Witchsign

by Den Patrick

  Mistress Kamalov detected some inkling of Kjellrunn’s thoughts. ‘The arcane starts with small gifts and blooms into other, powerful talents. Patience! There is more. Come!’

  The old woman strode past her and Kjellrunn stumbled in the snow on numb feet before following.

  ‘Are we going back to the chalet now? To warm up a little?’

  ‘No. We’re going to the cliffs now. We will see what else is hiding in here.’ She prodded Kjellrunn’s chest, just over her heart. ‘And here.’ She tapped her head, not hard, but Kjellrunn flinched all the same.

  ‘I think I’d prefer to stay in the forest,’ she said under her breath as the old woman hurried away.

  The northern reach of the forest was thick with fir trees. Grey snow fluttered down and clung to branches laden with pine needles. All was silent save for the muted crunch-crunch of their boots.

  ‘If we killed the dragons seventy-five years ago,’ said Kjellrunn, ‘why is our snow so dirty?’

  ‘All lies,’ said Mistress Kamalov. ‘The snow falls white and pure further south, when it snows at all. Only here in Nordvlast is the snow tainted.’

  ‘But why?’ pressed Kjellrunn.

  Mistress Kamalov gestured north-west. ‘The fires of Vladibogdan run day and night, furnaces burning brightly. They forge weapons that will see the Empire victorious over the city states of Shanisrond.’

  ‘A war?’ asked Kjellrunn. Mistress Kamalov opened her mouth to say more but paused, interrupted. A low rumble followed with a slight pause, then again, rhythmic, growing louder with each iteration.

  ‘Horsemen,’ said Mistress Kamalov. The trees parted to afford a view of the Spøkelsea, rushing to meet the cliffs, the waves ecstatic against the rock.

  Mistress Kamalov wrapped an arm about Kjellrunn’s shoulders and pulled her into the nearest evergreen’s embrace. Needles pressed and chafed, branches flexed and snow tumbled, the smell of earth and pine hung heavy in the air.

  ‘What do you think you’re—’ but Kjellrunn’s question was answered with a finger pressed to her lips and a furious glare.

  The sound of hooves drumming along the coastal road intensified and Kjellrunn caught a glimpse of two men in black, high in the stirrups as the horses raced along the coastal path. The sound of hooves was swallowed by the roar and boom of the sea. They waited long moments until the horsemen were well on their way. Kjellrunn extricated herself from both the tree and Mistress Kamalov, who needed help to escape the grasp of the branches. The air was filled with her harsh words, but Kjellrunn understood none of them, guessing the old woman spoke in Solska. Mistress Kamalov gave the tree a venomous look and Kjellrunn struggled not to snigger.

  ‘Come,’ was all she said, and headed back into the forest.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go to the cliffs.’

  ‘Cliffs, yes. You will need to stand at the cliffs one day soon.’

  ‘To see if I have power over water?’

  ‘Exactly. Perhaps I’ll spin you around more often, it seems to get your brain working.’

  ‘Why aren’t we going now?’ Kjellrunn frowned. ‘Is it the horsemen?

  ‘Smart girl.’ Mistress Kamalov followed the impressions their boots had made in the snow, stamping on her own footprints.

  ‘I didn’t have a chance to see them before you pulled me into that tree.’

  ‘I saw them good enough for both of us. They were Okhrana.’

  ‘How can you know something like that?’

  Mistress Kamalov stopped walking and glanced over her shoulder. ‘How many people in Cinderfell have a horse?’

  ‘Probably a dozen.’

  ‘Not a pony.’ She held a finger up and frowned. ‘A horse. Different, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kjellrunn thought about the question. ‘Three?’

  ‘Good. How many people need to get home so fast they would run their horse through snow and bad weather?’

  ‘Maybe they just want to get warm? That’s what I’d do.’

  Mistress Kamalov gave a grunt of exasperation and resumed walking. ‘How many towns lie north of Cinderfell?’

  ‘None,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘It’s the northernmost town in Nordvlast, perhaps even the whole continent. There are a few lone fishermen, and Steiner used to talk about smugglers, but …’

  ‘So where did the horsemen come from?’

  Kjellrunn shrugged, then raised her eyebrows. ‘They didn’t come from anywhere. They’re on the road. Looking for someone.’

  Mistress Kamalov stooped and picked up a few sticks of wood.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Kjellrunn.

  ‘I am being an old woman collecting firewood in the forest.’

  Kjellrunn thought about this for a moment before saying, ‘Because whoever the horsemen are looking for …’

  ‘Does not look like an old woman collecting firewood in the forest.’ Mistress Kamalov stooped and affected a limp, the pile of wood in her arms growing from moment to moment.

  ‘Are the Okhrana like Vigilants?’ asked Kjellrunn, once she had gathered her own selection of firewood.

  ‘No, often they’re much worse.’

  ‘And they have witchsign?’

  Mistress Kamalov shook her head. ‘No, this is what makes them special. Often they have a resistance to the arcane. It’s why I couldn’t read the thoughts of those two riders as they went by. Okhrana aren’t fooled by illusions, neither are they swayed by enchantments. The most powerful of them can even resist petrification.’

  ‘Petrification?’ Kjellrunn shook her head.

  ‘Never mind.’ Mistress Kamalov grimaced. ‘Now we go back to the chalet, get in warm and pretend you are my niece.’

  Kjellrunn did as she was told, watching her teacher limp through the snow, deeper into the forest. Questions begged to be answered, but Kjellrunn could only follow the old woman, sparing fearful glances over her shoulder as she went, wondering how bad the Okhrana truly were.

  Night had fallen as Kjellrunn emerged from the forest’s darkness. The last remnant of evening light lay on the horizon, gossamer threads over the cobalt and black swells of the Spøkelsea. Head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands tucked away beneath her shawl, there was only one thought that burned in her mind.

  Why couldn’t I have the power of fire. I’d never be cold again.

  The cottage was dark when she entered and long moments were spent coaxing flames from the embers. In time she raised a fitful blaze, using more firewood than Marek would have liked.

  ‘I hope Steiner is warmer than we are this winter,’ she muttered, holding out blue-tipped fingers to the heat. Boots slammed against the packed snow outside, crunching in the frost. Kjellrunn spun about, startled by the sound of running feet. She had forgotten to light a lantern in her haste to be warm. She snatched a knife from the sideboard in a heartbeat and held the blade low like her father had taught her, eyes hard in the dancing firelight.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The door rattled as the key fumbled at the lock.

  ‘Kjell’s home, you damn fool.’ Verner’s voice from the outside, then the door yawned open and he stumbled over the doorstep with Marek hanging from one shoulder. ‘Kjell? Awful dark in here. No money for lantern oil?’

  ‘I’ve not been in long myself. What in Frøya’s name happened to you?’

  ‘We ran into some trouble,’ said Verner, hefting her father onto a chair.

  Kjellrunn stepped forward, wrinkled her nose and frowned. ‘Ran into trouble? Ran into a brewery, more like it.’

  Verner held up his hands. ‘I tried to tell him to come home, then just when he was too drunk to—’

  ‘Stand?’

  ‘I was going to say argue.’ Verner sighed. ‘Just as we were leaving, Bjørner said something about your brother and things went sour. We fought Bjørner and Håkon and then I dragged him out of there. Two men followed. I think we lost them on Hoar Frost Lane.’

  The fishermen made to light a lantern but Kjellrunn stepped
in front of him. ‘No need to draw attention to ourselves,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose not,’ admitted Verner.

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No. At least nothing that he’ll notice until tomorrow.’

  ‘You’d best take him up to the loft,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘He can’t sleep down here. And neither can you.’

  Verner slipped his hands under Marek’s armpits and struggled and stumbled through the darkness.

  ‘Be careful when you go to the woods, Kjell,’ called Verner from the top of the stairs. ‘Cinderfell isn’t safe.’

  ‘You think I didn’t notice? Cinderfell hasn’t been safe for me since Steiner left.’ She ran her fingers over the hammer brooch that her father had given her and hoped it might keep her safe.

  ‘This is different,’ said Verner. ‘The Okhrana are different.’

  ‘One type of danger feels much like the rest to me,’ replied Kjellrunn, but Verner didn’t hear her, gone to bed down for the night and sleep off the drink.

  The night was long and the kitchen chair hard, but she refused to slip upstairs and sleep. All night she waited, knife in hand, waiting for the rap, rap, rap on the door. Waiting for the Okhrana to come looking for her father and Verner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Steiner

  Academy Voda has long been the weakest of the four schools. The power manifests later than other powers. Only a thorough understanding of Frøya gives the students much chance of fully developing their talent, and such a thing is forbidden in the Empire. Why the Matriarch-Commissar makes her office there is a mystery and should be treated with suspicion.

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

  The following day was a misery of terse silences from the Matriarch-Commissar. Steiner had wanted to ask after Romola but the right moment failed to present itself. He was clearing the bowl and plate from Felgenhauer’s desk when she stood up and waved him away.

  ‘Leave those. Come with me.’ She passed through the circular door of her office at a brisk pace and growled something in a low voice as the slouching soldiers roused themselves. The soldiers stood to attention, but did not follow the Matriarch-Commissar. Steiner noticed the maces that hung from their belts; these were not Felgenhauer’s axe-wielding cadre.

  Steiner wondered where Felgenhauer might go unescorted. Twice he wanted to speak and twice he thought better of it. Felgenhauer dismissed another four soldiers from escorting her without breaking stride. Icy rain sheeted down in Academy Square as they emerged from Academy Voda.

  ‘What’s going on?’ muttered Steiner as they passed the fiery statue. The rain hissed as it met the flames, turning to steam and shrouding the square in a haze.

  ‘The guard changed at midnight last night,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘The soldiers on duty in Academy Voda are loyal to Shirinov. I’m forced to live with thirty spies from the moment I wake to the moment I sleep.’

  ‘Thirty?’

  ‘Ten men to a section, each section works an eight-hour shift. Three sections form a troop.’

  ‘And there are five troops on the island,’ said Steiner, ‘one for each academy and one for the gatehouse.’

  ‘You’ve been paying attention.’ Felgenhauer sounded impressed. ‘All together the five troops form a company.’

  ‘These thirty soldiers, the ones loyal to Shirinov.’ Steiner wiped the rain out of his eyes. ‘Can’t you dismiss them?’

  ‘Rotation is key within Imperial military dogma. Rotation reduces attachment.’

  ‘It’s not working very well, is it?’ said Steiner, hair plastered to his scalp by the chilly rain. ‘You’ve got your axemen and Shirinov has his loyalists.’

  Felgenhauer rounded on him as they neared the gatehouse.

  ‘No. It is not.’ She took a step back and a low chuckle escaped the stony mask. ‘You have a fearless way of speaking your mind.’ She turned away and pushed through the door.

  Steiner thought this a strange comment but his attention turned to Romola as they climbed the spiral staircase. Silverdust was waiting in the corridor with a ring of keys clasped in his hands. Steiner felt the regard of the blank reflective face and fought a shiver that had nothing to do with the rain trickling down his back. As ever, silvery light flared to life around the Vigilant, who remained statue still.

  ‘She is unharmed?’ said Felgenhauer.

  Silverdust nodded once and turned to leave, motes of dust igniting with each step, like constellations dying.

  ‘One of the soldiers in Academy Voda will have slipped away to Shirinov to tell him where I am by now,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘Mark my words.’

  Steiner nodded. ‘Is this cell …?’

  The Matriarch-Commissar opened the door and Steiner winced, not knowing what condition the captain would be in. She looked up from a neatly made bed, where she was tuning the domra and humming softly.

  Steiner frowned. ‘What’s all this?’

  There was a rug on the floor and a small brazier crackled and popped, shedding orange light and a pleasant heat. The window had been boarded up to ward off the chill.

  ‘She’s perfectly fine!’ said Steiner.

  ‘Perfectly bored would be closer to the truth,’ replied Romola.

  ‘I didn’t get a cell like this,’ grumbled Steiner.

  ‘You were in for a single night,’ replied Romola. ‘I’ve been here for three weeks. And the novices in the kitchen can’t cook to save their lives.’ She nodded towards a half-full bowl of greasy broth.

  ‘You locked her up here to keep her safe from Shirinov,’ said Steiner to Felgenhauer. Romola slipped off the bed and pushed her head through the doorway, looking left and right. ‘Why don’t you announce it to the whole island, you half-wit?’

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘Gather your things.’ Romola nodded and retreated back to the bed. ‘And you,’ the Matriarch-Commissar prodded Steiner in the chest, ‘keep your mouth closed.’

  Romola didn’t take long to fetch a thick travel cloak, a slender book, and small bag. ‘Three weeks. Have you any idea how much it costs to feed an entire crew for three weeks while they sit around doing nothing?’

  ‘They haven’t been doing nothing,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘They’ve been loading on cargo and you’ll be very well paid when you deliver it.’

  ‘Three weeks.’ Romola rolled her eyes. ‘I could be in Svingettevei by now.’

  ‘You could be dead now too,’ mumbled Steiner, but neither woman heard him. Felgenhauer wasn’t interested in Romola’s complaints, striding along the corridor and down the spiralling steps.

  ‘You could at least say thanks,’ said Steiner, which produced some interesting words from Romola in a language he’d not heard before. Romola let slip a few more choice phrases when they reached Academy Square. Shirinov and Corpsecandle were waiting for them, flanked by half a dozen soldiers. Ordinary Marozvolk stood to one side in her snarling mask and six soldiers waited behind her, bearing brutal-looking two-handed axes. Behind all of them was Silverdust, who seemed untroubled by the rain, haloed by a strange shimmering. His blank mask was tipped back, as if he were staring into the sky on a fine day.

  ‘Matriarch-Commissar,’ said Shirinov, inclining his head in the semblance of a bow. ‘I trust you are about to sentence the pirate to death?’

  ‘She’s not a pirate,’ said Steiner.

  ‘Thank you, boy,’ said Felgenhauer, her tone excoriating. ‘I was escorting Captain Romola to my office where I intended to terminate her contract with the Empire.’ Shirinov attempted to speak but Felgenhauer continued more loudly. ‘She will have two days to set sail from Vladibogdan and not return.’

  Shirinov turned to Corpsecandle, the latter clearing his throat before Shirinov said, ‘This is most unseemly.’

  ‘Unseemly,’ agreed Corpsecandle in his mournful tone.

  ‘It seems fine to me,’ said Romola. ‘I’m sick of the sight of you.’ She turned to Felgenhauer. ‘All o
f you. I’ll be taking my leave now.’

  ‘As will I,’ intoned Shirinov. Steiner’s heart lurched in his chest.

  ‘Something you wish to share?’ said Felgenhauer.

  ‘I intend to present myself to the Emperor at Khlystburg.’ Shirinov stood up straighter. ‘So that I might report the many irregularities that have occurred on the island in the last few months.’

  The Matriarch-Commissar stepped forward until there was barely an arm’s length separating the two Vigilants. ‘You would go to Khlystburg and report me for your failure in Cinderfell?’

  The soldiers behind Shirinov shifted and a few clutched at their maces. Steiner wished he had his sledgehammer to hand.

  ‘I don’t presume to know the full extent of what is occurring here.’ Shirinov gestured towards Steiner and Romola. ‘But it is clear to me our leadership is … troubled.’

  Felgenhauer’s loyalists took a step forward, axes glinting by the light of flickering sconces. The Matriarch-Commissar held out a hand to still them.

  ‘Romola,’ said Felgenhauer, taking a step back. ‘How much to ferry Ordinary Shirinov and Hierarch Khigir to the mainland?’

  Romola pressed a thumb to her lip and a frown of deliberation appeared over her narrowed eyes. She sucked down a low breath and winced. ‘Well, now that I’m out of contract I’m afraid to say my prices have increased—’

  ‘How much, you filthy pirate?’ said Shirinov.

  ‘Significantly.’ Romola smiled without humour. ‘You might even say exorbitantly.’

  ‘I order you to take me to the coast! I order you as a citizen of the Solmindre Empire—’

  Romola held out her hands in mock apology. ‘But I’m not a citizen of the Empire. I wouldn’t take your rotting carcass a single league across the Spøkelsea for all the coins in Dos Uykhur.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s best if you wait on your ship,’ said Felgenhauer to Romola.

  ‘I know I’d feel a lot safer down there …’ Romola walked to the archway of the gatehouse, ‘… than up here.’ And with that she flicked out a lazy salute and headed off. Steiner felt a pang of hopelessness as she went.