly. She was only halfway back to the kitchen when Bjørner and Kristofine emerged from the smithy, he red-faced with embarrassment, she pale and tearful.

  ‘And have a care not to return,’ added Marek, as he stood in the open doorway, a hammer clutched in one fist to drive home his point. ‘There’ll be no welcome for you here. Warm or otherwise.’

  ‘Just think on what I’ve said,’ added Bjørner, the strength gone from his voice. He turned to leave with rounded shoulders.

  Kristofine paused. ‘I’m so sorry,’ was all she whispered. Kjellrunn barely heard the words, but her intent was written across her pretty face for all to see.

  ‘Sorry? We’re all sorry,’ said Kjellrunn, watching father and daughter walk away. ‘Every last one of us.’

  Two men in black waited on horseback at the end of the street.

  ‘Just what we need,’ grunted Marek. He flipped a salute to the horsemen.

  ‘They’re Okhrana, aren’t they?’ asked Kjellrunn, but Marek headed back into the smithy. The salute seemed to be all the men needed to urge their mounts into a trot, heading out of town.

  Kjellrunn did not run to the woodcutter’s chalet for fear of attracting attention but there was a purpose to her stride. Purpose and the knowledge that every step brought her closer to the old woman who had plucked her name from thin air. The snow continued to idle downward, covering the land in a shadowy grey. The woods offered some reprieve but she was glad of Steiner’s old tunic all the same, worn over her own. She wasn’t sure why she’d taken it, only knew that having something of his made venturing to the woods less terrible.

  ‘Even now you’re looking out for me, with your old cast-offs.’

  She cast a wary glance about the clearing outside the chalet, then shrugged and shook her head.

  ‘And who is looking out for you exactly?’ The old woman emerged from behind a pine tree with an axe in her hand. Kjellrunn threw up her hands and stepped back.

  ‘Flighty today, are we?’ Again, the thick Solska accent, making the words deadpan.

  ‘I came back—’

  ‘So it seems.

  ‘To learn,’ said Kjellrunn, feeling foolish, ‘about the arcane.’

  ‘I never doubted you would.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  The old woman considered this for a moment as if it were some complex riddle.

  ‘You don’t know your own name?’ asked Kjellrunn.

  ‘I’m not simple, not yet anyway.’ The old woman looked away and narrowed her eyes, then stood straighter. ‘You may call me Mistress Kamalov.’

  ‘Kamalov.’ Kjellrunn grimaced as she said it. It was every inch a Solmindre name and she didn’t care for it much. ‘How did you know my name? Before, when I came with the fish and bread.’

  ‘It is just a tiny part of what we do. What I do. Your talents are different.’

  ‘What talents?’

  ‘You are a doubly gifted child, I suspect, so gifted I insist we go to the chalet. I’m too old to stay outside in this weather.’ Snow had settled in the folds of her cloak and a few flakes had stuck to her wiry eyebrows. Mistress Kamalov stooped behind the tree and brought forth an armful of firewood.

  ‘I can take that for you,’ said Kjellrunn, suddenly aware of the woman’s great age.

  ‘Good. You have the makings of a good student. And you have motivation, yes?’

  ‘Motivation?’

  ‘Your brother. It’s written all over your face.’ Mistress Kamalov poked Kjellrunn in the chest with a bony finger. ‘And over your heart,’ she added, before walking back to the chalet. ‘Tell me, how was he taken when you were left behind?’

  Kjellrunn fought down a surge of disquiet, wanting to explain as best she could but the words would not come.

  ‘Inside. I’ll make kompot,’ said Mistress Kamalov. ‘I would prefer tea, but I cannot find a leaf of it in this wretched country.’

  ‘We have tea.’

  ‘Tea should come from Yamal. The tribes are good for two things.’ She held up her bony fingers. ‘Fighting and growing tea.’

  ‘You’ve met someone from Yamal?’ asked Kjellrunn as they entered the chalet. It was much changed since she’d seen it last. The leaves were all gone and the floor had been swept clean, a lantern burned with a steady light and the fire was banked up. A little of the bread and fish remained. Kjellrunn raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I am trying to make it last,’ explained Mistress Kamalov. ‘I left quickly and left many things behind. Not least money, foolish old kozel that I am.’

  ‘Left where?’ Kjellrunn pulled out a chair and Mistress Kamalov held up one hand.

  ‘You sit when I say sit. This is how the student learns. As for where, the Solmindre Empire, where else? As if there is anywhere in the world left to escape from.’

  ‘Did you escape from the island?’ Kjellrunn tugged at the hem of Steiner’s tunic. ‘Do you know it? Have you been there?’

  ‘I can see it’s always going to be questions with you,’ said Mistress Kamalov. Her face became stern. ‘Not so much with the listening.’

  ‘I can listen,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘First, it’s not simply called the Island, it’s Vladibogdan. Merely knowing Vladibogdan exists is enough for the Empire to make you disappear.’ She made a loud snap with her fingers. ‘No questions. No one will see. You’ll just be gone. Understand?’

  Kjellrunn nodded. A violent energy lingered on Mistress Kamalov as she spoke of the Empire. Kjellrunn could see it in the grim line of her mouth, and her short choppy gestures.

  ‘No one escapes Vladibogdan. Not unless they become a Vigilant, and even then …’ The old woman looked away, tears at the corners of her eyes. She swallowed hard and grimaced. ‘Do you understand?’

  Kjellrunn nodded, wanting Mistress Kamalov to answer other questions but not daring to interrupt.

  ‘Many wise men and women have studied the arcane over many decades. Ever since we cast down the dragons, over seventy years ago, children have begun to appear with gifts, talents.’

  ‘Witchsign,’ said Kjellrunn softly.

  ‘Witchsign.’ Mistress Ka
malov’s tone was all mocking. ‘A pretty name for it, but the arcane is dangerous. Dangerous to other people, dangerous to the ones who use it. Understand?’ Kjellrunn nodded again and Mistress Kamalov gave a curt nod that signalled her satisfaction. She took a knife to a few handfuls of berries and added them to a pan. After a while she settled into a rhythm and continued speaking.

  ‘The arcane, the way dragons use it’ – she shook her head – ‘it’s no good. The power of the air and the power of fire will make a person ill, over time it makes a body change, makes you older than you are. Even the powers of earth will corrupt you if you draw them from dark places.’

  ‘My father told me not to use my powers,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘Your father is wise. Not so often you meet a blacksmith who knows much besides metal, not so often you meet a Nordvlast man who knows much at all.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s from here,’ said Kjellrunn, but Mistress Kamalov didn’t catch the words, intent on her subject.

  ‘Sometimes the arcane wreaks other changes.’ Mistress Kamalov had turned her attention back to the berries. ‘People who use these powers can lose their minds, become great fools or great monsters. Understand?’

  Kjellrunn nodded. ‘Will I be driven mad?’

  ‘You are different.’ Mistress Kamalov flashed a bitter smile. ‘Very different.’

  Kjellrunn opened her mouth to speak but Mistress Kamalov held the knife up, slick with the juice of red berries. The old woman looked far from sane by the flickering light of the fire.

  Kjellrunn eyed the knife. ‘I’ll be quiet.’

  ‘Quiet is good,’ said Mistress Kamalov. ‘So. You are different. I suspect you have two gifts, I am thinking one is the power of the earth and other is of water, the power of the ocean.’

  ‘And this is what Steiner is learning on Vladibogdan,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘Always with questions.’ Mistress Kamalov shook her head. ‘Steiner? What power did he have?’

  ‘Power? He … he didn’t have any. The Vigilant made a mistake. Steiner went so I wouldn’t have to.’

  Mistress Kamalov set down the knife and gave Kjellrunn a long stare. ‘Now you sit.’

  Kjellrunn did as she was told and Mistress Kamalov did likewise. She leaned forward, lacing her fingers, a frown of deep thought on her lined face.

  ‘Your brother was taken by mistake? Instead of you?’

  Kjellrunn nodded, feeling the bright heat of tears. ‘And I let him. I was too scared to go. I should have given myself up. I know that now. If I could just see him again I could—’

  ‘There is nothing you can do.’ Mistress Kamalov smoothed down her hair and sighed. ‘How you sent a boy with no power is a mystery, but it’s done now. There is no undoing this.’

  ‘If I can learn the arcane. If I could be good, be strong, maybe I could catch a ship and go to Vladibogdan. Maybe I could find him and—’

  ‘He is already dead, Kjellrunn.’

  Only the crackle of the fire dared disturb the silence between woman and girl. Kjellrunn heard the words. Each one entered her like a sliver of ice. She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak but her throat was tight and thick.

  ‘Don’t say that.’ She dried her eyes on the back her hand and frowned. ‘You don’t know Steiner. He’s clever, maybe not clever with books but he’s hard-working and bright and never gives in. He has a heart like an auroch’s …’ Her words ran out as she realized the look in Mistress Kamalov’s eyes was one of pity.

  ‘The Empire does not tolerate little people knowing its secrets. And you, and your brother, this town, all of Nordvlast. You are little people. The Emperor cares nothing for you. The Emperor only cares that you submit to the will of the Empire. In time Nordvlast will become part of the Empire. Vannerånd, Drakefjord too. Even Svingettevei, though difficult to know why anyone would want that rabble of tricksters and liars.’

  ‘I don’t care about the Empire,’ said Kjellrunn with gritted teeth. ‘I care about my brother. Steiner’s not dead. He can’t be.’

  ‘Do you think the Empire cares for the life of one boy? I promise you, it does not. I’m sorry, Kjellrunn, but he will need a miracle to stay alive in such a place.’

  Mistress Kamalov picked up the knife and continued chopping.

  ‘Go home now,’ she said without looking up. ‘Grieve for your brother and come to me three days from now. Yes?’

  Kjellrunn stared at the woman and for a second she could hear the rushing of waves, as if all the Sommerende Ocean had crashed against the walls of the woodcutter’s chalet and swept everything away.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she whispered, and though she had no way of knowing she begged Frøya and Frejna that it be true. Kjellrunn left the chalet and the hush of snowfall followed her home, all through the dark woods and along Cinderfell’s winding streets, like a sullen cur.

  ‘Steiner’s not dead. He can’t be.’ She repeated the words to herself, almost chanting them every few feet. She didn’t weep until she was in bed, taking care to stifle her cries lest her father hear them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Steiner

  Do not be fooled by the uniforms of the Holy Synod, nor the singular vision of the Emperor that guides it; a schism can be felt in every corridor, meeting room and antechamber. All of us must suffer the frustrations of bureaucracy from time to time, just as we must endure the bitter cold of winter. Rivalries drive individuals to make heated and rash decisions, but it is ideology that will tear the Empire apart, like a vast quake that shakes the world from horizon to horizon. Put simply, there are those who support the forthcoming war and those misguided fools who would prevent it.

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

  Life in the forges would never be a happy one, but it was less wretched when one counted Kimi Enkhtuya among one’s friends. She had said little, but favoured Steiner with a solemn nod of acknowledgement whenever he delivered coal to her workstation.

  ‘I’m still not entirely sure she likes me,’ grunted Steiner when Tief had appeared with two mugs of black tea one morning after the first set of deliveries. They were sitting near the entrance to the cavern, away from the worst of the heat.

  ‘Has she punched you in the face lately?’ said Tief.

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Then she likes you just fine.’ Tief slurped at his tea. ‘Perhaps you were expecting poems and flowers?’

  Steiner smiled. ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect.’

  ‘She’s sizing you up is all,’ said Tief, looking over Steiner as if he were a horse for market. ‘Trying to get the measure of you.’

  ‘I’m not that complicated. I’m a blacksmith’s son from Cinderfell.’

  ‘That’s a small part of it, but there’s never been anyone that fetched up on Vladibogdan because he was protecting someone else, and those who raise a hand in anger to the Vigilants and survive are few.’

  ‘I only did that because Shirinov was attacking Maxim.’

  ‘See, protection.’ Tief smiled. ‘Under different circumstances I’d say I’m glad that you’re here, Steiner Vartiainen.’ Tief looked over his shoulder and frowned. ‘But don’t you dare tell anyone or they’ll think I’ve gone soft.’

  ‘Good tea,’ said Steiner.

  ‘Of course it’s good tea. It’s Spriggani tea. None of that Nordvlast bilge water.’

  ‘Nordvlast tea is just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘But I miss the mead a good deal more. I’ll buy you a pint when we get out of here.’

  A dark look crossed Tief’s face. ‘We’re not getting out of here, Steiner.’

  ‘You can’t give up hope. You mustn’t give up hope.’

  ‘Tea break is over,’ said Tief, downing the reminder of his mug. ‘Back to work.’ He stomped off in the gloom.

  Steiner had just hefted the sack of coal onto his shoulders when the voice called out in the darkness. ‘Steiner?’

  ‘Aurelian? What are you doing here?’


  The blond-haired boy looked as miserable as a whipped dog. He shrugged and looked about the cavern with fearful eyes, almost flinching when cinderwraiths drew near. Steiner had felt sure the boy had witchsign, but here he was, cast down to the forges.

  ‘Did Felgenhauer send you down here to work?’ said Steiner. ‘Was Shirinov wrong about you?’

  All trace of moneyed arrogance had been scoured from the boy. He was a mean thing, dirty and round-shouldered, unable to even glance at Steiner.

  Aurelian shook his head. ‘I told them there had been a mistake. I just want to go home, just as you want to go home.’ He paused a moment and Steiner caught a sly cast to the boy’s eyes, though it was hard to tell in the angry red light of the forge. ‘Just as you want to get back to your family, to your sister.’

  Steiner set down the sack of coal slowly and fixed the boy with a look. Aurelian wiped his nose on a sleeve and forced a miserable grin.

  ‘I never told you I had a sister,’ replied Steiner.

  ‘No,’ admitted Aurelian. ‘But Shirinov did.’ And suddenly the old Aurelian was stood before him, shoulders pushed back, chin thrust out in challenge, favouring Steiner with a superior smile. ‘Take him,’ said the boy, addressing someone over Steiner’s shoulder. It was only a small mistake, but Steiner seized on it all the same. His fist was raised before he’d turned to see his assailant. He was about the same age, neither boy nor man but somewhere in between, wider in the shoulder and well-fed. Steiner wondered what powers he was able to conjure. It didn’t appear to help as Steiner’s fist mashed the boy’s nose and mouth and sent him sprawling on his arse.

  Aurelian proved to be a different matter. The boy sucked in a great breath, fingers crooked like claws. A wicked smile crossed his face and his mouth yawned open, a terrible light emanating from within his throat. Steiner lunged away and the cavern was illuminated by a gout of fire. Steiner landed on his side hard enough to send the air from his lungs. His rib sang with pain and he winced.

  ‘You can breathe fire like a dragon?’ said Steiner in disbelief.

  ‘You’d be amazed what they teach us at the academy,’ replied Aurelian with a look of triumph. He opened his mouth once more and another fiery breath consumed two cinderwraiths. The inferno blinked out leaving nothing of the ashen spirits.