by Den Patrick
‘The pirate,’ said the nearest soldier. ‘I should have guessed we’d find you here. Smuggling more novices off the island?’
‘Just feeding my friends,’ replied Romola.
The soldier dropped her sword on the ground. ‘We’re not here for you.’
‘What?’
The soldier pushed past her, grabbing Steiner by the front of his tunic. ‘Our orders are to fetch the boy.’ The soldier wrenched Steiner forward and threw him to the mass of armoured bodies behind. ‘No one said anything about the pirate or the princess.’ There were a few chuckles at that.
‘Hoy! What’s this about?’ Steiner grabbed the soldier’s shoulder and was greeted with an elbow, slamming into his face. Pain erupted through his head, making his eyes water. He stumbled back, holding both hands to his nose.
‘Shame,’ said the soldier to Romola. ‘Now we must arrest you too. I wanted this to be, how you say? Straightforward.’
‘What foolishness is this?’ shouted a familiar surly voice. The soldiers looked around and parted with reluctance. ‘Out of my way, halfhead! What happened to you?’ said Tief, pushing his way to the middle of the crowd.
‘I think they broke my nose,’ said Steiner. It was hard to see through his streaming eyes and his chin was slick with blood. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the pain or the rising panic.
‘Hands off the boy, you wretched bastards!’ shouted Tief. And that’s when it all went to Hel.
Kimi snatched one of the pikes from a soldier, using the end as a club to beat on his head, before turning the sharp end on her other opponents with a flourish.
Tief launched himself at the nearest soldier, slamming a flat palm under his chin, pushing the helm back until it crashed to the floor. The wiry Spriggani pulled the soldier’s cloak up over his head and a knife flashed in the darkness.
Romola snatched up her sword, only to be separated from the main fight by two soldiers who pressed the attack with their maces. Steiner watched her trying to parry the savage blows, retreating further and further away.
Of Maxim there was no sign. Steiner glanced around to see if the boy had been pushed to the ground. Nothing. He grabbed a soldier and tried to ask but the soldier assumed he was under attack, cuffing Steiner across the face. He all but blacked out, the pain in his face excruciating, waking to find himself slung over an armoured shoulder when he regained his senses.
‘Wait! We have to find Maxim!’ he shouted, but the soldier was already departing the melee, heading back to the many steps to Academy Square.
It wasn’t until they reached the vast metal rungs that led to the gallery that Steiner was able see the centre of the cavern. The soldier set Steiner down and pointed upward.
‘We climb, said the soldier.’
Steiner continued to stare after his friends. Kimi had been forced back, a pike protruding from her shoulder, pinned against a wooden crate. Her eyes were tightly shut and the pike she had liberated lay on the floor. Steiner called out to her but the sound was lost in the din of combat.
Romola was being carried by two soldiers, one at her shoulders, the other bearing her feet. Steiner gasped, unable to tell if she was dead or unconscious.
Tief stood on the dais, hands tied behind his back. A soldier slammed him to the ground before applying a boot to the guts.
Steiner started back toward the centre of the forge but the soldier grabbed him by the collar and swung him towards the metal rungs.
‘Never mind that, just climb.’
‘My friends!’ What have I done?
Up they went, the sound of armoured men swearing in Solska following them with every step. Twice Steiner turned to see if Romola had survived and twice he was shoved so hard he should have fallen.
‘My friends,’ he whispered.
‘Your friends should not have started a fight they could not finish,’ said the soldier, and Steiner felt a crushing despair take hold of him.
Shirinov was not waiting for them in Academy Square as Steiner had expected, though every window of the four academies was lit. Novices of all ages peered from the windows.
The soldiers were conversing in Solska and those who brought up the rear joined their comrades. A few were missing a pauldron, another had lost his helmet. At least two had yet to return to the surface at all. Steiner looked around with growing dread. Maxim was nowhere to be seen and Romola had been dumped on the cobbles of Academy Square without care.
‘What now?’ mumbled Steiner, too scared to touch his face, his tunic spattered with red.
Another shove dictated his route, across the square to the gatehouse, then he was ushered up a spiral staircase. A boot to his backside was added incentive to enter the cell before him. The barred window was a narrow slot that let in the cold while the bed was narrow and filthy. Steiner wasn’t sure what stained the blankets in the darkness.
‘My friends …’
He grasped the bars of the cell and looked past the roiling flames of the dragon statue. One by one the many lights of the four academies were extinguished, each window a darkened eye. The novices called out to each other, and a few choice insults were slung across the square, meant for Steiner. The voices fell silent until one light remained, revealing a glint of silver peering from the window. A silver mask with a mocking smile. Shirinov. Steiner turned his back and slid down the wall, resting his head on his knees.
‘And may Frøya keep me close,’ he mumbled, before passing out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kjellrunn
Those who possess the powers of the air are often inscrutable, in thought and deed. Many students of Academy Vozdukha fail to finish their training, not because of incompetence or disobedience, but because they lose their minds. Telepathy and prescience are both born of the wind, and some things are best left unknown and unseen by young minds. Graduates of Academy Vozdukha learn to master hateful storms and freezing winds, and the most subtle can charm the birds from the trees.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
Kjellrunn looked down at the chopping board and the dozen carrots, then dared a glance at Mistress Kamalov, who was perched on a rickety stool, skinning two hares on the other side of the kitchen table. It seemed that Kjellrunn hurried through her chores at home, only to find more waiting for her in the woodcutter’s chalet. She longed for the day the real training began; her restlessness was like a strong tide and every day it pulled on her more keenly. She picked up the first carrot and struggled not to sigh. Surely the novices on Vladibogdan didn’t have to endure such menial tedium?
‘For the first year the students do little more than kitchen chores and sewing. If they are good they are taught meditations on calmness, but mostly the first year is obedience training. Like dogs.’
Kjellrunn picked up the knife and began slicing, fighting down the urge to say anything. Mistress Kamalov’s gift for reading her mind, or merely guessing what she was thinking, had passed beyond being uncanny to inconvenient to deeply annoying.
‘Peeling potatoes, gutting fish, sweeping corridors and polishing boots.’
‘And you know this because you trained there,’ replied Kjellrunn. She had no need to frame it as a question, the truth was self-evident. Mistress Kamalov didn’t reply, trapped between her love of demonstrating her knowledge and a deep reticence of speaking about the past.
‘This carrot chopping then,’ said Kjellrunn, determined to get something meaningful from the day. ‘What does it stand for? Do I just have to prove that I’ll do as I’m told?’
Mistress Kamalov looked up with a skinned rabbit in one hand and a bloodied knife in the other.
‘Do as you’re told? By anyone else? No. But by me? Yes.’
‘Obedience. Like dogs,’ repeated Kjellrunn, as the last word brought a flush of anger to her cheeks.
‘That’s a small part of it. Obedience is important during training, important that you follow my directions, even when you are bored or scared. Or
frustrated.’
‘And when I’m angry?’ Kjellrunn forced the knife through the top of the carrot and felt the metal bite against the chopping block.
‘This is when obedience is most important. Anger can eclipse everything; it makes fools of us all if we pay no mind to it.’
‘So when you say, “Like dogs”, you’re just trying to make me angry, you don’t actually think I’m a dog.’
‘Knowing when to obey and who to obey and why we do it is what separates us from dogs. This is why your training will be different from the training on Vladibogdan.’
Kjellrunn cleared her mind and took a few minutes to sharpen the knife by the fireside. Thoughts of Steiner came to her, memories of him lumbering about the smithy and other times where he watched their father intently, wanting to get every detail of their work together just so. She thought of his rough embraces and the fleeting moments when she’d basked in his kindness and protection. And underneath it all was the guilt for not telling him about her powers. She needed to get to Vladibogdan, and she needed to be powerful enough to overcome Shirinov and Khigir when she did.
When Kjellrunn returned to the chopping board she felt calmer, dicing the carrots and then two onions without pause or distraction. She headed to the well outside without being asked and returned with pails of water moments later without idling.
‘What else is going into this soup, then?’ she asked. ‘What can I do next?’
Mistress Kamalov smiled a crooked smile and her eyes twinkled in delight. ‘You are going to be a good student if you can just stay with what is happening right now, and not give rein to your impatience.’
Kjellrunn nodded, and again her thoughts drifted to her imaginings of Vladibogdan, a stony island shrouded in sea mist, and Steiner locked away in a dank cell.
‘I can only promise to train you, Kjellrunn. I can’t promise to help you get your brother back.’
Kjellrunn nodded and forced a tight smile. ‘Tell me what I have to do.’
If Marek was curious or concerned about Kjellrunn’s lengthy disappearances in the woods he didn’t voice it. Often he’d venture into town to shop for food himself, sparing Kjellrunn the fearful glances and snatched whispers of the townsfolk.
‘Time may be a great healer, but people have long memories in these parts,’ he’d said to her more than once before heading to the butcher’s.
‘Come on, you old fool,’ said Verner one morning, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. ‘Come out in the boat today. The sea is nice and flat. Even your tender guts won’t heave up your breakfast.’
‘I’ve not had any breakfast yet. Perhaps you shouldn’t come calling so damn early,’ replied Marek.
Kjellrunn snorted a laugh. It was easy to forget the strangeness of the last month when they were like this.
‘And I’m not coming out,’ added Marek. ‘I’ve got too much to do.’
‘Lies,’ said Verner. ‘No one has bought anything from you in weeks.’
Kjellrunn eyed her father and saw that he didn’t deny it, saw the tiny slump of his shoulders that spoke of his defeat and dismay.
‘Come out and catch some fish with me,’ said Verner, his voice softer now, not mocking or boorish, but imploring.
‘Fine,’ growled Marek, though he sounded anything but. ‘Shut the door, won’t you? You’re letting the heat out and I’ll be cold soon enough as it is.’
Kjellrunn nodded to Verner and fetched her broom, then headed for the smithy.
‘And where are you off to?’ he asked her, taking a seat at the table.
‘Seems a good time to sweep the smithy without you men under my feet. Try not to lose my father overboard, won’t you?’
The smithy was all darkness and a deep chill waited within. Kjellrunn guessed that Marek hadn’t lit the furnace in days. Ashes lay over the floor, white and grey, as cold to the touch as Nordvlast snow.
She began her work in earnest, thinking on Mistress Kamalov’s words from the previous day and mulling over blind obedience and the willingness to learn. The knock at the door startled her so badly she almost dropped the broom.
‘Who is it?’
No answer came and the latch rattled as it was lifted. A dark shadow filled the yawning gap as the door opened, the grey sky behind making a dire silhouette of the person who entered. Kjellrunn held up the broom like a spear and took a step forward.
‘Get out of here! My father is in the kitchen, he’ll beat you black and blue if you so much as—’
‘It’s me!’ hissed Kristofine, slipping further into the smithy and shutting the door behind her. Kjellrunn lowered the broom and huffed, as much with chagrin as frustration.
‘My father isn’t here, he’s gone fishing with Verner.’
Kristofine nodded and stood a little closer to the lantern light. Her hair had come loose from her headscarf and she looked unfinished somehow, as if she had left the house in a rush.
‘I saw them head down to the bay. That’s why I knocked. I don’t want to speak to him, I wanted to speak with you.’
‘After your father told my family to leave town?’ Kjellrunn gripped the broom handle tighter.
‘My father’s opinions aren’t mine, and I’ve no wish to see you leave town. He’d kill me if he knew I was here.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’ Kristofine wrung her hands and looked down at the floor.
‘Has Bjørner thrown you out?’
Kristofine shook her head and frowned a moment. ‘Nothing like that, I meant that no one will talk to me. The townsfolk all cross the street when I pass by, and my father won’t let me work in the tavern.’
‘And you came to me for sympathy?’ Kjellrunn couldn’t keep the scowl from her face, already wondering how to get rid of the woman before her.
‘I …’ The words died on her pretty lips and Kristofine glanced at the door then back at the lantern. ‘I spent the night with your brother in the stables behind the tavern.’
‘Spent the night? What do you mean, spent the night? How did you spend it?’ Kjellrunn had heard the expression used by adults on occasion but had never really grasped the meaning. Kristofine said nothing and tucked a stray hair behind her ear and forced an awkward smile.
‘You spent all night in the stables with him,’ said Kjellrunn, feeling the pieces coming together and not liking the image that was forming. ‘You slept in the stables together?’
Kristofine gave a brittle nod. The smile remained frozen on her face but was pained.
‘Oh. And …’ Kjellrunn wrinkled her nose. ‘And that’s why these idiot townsfolk think you have witchsign.’ She paused a moment. ‘How did your father find out?’
‘One of the draymen. He saw us slipping out the following morning as he was delivering the ale.’
‘And do you have witchsign?’ Kjellrunn couldn’t resist. She’d been on the wrong side of those accusing stares for much too long.
‘Do I what?’
‘Do you have the witchsign?’ Kjellrunn grinned. ‘Can you breathe fire or fly? Did you make Steiner fall in love with you by wiggling your fingers?’
‘He’s not in love with me. I mean, I don’t suppose he is. It was just one night and …’ Kristofine looked more crestfallen than Kjellrunn had ever seen her and she instinctively stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm.
‘He was very excited that you two had started talking,’ admitted Kjellrunn. ‘He wasn’t quite sure what to do about it; I don’t think he’d ever spoken to a woman that wasn’t serving him bread or bringing him ale.’
A small smile crept onto Kristofine’s worried face.
‘I know that he liked talking to you. And he liked you. A lot.’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘Well.’ Kjellrunn struggled to remember. ‘He said there wasn’t a whole lot of nice in Cinderfell.’
Kristofine frowned. ‘He said I was “nice”.’
Kjellrunn sh
rugged. ‘You know Steiner, he was never one for words. He’s a blacksmith, not a poet.’
‘Nice.’ Kristofine smiled as tears tracked down her cheeks. ‘I’m so scared, Kjell. I’m scared the Okhrana will take me away. I’m scared my father will let them take me. And I’m scared I’ll never see Steiner again. I know it sounds stupid, but …’
‘Come into the kitchen,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘We’ll catch our deaths in this miserable old place.’ Kjellrunn led Kristofine out of the smithy after checking the street was empty and there was no one to see them. It took a few moments to stoke up the fire and Kjellrunn flashed a smile over her shoulder.
‘Strange to think it was you who took me in from the rain a few weeks ago.’
‘Stranger that you’ve barely been seen since,’ said Kristofine. ‘Half the reason I came today was simply to see if you still lived in Cinderfell.’
Kjellrunn hefted the kettle over the fire and shrugged, feigning a casualness. ‘I’ve got friends just outside of town.’
Kristofine blinked in surprise and seemed impressed.
‘You’re very precocious for a fifteen-year-old.’
‘That’s because I’m sixteen,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘Did you know they marry girls off in Svingettevei that have barely seen fourteen summers?’
‘Fourteen?’
‘Verner told me. Said it was younger still in Karelina Province.’
‘This is the longest conversation I’ve had since we last spoke,’ said Kristofine, slumping onto a chair. ‘I thought I’d go mad.’
‘A lot of people used to think I was mad,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Now they worry I have witchsign.’
‘What will we do?’
Kjellrunn frowned. ‘We? What is this “we”?’ She was suddenly aware she sounded like Mistress Kamalov and wasn’t so sure she liked it. ‘I’m sorry. Honestly, I don’t know. I want to get Steiner back and I’m working on something with a …’ Was she a teacher? Spy? Madwoman? ‘With an old friend.’
