by Den Patrick
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 mig
ht 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 l
eading 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.
