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First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2018

Copyright © Den Patrick 2018

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Den Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008228132

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008228156

Version: 2018-04-17

Dedication

For Kevin

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Steiner

Chapter Two: Kjellrunn

Chapter Three: Steiner

Chapter Four: Steiner

Chapter Five: Kjellrunn

Chapter Six: Steiner

Chapter Seven: Steiner

Chapter Eight: Kjellrunn

Chapter Nine: Steiner

Chapter Ten: Kjellrunn

Chapter Eleven: Steiner

Chapter Twelve: Steiner

Chapter Thirteen: Steiner

Chapter Fourteen: Steiner

Chapter Fifteen: Kjellrunn

Chapter Sixteen: Steiner

Chapter Seventeen: Kjellrunn

Chapter Eighteen: Steiner

Chapter Nineteen: Steiner

Chapter Twenty: Kjellrunn

Chapter Twenty-One: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Two: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Three: Kjellrunn

Chapter Twenty-Four: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Five: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Six: Kjellrunn

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Steiner

Chapter Thirty: Kjellrunn

Chapter Thirty-One: Steiner

Chapter Thirty-Two: Steiner

Chapter Thirty-Three: Kjellrunn

Chapter Thirty-Four: Steiner

Chapter Thirty-Five: Steiner

Chapter Thirty-Six: Kjellrunn

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Steiner

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kjellrunn

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Steiner

Chapter Forty: Kjellrunn

Chapter Forty-One: Steiner

Chapter Forty-Two: Kjellrunn

Chapter Forty-Three: Steiner

Chapter Forty-Four: Steiner

Chapter Forty-Five: Steiner

Chapter Forty-Six: Kjellrunn

Chapter Forty-Seven: Kimi

Chapter Forty-Eight: Steiner

Chapter Forty-Nine: Kjellrunn

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Steiner

The Holy Synod has done much in the last decade to expunge all mention of the goddesses Frøya and Frejna. We have had less success in the Scorched Republics, whose people still hold affection for the old ways. It is the Synod’s hope that veneration of these goddesses passes into history as our grip tightens on Vinterkveld.

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

The furnace burned bright in the darkness. The old timbers of the smithy were edged in orange light, tools hung from iron hooks, gleaming. Steiner loved it here, the smell of hot metal and coal dust, the pleasant ache of muscles hardened from work, jobs in need of doing and jobs well done. The product of his labour lined the walls: small knives; pots and pans; hammers; scythes and the odd sickle.

The anvil chimed as Steiner brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. Sweat dampened his brow and ran down his back with each breath. A deep contentment settled upon him; something was being made, something was being created.

‘That’s enough of that,’ said his father. ‘Looks like you’re making a sword. And you know how the Empire feels about that.’

Steiner grinned. ‘Could I at least finish it? I’ll melt it down afterwards.’

Marek allowed himself a smile, caught up in Steiner’s enthusiasm. ‘A sword does a strange thing to a man’s mind—’

‘Being beaten over the head with one thing is much like another, I reckon.’ Steiner shrugged and gave a chuckle.

‘I mean wielding a sword, you oaf.’ Marek returned Steiner’s chuckle with one of his own. ‘It makes a man think he has some destiny or privilege.’ Marek’s tone made it clear exactly how he felt about the latter.

‘Not much destiny or privilege in Cinderfell,’ said Steiner, feeling the joy of creation grow cold despite the searing heat of the smithy.

‘No, there isn’t. It’s why I moved here.’ Marek rolled his heavy shoulders and rubbed one scarred forearm with an equally scarred hand. ‘Come on, we’re done for the day.’

They stepped out beneath overcast skies. Every day was overcast in Cinderfell. The Empire said it was a legacy of the war with the dragons, that the terrible creatures had scorched the skies above the continent for decades to come.

‘Must it always be so grey?’ muttered Steiner, as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin.

‘It’s not like this in the south,’ said Marek. ‘They can see the sun in Shanisrond.’

Steiner gave an incredulous snort. ‘Next you’ll be telling me the dragons still live.’

Marek shook his head. ‘No, the Empire saw to that. And you know that when the Empire take an interest in something—’

‘It usually ends up dead.’ Steiner ran a hand over his jaw, the feel of stubble beneath his callused fingers still a novelty. The downy fuzz of his early teens had given way to something rougher. ‘So why don’t we buy a cart, pack up, and head off to Shanisrond?’

Steiner followed Marek’s gaze as he looked over the town and the cottages that nestled against the steep incline rising up from the coast. The small windows bore heavy wooden shutters stained with salt, and verdant moss clung to thatched rooftops. The dour atmosphere was well matched by the cruel temperature.

‘Not much of a home, is it,’ admitted Marek.

‘So why stay?’

Steiner regretted the question as soon as he saw the pained expression cross his father’s face. For a moment they stood in silence beneath the flat grey sky. Marek lifted his eyes to the sea and Steiner wasn’t sure if he was searching or pleading with the choppy waves that danced against the stone pier.

‘You still hope she’ll come back.’

Marek nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and headed back into the smithy.

‘Did you sell the sickle we made last week?’ asked Steiner, keen to change the subject from an absent mother, an absent wife.

Marek nodded but said nothing. Steiner was well used to his father’s silences.

‘Strange time of year to harvest herbs. Who bought it?’

‘One of the fishermen.’ Marek cleared his throat. ‘I don’t remember now.’

Steiner frowned and pulled off his thick leather gloves. In a town this small they knew every customer by name. The sale of a sickle was no small matter and would bring some much needed coin. He opened his mouth to press for an answer but the latch on the door rattled and his father nodded towards it.

‘I wondered where Kjell had got to,’ said Marek.

The door to the smithy creaked as Kjellrunn pushed the heavy wood aside. She stepped forward into the furnace’s glow. Small for her age, she looked closer to twelve than her sixteen years. Her tunic was overlong, reaching her knees, while her britches were patched many times; Steiner’s hand-me-downs. All their coin was spent on food and supplies for the smithy; money for clothes was scarce.

‘Would it kill you to pull a brush through your hair before you go to school?’ said their father with a slow smile.

‘She does a fine impression of a rusalka,’ said Steiner, noting the driftwood and black feathers she clutched; treasures from the beach no doubt.

‘You said you don’t believe in the old tales,’ replied Kjellrunn.

Steiner shrugged. ‘That may be, but I’m still halfway convinced you’re one of them.’

‘There are worse things than rusalka,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘A ship has just arrived in the bay.’

‘We were out there not more than a minute ago,’ replied Steiner.

‘See for yourself if you think I’m a liar,’ she replied, jutting her chin with an obstinate look in her eye.

‘I’d rather start preparing dinner if it’s all the same to you,’ said their father. He looked away, unwilling to meet their eyes. ‘A ship in the bay means the Empire.’

‘And that means a troika of Vigilants,’ said Steiner, feeling the familiar fear the Holy Synod evoked.

‘Perhaps not.’ Kjell eyed both of them. ‘Not this time. You’ll want to see this.’

‘Did Uncle Verner bet you could lure us down to the bay?’ Steiner asked as they followed the rutted track that led to the coastal road.

‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ replied Kjellrunn, her eyes fixed on the blue-grey swell of the sea. Something between mist and rain dampened their spirits even as curiosity kindled inside them.

‘There it is,’ said Marek, pointing a finger. The bay rarely saw anything larger than fishing boats; no one put in at Cinderfell to trade. Only when the Sommerende Ocean sent vicious storms did captains seek the safe haven of the drab town.

‘A ship,’ said Steiner. ‘A frigate, I reckon. Though why you’d care to paint it red is anyone’s guess.’

‘You reckon right,’ said their father. ‘It’s a frigate, but not like I’ve seen before.’

They continued to walk down to the bay, past cottages arranged in curving rows, down the narrow cobbled road that wended its way to the shore. The Spøkelsea rushed over the shingle beach in a hushed roar, leaving trails of foam and seaweed as the water retreated once again. Steiner studied the sleek ship as it lay at anchor, sails stowed like folded wings. The sailors aboard were ant-sized at this distance and just as busy. The whole vessel was dark red from prow to stern while the figurehead jutted from the front in forbidding black, wings outstretched along the hull.

‘What is that? muttered Steiner.

‘It’s a crow,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘After Se or Venter, I expect.’

Steiner frowned. ‘More of your folk tales, I suppose?’

‘Se and Venter belong to Frejna, they’re her crows.’

‘It’s not an Imperial ship then,’ said Marek.

‘You know how they feel about the old gods,’ added Steiner.

‘Goddess. Not god. Frejna is a goddess.’ Kjellrunn rolled her eyes. ‘Of winter, wisdom and death.’

Other families had appeared at the doorways of cottages or emerged from the few shops to see the dark red ship. Parents held their children close and anxious glances were traded.

‘All the Imperial ships are in the south,’ said Marek, ‘harassing Shanisrond or escorting cargo ships up the Ashen Gulf.’

‘Perhaps they’re pirates,’ said Steiner with a smile, nudging his sister.

Kjellrunn looked over the town and wrinkled her nose. ‘How much do you think they’d give me for a half-trained, half-wit blacksmith?’

‘Just because I can’t read doesn’t make me a half-wit,’ said Steiner through gritted teeth.

‘If they are pirates they’re not trying very hard,’ said Marek. ‘Perhaps they stopped in for repairs,’ he added, before turning to walk back up the hill.

‘What do you think it is?’ Steiner called after him. The frigate’s arrival would be the talk of the town for weeks to come.

‘I don’t know.’ Marek frowned and cleared his throat, as if it troubled him. Kjellrunn stopped and looked over her shoulder. There was a faraway look in her eye, as if she could see something Steiner could not. It was the same look she had after she’d been in the woods, or when she spoke of folk tales.

‘No good will come of it,’ she said, ‘whatever it is.’ Her words were as cold and grey as the skies overhead. Steiner struggled to suppress a shiver as she turned her eyes on him. There was something not right in his sister, nothing he could put a name to, yet he feared they would find out what it was all too soon.

‘Hoy there, Steiner.’ Kristofine stood outside the tavern’s doorway with a playful smile, arms folded across her chest. She was of a similar age to the blacksmith’s son, always top of the class and always polite to her teachers, though their school days had ended two years previously.

The meagre daylight had dimmed and a stillness had descended on the bay, as if the four winds themselves held their breath in anticipation.

‘Hoy there,’ said Steiner. ‘Working tonight?’

‘And every night, my curse for having a father who owns a tavern.’

‘Is my uncle here?’

Kristofine nodded. ‘Was it only your uncle who you came to see?’

Steiner shrugged. ‘Well, you never know who you might run into at a place like this.’

They smiled at each other and Steiner wondered what to say next. Kristofine watched him for a moment and looked away.

‘What’s got you hanging around the doorstep on a cold night like this?’

Kristofine nodded to the bay, where the ship’s lanterns looked like stars fallen to the sea. ‘Our new friend there, not that you can really see it now.’

‘What news?’ asked Steiner.

‘The worst kind,’ she replied. ‘It seems the ship brought a score of soldiers ashore. They’re staying at the Smouldering Standard, booked out every room.’

‘Imperial soldiers?’

‘It has to be the Synod,’ said Kristofine. ‘Though they’re late this year.’

‘An Invigilation then?’ said Steiner, thinking of Kjellrunn. This would be the last year she’d have to face it, but the fact offered small comfort. ‘You going to let me in before I die of cold?’ he asked, forcing a smile.

‘Maybe I’ll charge you a kiss to step over the threshold.’ She cocked her head to one side and Steiner wondered at this new-found playfulness. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed her. Everyone in Cinderfell had noticed Kristofine.

‘A kiss is about all I’ve got,’ he replied.

‘Then how will you pay for the beer?’

Steiner rattled the coins in his pocket. ‘Maybe I have more than just kisses.’

Kristofine pushed back against the door and Steiner felt the faint sting of disappointment as he realized there’d be no kiss after all.

The tavern was full of old salts, fresh-faced youngsters and all ages in between. Bright lanterns hung from the beams and the smells of stale beer and pipe smoke teased Steiner’s senses, not unkindly.

‘He’s over here,’ said Kristofine, beckoning to him. They emerged through a knot of fishermen to find his Uncle Verner sitting alone in a corner, away from the hustle of the main bar.

‘Hoy there, young Steiner!’ Verner had his boots up on the table and was cleaning his nails with a short knife. He was a blond man with a face lined deep by wind and rain, and he wore his beard short, unlike many of the Cinderfell men.

‘The wanderer returns,’ replied Steiner.

‘You going to sit down or fall down? You look shattered. Isn’t Marek feeding you?’

‘Money is tight, there’s not much food. You know how it is.’

Verner rose from his seat and caught him in a rough embrace. ‘Kristofine, a beer for my nephew and a bowl of stew with some bread to go with it. We need to get some meat on these bones.’

Kristofine paused to look Steiner over. ‘That we do.’ She slipped away through the crowd, Steiner’s eyes searching for her even as she was lost from view.

‘Frøya’s tits!’ said Verner. ‘I’m out of town for a week and you’re all but courting Kristofine there. Not that I blame you.’

‘Keep your voice down. We’re not courting,’ said Steiner. He leaned in closer. ‘We’ve missed you, I’ve missed you. Where have you been?’

‘Ah, it was nothing.’ Verner took a sip from his tankard. ‘Nothing important. I just took some smoked fish to market in Helwick.’

‘Helwick? The local market not good enough for you any more?’

Verner smiled but said nothing. The chance to ask further questions slipped away as Kristofine arrived at the table with a battered wooden tray bearing equally battered tankards.

‘Thanks,’ said Steiner.

‘Your stew will be over shortly.’ And then she was gone again.

‘You look like you’ve all the world on your shoulders,’ said Verner.

‘Just worried about Kjellrunn is all. There’ll be an Invigilation any day now. I know she doesn’t have any of the arcane about her, but the way she talks about goddesses and portents … It makes people uneasy.’ Steiner stared into his tankard. ‘It makes me uneasy.’

‘Be nice if they could let us alone for just one year,’ said Verner, voice close to a growl. ‘It’s not as if Nordvlast is part of the Empire, is it?’

‘And when has that stopped them?’

The Synod scoured every town and village on the continent of Vinterkveld, and even the neighbouring Scorched Republics were not spared: Svingettevei, Vannerånd, Drakefjord and Nordvlast all acquiesced, yet all resented surrendering their children to the belligerent Empire.

‘Why do we let them come here?’ said Steiner. ‘Why do we let them take our children year after year? Couldn’t we stand up to them? I’ve asked Marek but he refuses to speak of it. I’m a man now, don’t I deserve a few straight answers?’

‘Straight answers, is it?’ said Verner. ‘The Scorched Republics may not be part of the Empire, but this is the price they pay so the Empire remains on their side of the border. None of the Scorched Republics would last longer than a month or two if the Empire invaded.’

They sipped their pints and stared at the dancing flames of the hearth, each imagining the terror of war and sack of every town and farmstead. Steiner’s thoughts found their way back to Kjellrunn.

‘She’s so … strange, with her driftwood charms and crow feathers. I think she looks like a witch, and I’m her own kin.’

‘Her own kin might want to keep his voice down when using the word “witch”.’

‘Sorry.’ Steiner glanced about the room but the many fishermen and townsfolk were intent on their own conversations.

‘It will turn out fine,’ said Verner, and Steiner wanted to believe him.

‘We’ve not had witchsign here for two decades,’ said Steiner, but even as he said the words he thought of Kjellrunn, the tousle-haired girl with a faraway look in her eye. He thought of how subdued she’d been watching the red ship in the bay. The dire feeling she’d fail the Synod’s inspection plucked at him like icy fingers. The Vigilant would sniff around her, declare her corrupted by the power of dragons, and they’d never see her again.

‘It’s the same every year,’ said Verner. ‘Cinderfell is the last stop on the Synod’s route to Vladibogdan’.

‘Vladibogdan?’ Steiner frowned. ‘Where is Vladibogdan?’

‘Ah, Frejna.’ Verner squeezed his eyes shut, then released a sigh. ‘Keep it to yourself. I know you will.’ He leaned in closer and looked over his shoulder to check none of the fishermen were listening.

‘The island of Vladibogdan lies twenty miles off the coast of Nordvlast, to the north-west.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’ Steiner leaned closer, his voice a whisper.

‘Of course you haven’t. It’s the largest of the Nordscale islands and the Solmindre Empire’s dirty secret. It’s where they take children with witchsign for cleansing.’ Verner’s face creased with torment and Steiner thought he saw the glimmer of tears at the corners of his uncle’s eyes.

Steiner didn’t need to ask what cleansing entailed. Witchsign wasn’t tolerated in Vinterkveld, and those with witchsign were expunged, though none truly knew how. Some said fire, some said beheading.

‘How is it you know of this mystery island then?’ whispered Steiner.

‘I’m a fisherman.’ Verner didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Sometimes we go out to sea further than we intend.’

‘Twenty miles out?’

Verner forced a grin. ‘Perhaps I used to raid Imperial vessels. Perhaps I used to be a pirate?’ He downed the last of his beer and stood up, fetching his coat.

‘And they take the children to Vladibogdan?’ asked Steiner, keen to know more, but Verner held a finger up to his lips. ‘I have business elsewhere.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Aye, no rest for the wicked and all that. Keep your sister safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The blond man crossed the room, exchanging handshakes and slapping shoulders in farewell as he left.

‘You look as if you lost an axe and found a knife,’ said Kristofine.

‘I’m not sure I even found the knife to be honest.’

Kristofine set down two bowls of stew and a plate of bread, then to Steiner’s surprise sat down and began to eat.’

‘I don’t have long,’ she said, ‘but I’m famished and you looked like you needed a dining companion.’

Steiner laughed. ‘Dining companion? You make me sound like a merchant.’

‘You’re a blacksmith, aren’t you?’

Steiner smiled and began to eat. ‘What’s got into Verner tonight? He’s not himself.’

‘Worried for Kjellrunn, I expect,’ replied Kristofine. ‘They’re close, aren’t they?’

‘She’s always pressing him for stories of Frøya and Frejna, mysterious crows and the old wars. Children’s tales really. You wouldn’t guess she’s sixteen summers.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ agreed Kristofine. ‘You keep a close eye on her while that ship is in the bay, won’t you?’

Steiner nodded, struck by the seriousness of Kristofine’s tone.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about your sister.’

‘What did you come here to talk about then?’ replied Steiner, feeling out of his depth and not knowing in which direction to swim.

‘You don’t speak to many girls, do you?’ said Kristofine.

‘I don’t speak to many people. Mainly just hammer metal on an anvil.’

‘Maybe another mead will loosen your tongue.’

Steiner watched the woman cross the tavern as excitement and confusion vied for the upper hand. It had been a curious day; it looked to be a curious night.

CHAPTER TWO
Kjellrunn

The compact made between the Solmindre Empire and the Scorched Republics allows a member of the Synod to enter all dwellings across Vinterkveld in order to carry out an Invigilation. Taking children from their parents is no small matter but the children are dangerous. The threat of open rebellion weighs heavily during times such as these and a Vigilant should take as many soldiers as they can gather. You must meet resistance with intimidation, and match violence with brutality.

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

Kjellrunn hated the kitchen. The ceiling was too low, the chimney never seemed to spirit away the smoke as best it could, and the table at the centre was too large. She had spent a lifetime shuffling and side-stepping around the vast slab of timber. Such a large table and rarely anything good to eat, a bitter irony. She belonged in the forest and lived only for the summer months when she could wander through the trees for hours, alone and at peace.

Steiner served a dollop of porridge into a bowl from a wooden spoon. He hummed quietly as he circled the table, serving more porridge into his bowl, then sat down and began to eat, barely noticing her. Marek was already in the smithy, tinkering with some half-finished project.

‘Why are you smiling?’ said Kjellrunn, her porridge untouched. ‘You never smile.’

Steiner looked up, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘What?’

‘And you’re humming. You hate music.’

‘I don’t hate music, I just can’t sing. You have the greater share of that talent, always singing folk songs and laments and Frøya knows what else.’

‘You hate music,’ said Kjellrunn once more, hearing how petty she sounded. Steiner shrugged and continued his repast.

They sat in silence for a moment and Kjellrunn began to eat.

’No singing today, Kjell,’ said Steiner. ‘There’s Imperial soldiers in town, perhaps a Vigilant too. You know how they feel about the old gods—’

‘Goddesses.’

‘Fine, goddesses.’ Steiner rolled his eyes. ‘Just keep your songs for the forest, eh? And pull a comb through that briar patch you call hair. You look like a vagrant.’

Kjellrunn showed him the back of her hand, raising four fingers to him, one each for water, fire, earth and wind. In older times it had meant good luck, but these days it insinuated something else entirely.

‘And don’t let anyone catch you flipping the four powers in the street. The soldiers will hack your fingers off to teach you a lesson.’

Kjellrunn stood up, feeling as restless as the ocean, her pique like jagged snarls of lightning.

‘Why are you so happy today, with all these soldiers here and a Vigilant too? What cause have you to be happy when you’ve a witch for a sister?’

Steiner dropped his spoon and his eyes went very wide. The fragile autumn light leeched the colour from his face.

‘Kjell …’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was so low she could barely hear herself over the crackling fire in the hearth. ‘I didn’t mean it. Of course I’m not a witch.’

Steiner rubbed his forehead a moment, picked up his spoon and then put it down again, his appetite fled.

‘I was in a good mood because Kristofine and I started talking last night and, well, it was nice. I don’t know if she likes me or what I’m supposed to do, but it was …’ He floundered for the word, then shrugged. ‘Well, it was nice. And there’s precious little of that in Cinderfell.’

‘Oh,’ was all Kjellrunn could manage in the cavernous silence that followed. The kitchen suddenly felt very large.

‘Father needs me,’ said Steiner, not meeting her eyes as he stood. A moment later he was gone.

The dishes didn’t take long but sweeping the kitchen was always a chore on account of the huge table. Kjellrunn put off leaving the cottage for as long as she could but the shops would only stay open for so long. She entered the smithy with downcast eyes. She disliked the smithy more than the kitchen, all darkness and fire; the smell of ashes and sweat.

‘I need money for food,’ was all she said as Marek looked up from his work. Steiner was filing off a sickle blade, pausing only to spare her a brief glance. She imagined she saw annoyance in the set of his brow. He turned away and continued his work.

‘Business has been slow and I’ve not got the coin for meat,’ said Marek. ‘Unless it’s cheap.’

Kjellrunn nodded and noted just how few coins he’d given her.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and Kjellrunn felt his shame in the single word. Not enough money to feed his children right, that was hard to take for a man like Marek.

‘I’d best go with her,’ said Steiner quietly. ‘What with the Empire and all.’

Marek opened his mouth to object but said nothing and nodded before turning back to his work.

They had no sooner slipped through a gap in the double doors to the smithy when Kjellrunn spoke first.

‘I’m sorry about this morning. You do smile, of course you do. I’m just not myself today is all.’

Steiner put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her close, pressing his face into her tangled hair to kiss her on the crown.

‘Of course you’re yourself today. Who else would you be?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘You’re difficult and sullen and uncombed and lovely and my sister. That’s the only Kjell I’m ever going to know, I reckon.’

Kjellrunn smiled before she could stop herself. ‘You say I’m “difficult and sullen” when I apologize to you?’

‘What would you prefer?’ said Steiner, his arm now performing more of a headlock than a hug.

‘I’d prefer you to get off me, you great oaf. I may need to comb my hair but you need to wash.’

Brother and sister picked their way along the cobbled streets, past the winding rows of squat cottages and the few townsfolk brave enough to set foot outside.

‘Quiet today,’ said Steiner. ‘People are staying out of sight what with the soldiers here.’

‘Maybe you should go into town alone,’ replied Kjellrunn, mouth dry and a terrible feeling like seasickness rising in her gut.

‘We can’t let them push us around, Kjell. This is Nordvlast, the power of the north! Not very powerful if we can’t even buy food in our own town.’

‘It’s not the soldiers I’m scared of, it’s the Vigilants.’

‘If you’ve not got the witchsign you’ve nothing to fear,’ replied Steiner, but Kjellrunn had heard it a hundred times before. It was one of those mindless platitudes so popular with the dull and uninteresting people of Cinderfell.

Steiner slowed down and Kjellrunn felt his gaze on her, a glance from the side of his eye.

‘What you said this morning—’

‘I was angry. Of course I’m not a witch. I’m not scared of the Vigilants because I’m a witch, I’m scared of them because they’re decrepit old men. Men like that usually only have a couple of uses for a girl my age.’

Steiner winced. She knew only too well he thought of her much as he’d done when she was ten or eleven. Her body hadn’t begun to make the changes most sixteen-year-old girls took for granted; she felt frozen somehow, trapped in her girlhood.

‘Why don’t you go on in to Håkon’s and see if you can buy us some lamb neck or beef shin?’ Steiner shrugged. ‘I don’t know, something cheap.’ He pushed a few coins into her hand and pressed a finger to his lips so she wouldn’t tell Marek.

The shop was a single room, lined on three sides with dark wooden tables. Small panes of cloudy, uneven glass sat in a wooden lattice at the front, allowing dreary light to wash over the meat. Two lanterns at the rear of the store held back the gloom.

Kjellrunn told the butcher what she was after and endured the sour look she received. Håkon was a slab of a man, bald and compensating with a beard long enough to house hibernating animals. His eyes were small, overshadowed by a heavy brow that gave him a permanent frown.

Håkon named his price and Kjellrunn stopped a moment and regarded the selection of coins in her hand. The words were out of her mouth before she’d even thought to answer.

‘I’ve bought beef shin from you before and it never cost so much.’

Håkon shrugged and wiped a greasy hand down the front of his apron, then folded his arms.

‘Could you not the lower the price just a small amount?’

‘Yours isn’t the only family that needs to eat,’ said the butcher.

‘What’s keeping you so long, Kjell?’ Steiner had slipped into the butcher’s; despite his size he was quiet on his feet and often caught Kjellrunn unawares.

‘I …’ Kjellrunn glanced from Steiner to the butcher and down to the coins in her hand.

‘Some issue with the price, is there?’ said Steiner, a note of warning in his voice.

‘This your wife, is it?’ said Håkon.

‘She, not it,’ said Steiner, ‘and she is my sister.’

Håkon pulled on a grin as greasy as the apron he wore and held up his hands. ‘Why didn’t you say, little one?’

Kjellrunn looked at Steiner and sighed. ‘You know exactly who I am,’ she said. ‘And you always find a way to make things difficult.’

‘Is that so?’ said Steiner, his eyes fixed on the butcher, sharp and hard as flints.

‘I’m just gaming with the girl is all,’ said Håkon. ‘You know these young ones, they can’t take a joke.’

‘Maybe we’ll have some jokes next time you come to the smithy to buy new knives,’ said Kjellrunn. She took the bundle from the counter and slammed down a few coins, before taking her leave of the dingy shop.

‘I meant no harm,’ said Håkon.

‘I’m sure,’ replied Steiner in a tone that said anything but.

The butcher’s expression hardened and his eyes settled on Kjellrunn, now waiting in the street outside.

‘You watch yourself, Steiner.’ Håkon leaned across the counter, his voice rough and low. ‘She’s not right, always sneaking off to the woods and gathering herbs and mushrooms and crow feathers. Sister or no, she’s not right.’

Kjellrunn heard all of this and stood in street, rigid with fear. Her eyes darted to the townsfolk nearby to see if they’d heard the outburst, but none met her eye, scurrying away, keen to avoid any trouble. Steiner emerged a few seconds later, red-faced, jaw clenched in fury and hands closed into fists.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kjellrunn in small voice.

‘You did nothing wrong, Kjell,’ replied Steiner, though she had the awful feeling he didn’t really mean it.

‘He’s always the same, always making things awkward.’

Steiner gave a curt nod but didn’t speak. They marched down the street and Kjellrunn struggled to keep up, almost slipping in the grey slush that coated the cobbles.

‘There’s Kristofine,’ she said, pointing ahead to where the tavern-keeper’s daughter stood outside the baker’s, chatting with another woman.

Steiner looked up and his eyes widened. ‘Who is that?’

The woman Kristofine was talking to was unlike anyone Kjellrunn had seen before, and the wry smile she wore was evidence she knew it. All of Cinderfell were acquainted with the occasional sailor from Shanisrond, but there was something truly different about the stranger, not simply the tone of her skin. She was lighter than the dark-skinned sailors of Dos Fesh, and the cast of her eyes marked her as a descendant of Dos Kara; the hair that hung to her waist was raven black. Kjellrunn found it impossible to guess her age. She wore a deerskin jerkin with matching knee-length boots and her shirt sleeves were rolled back to the elbow, revealing wrists encircled by copper hoops, bright with verdigris, bangles of shining jet and polished ivory. A sabre hung from one hip and the scars on her forearms proved it wasn’t for show.

‘Hoy there,’ said Steiner, a touch of uncertainty in his tone.

Kristofine grinned and the woman beside her rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t bite. I was just asking your friend here if there’s a room I can take for the night.’

‘Ignore my brother,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Unusual women make him nervous.’ Kristofine and the stranger burst out laughing and Kjellrunn found herself laughing along with them. Steiner scratched the back of his head.

‘I was just surprised to see Kristofine is all,’ he replied and looked away.

‘How are you, Kjell?’ asked Kristofine. ‘Been to Håkon’s? Make sure you wash that meat. You never know where his hands have been.’

Steiner pulled a face. ‘I think I’ve just lost my appetite. Possibly for the whole week.’

‘The man is a pig,’ said Kjellrunn, ‘A dirty great pig. Imagine a pig running a butcher’s, how absurd.’

Steiner and Kristofine frowned at her observation, but the stranger smiled and held out her hand.

‘I’m Romola. I like the way your mind works. Like a poet or a madman.’

‘Uh, thanks,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘I’m not sure I’m so keen on being mad.’

Romola pouted. ‘In a world this strange, madness seems like a good option, right?’

Kjellrunn wasn’t sure what the woman meant, but drank in every detail of her. ‘Are you a pirate?’ she asked.

‘Kjell!’ Steiner stared at his sister and glanced at Romola. ‘Forgive my sister, she, uh, well …’

‘Some days,’ replied Romola.

‘Some days what?’ said Steiner.

‘Some days I’m a pirate.’ Romola turned a smile on Kristofine. ‘But not today and not recently.’

I was right, mouthed Kjellrunn to Steiner, and smiled.

Steiner began to laugh and stifled it with a cough behind his hand.

‘Why don’t you two come to the tavern,’ said Kristofine. ‘I was going to show Romola around and we could have something to eat.’

Kjellrunn caught the way Kristofine looked her brother and felt some unknown feeling course through her, swirling dangerously.

‘I should get back,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Father will be waiting.’ These last words were pointed at Steiner, but he was too busy smiling at Kristofine to notice.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ said Romola. ‘You take care of yourself now.’

Kjellrunn nodded and stalked away, angry with Kristofine but unsure why.

‘Tell Father I’ll be home in a while,’ Steiner called after her, but Kjellrunn pretended not to hear and bowed her head.

‘Not sure I care for a half-wit brother who abandons me halfway through a trip to town,’ she muttered to herself. ‘And I’m not sure I care for being called mad by an ex-pirate.’ A passerby on the street glanced at her and crossed to the other side. ‘And I certainly don’t care for the way Kristofine stares at my brother. What is going on between those two?’

Steiner didn’t reappear for the rest of the afternoon and if Marek minded he didn’t show it. Kjellrunn stayed up after dinner and fussed with this and that in the kitchen. Finally the latch rattled on the kitchen door and Steiner shouldered his way into the room, a little unsteady on his feet.

‘Did you see a ghost on the walk home?’ Kjellrunn was sitting at the table in her nightshirt, hands clasped around a mug of hot milk.

‘Not a ghost, but it turns out Romola is a storyweaver as a well as a pirate. She told a story that was unsettling.’

‘Which story?’

‘Bittervinge and the Mama Qara.’

‘That’s not a scary story. Not really.’

‘It depends who’s telling it, I suppose,’ said Steiner quietly.

‘What else did she say?’ Kjellrunn’s eyes were bright with curiosity.

‘No stories, only that Imperial soldiers are in town, and there’ll be an Invigilation tomorrow.’

Kjellrunn sat up straighter in her chair, then set her eyes on her mug.

‘I hate it,’ was all she said.

‘So did I,’ replied Steiner.

She remembered being inspected by the Synod, how her palms had sweated and her stomach knotted like old rope, wondering if she would be taken away for bearing the taint of dragons.

‘But this is the last time you have to do it,’ said Steiner. ‘You’ll be fine, Kjell.’

She struggled not to tremble and said nothing.

‘There’s been no witchsign in Cinderfell for twenty years,’ said Steiner. ‘And you’ve always passed without a problem before. This year won’t be any different.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, her mouth a bitter curve of worry.

‘Kjell, is there anything, any reason … Do you doubt you’ll pass this year? If there’s anything you wanted to tell me …’

‘Of course not!’ She stood up and marched past him, climbing the stairs without a backward glance.

‘Good night then,’ he called after her, but there was little good about it.

CHAPTER THREE
Steiner

Though many Imperial scholars argue there is no proof linking the emergence of the arcane with our former draconic masters, the Holy Synod takes it as a matter of faith. Ours is a double poisoning; ash and smoke have tainted the sky just as young children manifest unearthly powers. How else to explain the unexplainable?

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

Steiner looked up into the skies from the porch and watched the grey snow drifting down, obscuring roof and road. It lay along lintels and windowsills, a hushed drabness for the gloomy town. The chill wind, so often a feature in Cinderfell, was absent that day.

‘The snow will cover everything if it keeps up like this,’ whispered Kjellrunn, joining him in the porch, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Her breath misted on the air and for a moment Steiner’s mind wandered to Romola’s tale of dragons from the previous night. ‘Perhaps the Vigilants will forget we’re here,’ added Kjellrunn.

‘Small chance of that.’ Steiner forced a smile at his sister. ‘Still, they might catch a cold and go home.’ He knew exactly how she felt; he had stood for six Invigilations and was glad he’d not have to do so again. Each time he’d wondered if some glimmer of the arcane would see him taken by the Synod.

‘Last night, you said you hoped you’d pass the Invigilation. You haven’t …’ Steiner struggled for the words.

‘Started casting spells that summon the winds and make people burst into flames?’ said Kjellrunn.

‘I think I would have noticed that,’ replied Steiner with a smile, but Kjellrunn didn’t return it, looking away to the falling snow. ‘You and Father are all I have. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you, Kjell. I don’t know what Father would do.’

‘No one is going take me,’ replied Kjell, but Steiner couldn’t miss the way she looked off to the horizon as she said it, not meeting his eyes.

‘You’ll walk your sister to school today?’ said Marek from the kitchen, as if Steiner would refuse.

‘Of course.’

‘And wait until she can come home.’ Steiner couldn’t miss the guarded tone in his father’s voice. There would be no lessons today. There would be no teachers. It was impossible to spare a thought for anything else at times like these.

‘We’d best get to it,’ said Steiner, slipping an arm around Kjellrunn’s shoulders.

‘Wait now.’ Their father’s voice was soft, softer than the snow falling outside. Marek pulled a brooch from a pocket. He took a step towards Kjellrunn with a sad smile on his lips. ‘This was your mother’s. You should have it.’

Kjellrunn blinked, then her expression fell as she saw the brooch, styled in the shape of a sledgehammer. It had been cast in black iron; hardly the jewellery a young woman yearned for.

‘Wear it today.’ Marek pulled open her shawl and reached for the tunic beneath, pinning the brooch in place. ‘If you get scared at the Invigilation, remember your mother.’

‘But … but I don’t remember my mother,’ said Kjellrunn in a whisper. ‘I don’t remember her at all.’ The pain of that absence was written across her slender face in that moment, as tears blossomed at the corners of her eyes. Steiner did not share her pain, only nursed a resentment that the woman who’d birthed him had fled to gods knew where.

‘She loved you,’ said their father. ‘Be brave.’ Marek waved them off and closed the door, leaving Kjellrunn and Steiner with the long walk ahead, surrounded by drifting grey motes of snow.

‘Do you have one?’ asked Kjellrunn, when they were a few streets away. Steiner was glad of the question, for the distraction. Anything was preferable to the endless din of anxiety in his mind, like a smithy consumed with work.

‘No,’ he replied, glancing at the hammer brooch. ‘But I’d rather have the real thing anyway. I couldn’t do much in the smithy with a hammer that small.’ He nudged her with an elbow and was rewarded with a smile which faded as they drew closer to the bay. The menace of the red ship was not lessened by the cheerless weather. Three soldiers idled on the pier, waiting for a smaller boat that ferried indistinct figures across the water.

‘That’s the ship.’ Kjellrunn’s voice was a whisper. ‘That’s the ship that will take all those poor children away for cleansing.’

Every year the Synod arrived in Cinderfell with around two score of children, gathered up from across Vinterkveld. Every year those children were piled on a ship and never seen again. Cinderfell was the last stop on their unholy tour of the continent.

‘Perhaps they take them to Khlystburg?’ said Kjellrunn. It was an age-old pastime, wondering where the ships took children tainted with witchsign.

‘Khlystburg.’ Capital of the Solmindre Empire and final destination of dissenters and traitors. ‘No, they’re not taken to Khlystburg,’ said Steiner.

‘Then where?’ She eyed him and frowned. ‘Do you know?’

Steiner’s eyes strayed to the sea even as his thoughts turned to Vladibogdan, the mysterious island Verner had mentioned. The waters were a flat green expanse that swallowed each snowflake and Steiner reached for Kjellrunn’s hand and held it tight. Together they watched parents walking their children to the Invigilation with heavy hearts. The chill in their bones had nothing to do with the weather.

‘I wish Mother was here,’ said Kjellrunn, her grip tightening on his hand as the words slipped free. ‘I’d like to see her just once in my life.’

‘Your life isn’t over, Kjell. They’ll not take you today. Look them in the eye when they come close, don’t let them see you’re afraid.’

‘That’s easier said than done,’ grumbled Kjell.

‘Don’t look down at your boots, it makes them think you have something to hide. And don’t sing, even to comfort yourself. Don’t breathe a word about the old gods either.’

‘Goddesses. And I’m not a fool. You really think I’d bring up Frøya and Frejna on a day like this?’

Steiner didn’t answer, but watched Kjellrunn’s expression darken.

‘Of course not,’ he replied after they’d trudged on a dozen feet. ‘I’m just worried is all. There’s been no witchsign in Cinderfell for decades and I don’t want that to change today.’

‘Nor will it,’ said Kjellrunn, her hand straying to the hammer brooch Marek had given her.

Steiner considered another truth, one the fishermen spoke of when they were in dark moods and well into their cups. Was it possible that the Vigilants had darker motives for taking the children away? Kjellrunn marched beside him, all tangled hair, built like a sparrow with a watchful cast to her eye. She was more urchin than woman, and Steiner hoped it would provide some measure of protection.

Kjellrunn scowled over her shoulder at the blood-red ship. The clouds overhead had darkened and a cold breeze carried the scent of fresh snow. ‘What if I refused to go? I doubt the Vigilant will notice the absence of one child. We could go home right now.’

They’d played this game before, two children teasing at ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. The outcome was always the same: bleak as the Cinderfell weather.

‘It’s their job to notice,’ replied Steiner. ‘They’re called Vigilants and they have the school register. If you don’t attend then they’ll come to the house for you.’

‘I’ll hide in the woods all day,’ she replied, daring to look pleased with herself.

‘And then they’ll search the whole town and the soldiers won’t be gentle or shy about letting people know how much they dislike being defied.’

‘I won’t go!’ She stopped walking and folded her arms, a scowl on her face. All traces of the Kjellrunn fascinated by Spriggani and rusalka had disappeared, only a stony-eyed blonde girl remained. Steiner looked down the slope to where the track met the coastal road. The three soldiers he’d seen on the pier were headed for the school, coming closer with every heartbeat.

‘Come on,’ he whispered, but Kjellrunn shook her head. ‘Come on, Kjell. I never wanted to go either but …’

‘Maybe our mother didn’t leave at all,’ hissed Kjellrunn. ‘Maybe she was taken, taken by the same soldiers who are here today.’

‘Kjell, you’re just telling stories now. Come on, please.’ The soldiers were coming closer, less than a stone’s throw from where they argued.

‘You’d hand me over to the same Empire that took our mother?’

‘Kjell, you don’t know that’s true, Father never mentioned anything like this—’

‘He’s barely mentioned her at all.’ Kjellrunn turned and walked into the chest of the nearest soldier with a grunt. They were all taller than her by a head and a half at least, mail gleaming in the gaps between their black enamelled armour. Their matching helms bore the red star of the Solmindre Empire while the narrow eye slots revealed nothing of the men inside. The same red star was embossed on each arm and heavy maces hung from loops at their leather belts. Their cloaks, boots and gloves were as black as tar. Steiner held his breath; he’d seen soldiers before but never this close.

‘You’d best be moving on,’ said the nearest soldier in heavily accented Nordspråk. ‘You wouldn’t want to be late now, would you?’

Steiner watched as Kjell’s anger was eclipsed by the sheer size of the three men. Her head bowed, shoulders slumped with resignation.

‘N-no,’ was all she managed.

Cinderfell’s only school had started as a lone classroom, a log cabin with a stone chimney and a thatched roof that had gone green with moss. Some said the chimney had stood since before the uprising against the dragons. Other classrooms had been added, and one had famously burned down, though not from dragon fire despite many a tall tale. The cabins were arranged around two wide squares, rebuilt in stone as the decades passed. New storeys had been added, a bell tower and then a cloister. Columns supported covered walkways inside each square, keeping the students dry from grimy rain during the wet months and free from the dirty snow during the cold ones. A fine layer of soot settled on everything during summer, adding to the misery. The lawns of the school were kept neat and a lone spruce pointed towards the overcast skies.

The children filed into the square, swapping fearful gazes as if eye contact alone might save them. Row by row they formed an anxious mass, boots crunching in the gritty slush. Steiner took up a spot by the archway, reluctant to head into the school. The snow had stopped but an unrelenting chill persisted.

‘Steiner, I’m scared,’ said Kjellrunn in a harsh whisper.

He nodded. ‘Everyone is,’ he said softly. ‘Go and stand with the others. It will be over quick enough.’

Kjellrunn picked her way through the rows and found a space to stand with her classmates. None spoke to her, none offered so much as a look. She was a strangeling among the townsfolk, a curious girl with a head full of old gods and things that were no longer fashionable to speak of in Nordvlast. Soon all talk of Frøya and Frejna would be forbidden, just as it was in the Empire, and in Drakefjord, so it was said.

The soldiers entered first, their spiked maces clasped in gloved fists. The armoured men took up positions at each corner of the cloister, figures of deeper darkness on an overcast day. Steiner felt a terrible dread settle upon him, a compulsion to look over his shoulder. Not one but two members of the Synod approached. They wore padded cream jackets that reached their knees with long sleeveless leather coats over the top. The leather was embossed with the geometric designs of the Holy Synod and dyed the colour of dried blood. Only their masks were different. The first wore a mask of polished silver with a gentle smile whereas the second had opted for an almost featureless mask, save for the frowning brow above the eye holes. Crafted from pitted bronze, the mask made the Vigilant appear like some ancient horror. The first announced himself in a voice so loud that several children flinched.

‘I am Hierarch Shirinov of the Holy Synod of the Solmindre Empire, and my colleague is Hierarch Khigir.’ The heavy Solska accent made each word more severe. Shirinov had the stoop of an old man and his steps were aided by a stout walking stick, yet his frailty did not extend to his voice.

‘Fear not, children of Cinderfell,’ said Khigir, in a deep and mournful tone. ‘The pitiful Scorched Republics only produce witchsign but rarely.’

Steiner frowned. Vigilants operated in groups of three, known as Troika, when they were about the Emperor’s business. That two Vigilants should visit Cinderfell was most unusual and Steiner feared some deeper problem.

‘Know that I will spirit away the unclean souls bearing the taint of witchsign,’ said Shirinov. ‘Think of me not as a persecutor, but a cure for the sickness of draconic sorcery.’ The Vigilant stopped before Kjellrunn, the smiling silver mask so close their noses almost touched.

‘And what is your name, girl?’

‘Kjellrunn Vartiainen,’ she replied. Steiner’s hands became slick with sweat. Surely it could be no accident that the Hierarch had gone straight to her? Wouldn’t a brother know if his own sister had been corrupted by the taint of dragons? Rumours spoke of bodies rebelling against the strangeness: discolouring, twisting, wasting away, yet Kjellrunn remained whole. Other tales mentioned strange dreams, or being able to able to pluck thoughts from people’s minds. Nothing of the sort had befallen Kjellrunn, and yet in that moment Steiner was sure she would be shipped away to Vladibogdan, never to be seen again. Steiner promised himself he’d be a better brother if Hierarch Shirinov turned away, promised himself he’d look after his sister until the end of days if she walked free from the Invigilation.

‘Now,’ said Shirinov, voice booming across the square. ‘Let us see what we shall see.’ A few of the children began crying. Others stared into space and trembled. Steiner watched as Kjellrunn bunched her hands into fists and stared straight ahead, just as he’d told her.

‘That’s it, Kjell,’ he breathed. ‘Show them no fear.’

Shirinov pressed his face up close to her once more and Steiner realized he was holding his breath. The Hierarch’s gaze shifted to another child and he hobbled away, Kjellrunn instantly forgotten.

Every Invigilation was different. Some Vigilants would prowl the rows of children, dismissing each in turn once satisfied the taint of witchsign was not present. All fine and good if you were the first child inspected, not so much if you were the last, kept waiting in terrible anxiety to the bitter end.

‘Hel is all waiting,’ Verner often said and Steiner couldn’t help but agree as he stared at Kjellrunn, hoping she would pass.

Some said witchsign had a scent, a scent only a Vigilant could detect. Others told of a ghostly aura or shadows that writhed in the cold. Steiner didn’t know the truth of it, simply glad to have passed his own Invigilations.

Shirinov did not inspect them one by one, nor did he work through the rows in an orderly fashion: he circled, he wandered, he dawdled. Hierarch Khigir stood to one side, unable or unwilling to move among the children, observing them from afar.

Three times Hierarch Shirinov returned to Ditlef, sniffing at the boy until he was pale as milk, hair slicked to his forehead with nervous sweat. It would not do to wail for one’s parents at times like this. Those children who fainted, or worse yet lost control of their bladders, were not given an easy time in the months following an Invigilation. Steiner wondered if the Vigilants didn’t pass on some measure of their cruelty to the children during their yearly visit.

Moment after anxious moment crawled by. No one wanted to be marked out for bearing the draconic taint, no one wanted to be cursed with arcane powers. The Empire had spent the last seventy-five years erasing all trace of the dragons, and exterminating anyone who evinced their powers.

The Hierarch wound his way through the rows, feet crunching in the gritty slush, his cane stabbing the ground hatefully. Steiner watched as Shirinov drew close to Kjellrunn and felt powerless to stop what he felt sure would come next.

‘You are all free to go, children of Cinderfell,’ barked the old man. He slumped against his cane as if weary, and Steiner thought he heard disappointment in Shirinov’s voice. Several of the children cried out with relief, while others merely clutched themselves and fled the cloister. Kjellrunn approached him in a daze, walking slowly as if recently woken.

‘I can’t believe it,’ whispered Kjellrunn. ‘When he came straight to me at the beginning …’ Brother and sister clung to each other, and Steiner suppressed a sob which Kjellrunn answered with one of her own.

‘Come on,’ said Steiner, eying the two Hierarchs. ‘Let’s tell Father you’re safe.’

They slunk from the cloister together, emerging from the school with relieved smiles on weary faces. Steiner couldn’t wait to get back home and put the ordeal behind them once and for all.

‘You made it, Kjell. That’s the last time you have to go through that.’

Kjell nodded and smiled through tears that gleamed silver as they tumbled from her cheeks.

‘I’ll make a fish stew tonight,’ said Steiner.

‘And boiled potatoes served in butter and herbs?’ asked Kjellrunn.

Steiner nodded. Not much of a celebration meal, but it was important to remember the small victories. Small victories were all you had in Cinderfell.

‘Wait.’ Kjellrunn stopped.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘The brooch. It just came loose. I felt it fall but I can’t see it.’

The pair of them looked at the muddy ground, casting about for Marek’s hammer brooch, while all around them children were held close by their parents.

‘It can’t be far,’ said Steiner, as his eyes scoured the gritty slush at their feet.

‘It’s important, Steiner,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘It was Mother’s.’

‘I know,’ he replied. While he didn’t believe in superstition there was something about the crude lump of metal, some luck that had seen his sister walk free of the Vigilant’s grasp.

‘You there! Stop!’ Steiner froze as the few children and parents who remained looked on with sickened expressions. Shirinov and Khigir passed under the arch, smiling silver face and frowning bronze mask fixed on them.

‘Steiner, run,’ whispered Kjellrunn, as two soldiers emerged from the school, flanking the Hierarchs. A look over his shoulder revealed two more soldiers waiting down the street.

‘There’s no running,’ said Steiner. ‘Not from the Empire.’

Shirinov hobbled forward, his cane dragging a furrow through the grey slush. Khigir loomed at his shoulder, ever frowning.

‘The brooch!’ whispered Kjellrunn, her eyes staring wildly at the ground.

‘Never mind that now, it’s gone,’ said Steiner, pulling her close as the Hierarchs approached. ‘Get behind me, Kjell.’

CHAPTER FOUR
Steiner

Though such distinctions escape the majority of the population, it should be noted the ranks within the Holy Synod ascend accordingly: Initiate, Brother/Sister, Holy Mother/Holy Father, Ordinary, Hierarch, Exarch, Patriarch/Matriarch. Our devoted Mothers and Fathers are entrusted with the work of Invigilation, though sometimes more experienced minds are called on.

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

‘You!’ shouted Shirinov, louder than was necessary. ‘What is your name?’

‘I’m not deaf,’ said Steiner, scowling.

‘This one has spirit,’ said Khigir to Shirinov as they approached. The Hierarch steepled his fingers. ‘He asked your name, boy.’

‘Steiner. Steiner Erdahl Vartiainen.’

‘Steiner. Like stone,’ said Shirinov. ‘Perhaps you have rocks for brains?’

‘Better a stony brain than a stony heart,’ replied Steiner.

‘Why are you here?’ asked the Hierarch, leaning on his cane.

‘I brought my sister here.’ Steiner looked down his nose at the Hierarch. The old man was a handspan shorter though that didn’t stop Steiner’s hands shaking with fear and fury; he clenched them into fists so that the Hierarch wouldn’t see his nervousness. ‘And now I’m taking her back.’

‘And you have passed your testings?’

Steiner swallowed but didn’t look away, dared not look away. He had nothing to be guilty of. ‘I passed every one, from ten summers until my sixteenth, when I left the school.’

‘We should return,’ said Khigir.

‘Wait a moment, brother,’ replied Shirinov. He stepped closer to Steiner and the sound behind the smiling mask was unmistakable. Shirinov sniffed, like a wolfhound scenting a hare or fox.

‘And how old are you?’

‘Eighteen,’ said Steiner. ‘I just told you, I’ve stood through six Invigilations, and so has my sister. We’ll take our leave now.’

‘No. You will not.’ Shirinov leaned close and cocked his head to one side. ‘I deem you corrupted.’ He sniffed again. ‘You have the taint of witchsign about you.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ grunted Steiner. ‘You’re lying.’ Kjellrunn squeezed his hand.

‘I sense the power of the earth,’ said Shirinov. ‘And of the sea. I sense much power within you. I don’t know how you passed through earlier Invigilations undetected, but we have you now.’

Steiner opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. The power of the sea? Of the earth? He’d expected Kjellrunn to be found with witchsign, but never himself. Kjellrunn squeezed his hand again but Steiner barely felt it, his eyes locked on the smiling mask of Hierarch Shirinov.

‘You’re lying,’ he repeated, though his voice was distant, as if hearing himself in a dream. Wouldn’t he know? Wouldn’t he have experienced something, some unearthly event or strange turn?

‘I am many things, Steiner Erdahl Vartiainen,’ said Shirinov, ‘but a liar is not one of them.’

‘All because I spoke back to you, is that it?’

‘No, that is not it. I sense the power of the earth upon you, and of the sea. What violence might you visit upon the Empire if left unchecked? What terrors might you summon?’

‘Summon? I have no powers, old man.’ But the words were carried off on the wind, frail as smoke, like embers dying. Steiner’s world dimmed and a terrible uncertainty stole both his breath and his resolve.

‘You will present yourself at the pier tomorrow morning,’ said Shirinov, ‘or I will send the soldiers to find you.

‘You’re wrong,’ said Steiner, hearing the disbelief in his voice. ‘This is all wrong.’

‘Do not try to run, Master Vartiainen.’ Khigir’s voice was mockery dressed as concern. ‘If we fail to find you by noon tomorrow you will leave us no choice but to sack the entire town.’ Khigir leaned closer. ‘It would be unfortunate. Many deaths occur when a search is conducted, accidentally of course.’

‘You’re mistaken.’ Steiner shook his head. ‘I’ve passed every Invigilation since I was ten.’

‘Not this time,’ said Shirinov, and Steiner was certain the Vigilant grinned behind the mask.

The Hierarchs turned away and disappeared beneath the school’s archway, leaving Steiner to stare after them. He remained statue-still and mute with shock until the heavy fist of a soldier caught him under the ribs, forcing the air from his lungs.

‘Be at the pier tomorrow, and keep that smart mouth of yours shut.’

Steiner was about to answer when another soldier struck him across the face, hard enough that his head whipped to one side. Suddenly he was kneeling in the snow, staring at flecks of soot and spatters of crimson. Blood, he realized.

‘Steiner.’ Kjellrunn fell to her knees and hugged him, shoulders shaking with fierce sobs. ‘Oh, Steiner.’ He reached into the snow with numbed fingers and produced the sledgehammer brooch.

At least I found this, he wanted to say, but his bruised jaw refused him, unwilling to shape the words.

They sat at the kitchen table and Steiner could only blink and try to wonder how such a thing had happened. His father had transitioned from silent shock to whispered denial and then roaring anger. He’d spent long minutes hatching plans for Steiner’s escape.

‘You know we can’t risk such a thing,’ said Verner.

‘The Vigilant, Khigir, he told me they’d tear the town apart if I didn’t turn myself in tomorrow.’ Steiner pressed a rag to the cut on his cheekbone.

‘Better the whole town than my brother,’ said Kjellrunn.

‘You told me we’d escape Invigilation this year,’ said Marek, hard eyes set on Verner. ‘You told me—’

‘I told you I hoped that we’d avoid a visit from the Synod this year. I made no promises.’

‘Why were there two Vigilants?’ said Kjellrunn in a distant, faraway tone. ‘Why not the usual Troika?’

‘And why were they both Hierarchs?’ added Steiner.

‘We’ve never had such high-ranking members of the Synod here before.’ Kjellrunn shook her head. ‘Nothing above a Holy Mother anyway.’

‘Two Vigilants turned up dead in Helwick, and the third went missing,’ explained Verner. ‘None of the soldiers could explain why. It seems the Synod sent two more Vigilants to investigate.’

‘And they just happened to stop in Cinderfell to conduct the Invigilation,’ added Marek, glaring at the fisherman.

‘No one could have predicted they’d come so soon,’ said Verner.

‘Two Vigilants dead and a third missing?’ said Steiner.

Verner nodded.

‘You didn’t mention anything in the tavern last night?’

Verner shrugged and glanced across the table at Marek, who refused to meet his gaze. ‘Steiner, I’m so sorry.’

‘Why are you apologizing to me?’ He turned the sledgehammer brooch over in his hands. ‘You didn’t find witchsign on me. Real or not. It’s not you forcing me to take the ship to Frøya knows where.’

‘Of course not,’ said Verner. ‘I just wish …’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Marek. ‘All this time. If it had been Kjell I might have understood.’

‘Hoy! Don’t speak of me as if I’m not sat here.’ Kjellrunn glanced at Steiner before looking away to the roaring flames in the fireplace.

‘And I was just beginning to find my way around the smithy,’ said Steiner with a bitter smile. ‘I might have made a good smith in time.’

‘The finest,’ said Verner, laying a hand upon his shoulder.

Marek cleared his throat and stood up, his chair grating on the flagstones. ‘I have something for you.’

‘I’m going to be shipped off and killed, I doubt there’s anything that will help with that.’

Marek looked to Verner and the fisherman nodded. ‘We don’t truly know that the children who are taken are killed.’ Marek sighed. ‘We don’t know what happens to them.’

‘What are you talking about?’ whispered Kjellrunn. ‘Every child from Svingettevei to Nordvlast knows the Empire kills anyone with witchsign.’

‘I’m already dead,’ said Steiner. ‘Everything else is just waiting.’

‘Come on,’ said their father, ‘I’ve something to show you.’

The smithy welcomed Steiner into its darkness, the usual ruddy light escaping the edges of the furnace, the familiar smell of coal dust and hot metal. There was a tang of iron on the air like the promise of violence, like the taste of blood.

‘How do you know so much about Vladibogdan?’ said Steiner when Verner had shut the door behind them. ‘And don’t tell me it’s because you’re a fisherman. What else do you know about the Empire that you’re not telling me?’

Verner looked guilty for a moment. ‘We keep an eye on Imperial movements and pass the information on to certain people,’ he explained. ‘Your father does less these days on account of looking after you two. We both agreed a long time ago that we didn’t care for the way the Solmindre Empire does as it wishes.’

‘You’re spies,’ said Kjellrunn, frowning.

‘I’m a blacksmith, not a spy,’ said Marek. ‘And if you knew what I knew about the Empire then there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to keep your loved ones safe.’

‘But that’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Steiner glowered at his father. ‘You’ve never told us what you know about the Empire, you barely speak of our mother, you barely speak at all.’

‘Steiner!’ Marek walked around the anvil and grasped his son’s shoulders, but Steiner shoved the man back.

‘It was you!’ Steiner hissed at Verner. ‘You went to Helwick.’ He scowled at Verner in the darkness of the smithy. ‘It was you who killed the two Vigilants. You promised my father we’d be spared an Invigilation so Kjellrunn might go unchecked this year.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ said Verner, though the lie fooled no one.

‘For Frejna’s sake, Steiner.’ Marek shook his head. ‘Listen to yourself!’

‘No,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘You all listen to me.’ The monotone hardness had edged into her voice again and the furnace cast her in a dire light. ‘Steiner may not be able to read but he’s not stupid. And neither am I.’ She turned to their father. ‘You sent Verner to kill the Troika because you feared I’d fail the Invigilation.’

‘Wouldn’t that just bring more Vigilants?’ said Steiner.

‘Yes, but it would bring them to Helwick, not Cinderfell, and we might be forgotten about as the Empire searched for the killer.’ Marek held out supplicating hands and shook his head. ‘I was merely trying to protect you.’

‘That brooch you gave me.’ She gestured to the glint of metal in Steiner’s hand. ‘It was meant to disguise the witchsign, your last desperate attempt to keep me safe during the Invigilation.’

‘So it’s true then?’ said Steiner. ‘You have the taint?’

‘I prefer to call it witchsign,’ replied Kjellrunn, holding his gaze.

‘You both knew? And you never told me?’ said Steiner, looking from father to sister.

‘I suspected,’ said Marek, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘I’ve always suspected. She has too much of her mother in her for it to be otherwise.’

‘Kjell?’ Steiner’s voice was a whisper, his expression stricken.

‘I’ve always known,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘I’m sorry, Steiner. I wanted to tell you but I was afraid. I don’t even know what my powers are.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Steiner slumped against the anvil. ‘Your own brother. You distrust me that much?’

‘To hear you talk of folk tales and goddesses, it’s as if you can’t bear the thought of anything but hard steel and driving rain. I was afraid, Steiner, afraid you might be so disgusted that you’d do something rash.’

‘I’d never sell you out to the Empire. Do you think so little of me?’

‘Steiner, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.’ Kjellrunn hugged herself and dipped her head, tousled tresses falling forward to cover her face. ‘I was too scared to trust anyone.’

‘It was you the Hierarchs detected today,’ said Steiner. ‘You were stood right behind me. The moment the brooch slipped free they scented trouble.’

‘I’m not trouble,’ replied Kjellrunn. Her chin came up and there was anger in her eyes. ‘I’ve not hurt anyone. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘The thing is,’ said Marek after a pause, ‘the children sent to the island aren’t executed.’

‘At least we don’t think so,’ said Verner.

‘I can’t go to the island,’ said Steiner. ‘What will happen to me once I get there?’

Marek looked to Verner and the fisherman shrugged. ‘We don’t know.’

‘We’ve been trying to get someone sympathetic to the Scorched Republics on the island for years,’ said Verner.

‘So you are spies then,’ said Steiner.

‘Steiner.’ Verner said his name so softly it had the tone of apology. ‘This is terrible, but it’s also an opportunity. You could be the person we need to infiltrate the island.’

Steiner stared at his uncle and shook his head. ‘All this time I thought I knew you, and now you’d send me off to Vladibogdan without a second thought.’

He turned on his father and stabbed out an accusing finger. ‘And you’re supposed to protect me. Aren’t parents meant to protect their children? Some father you are.’

‘I never wanted this for you,’ said Marek, but his voice broke and he looked away.

‘Steiner,’ said Kjellrunn, ‘just hear them out.’

‘Because that would suit you perfectly, wouldn’t it? Sacrifice me so you’re spared whatever happens on the island.’

‘She can’t go to the island,’ said Marek. ‘If she’s forced to use her power for the Empire …’

‘What? What is it you know?’ asked Steiner, stepping closer.

‘Using the arcane burns people up,’ said Verner. ‘It hollows them out, renders them sick and useless. It’s like fire with coal and wood.’

‘Kjell will die,’ said Marek, though it barely needed saying.

‘And you think they won’t kill me the moment I fail to …’ Steiner waved a hand, unsure what he was gesturing. They all knew he meant displaying the arcane.

‘You can’t go to the island, Kjell,’ said Marek. ‘No good will come of it.’

‘Even if we did tell the Vigilants about Kjell–’ Verner shook his head. ‘They’d likely take both of you. A Vigilant can’t be seen to make a mistake.’

‘I’m glad you three are in agreement then,’ said Steiner bitterly. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to make the most of my last few hours of freedom.’

Kristofine stood on the front step of the tavern, and once again she favoured Steiner with a smile, though the sadness in her eyes could not be missed.

‘Hoy there, Steiner.’

‘Hoy yourself. I suppose you’ve heard the news?’

She nodded and sighed.

‘Will you let me in? I fancy drinking my cares away, though I fear they’ll still be here come morning.’

‘I can’t. Father said the other patrons would leave.’

‘I don’t have witchsign,’ he grunted. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

Kristofine nodded again but she didn’t move. ‘He said you might say that. Why not stay home with your family?’

‘We had a fight.’ Steiner looked away, and for a moment he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the words for the way he felt about Kjellrunn, Verner and Marek.

Kristofine stepped forward and laid one hand against his arm. ’Why don’t you get comfortable in the stable?’ she said, breaking his introspection. ‘I’ll bring a jug of mead out to you?’

‘I’m not going to drink in the stable. I don’t have the witchsign and I’m not a horse.’

‘It’s drinking in the stable or no drinking at all. Now get in there and don’t let anyone see you.’

Steiner gave a reluctant nod. He slunk around the outside of tavern in a daze; the stable was a ramshackle wooden building that squatted like a beggar at the rear of the building. The raucous voices from inside drew Steiner’s attention; for a moment he fancied he could hear his name. His eyes lingered on the light that glowed from beneath a shuttered window. He savoured the smells of old beer and the straw strewn on the ground, listened keenly for the rise and swell of laughter and the low din of conversation. Small chance there’d be any such comforts on the island.

Steiner slipped through the stable door and found an empty stall. Kristofine had prepared in advance; two stools with a lantern and two tankards awaited them. An old horse blanket had been laid over the straw. She snuck into the stall behind him with a clay jug of mead and a mischievous smile.

‘I notice there are two tankards,’ said Steiner.

‘It’s a bad habit to drink alone,’ she replied, nestling on the blanket.

Steiner looked at her. ‘Why do you care? Why do all this for me?’

‘All that time we had at school and I was too shy to talk to you. As we got older I worried about what the other girls would say.’

‘Because I can’t read,’ said Steiner, feeling the old shame.

Kristofine shook her head and ignored his interruption. ‘Now you’re going, and I realize I should never have let shyness or people or anything else stop me from talking to you.’

‘But tonight? And me with witchsign and all.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘What is what like?’ Steiner frowned.

‘The witchsign, of course. What powers do you have?’

Steiner gave a resigned chuckle and pressed a callused palm to his forehead. For a moment he thought he might give in to despairing tears. He closed his eyes tight to spare himself crying in front of Kristofine. He felt her warm hand on his, slowly prising his fingers away from his face.

‘Fewer questions, more drinking,’ she said and began to pour.

‘I don’t have the witchsign, I promise you. It’s that damned Hierarch and—’ But anything else he wanted to say was silenced as she pressed her lips to his.

‘I believe you,’ she said when the kiss was done. Steiner put aside all thoughts of Vladibogdan, the Synod and the Empire, determined he should have this last night for himself.

CHAPTER FIVE
Kjellrunn

Though there is still much we do not understand, it has been documented that witchsign results in powers belonging to four schools, each with a ruling element. Telepathy and prescience are derived from those born with the element of wind, for example.

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

Steiner’s departure marked the beginning of yet another long silence, a silence that Kjellrunn longed to shatter. She stood at the double doors to the smithy wanting to scream. She wanted the whole town to know of her frustration. She wanted to scream loud enough so the dead might hear her in Hel. She wanted to scream that Steiner come back and scream for the witchsign be taken away.

Her eye rested on the few lanterns in the harbour, bobbing gently with the tide, revealing the location of the frigate, but not the form. She could feel the way sea swirled against the hull, just as she could feel the cold wind on her skin. Come the morning the blood-red ship would spirit Steiner away and there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Come in from the cold,’ said Marek, laying a hand on her shoulder and pulling her into a rough embrace. She let his arms enfold her with reluctance, feeling an icy fury for the man who had suspected her of witchsign and said nothing.

‘I take after her, do I?’ There was no wistfulness in her voice, only a resentment that he’d not told her sooner. Discovering tiny truths about her mother should have been a happy event tinged with tears, not a revelation on Steiner’s last night in Cinderfell.

‘You have her eyes, and her hair too if you’d ever care to pull a brush through it.’

‘And where is she now?’

‘The Empire took her,’ said Marek. He stepped away, not meeting her eyes, gazing into the darkness outside their door. ‘We had a handful of happy years together, and two beautiful children, but she was always looking over her shoulder, waiting, waiting.’

‘Waiting for the Vigilants to find her,’ said Kjellrunn.

‘They can track anyone down given enough time.’ Marek prodded the anvil with his boot. ‘In the end she went of her own accord. Better that way.’

‘The Empire doesn’t know she had children?’

‘Of course not.’ He pushed the door closed and set the latch in place, locking the night outside. ‘They’d have killed you to make an example to the others.’

‘What others?’

He ignored that question and provided one of his own. ‘How are you …’ He frowned and tried again. ‘How are your powers?’

‘Powers?’ She gave a lop-sided smile, filling the word with disdain. ‘I don’t feel very powerful. I don’t feel powerful at all. They’re just sensations really. I know when it will rain, and what tide it is.’

‘That’s it?’ said Marek, and Kjellrunn felt a sting of shame.

‘Were you expecting some great sorcerer?’

‘Sorry, Kjell. I don’t know how it works and I forgot that you’ve not been trained.’

‘And that I’m just sixteen. You forgot that too.’

‘Yes, sorry, Kjell.’ Marek pressed his fingertips into the corners of his eyes and she could almost see the wave of tiredness wash over him. ‘So just senses then?’

‘I’m happiest when I’m in the forest; it feels more natural there. I imagine I can feel the animals moving around in their lairs and sets under the earth.’

‘You may not be imagining that so much as feeling it.’ He fixed her with a long appraising look, then gestured that she follow him into the kitchen.

Verner sat at the table, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up at Kjellrunn but no expression crossed his face. The way Steiner told it, Kjellrunn was Verner’s favourite out of the two of them. She didn’t care. To her mind Steiner had long been their father’s favourite so it was almost fair, inasmuch as families are ever fair.

‘Don’t worry, Uncle, I’ll not call a storm down on your little boat next time you sail.’

Verner didn’t smile, simply put away his knife and stared into the fireplace where the embers glowed orange.

‘You shouldn’t joke about such things. People have died for the power you hold, died and suffered for it.’

‘You think I’m not suffering?’ she replied, her tone as cold and unforgiving as the Sommerende Ocean. ‘My only brother has no choice but to go to the island to be killed.’

‘We don’t know for sure he’ll be killed,’ replied Verner, getting to his feet. ‘And he may learn something useful if he keeps his wits about him.’

‘You can’t send him to the island.’ She gazed up into the fisherman’s eyes. ‘I won’t let you.’

Marek and Verner exchanged a glance and both turned to her with wary expressions on their faces.

‘Kjell, it’s not up to us. If there was a way to stop the Empire I would, but …’ Marek held out a placating hand to her but she had no mind to take it, no mind to be held by him when he had held back so much. The urge to scream came again, to howl like a trapped animal. Her hands closed into fists and the room took on a dreamlike sheen; she was suddenly light-headed and took a deep breath to steady herself.

The Empire mean to take my brother.

The kitchen door rattled on its hinges and blew open, smashing into the kitchen counter behind it. The fire in the grate was swept up and cinders and ashes swirled about the dim chamber, an angry blizzard of grey and radiant embers. An old rag was blown about like a discarded flag of surrender. Marek and Verner stumbled backwards, one of them calling out in alarm. Kjellrunn fled the kitchen, her eyes shut tight, almost tumbling through the door and out into the street.

Marek was at the door coughing, reaching after her, but she retreated from the man who used the truth so sparingly when it meant so much.

‘Kjell, please. You don’t know what it does to a person.’ His voice was a harsh whisper, afraid of being overheard on the quiet street. ‘Over time the body rejects the arcane, or is burned up by it. I’ve seen people turned to stone, petrified for all time.’

‘I won’t let them take him,’ she said, loud enough that a few curtains twitched in the neighbouring windows.

She sprinted down the street, glad to be away from the smithy and the smell of metal and fire, glad to be away from the low-ceilinged kitchen and the over-large table. And though she was loath to admit it, she was glad to be away from people, even her own father, her own uncle. People. She’d rather have the company of trees and her own restful solitude.

The wind howled, given voice by the jagged cliffs. It wailed and sang, filling Kjellrunn’s senses with a deep unease. She squinted through a flurry of grey snow, finding her way through the drab town, slinking through side streets and shadows so she might avoid the patrols of Imperial soldiers.

The winding roads were almost completely dark at this time of night and she’d fled without torch or lantern to light her way. Slivers of illumination spilled from windows, ribbons of glowing gold shining from the cobbles or glittering on the snows. How many families lived in Cinderfell, she wondered? How many families lived in these shuttered cottages? How many people with nothing to consume their thoughts but the simple pressure of existence? Where to work? Where to find food, find comfort, find peace? Here they slept, these simple families, beneath thatched roofs, untroubled by old secrets and unearthly powers. Only the howling wind and the ever-present cold troubled them, and Kjellrunn felt a deep wellspring of envy.

Bjørner’s tavern was a beacon in the darkness, light streaming from windows, declaring a welcome to any who might climb the steep street leading to its door. Kjellrunn’s teeth chattered as she pushed herself onward. She had no desire to be here, but it was the only place she could think of where Steiner might seek refuge. A burst of laughter sounded from inside, though it sounded coarse and unfriendly, and the smells that greeted her were no different. She wrinkled her nose as she lifted the latch on the door, pressing her shoulder against it.

‘Everything seems coarse and unfriendly tonight,’ she muttered to herself, willing the courage to look for Steiner and find him and bring him home.

She had no sooner placed one tentative foot across the threshold of the tavern when the wind gusted in behind her, blowing the door wide open. All eyes in the tavern turned to her and chagrin made her small as she struggled to close the door. No one moved to help her, no one spoke.

Bjørner came out from behind the bar, hands fussing with a cloth, struggling for a serious expression if Kjellrunn had to guess, though she hadn’t missed the shock in his eyes as she’d entered.

‘Kjellrunn Vartiainen,’ was all he said, and still no one spoke. Håkon the butcher stood behind the tavern owner and two dozen faces all gawped, mouths open, like fish caught up in nets and just as stuck.

‘I’m looking for my brother,’ she said, though the silence of the room made her words sound frail and weak.

‘He’s not welcome here,’ said Bjørner. ‘And neither are you, Kjellrunn.’

‘Has anyone seen him?’ She turned to the room, trying to make eye contact with any one of them, but they all turned to their drinks or cast guilty glances at their boots. ‘Has anyone seen Steiner?’ she said, and now her voice was loud, too loud in the strangling quiet of the tavern.

‘Best you head home now, girl,’ said Håkon, rubbing one hand over his huge beard.

Kjellrunn looked around desperately. ‘Someone must have seen him.’

‘You need to go now,’ repeated Bjørner. He stood a little taller now with Håkon beside him.

Kjellrunn glared at them, then held up four fingers. ‘Go to Hel, all of you can go to Hel for all I care.’ The door slammed after her and she stalked down the street trailing curses.

Marek and Verner were waiting for her when she returned. They had built up the fire and swept out the ashes, but made a bad job of it as men are wont to do. A lantern had been lit and the room had a cosy glow to it after the bright light and stark truth of the tavern.

He’s not welcome here, and neither are you, Kjellrunn. Had Bjørner meant the tavern, or all of Cinderfell?

‘You didn’t find him then,’ said Verner. He looked strange, with his beard fringed in milk. A steaming mug sat before him and another before Marek.

‘Why are you drinking hot milk like old women?’ she replied. ‘I would have thought you’d be well into the mead by now.’

‘Mind your mouth,’ growled Marek. ‘No good comes of getting drunk at a time like this. It’s a cold night is all. Perhaps if you keep a civil tongue in your head you can have some too.’

Kjellrunn dragged a chair out and slumped into it, crossed her arms on the table and rested her head on her forearms.

‘Where did you go?’ asked Verner softly.

‘To Bjørner’s, of course,’ replied Kjellrunn, not looking up. ‘Where else?’

‘Not much of a welcome there, I suspect,’ said Verner.

‘There won’t be much of a welcome anywhere after this,’ said Marek. ‘We’ll be lucky not to be run out of town.’

‘Why is the witchsign regarded as a bad thing?’ asked Kjellrunn. ‘I’m hardly a great danger, am I? A girl of sixteen who can predict the weather.’

‘You’ve heard the tales, Kjell,’ said Verner. ‘You’ve been asking me for stories of dragons and the arcane for as long as I can recall.’

‘But surely that’s all they are. Stories. The dragons have been dead for nearly a hundred years—’

‘Seventy-five,’ said Marek, pouring hot milk from the pan into a mug.

‘Longer than living memory,’ replied Kjellrunn, determined to make her point.

‘There are those who remember the war, Kjell,’ said Marek. ‘And those whose fathers fought in it passed their memories to their sons.’

‘But the witchsign as something dangerous?’ Kjellrunn frowned. ‘That’s just old tales, embellished by time.’

‘Embellished,’ said Verner, and grinned. ‘She even speaks like her mother.’

‘She certainly doesn’t get her vocabulary from me,’ said Marek. Kjellrunn slipped her chilled fingers around the mug and felt the warmth.

‘The Empire blames the emergence of the arcane on the dragons,’ said Marek. ‘And for that they will not rest until all trace of it is scoured from the world.’

‘Even if it means murdering children?’ asked Kjellrunn, her thoughts straying to Steiner, though he could hardly be mistaken for a child these days.

‘Even if it means murdering children,’ replied Marek. ‘There is nothing they will not do to keep the arcane out of the hands of commoners and serfs.’

Kjellrunn drank and drank deep, but there was a bitter note to the milk that caused her to hesitate. Marek and Verner continued to sup and stare at the fire, as if the answers to Steiner’s predicament might be found there.

‘Drink up now,’ said Marek, and she did. The stairs to the loft seemed many, and harder to climb than ever before. How had she become so tired? It had been a long day, true enough, but she fell into bed still dressed, too exhausted to rise again. She shucked off her boots, and curled into a ball.

‘Where are you, Steiner?’ she whispered to the darkness, but no answer came.

CHAPTER SIX
Steiner

Cinderfell holds especial importance, lying as it does on the North-western coast of Nordvlast. It is the last stop before taking ship to Vladibogdan, and the last town that many of the taken children will ever see. The people of Cinderfell have watched us take scores of children year after year. I fear that if there is some uprising then it must surely occur in Cinderfell, or close by. We must be watchful.

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

Steiner had not meant to be late. It seemed as if all the people of Cinderfell had crowded around the lonely stone pier to witness his leaving. He descended the rutted track leading to the coastal road, not bothering to call in at home. He had no wish to speak with those who had cast him to the fate awaiting him on the island. The crimson frigate lay at anchor and rowing boats headed back and forth, ferrying cargoes of children with witchsign from all across the Empire and Scorched Republics. The sky resembled a vast quarry, inverted, the clouds all arrayed in shades of brutal grey, jagged and dangerous.

‘There he is!’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. Heads turned and the crowd parted. Steiner’s head was a dull throb of pain and his guts fared no better. Pieces of straw clung to his tunic, evidence that he’d spent the night in a stable. Better that people not know which one.

‘Took your sweet time,’ said a gruff voice.

‘They’ve almost got all the children aboard,’ chided another.

‘Thought you’d try to run,’ said another voice.

‘Don’t mind me,’ replied Steiner, senses too dull to form a more biting response. He walked and glowered and walked some more.

‘Not such a smart-arse today, eh?’ said Håkon, the butcher.

The crowd withdrew from Steiner as if the taint of the arcane was contagious. Men and women and dozens of children watched; a few kissed their fingertips as he passed – the old sign for warding off evil. Steiner struggled not to curse at them. At least Kristofine was not among the townsfolk, he was glad of that. She was the last person in Vinterkveld he trusted; he’d rather she’d be spared witnessing his departure.

The pier was clear of everyone but soldiers, six of them forming a cordon to keep back any desperate parents, though none had followed their offspring north from the other Scorched Republics. Hierarchs Khigir and Shirinov lurked together, all folded arms and stooped shoulders.

‘I told you the boy had spirit,’ said Khigir in his deep drone. The frown on the plain bronze mask was no less strange.

‘I was about to order the sacking of the blacksmith’s cottage,’ said Shirinov from behind the silver smile.

‘Sorry to have made you wait in the cold so long,’ said Steiner. ‘Must be hard when a chill gets into old bones.’

Shirinov slunk forward, then raised his hand.

‘Steiner!’ The shout came from the crowd.

The Hierarch stopped and looked at the newcomer but Steiner had no need to turn. He knew the voice well enough.

‘Steiner, I have something for you.’ Marek’s statement was a plea, but Steiner had no care to answer it. ‘Steiner, please?’

He flashed an angry glance over his shoulder and saw the blacksmith and fisherman side by side, held back by soldiers. Kjellrunn was nowhere to be seen, probably for the best with Vigilants so close at hand. Marek held a rough sack and offered it towards him.

Steiner walked to the cordon of soldiers and eyed the sack.

‘What am supposed to do with this?’

‘It’s for the journey,’ replied Marek, his expression pained.

‘Keep it,’ replied Steiner. ‘I want nothing from you.’

‘Steiner, I’m sorry.’ Marek’s voice cracked.

‘Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell.’

‘Steiner.’ Marek looked crushed but Steiner couldn’t find it within himself to feel much pity. He turned on his heel and walked the length of the pier, away from the cordon of soldiers, away from the despairing eyes of his father. The sound of the Spøkelsea washed over him and several gulls pierced the quiet with mocking calls, setting his nerves on edge.

‘You turn your back on family?’ It was Khigir, the frown of the pitted bronze mask no less intimidating up close.

‘What do you care?’

‘There are some who are taken and never truly let go of their previous lives.’ Khigir looked back towards the crowd. ‘Yet you are not one of them.’

Steiner shrugged and watched the rowing boat leave the ship.

‘You are a contradiction, yes?’ added Khigir.

‘I’d say I’m straightforward if you’ve a care to know me.’

‘Straightforward how?’

Steiner took a step towards the Vigilant. ‘When I’m happy I smile and when I’m angry I frown. I don’t need a mask to hide behind.’

‘You will change in time. You will have a mask soon, I think.’ Steiner thought he heard a mocking tone in Khigir’s words.

‘Why would I need a mask?’

‘Come now, boy,’ said Khigir. ‘It is time to depart.’

‘I’m not your boy,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘My name is Steiner.’

The wind gusted across the bay and the townsfolk drifted along the coastal road in threes and fours, like frail autumn leaves. Steiner glanced down the pier one last time and saw the crowd part around Marek as Verner led him away. Anger burned brightly even as a stony desolation filled his chest. A light rain began to fall, making a susurrus on the surrounding sea.

Shirinov was elsewhere as Steiner descended from pier to boat, shouldering his way between surly children who scowled as he sat down. Steiner struggled to keep his composure and he bowed his head, clenching his hands into tight fists.

The last words he’d said to his father rang in his ears, Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell. Anything to keep her out of the hands of the Empire and its Vigilants. Rain dripped from his nose and down his temples.

At least no one will notice if I shed any tears, he thought.

The Hierarchs struggled to take their seats, aided by the arms of four stronger, younger soldiers, who joined them. The effort of embarking ushered a coughing fit from Shirinov, who slumped into a doze when the wracking passed.

They were halfway to the frigate, bobbing across the dark green waters, when another rowing boat passed them. Romola was aboard, stood at the front without a care, heading towards the stone pier. A few crew manned the oars and shot sour glances at the Hierarchs and darker looks at Steiner himself.

‘Romola?’ said Steiner.

‘You have seen her before?’ intoned Khigir.

Steiner nodded. ‘Does she work for the Empire?’ he asked, annoyed he’d let the Vigilant goad him into conversation.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Is that the same manner that murders children?’ asked Steiner.

‘Such spirit,’ Khigir leaned forward, ‘will not last for long. Vladibogdan changes everyone.’

Any romantic notions of sailing Steiner entertained were quickly drowned. He’d not had a chance to take in his surroundings before being forced into the hold. There were no seats, only old crates, the smell of salt water and darkness. The sole chance to fend off the spiteful chill was to choose from a selection of mangy blankets, though lice roamed the folds of the fabric causing children to squeal as they shook them loose. It was difficult to count just how many captives were confined in the gloomy hold. Steiner had not expected the ship to groan and creak and struggled to keep the alarm from his face. The motion of the sea did nothing for his hangover and he settled down between two crates and closed his eyes.

Invigilation began at age ten and continued once a year until a child left school at sixteen. Many children dropped out of school long before then, required to attend the Invigilations all the same. Steiner had heard tell of cunning parents who sought to keep their children off the school registers in remote villages, far from the prying eyes of the Synod. None of their efforts mattered in the end. A vast network of the Synod’s clergy scoured the continent, sending their finds north and west until the children fetched up in Cinderfell, escorted by soldiers.

Steiner recalled his father’s words from the previous night. The thing is, the children sent to the island aren’t executed.

At least we don’t think so.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Steiner to no one in particular.

He was answered by a whimper and opened his eyes to find a boy of ten squatting down and clutching himself. He had a hint of Shanisrond blood in him; his delicate eyes were at odds with his plump, olive-skinned cheeks.

‘Hoy,’ said Steiner. ‘Get yourself a blanket.’

The boy shook his head.

‘What’s your name?’

‘M-Maxim.’

‘Why don’t you get a blanket?’

Maxim raised a hand towards a pile of crates where a blond-haired boy sat atop an improvized throne. ‘He won’t let me.’

Steiner pushed himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He felt scores of eyes upon him and realized he was the eldest by a couple of years, and certainly he was the largest.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Maxim. The boy nodded and his bottom lip quivered with misery. Steiner crossed the hold, stepping over huddles of children until he stood before the pile of crates. The boy who sat at the summit had nestled among a dozen blankets, looking impossibly smug.

‘And who might you be?’ Steiner asked with arched eyebrow.

‘I am Aurelian Brevik; my father is the richest man in Helwick. I won’t be staying long.’ He smiled. ‘Once my father has paid off the Empire I will return home.’

‘Is that so, son of the richest man in Helwick?’

‘Of course.’ Aurelian pouted. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t possibly have witchsign, not like these disgusting creatures. Not like you.’

Steiner guessed Aurelian was around sixteen years old. He had eyes as cold as the north wind and was dressed in sheepskins dyed red, splendid and expensive. His heavy boots were fine and new.

‘How about you hand over some of the blankets?’ suggested Steiner.

‘I think not,’ replied Aurelian.

‘Listen to me,’ said Steiner, voice low. ‘I’m hungover, I’ve just lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I didn’t pack much in the way of patience.’

‘Am I supposed to be intimidated?’ sneered Aurelian. He stood up but the smile slipped from his face. The throne had given him the impression he was taller than Steiner. They stood face to face and Steiner knew Aurelian wouldn’t back down. Money never did.

‘Why don’t you crawl back to your side of the ship like the peasant you are and I’ll forget—’ Aurelian got no further as Steiner’s fist took him on his left eye and nose. He fell back against his improvized throne and released a whimper, holding a hand to the source of his pain.

‘You dare strike me?’

‘I dare just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘And I’ll dare again if you don’t shut your stupid face.’

Steiner took the bundle of blankets from the throne of crates and began handing them out to the children that lacked them.

‘Shake it out. Get rid of the lice,’ he said to one child. ‘Calm yourself and dry your eyes,’ he said to another. ‘Here you go.’ He passed a blanket to Maxim and before long he’d drawn an audience of fifteen imploring faces, all sensing protection was at hand and drifting towards it.

‘Ugh,’ managed Aurelian from across the hold, but he held his tongue.

Steiner settled down among his adopted charges, massaging his aching knuckles, then cleared his throat.

‘All right, stop crying. I know it’s a sad business being taken from your families and all. And I know you’re scared. Hel, I’m scared too.’ More faces appeared at the huddle.

‘How will they kill us?’ asked a painfully thin girl, perhaps eleven summers old.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Steiner. He wanted to promise them they wouldn’t be killed at all, but it was a promise he couldn’t give in good faith. ‘All I know is that we’re being sent to an island called Vladibogdan. Stay together, work together, you’ll need each other if we’re to survive this.’

It was strange to have such a rapt audience. He’d spent his life being the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the strange girl. He’d largely been ignored by the teachers at school. No one had paid him much mind before Kristofine. His face contorted as he thought of her, thought of never seeing her again. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

‘And I don’t want to see any more of this kind of foolishness.’ He gestured towards Aurelian. ‘All we’ve got is each other now.’

The younger children settled down and the older children spread word through the hold to other pockets of children. Maxim wriggled beside Steiner and fell asleep in his lap. Kjellrunn had been much the same when she’d been five and six. The memory of it brought tears to Steiner’s eyes, tears of frustration and tears of loss.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kjell?’ he whispered. For long moments he sat, head slumped, resigned to his misery. The feeling of being watched pressed against his awareness and he raised his head to find Romola peeking over the edge of the hold. She was not smiling as she had done in Cinderfell, nor did she give any indication she recognized him.

The Spøkelsea was not the serene expanse of water Steiner had hoped for. The ship lurched and rocked with each wave that broke against the hull. A few of the children began retching and the hold filled with the unmistakable scent of vomit.

‘Frøya save me.’ Steiner covered his nose. ‘I had to choose today for a hangover.’

Maxim looked up with sleepy eyes. ‘Wha?’

‘Nothing, but if you throw up on me I’ll toss you overboard.’

Maxim nodded with a solemn expression that said he would do the same if their places were reversed. The boy wriggled closer and went back to sleep.

‘How long does it take for a frigate to travel twenty miles anyway?’ muttered Steiner, just as a member of the crew climbed down from the deck above. She was a hard-looking woman with a black headscarf and a faded tunic the colour of mud. It was her britches Steiner liked the most: broad stripes in black and white.

‘I like your britches.’

‘Thanks. You Steiner?’

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘You tell me.’ The sailor shrugged. ‘Captain wants to see you. Follow me, and don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re already a good five miles from Cinderfell and I doubt you can swim that far.’

Steiner cocked his head to one side and considered it.

‘Trust me,’ said the sailor. ‘The current is strong and you’d likely fetch up in Shanisrond. In a few months after the fishes had nibbled on your corpse.’

Steiner dislodged the sleeping Maxim as gently as he could. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said when the boy whimpered.

‘Didn’t realize you had a little brother,’ said the sailor.

‘Neither did I.’ Steiner followed the sailor onto deck and was certain Romola had overheard him speaking to the children, just as he was certain she would have informed the Hierarchs. He didn’t relish another conversation with Khigir and Shirinov; they might suddenly realize the witchsign was mysteriously absent and throw him overboard. All these thoughts weighed on him like the coils of rope on deck, damp with mist and sea spray.

‘Here you are,’ said the sailor. She jerked her thumb at a door and then reached out a hand to steady herself as the ship lurched.

‘How much longer until we get there?’ asked Steiner.

‘The wind’s not on our side, so we’re not able to sail as the crow flies.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Steiner.

‘Who?’

‘The captain. What’s he like?

The sailor smiled. ‘Best you see for yourself.’ And with that she opened the door and ushered him into the gloomy cabin.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Steiner

The uprising against our draconic masters cost Vinterkveld dearly. Many men and women lost their lives. It should be noted that the various pockets of Spriggani, who infest the forests like fungus, did not answer the call of revolution against the dragons. It is for this reason they are not, nor will they ever be, members of the Empire.

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

The cabin was full of curios and oddments from across Vinterkveld. Here a tankard with the embossed crest of Vannerånd, there a bone dagger with a hilt bound in lizard skin, while the floor was home to a yak-skin rug. The cabin’s two lanterns contained coloured glass, shedding red and blue light over everything, yet it was the music that entranced Steiner most of all.

Romola sat with her back to him, one hand strumming the strings of a long-necked instrument with a rounded body. The tune was restful yet carried an undertow of melancholy. Each note was a tiny miracle, each chord a sound from dreaming. No one in Cinderfell had ever had the money for such things; there had barely been money for food when the winters were bad. Music had remained as rousing song and hearty claps to keep time, the stamp of boots and hollered choruses. Instruments belonged to another world somehow.

‘Where did you get such a thing?’ Steiner asked in a reverent whisper.

Romola looked up from her playing and regarded Steiner from the corner of her eye. ‘I took it from an old lover. It’s called a domra.’ A sad smile touched her lips and she sighed. ‘He and I had a parting of the ways when I discovered he’d kept certain truths from me.’

Sadness weighed on Steiner, recalling his father’s admission in the smithy and Kjellrunn’s revelation. That Verner too had kept his own secrets had only salted the wound.

‘Keeping certain truths,’ he said.

‘I never really said goodbye,’ added Romola, her eyes looking away to a corner of the cabin deep in shadow. ‘Just took his coin purse and the domra. And never looked back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s hard when—’

‘All of life is a game of cards. You bet big and you bet small.’ Romola cocked her head on one side. ‘You’ll never really know how things will play out until they play out.’

Steiner nodded. He’d not been one for cards, but he understood the sentiment.

‘When will I meet the captain?’ His mind lingered on stone piers and the last angry glares he’d favoured his family with.

Romola couldn’t hide her amusement. ‘The captain? You were expecting a burly man with a long beard and parrot, right?’ She stood and performed a bow.

‘You?’

‘No wooden legs here I’m afraid.’ Another smile, halfway mocking.

‘But you’re a storyteller?’

‘I tell stories on my nights off.’ She placed the domra on her bed with care. ‘It’s good to get off the ship, and I make it my business to sleep one night in every town we put in at. No point sailing the world if you’re not going to see it.’

‘There’s not much to see in Cinderfell.’

‘Something we agree on.’ She sat down and reclined, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, then narrowed her eyes.

‘You might have mentioned you were the ship’s captain when I saw you in Cinderfell.’ Steiner narrowed his eyes; he had the feeling he’d been made a fool of and didn’t care for it much.

‘And what would that have achieved? People are hardly going to thank me for bringing the Empire to their shores, are they?’

‘So why do it? Why bring Shirinov and Khigir to Cinderfell?’

‘Why does anyone do anything?’ Romola shrugged. ‘Money. And it keeps me in the good graces of the Empire.’

Steiner clenched his fists and tried to think of something to say.

‘That was a good thing you did for the children in the hold,’ she said.

‘And I suppose you told Shirinov and Khigir.’

‘No. I don’t make trouble when I can help it.’ Romola poured herself a tumbler of wine. ‘But you need to be more careful when speaking out against the Empire. Men have been killed for less.’

Steiner nodded. Difficult to argue with reason that sound.

‘And how does a storyweaver find herself working for the Solmindre Empire? If Shirinov caught you telling folk tales about dragons and—’

‘It’s forbidden to tell such stories in the Empire, but the same rules don’t apply in the Scorched Republics, part of the reason I gave up the Ashen Gulf for the Sommerende Ocean.’

‘So you gave up the life of a pirate so you could be a mercenary for the Empire?’

‘You’re so young.’ Romola smiled. ‘Everything is so black and white when you’re young. Wait a few years, then you might start to understand.’

Steiner looked around the room, noting a framed illustration of a dark bird.

‘Your figurehead. It’s a crow?’ Steiner asked, keen to change the subject.

Romola nodded. ‘The ship is called the Watcher’s Wait. I’m hoping we appeal to Frejna so that she spares us misfortune.’ Romola reached under the chair and brought forth a weighted sack, the fabric straining with the load.

‘This is for you. An old acquaintance of mine insisted I bring it on board.’

Steiner approached knowing it must be the sack his father had offered back at Cinderfell. There was a wave of relief, but also of regret that he’d refused it, and beneath both feelings the undertow of betrayal remained. Had they thought him too stupid to be a spy, or too weak? He wasn’t a child any more.

‘You can take it, it’s yours,’ said Romola, noting his hesitation.

The lurching motion of the ship tipped him towards Romola and the bundle she offered. The rough cloth parted to reveal a wooden handle. He drew it out of the sack and eyed the stout metal head at the opposite end.

‘Verner gave it to me,’ said Romola. ‘Apparently this is your great-grandfather’s.’ Steiner blinked and held up the sledgehammer, the wood filigreed with dust, while the metal was dull. It was not beautiful in any way, a simple tool for a simple task. The sack was not empty. Further investigation revealed a pair of heavy boots.

‘Those belonged to your mother,’ offered Romola. ‘She must have been a half ogre judging by the size of them, right?’

‘Ogres don’t exist,’ scoffed Steiner.

‘No, you’re right,’ said Romola, looking away. ‘Not any more.’

Steiner ignored the comment, thinking she was gaming him, more interested in the boots. His own mother had laced these boots and worn them on cold days and long walks. He’d never seen such fine craftsmanship and the boots reached to his calves when he tried them on.

‘We have the same size feet,’ he mumbled.

‘Maybe you’re a half ogre too.’ Romola smiled.

‘Hardly.’

‘You’re still young. There’s plenty of growing to be had.’

‘What in Frejna’s name am I supposed to do with this?’ He gestured to the sledgehammer.

Romola waved off his question. ‘I’m just the messenger, right?’

‘Am I supposed to use it on the island? What will happen when we get there?’

‘I don’t know, and if I did know I could be killed for telling you.’

‘Please, will we be executed, or drowned, or—’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been no further than the gatehouse at the top of the steps—’

‘What steps?’

‘You’ll see.’ Romola cocked her head on one side and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come up on deck to get some fresh air?’

‘What about the Vigilants?’

‘They’re asleep, or throwing up everything they’ve ever eaten.’

‘Don’t even speak of it.’ Steiner held a hand to his mouth.

‘You think you’ve got it bad, you should see Shirinov,’ said Romola, stifling a laugh.

Steiner followed the captain out of the hold and emerged on deck to see a touch of gold along the horizon. The sun was brightest at dawn. Only as the day progressed was it subdued by the endless grey of Nordvlast’s skies.

‘I don’t think much of your ship,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s taken all night to sail twenty miles.’

‘It’s not been the crossing I’d hoped for,’ admitted Romola. ‘Come up on the quarter deck with me.’ She took the ship’s wheel from a sour-looking sailor with a scar that had healed badly and left him with a permanent sneer. The sailor ignored him and slunk away.

‘He must be related to Håkon,’ said Steiner.

‘The infamous butcher of Cinderfell.’ Romola smiled. ‘That Kristofine is a fine-looking girl. Were you two …’ The pirate arched an eyebrow and Steiner felt himself blush at the implication.

‘Looks like it ended before it began,’ said Steiner. He realized he’d lost more than just his family, and a swell of bitterness rose within him.

‘If I can get word back to her I will, let her know you’re safe and all.’

‘And will I?’ Steiner shook his head. ‘Will I be safe?’

Romola shrugged. ‘That’s up to you.’

‘And my father, will you get word to him?’

Romola nodded. ‘Your father and I go back a way, and you’ll keep that bit of information to yourself.’ She gave him a stern look at odds with her usual wry demeanour. Steiner felt a dozen more questions beg to be answered, but the look on Romola’s face said he’d get no answers from her.

They stood on the deck in silence as the ship heaved itself over rising waves, Steiner clinging on to a railing and trying not to shiver. This might be the last bit of freedom he’d have, and he was keen to grasp it with both hands.

Romola shook her head, then pointed out to sea. ‘Those are the Nordscale islands. They keep the worst storms from battering Cinderfell.’

Steiner squinted into the distance and sighted near two dozen pinnacles of dark rock emerging from the sea. Some were slender, like huge fangs, others were squat, cracked things. The largest formed an imposing mass that dominated the sea ahead, the stone reached far into the sky and a steady plume of smoke emerged from hidden places.

‘Is it a volcano?’ asked Steiner.

‘It’s no volcano,’ said Romola. The smoke formed a dark halo about the island, fading to dark grey as it rose higher, staining the sky in all directions.

‘Vladibogdan,’ whispered Steiner.

‘Right.’ None of Romola’s wry amusement remained in the shadow of the island. ‘Your new home, I’m afraid.’

The vastness of the dark rock gave no clue of habitation, there seemed no way to live there at all. Romola barked some orders and the ship began to circle the island.

‘I don’t suppose you’re looking for a new deck hand, are you?’ said Steiner. ‘I’m a hard worker.’

‘Nice try, and I like you and all, but our paths don’t lie along the same route.’ She turned the wheel until the Watcher’s Wait sailed in a channel between Vladibogdan and the smaller Nordscales. The ashen pall was darker here, an ominous presence lingering in the sky.

‘It would be no bad thing if this whole island slipped beneath the waves,’ said Romola.

‘Before I disembark would be preferable,’ said Steiner.

The cliffs grew ever higher as they approached, sweeping down at the rear of the island until a wide cove revealed black sands and dark-eyed watchtowers. Gulls drifted on the morning air, calling out to them with mournful cries as the Watcher’s Wait cut through the water.

‘What happens now?’ said Steiner.

Romola shrugged. ‘Can’t say. I’ve never set foot in the Dragemakt Academy.’

Steiner raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of any academy before.’

‘You’ll see when you get there.’ Romola frowned, annoyed that she’d said too much.

‘An academy. That’s just what I need.’ Steiner shook his head and drew an anxious breath.

‘Something to do with the Vigilants,’ added Romola. ‘I tried to find out once, but I never got further than the gatehouse. They don’t like prying eyes around these parts.’

‘An academy,’ said Steiner, with a tiny suspicion of what was to come.

‘You had better get below,’ said Romola. The island had cast a shadow over the Watcher’s Wait, crowding out the sky as they passed into the cove. ‘I can’t risk you being seen up here. Go on now.’

Steiner headed back to the hold and tried to slip in unnoticed, but there was small chance of that. The other children were wide-eyed and full of questions. There were a few pointed comments about being ‘the captain’s favourite’, but the conversation focused on what he’d seen. Steiner answered their questions as best he could, close-mouthed for the main, until he felt the ship slow and the Spøkelsea’s constant motion troubled them no more. All eyes turned upward, staring at the rectangle of grey sky above the hold where soldier’s faces would appear, summoning them on deck, leading them to Vladibogdan.

The cove was not large and the ship rested in sombre waters, a scarlet shadow beneath granite cliffs. The children were ferried to a stone pier and told to wait by looming soldiers, as if any might be inclined to venture to the black sands and the many steps that rose beyond.

‘May Frejna’s eye not find you,’ said Romola.

‘And may Frøya keep you close,’ replied Steiner. It was strange to speak of the old goddesses with a person from Shanisrond, but he felt in his bones that she meant every word.

‘I didn’t have you as one believing in the old ways,’ said Romola.

‘I don’t, but I’ll need all the good fortune I can get, divine and otherwise.’

‘You’d best not mention the goddesses on the island,’ warned Romola, ‘or you’ll be severely punished.’

The Hierarchs Khigir and Shirinov were the last to leave the ship. If either of them was a natural sailor he hid it well. The old men moved slowly to the boats below and were hoisted onto the pier by struggling soldiers. The children watched with wide eyes, barely daring to breathe as the masked men pushed through the press.

‘What happens now?’ whispered Maxim.

‘A steep climb,’ muttered Steiner, nodding towards countless steps etched in the steep rise. Maxim’s eyes widened but not for the reason Steiner supposed. Shirinov’s gloved hand caught him across the mouth and he felt his lip split in a bright pinprick of pain.

‘Silence! You will learn discipline!’ Shirinov’s smiling mask turned to the other children. ‘You will learn obedience. And you will learn that the Empire’s needs come before your own. Always.’

Steiner’s head swam from the force of the blow, but he did not stagger. He licked his lip and tasted coppery blood, not taking his eyes from the Vigilant for a moment.

‘You’d do well to tame that dark look you’re so fond of giving me, boy.’

‘The look will be the least of your problems,’ replied Steiner, though he struggled to form the words. ‘And I’m not your boy.’ Shirinov raised his fist again but Khigir caught his arm.

‘Plenty of time for that in due course, brother,’ said the Vigilant from behind the frowning mask. Shirinov shrugged him off.

‘Thank the Emperor we are finally back,’ added Khigir, then released a sigh. A dozen tongues of fire grew on the stone around his feet. The children squealed but for a few who looked aghast and perhaps guilty. The soldiers ushered them up the stairs with a few well-placed shoves, barking commands in Solska. Many of the children stumbled with the effort of looking at Khigir’s raw manifestation of the arcane as much as from the punishing climb. Shirinov led the procession, while his colleague joined Steiner at the back, the dancing flames at his feet following with every step.

‘My sister used to tell tales of such flames,’ said Steiner. ‘She called them corpsecandles.’

The frowning mask nodded. ‘There is an old tale that on nights of full moon you can see Spriggani venture from the forests. Spiteful people in the dark going about their wicked business.’

‘And what business would that be?’ Steiner was already beginning to tire as he climbed the granite steps.

‘It’s said that Spriggani enter graveyards, perching on tombstones or cairns.’ Khigir was wheezing behind the mask. ‘The Spriggani sing horrible rhymes and draw out the last vestiges of life from those who have died. Tiny flames emerge and Spriggani capture them under glass, use them to light lanterns.’

‘Corpsecandles.’

‘This is so.’

Steiner looked at the Vigilant’s robes and noted they did not singe or blacken.

‘And you can make them disappear?’

‘Yes,’ replied Khigir, ‘though it pains me to do so.’

They climbed higher. The cliffs were dead and lifeless crags; no sign of nesting birds or lichen clung to the cracks. Steiner watched Maxim struggling to put one foot in front of the other until one stone step, worn smooth by time, betrayed him. Steiner caught the boy by the shoulder, preventing a long and likely fatal fall. The two boys looked beneath them to the base of the stairs and the black sands of the cove. Khigir took the opportunity to catch his breath, each exhalation amplified by the stifling mask.

‘T-thanks,’ muttered Maxim. The Shanisrond boy stared down at the Watcher’s Wait.

‘Do not delay,’ said Khigir, gesturing the boys onward. Maxim closed his mouth and bowed his head. They passed beneath a stone arch wide enough to admit four men abreast and struggled to make it much further. Those children who were not exhausted from the climb were mute with shock. The island had been hollowed out around a vast square, steps at every side leading to towering stone buildings carved into the very rock. Steiner noticed none of this, transfixed by the dragon standing before the rabble of children. He did not know it was a dragon, how could he? The Solmindre Empire had banned all icons and images of those terrible creatures. Yet there was nothing else in all of Vinterkveld that the creature could possibly be. Scores of feet high with a serpentine body perched atop powerful hind legs, the creature made a mockery of even the tallest soldiers. The muzzle was split wide to reveal teeth like short swords, the mouth seemingly frozen in a tortured, silent howl. Steiner shivered as he looked into one heavy-lidded onyx eye, where there was a maddened gleam that spoke of hunger and fury. Sheets of flame danced over the dragon’s numberless scales, while the wings rivalled the mainsails of the Watcher’s Wait.

‘And may Frøya keep me close,’ breathed Steiner.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Kjellrunn

It is easy to assume that the Emperor trusted his power to the Vigilants and the Synod alone, but all organisations are capable of corruption. To Hierarchs tempted to flee the Empire, I say steel yourselves. To Ordinaries turning a blind eye to those with witchsign, I say look to your duty. And to those who resort to assassination, I say abandon your schemes. To err is to invite the attention of the Okhrana, to err is to be hunted by the riders in black.

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

The day let itself be known to Kjellrunn in glimpses and flashes, like sunlight reaching far into the depths of the ocean. Here the sound of a voice in the street outside, elsewhere a maddened dog barking in the distance. She was warm and heavy with darkness, wrapped in blankets and yesterday’s clothes. Her eyes were comfortably heavy-lidded and she’d no wish to rouse herself. Let Marek fetch the water from the well. Steiner could make his own breakfast. It wouldn’t hurt him to sweep the kitchen and stoke up the fire.

Steiner.

Something was wrong, something nameless and sour.

‘Steiner?’ she mumbled, but no answer came.

Kjellrunn rolled onto her side and forced herself to stand. She’d been disorientated before, blindly stumbling through mornings, but never anything like this.

‘Steiner, I think I’m ill.’ Still no answer.

Her thoughts were like dandelion seeds drifting on the wind.

‘Steiner?’

No need to dress, her rumpled clothes were testament to her collapsing into bed late last night. It must have been a long day. She became very still in the darkness of the loft.

The Invigilation.

To call it running would have been inaccurate, but her body did its best to obey her wishes, her feet slipping and catching on the staircase down. No need to search the smithy or the kitchen. She was out into the street and loping towards the bay with her heart beating fierce and insistent. The sun was well up past the horizon, up behind the blanket of frail grey cloud that hung over Cinderfell day in and day out.

How could I have slept in on a day like this?

She ran on, her senses becoming clearer, the cold air jagged in her lungs and throat. Her fingers burned with cold. She hadn’t even noticed the light rain until she almost slipped on the slick cobbles.

How could I have forgotten what happened yesterday?

Through the town and past cottages with plumes of grey smoke drifting from their grey stone chimneys, down the street with dark grey cobbles shining wetly in the rain. So much grey she could almost feel it, leaching the life out of her, leaching hope.

Steiner. He was all she could think of, and though her calves burned with pain she ran onward. Pinpricks of agony stabbed at her lungs, and still she ran.

Steiner. Kjellrunn knew he’d gone before she’d reached the pier. The dark red frigate was nowhere in sight, only a flat expanse of the Spøkelsea. Kristofine stood on the pier, a lonely watcher, head covered with a shawl. Gulls keened above them and the wind gusted into land, bringing showers like formless spirits trying to return home from the sea.

‘He’s gone,’ said Kjellrunn, unable to think clearly, tears tracking down her cheeks.

Kristofine turned and opened her mouth, closing it quickly to still her quivering lip, then answered with tears of her own.

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Kjellrunn. A deathly stillness had come to Cinderfell, and not a soul could be seen except for the woman beside her.

‘They’ve all retired home,’ replied Kristofine, her voice flat and tired. ‘They came to watch him leave.’ She paused a moment, a shadow of frown crossing her face, a fleeting sneer on her pretty lips. ‘They came to make sure he was taken. A few even watched the ship sail away, but they’ve all slunk home now like whipped dogs.’ She took Kjellrunn’s arm in hers and led her back to the town, beginning the incline up to the tavern.

Kjellrunn wanted to speak, but her mind remained blank and the words wouldn’t come. No sobs wracked her slight frame, but new tears appeared every few heartbeats, new tears that burned with cold as they dried on her face.

‘There are a few dozen old sots at the Smouldering Standard and half that at my father’s,’ said Kristofine. ‘Most people are home with their loved ones, I expect.’

‘Grateful their own weren’t taken,’ replied Kjellrunn, gazing ahead and holding tight to woman beside her.

‘Yes, I suppose they are. Nothing like this has happened in Cinderfell for decades.’ Kristofine sighed. ‘I see them take the children away every year, but somehow witchsign was always something that happened to other towns, other countries, other people.’

‘Like an accident,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Like a cart that overturns and kills the driver.’

Kristofine stopped and looked into her eyes.

‘Are you unwell, Kjellrunn? You seem, I mean I know what’s happened to Steiner is awful, but you seem drowsy—’

‘Or drugged,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the bitter tang of the hot milk that Marek had given her. ‘My father drugged my milk so I wouldn’t wake this morning and cause a fuss, wouldn’t tell them …’

‘Tell them what?’

Tell them not to take Steiner, tell them that’s it’s me with the witchsign, it’s me they should be taking to the island. This is all my fault and—

‘Tell them what, Kjell?’ Kristofine’s words silenced the deep ocean of guilt and the undertow of shame. Kjellrunn swallowed and stared into her eyes.

‘Tell them not to take Steiner, of course.’ For a second she wasn’t sure if Kristofine believed her. Kjellrunn dropped her gaze.

‘My own father drugged me so I wouldn’t wake. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’ More tears tracked down her cheeks, though it made small difference in the rain. Kristofine pulled her close and woman and girl resumed their walk up the hill to Bjørner’s tavern.

‘I can’t come in with you,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the flat, unfriendly stares she’d received yesterday and Håkon’s looming presence.

Kristofine inclined her head and circled the building, leading Kjellrunn through a side door. A small sitting room waited for them, shrouded in darkness. Kristofine lit an expensive-looking brass lantern.

‘Wait here, build up the fire if you like. I’ll make you some tea to warm you up. And I’ll bring a blanket. We should try and dry your clothes or you’ll catch a chill.’

Kjellrunn could only nod, too stunned to smile. No one had ever fussed over her so tenderly. Marek was a good father, but his was a functional mind, only affectionate when he remembered to make the effort.

‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn, an uncertain smile on her slender face.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Kristofine left the room and her footsteps sounded on the stairs in a series of creaks.

The sitting room had three armchairs, all draped with blankets and cosy with cushions. Kjellrunn wondered what it must be like to have another room besides the kitchen and a place to sleep. Another door led from the sitting room; the rumble of men’s voices could be heard through timber. She guessed the door must lead to the tavern itself.

‘Bad enough he was a half-wit that couldn’t read, but to have the taint too,’ said one voice.

‘He was no half-wit, and there’s no shame in not reading,’ replied another. ‘There’s plenty of us that get by without words.’

There were a few sullen grunts at this admission.

‘They say it runs in families,’ said Håkon; Kjellrunn would know his gruff tone anywhere. ‘We need to keep an eye on that girl.’

‘She passed the Invigilation,’ protested a woman’s voice. ‘Let her be. She’s just lost her brother.’

‘Mark my words,’ replied Håkon. ‘There’s something unseemly about her.’

‘You mean unearthly, you dimwit,’ said another voice, and the room filled with mocking laughter.

‘Kjellrunn, you’re white as a ghost.’ Kristofine had returned, a blanket slung over one arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe for me. I don’t know what I was thinking. Your father told me I wasn’t welcome here.’

‘I brought you here,’ said Kristofine, quiet yet defiant. ‘You’ve just lost your brother and you’re wet to the skin. Now come on, off with those clothes and get this blanket around your shoulders.’

Kjellrunn stared at the woman, just two years between them but worlds apart. She felt tears fill the corners of her eyes once more and stony grief weighed on her chest.

‘Come on now,’ whispered Kristofine. Kjellrunn shucked off the wet clothes and pulled the blanket around her quickly. Slipping into an armchair and pulling her knees up to her chest.

‘I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing,’ said Kjellrunn.

‘Oh, that.’ Kristofine shook her head. ‘It was a year ago.’

‘I didn’t know you a year ago.’ Kjellrunn paused, watching the woman hang her clothes out by the fireplace. Kristofine knelt down and stoked the fire, adding a few logs.

Why are you being so nice to me? she wanted to ask.

Kristofine smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite.

‘Strange you mention my mother. I was just thinking about Steiner, he told me that you never knew yours. He said he can barely remember her. That must be hard.’

Kjellrunn nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. Hadn’t Verner said that she took after her mother? Hadn’t Marek said the arcane burned people up and hollowed them out? Her mother might well have passed on to Frejna’s realm.

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ said Kjellrunn, so quietly the words were almost lost as the fire crackled and popped.

‘I suppose I know what it is to miss someone,’ replied Kristofine. ‘I didn’t always see eye to eye with my mother, but I’d give anything to have her back.’ She leaned forward in her chair, rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together. ‘I imagine you feel like that right now about Steiner. And your mother too.’

The rumble of voices in the tavern fell quiet and Kjellrunn turned her head, ears straining for a snatch of sound or some clue.

‘Come here,’ said Kristofine, and led her to the wall where the timber’s grain formed a whorl, a knot of wood. Kristofine picked at the knot until something came free.

‘It’s a cork from a wine bottle,’ said Kjellrunn.

Kristofine nodded and held a finger to her lips, then gestured to Kjellrunn to peek through the hole in the wall. The view of the tavern was a good one, though Kjellrunn had to go up on her toes to see through the hole.

Bjørner stood behind the bar, one brawny hand resting on the polished surface. It was the only thing polished about the tavern; Steiner used to joke that Bjørner spent more time caring for the bar than he did himself. Håkon leaned against the wall nursing a pint and fixing an unfriendly stare across the room. Two men in black stood beside the door, cowing the room into silence. Kjellrunn pulled back and gestured that Kristofine look.

‘What will you drink?’ said Bjørner, his words too loud and too forced in the sullen quiet.

‘They’re Okhrana,’ whispered Kristofine, pulling back from the spy hole.

‘Imperial?’ replied Kjellrunn.

Kristofine nodded. ‘Has your father never told you of the Okhrana?’

Kjellrunn pressed her eye to the hole again. ‘My father never told us lots of things.’

The men in black had moved out of sight, but the sidelong looks of the townsfolk told Kjellrunn the Okhrana hadn’t left. She saw the furtive glances and faces lined with worry. Hands grasped at pints and even the most bellicose of the townsfolk became as field mice.

‘They are the Emperor’s watchmen, his bloody left hand,’ said Kristofine.

‘And the soldiers?’

‘The soldiers are his bloody right hand,’ replied Kristofine. ‘The mailed fist used to ensure obedience.’

‘And where does that leave the Synod and the Vigilants?’

‘They are the Emperor’s heart. The Emperor is one of them, after all.’

‘The Emperor is a Vigilant?’ Kjellrunn frowned.

‘Does your father tell you nothing?’

‘He tells me to brush my hair and wash dishes. He only scowls when we mention the Empire, and the meisters at school refuse to acknowledge anything east of the border.’

Kristofine peeked through the spy hole once more and then stoppered it with the cork.

‘We’ve never had Okhrana here before. In Cinderfell perhaps, but they usually stay at the Smouldering Standard. They never darken our door. Why are they here?’

‘Because of what happened at Helwick,’ said Kjellrunn, her eyes straying to the sitting room door, expecting the Okhrana to enter at any moment.

‘What happened at Helwick?’

‘I have to go,’ said Kjellrunn, and began pulling on her damp clothes.

Kristofine folded her arms and watched the girl dress from the corner of her eye, disapproval written clearly on her sullen pout.

‘What happened in Helwick?’ she repeated, and all trace of the kindly elder sister she’d pretended to be disappeared.

‘A Troika of Vigilants were killed. Or went missing. Something like that.’

‘A whole Troika?’

‘All three. A traveller told us just yesterday morning as he was leaving town.’ Kjellrunn hated lying but how else would she know if not for the fact she knew the killer?

‘So why don’t the Okhrana search Helwick? Why are they in Cinderfell? Why are they here?’

Kjellrunn pulled on her boots and shrugged, then looked away, unwilling to add to the tangle of deceit.

‘I have to go,’ was all she said.

‘Fine,’ replied Kristofine, ‘I need to get to work, my father will be wondering where I’ve fetched up.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn awkwardly as she fumbled with the door handle. Kristofine didn’t move from the fireplace, watching her leave with an accusing gaze.

The sky was full of keening wind and cold rain as Kjellrunn trudged home, and remained so for many hours to come.

CHAPTER NINE
Steiner

There can only be true peace when the Scorched Republics give up their foolish notions of autonomy and join the glory of the Empire. Once we are united we will crush the city states of Shanisrond in the south. Until then, the Empire waits for war and all its chances for glory.

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

The creature remained unflinching, unmoving beneath writhing fire. Steiner dared himself to look away. The newcomers were not alone; other girls and boys lined the edges of the square, ranging from ten to twenty years old. All were pale with tiredness and sullen-eyed. They wore quilted coats in mottled scarlet that reached their knees, while heavy boots and mittens completed the attire. Steiner guessed them to be novices, cargoes from previous years, other lives separated from their loved ones. Here was the living proof they would not be executed after all. The children hunkered in the doorways of buildings many storeys tall, others hid in shadows beneath brightly coloured awnings.

The soldiers filed into the square behind the new arrivals, blocking the archway beneath the gatehouse. There would be no frantic dash down the steps to Romola, no desperate begging to escape. The soldiers unslung their maces and held them close to their sides, hidden along the line of their cloaks. The dragon remained still, even as the fire continued to roil about it.

‘It’s a statue,’ said Steiner after a moment. He stepped forward and held his hands up. The fire at least was real, he could feel the warmth even at a distance of several feet.

‘This one has a brain,’ said Shirinov. He moved through the throng of children, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he went.

‘You are almost right about the statue,’ said Khigir, but was prevented from explaining further as Shirinov bellowed at the new arrivals to form three rows directly beneath the maddened gaze of the dragon.

‘There’s been some mistake,’ muttered Aurelian. ‘If you could just get word to my father he’ll see you’re handsomely rewarded.’ The blond-haired boy preened. ‘I don’t have witchsign, I can assure you.’ He was duly cuffed by Shirinov for not standing to attention.

‘For years you have been told that children with witchsign are cleansed.’ Shirinov let the last word hang in the air. That the far side of the square was crowded with children undermined the threat of any cleansing, whatever the term had implied.

‘You are not to be killed or cremated. You will in fact be quite safe. At first.’ Shirinov’s silver smile was, as ever, at odds with the words emanating from behind it. ‘You are to become the next generation of Vigilants in the service of the Solmindre Empire, new blood for the Synod.’

The novices at the far side automatically stood straighter at the mention of the Empire, a few standing to attention, almost snapping out salutes.

‘You can do this willingly, or you can serve the Empire in a less pleasing but infinitely longer fashion.’ Shirinov lifted his gaze to the dragon, regarding the massive form as if it were some great work of art. ‘There will be some of you who are reluctant to use your powers, and some of you,’ the Vigilant paused, clamping one hand on Steiner’s shoulder, ‘remain unknowing.’ Shirinov hobbled a few paces and thrust his face towards Maxim. ‘But there is witchsign upon you, within you, and we will draw it out. If you must be tainted with the arcane then you will use your powers in service to the Empire.’

‘I’m sure if you test me again you’ll see—’ Aurelian’s protest was cut short as Shirinov knocked him to the ground with a gesture from several feet away. The boy yelped and several children flinched on instinct. All stared, mouths slack with shock, faces frozen with disbelief that Shirinov could mete out punishment from afar.

‘You will demonstrate your abilities,’ continued Shirinov, ‘just as I have demonstrated mine.’ He paced along the row to where Aurelian had fallen. ‘You can demonstrate them willingly.’ He leaned low over the blond-haired boy, his silver mask falling into shadow. ‘Or under duress. The choice is yours. I suggest you make the most of it; you’ll have few choices available in the years ahead.’

‘You don’t have it, do you?’ said Maxim under his breath.

‘Have what?’ replied Steiner.

‘The witchsign. I can tell, I could sense it on everyone in the hold, but not you.’

‘Don’t say anything,’ growled Steiner. Shirinov was shouting at a rake-thin girl who looked ready to collapse.

Maxim frowned at Steiner again and muttered, ‘Tell them. They’ll let you go home.’

‘No, they won’t,’ replied Steiner. ‘Now that I’ve seen the island there’s no going back.’

‘Tell them,’ urged Maxim.

‘Tell us what?’ grunted Khigir. Whereas Shirinov had been visible and loud, Khigir remained silent, haunting the back of the crowd like a lost soul. Somehow Maxim had missed the Vigilant standing nearby, despite the many tongues of fire that danced around his boots and the hem of his coat. ‘Tell us what?’ repeated Khigir.

‘Nothing,’ replied Steiner, though he knew the ruse would be over shortly. They’d ask him to demonstrate witchsign in some form and nothing would happen. Then would come the consequences; what would happen to him? Would the Vigilants return to Cinderfell? Would they return for Kjellrunn?

Shirinov strode across the square until the two Vigilants stood shoulder to shoulder, looming over Steiner, who remained unbowed by the smiling and frowning faces that crowded his vision in silver and bronze.

‘Tell them what?’ shouted Shirinov so loud the child beside Steiner began snivelling.

‘Nothing. There’s nothing to tell. The boy misunderstood me is all.’

Shirinov turned to Maxim and levitated him with a gentle motion from an open palm. The children around them gasped and Maxim could only stare at the ground in sickened awe.

‘Tell. Them. What?’ repeated Shirinov.

‘Steiner doesn’t have witchsign! You chose him wrongly! He shouldn’t be here. Let him go home.’ Maxim had squeezed his eyes shut but none failed to notice the tears at the corners. He was seven feet from the ground and trembling with fear.

‘You think I don’t know how to conduct an Invigilation?’ seethed Shirinov.

‘He means no harm,’ said Steiner. ‘He’s just mistaken is all.’

‘Mistake? I do not make mistakes.’ The Vigilant crooked his fingers until they were claw-like, grasping at something unseen. Maxim began wailing, and held hands up to his face and curled into a ball.

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Steiner. Khigir remained silent, but edged away from Shirinov, who continued to tighten his arcane grip on Maxim.

‘It will be enough when I say it’s enough,’ replied the Vigilant. ‘Is it not like the grip of the Empire? Absolute in every way.’

‘I said that’s enough,’ bellowed Steiner. He pulled the sledgehammer free of the bag and swung it in a broad arc. Steiner felt the heat of all his anger, his frustration, his disappointment, all joined in the surging motion of the attack. The sledgehammer caught the Vigilant in the side of his chest, but not before Shirinov raised a hand to ward off the blow. Steiner felt the resistance, noticed the hammer slow before it took Shirinov from his feet, lifting him into the air. The hunched Vigilant staggered and collapsed amid the newcomers, who scattered to all corners of the square. The walking stick clattered on the flagstones as Maxim landed face down on the cobbles with a grunt. The boy did not move and a terrible hush settled over everyone, all eyes turning to Steiner, Shirinov, and the crumpled form of Maxim.

For a moment the only motion in the square was the flickering of flames. It seemed to Steiner that the dragon who stood above them was not wreathed in flames, but contained by them instead. Smaller flames continued to dance around Khigir’s feet and the frowning mask moved side to side in a slow shake.

‘Steiner. What have you done?’

The soldiers burst forward, raising their maces. Steiner stood his ground, grasping the hammer defiantly, but it was not the soldiers with their helms and red stars that concerned him. Shirinov dragged himself to his feet, hands pressed to his ribs. The silver mask lifted and the smile on its lips had never been crueller, a trickle of blood leaking from one corner.

‘I’m going to enjoy destroying you,’ said the Vigilant. He reached out again, a tender gesture at odds with the intended result. Steiner glanced down, rewarded with the sight of solid ground beneath his boots.

‘What is this?’ The Vigilant reached forth with both hands, fingers splayed, shaking with effort. Steiner felt the power brush against him, no more than a harsh breeze. He was unsure why he resisted Shirinov’s power but was grateful all the same. The Vigilant stumbled, as if buffeted by the wind. Shirinov took a moment to retrieve his walking stick before lifting his hand once more. This time the gesture was a command, not a summoning of power.

‘Take him,’ he said. The soldiers behind Steiner drew close and raised their maces. Steiner hefted the sledgehammer in response, knowing he’d be lucky to take just one of them before they beat him to the ground.

‘Stand down!’ The words were a thunderclap across the square and the soldiers fell back two steps and stood to attention. Steiner turned to find another Vigilant descending the steps of one the larger buildings. Other Vigilants followed in her wake, including one wearing a mask like a wolf’s face, but it was clear who was in charge. The many novices bowed their heads and Khigir and Shirinov stood to attention. A single word rushed around the square, an awed susurrus:

Felgenhauer.

The Vigilant wore a mask the colour of drab stone, all features angular, neither masculine nor feminine. The mouth was a displeased slash and the eyes that stared through the holes bore many questions.

‘What is going on here?’ said the Vigilant.

‘The boy struck me with the hammer,’ muttered Shirinov.

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ There was a softness to the voice despite the anger. The person behind the angular mask was a woman. She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Steiner, with a long-limbed, rangy physique. ‘I asked you a question, boy.’

‘The Vigilant was crushing that boy to death.’ He pointed at Maxim, still splayed across the cobbles. ‘I tried to stop him.’

The woman crossed to the unmoving boy and removed a thick leather glove before feeling for a pulse. Her shoulders slumped and Steiner could hear her sigh even with the mask on.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Steiner, but the Vigilant didn’t answer. She stood slowly, collecting herself, then raised her voice.

‘I am Matriarch-Commissar Felgenhauer. While you are on this island you will obey my commands. You will anticipate my commands. You will comport yourselves in a manner befitting an Imperial Vigilant.’ She crossed a few steps to Shirinov and looked over his shoulder at the novices behind him.

‘From the lowliest newcomer, to the thorniest Ordinary or most hallowed Exarch.’ She leaned closer to Shirinov. ‘You will behave like servants of the Empire. Do you understand?’

All present in the square nodded except Shirinov.

‘Do you understand?’ said Felgenhauer, her voice quiet, but no less threatening for the lack of volume.

Shirinov bowed his head. ‘Of course, Matriarch-Commissar.’

Felgenhauer turned her attention back to Maxim.

‘And what exactly did this child do to threaten our continued existence?’ Maxim had never looked smaller as Felgenhauer stood over him. Steiner wanted to rush to the boy’s side and see if he still breathed.

‘He spoke out,’ mumbled Shirinov. ‘He accused me of being wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ said Felgenhauer ‘Wrong how, exactly?’

‘He said the hammer-wielder doesn’t have witchsign.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Felgenhauer, her voice loaded with indignation.

‘Of course it’s not true.’ Shirinov’s chin lifted and his hands clenched into fists. ‘I’ve conducted scores of Invigilations and never been wrong.’

Felgenhauer turned her back to him, her angular mask intimidating as the firelight gleamed and shone from its edges.

‘Do you have a name, boy?’

‘Steiner.’

Felgenhauer paused, as if her line of thought had been broken by that single word.

‘And where do you hail from, Steiner?’

‘Cinderfell,’ he replied. The Matriarch-Commissar took a moment to compose her next question, then cleared her throat instead. Steiner felt the intensity of her gaze and set his eyes straight ahead. The Matriarch-Commissar circled him, much as Shirinov had done in the school square.

‘The Solmindre Empire preach that witchsign is a taint, something to be feared, something to be despised.’ Her voice was loud enough to carry to every corner of the square and all the novices and students listened intently, wearing expressions of awe.

‘We do this so the people will gladly give over their children, we do this so people are glad to be rid of them. To be rid of you. In truth the Empire would be nothing without witchsign.’

She had circled behind Steiner now, yet he could feel the weight of her regard upon him, a tangible force upon his shoulders.

‘Witchsign is power, but all power comes at a cost, as you will find out in the days, months and years ahead. Those who wield the greatest power know little peace.’ She continued pacing, coming full circle until she faced Steiner and pressed her masked face close to his. ‘There is witchsign here!’

‘As I always said,’ replied Shirinov, wiping the blood from his mask with the back of a gloved hand.

‘This is so,’ added Khigir.

Steiner swallowed in a dry throat, then shook his head, confused.

Felgenhauer turned to the two Vigilants, and Steiner saw them for what they were: two old men, attired in frayed finery, dressed up with self-importance.

‘Put down the sledgehammer and remove your boots,’ said Felgenhauer without turning.

‘W-what?’ replied Steiner.

‘I said, “Put down the sledgehammer and remove your boots,”’ she bellowed.

‘I’m not deaf,’ mumbled Steiner.

‘You’re not stupid either,’ said the Matriarch-Commissar. ‘So don’t ever dream of speaking back to me again.’

Steiner relinquished the gifts Romola had given him just a few hours before. The sledgehammer made a dull scrape on the flagstones as he set it down. One boot followed another and the cold crept into the soles of his feet through the worn wool of his socks. Felgenhauer drew close and Steiner forced himself to look at the dragon, wreathed in terrible flames, anything to be spared the piercing eyes of the Matriarch-Commissar. She picked up one of the boots and spent a few seconds inspecting it as if it were a precious jewel or sacred relic.

‘Nice boots,’ she said quietly.

‘Thanks,’ mumbled Steiner on instinct. ‘My mother gave them to me,’ he added, without really knowing why.

Felgenhauer turned to Shirinov and shook her head.

‘You fool! Can you not tell the difference between witchsign and enchanted boots? How many years have you served, how many decades?’

‘Boots?’ replied Shirinov. ‘What enchanted boots?’

‘What?’ moaned Khigir.

‘I’ve more arcane power in my smallest finger than this boy does in his whole body,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘How could you make such a mistake?’

Khigir shook his head and Shirinov could only hold out placating hands.

‘This is most irregular.’

‘What am I supposed to do with a boy without witchsign?’ said the Matriarch-Commissar.

‘I’m a man really,’ said Steiner. ‘I turned eighteen last—’

‘Shut up,’ said Felgenhauer quietly.

‘How could I know the boy wore enchanted boots?’ replied Shirinov. ‘Peasants don’t possess such items. I’m sure he wasn’t wearing—’

‘Be quiet,’ said Felgenhauer.

Khigir stepped forward. ‘Only the very highest-ranking—’

‘I said be quiet!’ growled Felgenhauer.

Shirinov’s shoulder’s slumped and he clutched his walking stick with both hands. Khigir all but cowered behind him.

‘This is unprecedented,’ stated Felgenhauer. The other Vigilants conferred among themselves, the snarling wolf face turning to a Vigilant wearing a silver oval, blank of any feature including eyes. Steiner felt sure he was being watched despite the omission. There was a faint haze around the Vigilant, and motes of grit flared silver before burning up.

The Matriarch-Commissar turned to the Vigilant with the blank silver face.

‘Silverdust, take these soldiers and escort the boy to my office. Don’t take your eyes off him.’ Felgenhauer’s eyes glittered behind the angular mask.

‘What will happen to me?’ asked Steiner.

‘You raised a weapon against a member of the Holy Synod. Such crimes do not go unpunished, and on Vladibogdan the punishments are severe.’

The Vigilant called Silverdust drew close, raised one hand and gestured for Steiner to follow.

CHAPTER TEN
Kjellrunn

Vladibogdan was originally the lair of the grandfather of all dragons, Bittervinge. It was here that the final battle was fought during the Age of Tears, bringing an end to draconic tyranny and ushering in the Age of Steel. The events of that final battle were wreathed in secrecy, and to this day, few know what happened between the Emperor, Bittervinge, and the Emperor’s most trusted bodyguard.

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

Kjellrunn stood in the kitchen, arms crossed over her stomach, shoulders hunched. She had fled from Kristofine’s stern gaze and found the cottage empty. Only when Marek coughed and spluttered from upstairs did she realize he had gone to bed.

Kjellrunn stood before the fire but it seemed as if Steiner had taken some measure of the warmth with him. Her gaze was locked on a point neither near nor far, her attention equally unfocused. The low grumble of her brother’s waking was gone. The way he cleared his throat first thing in the morning – a habit that infuriated her – was also absent. His face, always so serious in repose, would not be seen again, nor the way he stretched in front of the fire before heading to bed each night.

She remained lost to reverie when Marek found her. Her father had aged overnight. It was apparent in his red-rimmed eyes and ashen complexion, revealed in the faltering steps he took across the room, manifested in the stoop and curve of shoulders once wide and strong.

‘You put something in my milk.’

Marek didn’t attempt the lie, merely nodded wearily, not meeting her eyes.

‘We had to keep you safe, the things we have done to keep you safe …’

Her father shuffled forward until they opened their arms to each other. Marek’s was a sombre hug, and Kjellrunn returned it with reluctance. The embrace consumed long seconds of stillness until Marek took a sharp intake of breath. Her first thought was that he was hurt in some way, but then he began to sob. It was a silent shaking grief that escaped him; making a sound would be the final admission he was grieving. Better to cling to the quiet, better to cling to words unsaid.

‘Build up the fire, Kjell.’ The words were a rough whisper on the air, so faint she nearly missed them. Marek turned, no sign of his usual vigour, no certainty in his steps save for the fact they would lead him back to bed. She didn’t doubt he would remain there for the rest of the day. So unlike the man she knew, so unlike Marek the blacksmith that the townsfolk admired and respected. But what did she really know of Marek Vartiainen? Not much, she decided. Steiner had called Marek a spy, and Verner had admitted as much. What other secrets did they keep?

Kjellrunn knelt at the hearth and picked up the firewood. She would not stay prisoner to the drabness of the cottage, could not stay in a place so drowned in sadness. The fire curled into life, from a dull wisp of smoke to a single tongue of fire. Minutes passed until a choir of flames danced beneath the mantelpiece.

‘I will not stay here,’ she breathed. ‘I will not stay with spies and sadness and sleeping drafts.’

Cinderfell’s skies offered no reprieve from Steiner’s absence. The sea continued its ebb and swell, miles of mindless waves throwing themselves against the shingle without enthusiasm. Kjellrunn closed her eyes, aware of the water’s motion and mood, even at this distance. Somehow she could feel the wake of the ship’s departure, as if this event were cut into the Spøkelsea like a scar.

‘Kjell?’ Verner stood a half-dozen feet away with a wary look in his eye. How long had she been standing there, lost to the hushed rapture of the sea?

‘I …’ No explanation would suffice, no reason a supposedly sane girl was standing in the street on a winter’s day with her eyes closed. ‘I was just thinking about Steiner, is all.’

‘You should be behind doors,’ said Verner. ‘If anyone sees you like this—’

‘What will they do, Verner? Accuse me of witchsign? As if such things haven’t been thrown in my face my entire life. And now Steiner’s paying the price, paying my price, for whatever it is I am.’

‘Don’t speak of such things in the street!’ said Verner, mouth twisting at the corners. ‘He won’t be killed.’

‘If he lives or dies is beside the point,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘This is all wrong, and don’t think I didn’t realize your trick with the milk.’

‘Kjell, I’m sorry. We were worried the Vigilants would take you too, or you’d do something rash—’

‘Like tell them the truth?’

‘It’s for the best, Kjell. If they take you then there’s no telling what they’ll do to you. The arcane demands a high price from those who use it.’

‘For the best? This is the best of things, is it? I’m left here with the shadow of the man who used to be my father and an uncle who fancies himself an assassin.’

Verner’s face became dark, and he stepped closer, shooting wary glances over his shoulder. The street remained empty. ‘Why don’t you tell the whole town? Perhaps you could perform it in song.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ said Kjellrunn.

‘Your father wanted to tell you things when the time was right.’

‘My father is a stranger to me. And so are you. The only person I really knew is Steiner, and he’s gone.’ She clutched her shawl tighter, bending against the cold wind that swept down from the north and gusted through Cinderfell’s lonely streets. ‘The Verner I grew up knowing would never have hurt anyone, much less killed them.’

‘Kjell, I didn’t …’ He shook his head and looked away. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked after a harsh gust of wind buffeted them.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Anywhere.’ She gestured at the cottage before them. ‘Anywhere but here with all its sadness.’

She had no desire to wend her way through Cinderfell’s streets. Steiner had always loved the town, drawn comfort from the squat cottages and thatched roofs. He was never happier than when he had cobbles beneath his feet and a few coins to spend at the tavern. Kjellrunn blinked away tears.

‘Why didn’t I go? Why didn’t I speak up? Why did I let them take him?’ The questions were mangy hounds following at her heels, thick with fleas and rabid in their intensity. ‘I’m a coward,’ she muttered. The words, louder than she intended, carried on the breeze, raising a look from a fisherman on his way to work. His was a wary expression and Kjellrunn frowned in return.

‘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.’

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