by Den Patrick
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 wi
eld 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 bes
ide 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.
