Witchsign

by Den Patrick

Felgenhauer was just as concerned with the way he wrote as much as with what he wrote.

  ‘Next, spell “Plamya”.’ Steiner couldn’t be sure, but the words she chose to teach him were not for everyday conversation, at least no conversation that could be held anywhere but Vladibogdan. He worked the quill on the parchment and frowned hard.

  ‘Now tell me what the previous word was,’ said Felgenhauer.

  Steiner shook his head. ‘I can’t.’ His grip on the quill turned into a clenched fist. ‘I can’t remember what the word was, even though I just wrote it down.’ He sat back and stared at the parchment accusingly.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘It was the same for the Hierarch I knew. She would forget things very quickly when trying to write them down. The word you’re trying to remember is “Vozdukha”. It means simply means “air” in Solska.’

  ‘Why do they make it so hard to spell if it’s such a simple word?’ Steiner jabbed the quill into the inkwell and crossed his arms.

  Felgenhauer’s shoulders shook and she raised a hand to her face, as if to cover her mouth. He realized she was laughing silently.

  ‘The Sol make everything difficult,’ she said after a moment. ‘Not least their language.’

  ‘You’re not from there, are you? Not from Solmindre.’ Steiner looked at Felgenhauer, trying to see past the uniform and the mask to the person beneath. ‘I can’t place your accent though. Which of the Scorched Republics are you from?’

  ‘Why, Nordvlast, of course. Though I don’t speak of it. I’ve not been there in many years and I don’t intend to go back.’

  ‘But your accent?’ he replied.

  ‘The Emperor has sent me to all corners of the continent, Steiner. I’ve seen Arkiv Island and the stacks of old accounts and accords. I’ve walked the Halls of Justice in Khlystburg and seen traitors hung at dawn.’ Something about the way she pronounced the word ‘traitors’ gave Steiner pause. The Matriarch-Commissar was steadfast in her loyalty to the Empire, but the person who spoke to him here, in his chamber, was someone very different. He suspected a certain disgust, and wondered at conflict within.

  ‘I’ve spied in the Republics and carried out Invigilations in Novgoruske Province.’ She sat down on the bed and her shoulders curved slightly, as her parade ground posture had given way to something weary. ‘I’ve walked the Empire’s rutted tracks in winter and marched along bright avenues in summer, sheltered in its forest from spring rains, and shivered in the mountains at night.’ Steiner felt the weight on her, the exhaustion. Nothing else was said and Felgenhauer simply sat, head bowed, hands on knees. Without knowing why Steiner raised a hand and rested it upon Felgenhauer’s. He assumed she’d snatch it away, lurch to her feet and regain her imperious aspect, but instead she sighed. After a moment she turned her palm up and grasped Steiner’s hand. They sat there for long seconds, Steiner afraid to speak for fear he break the spell of their fleeting union.

  ‘What a pair we are, Steiner Vartiainen,’ she said after a moment. Her voice was soft and for the first time he heard the lilt of Nordspråk. She reached up with her other hand to wipe at her eyes, but the gesture was confounded by the mask that separated them. ‘Even I, with the lofty title of Matriarch-Commissar, am as bound to this place as you are.’

  She let go of his hand and smoothed down her robes, then stood and rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging on some cloak.

  ‘Should we try more words?’ he asked, reaching for the quill, keen that she not leave.

  ‘No. It is late and you are tired.’ She stood, and all traces of the Nordspråk accent had disappeared; her shoulders straightened, her chin came up and she was once more Matriarch-Commissar Felgenhauer, Flintgaze to those novices who dared to make fun of her. ‘Sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.’

  The door closed quietly behind her and Steiner stared at his ink-stained fingers, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Three weeks passed and all that was strange was made familiar by routine. A sharp knock on the door woke Steiner each morning and he’d hurry out of his nightshirt and slip on his clothes, keen to fetch the Matriarch-Commissar’s breakfast. That’s how he thought of her when he was at his tasks. She was only Felgenhauer during private conversations, all too infrequent for Steiner’s liking. No one else in Academy Voda spoke to him at length.

  Steiner slipped through his chamber door and nodded to the soldiers in the corridor. They nodded back, one offering a gesture part salute, part wave. It was easy to spot the Matriarch-Commissar’s cadre for they carried axes instead of the customary mace. Their armour was always oiled and enamelled, their boots polished.

  ‘Big storm today,’ said one soldier as Steiner passed him.

  ‘Good thing I’ve no cause to go out in it,’ Steiner smiled. Felgenhauer had been true to her word, Steiner’s tasks meant he was never far from her protective eye and he’d not left Academy Voda once in the whole three weeks.

  ‘The storm could last all week,’ said the soldier. ‘No ships while the storm blows. No food.’

  ‘And no vodka,’ added his comrade.

  ‘I’d best get going,’ Steiner replied, heading along the corridor. Down he went, to the fifth floor where Felgenhauer kept her office, more soldiers standing guard here, more close-mouthed than their comrades on the sixth. The fourth floor provided barracks for the novices. Steiner was unnerved by the lack of noise. So many children together, yet no shouts or laughter, no taunts or chiding. The third floor consisted of classrooms, though Steiner had not seen them for himself and had no wish to. The stairs took him lower, to the second floor, where a vast refectory would feed the novices three times a day. Steiner guessed the portions were slim, judging by the gaunt frames of the children. Finally he arrived at his destination, the kitchens.

  Three novices eyed him with a sullen disapproval. None had said a word to him for the duration he’d served here.

  ‘The Matriarch-Commissar’s breakfast?’ he said, hoping he might goad some conversation from them. As one they pointed to a wooden tray but offered no greeting. All were younger than Kjellrunn, with pinched faces and ragged hair.

  ‘Always a pleasure speaking with you,’ said Steiner as he lifted the tray. He turned to leave and almost barged into Aurelian. A few seconds passed before either could think of anything to say.

  ‘What in Frejna’s name are you doing here?’ asked Steiner. Aurelian of the fiery breath had to be a student in the Academy Plamya.

  ‘Vigilant Shirinov asked me to escort him. It is a huge honour.’ Aurelian preened, standing a little taller. ‘He has a meeting with the Matriarch-Commissar. I would have thought you’d know, seeing as you’re her new pet.’

  Steiner ignored the barb. ‘Shirinov teaches at Academy Zemlya. Couldn’t he get one of his own students to escort him?’

  Aurelian shrugged. ‘Usually Matthias would escort him. Now it’s my turn.’

  The novices in the kitchens hung on every word of the exchange, and Steiner felt the usual pang of regret upon hearing Matthias’ name.

  ‘Can’t say I care too much for what Shirinov does, or who escorts him. Now you’d best get out of my way, the Matriarch-Commissar doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  Aurelian didn’t move, his smile widening, a cruel cast to his eyes.

  ‘Shame you don’t have your sledgehammer with you,’ he whispered. ‘Going to kill me with a serving tray, are you? I suppose you peasants have to use whatever you can find.’

  Steiner turned his shoulder to push past him, but Aurelian edged back and kicked out a foot. Steiner didn’t fall but slammed into the wall, up-ending porridge and tea over himself. The tray clattered to the floor and Steiner spent a frantic moment shucking the tunic over his shoulders, skin scalded.

  Aurelian let out a long mocking laugh and the novices in the kitchen scurried away, keen not to be involved. Steiner stared for a shocked second before pulling back a fist. The blond boy began to suck down a lungful of air, a terrible
glow appearing at his throat as a Vigilant rounded the corner. Steiner recognized the Vigilant by the mask; it was the stylised wolf’s face he’d seen in Academy Square. Steiner lowered his fist as the Vigilant delivered a sharp rap to the back of Aurelian’s head. Aurelian stumbled forward, the fiery glow in his throat sputtering out. Tendrils of black smoke leaked from the corners of his mouth and his nostrils; when he looked up there were tears in the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Incinerating the Matriarch-Commissar’s aide is very bad idea,’ said the Vigilant, the wolf’s snout pressed close to Aurelian’s pale face.

  ‘I was just …’ Aurelian rubbed the back of his head and winced. The Vigilant looked down at the spilt porridge and the shattered teapot.

  ‘I can see perfectly well what you were doing.’

  ‘What are your knuckles made out of? said Aurelian, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Granite?’

  The wolf-masked Vigilant removed a glove revealing a slender hand made of living stone. ‘Why, yes, actually. Now I suggest you cool off in the rain.’

  ‘What?’ Aurelian’s face clouded with anger and disbelief.

  The Vigilant grabbed the boy by the throat and slammed him against the wall. ‘Go and stand in the rain in Academy Square until such a time as I say otherwise, or I will march you to the Matriarch-Commissar’s office this instant and make you explain this.’ The Vigilant gestured at the mess on the floor.

  Aurelian scuttled away, clutching his throat while the Vigilant stared after him.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Steiner, holding his tea-soaked tunic in front of his chest.

  ‘Ordinary Marozvolk,’ she replied.

  ‘You don’t look very ordinary to me,’ replied Steiner.

  ‘It would mean “Frostwolf” in your somewhat limited tongue,’ she added, clearly not understanding him. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, you fool. Fetch another breakfast. And find some clothes.’

  It was no surprise to see Shirinov in the waiting room outside the Matriarch-Commissar’s office but Steiner’s heart stuttered in his chest all the same. The soldiers in the antechamber did not stand to attention, but hefted their axes in readiness. The unspoken threat lay leaden on the room, and Steiner felt it press the air out of his lungs.

  ‘She’s barely out of bed,’ said Steiner through gritted teeth.

  ‘I can wait,’ said Shirinov. ‘I have all the time I could possibly need.’

  Steiner glowered at the Vigilant. ‘Why are you here?’ whispered Steiner.

  ‘I’m here to request we commandeer your pirate friend’s ship.’

  ‘Romola is still here?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Incarcerated this whole time while you run errands for your mistress. We have searched the vessel most thoroughly and checked the logs.’

  ‘And …?’ Steiner knew that not all of Romola’s work was legal and wondered what trouble Shirinov might cause.

  ‘Unfortunately they are all in order, but that doesn’t get around the fact she was caught in the forges. Once I have that ship I’ll sail for Cinderfell.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said Felgenhauer from behind them. Steiner almost lost his grip on the tray, such was the volume. ‘Where have you been?’ said Matriarch-Commissar. Steiner opened his mouth to speak. ‘This should have been here ten minutes ago!’

  Steiner bowed his head rather than offer an excuse.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ she said. ‘It’s bad enough I have to deal with the Vigilant at this time of day, to do it on an empty stomach is twice the insult.’ And with that she swept past both of them into her office, slamming the door behind her. Steiner eyed Shirinov and realised how much he missed his sledgehammer.

  ‘I will find a way back to Cinderfell,’ whispered the Vigilant. ‘Of that you can be assured. I have unfinished business there.’

  A breathless panic took hold of Steiner, but he gritted his teeth and leaned in close to the Hierarch.

  ‘The way I heard it, you were looking for Sharpbreath in Helwick. Lose an old friend, did you?’

  ‘Sharpbreath is not dead,’ replied Shirinov, and even with the mask Steiner could tell he was furious.

  ‘First you lose Sharpbreath, then Matthias. You should be more careful, old man.’

  ‘I think you’re missing the point, boy. I could raze Helwick to the ground as retaliation for two murdered Vigilants. As for Sharpbreath, we will find her, be assured of that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare raze Helwick.’ Though Steiner felt his certainty slipping away.

  ‘We are the Imperial Synod. We dare to do things lesser men haven’t the stomach for every day of the week. And I doubt anyone would care if we razed Cinderfell at the same time.’

  Felgenhauer called out from her office and Steiner slunk away as Shirinov hobbled to his meeting. He’d come to Vladibogdan to protect Kjellrunn, but who was going to protect Helwick and Cinderfell from Shirinov’s fury?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Kjellrunn

  In truth, we must all get our hands dirty in service to the Empire. Even the Vigilants, who are the Emperor’s political foot soldiers, find themselves with blood on their hands. The soldiers are expected to be killers; the faint-hearted among them are sent home to work the fields. And the Okhrana, they are the bloodiest of all, scouts, investigators, assassins.

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

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t arrive six months ago when it was warmer,’ said Kjellrunn. Mistress Kamalov had led her deeper into the forest, away from the chalet. The trees reached into the pale skies, everything a vast slumbering stillness; only the snow made a sound, crunching beneath their boots, deep prints to mark their passing.

  ‘I’m sure we could do this inside,’ said Kjellrunn.

  ‘And I am sure that when I woke this morning I was still the teacher and you were the whip. Yes? Or was it a dream?’

  ‘A whip?’

  ‘A whip is a young tree.’ Mistress Kamalov shook her head. ‘How can you live near a forest and not know this?’

  In truth Kjellrunn was glad to be free of the woodcutter’s chalet. She had spent a dutiful three weeks sweeping, polishing, and peeling a variety of vegetables. None of it had seemed very mysterious, and she’d been sure to mention it.

  ‘Pay attention, yes. Close your eyes. Breathe.’ Mistress Kamalov’s voice was low and calm. ‘Think of the forest all around you. Every tree. Every branch. Think of the roots reaching into the soul of the earth. Do not let your mind linger too long on any one thing, yes?’

  Kjellrunn did as she was told, imagined reaching into the dark soil with long fingers, her breath mingling with the carpet of leaves. Sounds emerged from the silence, faint at first, gulls flying high along the coast, the wind ushering their mournful cries. Few animals were abroad at this time of year, tucked away in nooks and hollows, yet she imagined each one. Each squirrel and hedgehog, every fox and vole.

  ‘What do you feel?’ said Mistress Kamalov.

  ‘Cold.’

  ‘This is obvious, but the cold never killed anyone.’

  Kjellrunn opened her eyes and raised an incredulous eyebrow.

  ‘That wasn’t the best turn of phrase,’ admitted Mistress Kamalov. She shrugged and cleared her throat. ‘Close your eyes, concentrate. What do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t feel anything. I imagined all the animals sleeping for the winter. I heard the gulls, probably fighting for scraps in the bay.’

  ‘No feeling at all?’

  Kjellrunn shook her head. ‘No. Just cold. Can we go back to the chalet now? I can’t feel my feet.’

  Mistress Kamalov took her gently by the shoulders and began to turn her on the spot, like a wooden top.

  ‘What are you—?’

  ‘Hush, child. Turn, turn. Yes, like this. Like a spindle.’

  The trees spun and Mistress Kamalov’s face blurred past with each revolution. Faster and faster she went until suddenly the old woman’s hands had colle
cted her in a tight grip. The forest continued its lazy swirl, the branches reaching in every direction. Kjellrunn stumbled and wondered if this was how it felt to be drunk.

  ‘Which way is north?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do not think about it, just tell me. Which way is north?’

  Kjellrunn raised her arm and spread her feet in the snow, now trampled to slush beneath her turning steps. The forest continued to spin but her aim was resolute.

  ‘Why?’ asked Mistress Kamalov, expression stern.

  ‘Why did you spin me?’

  ‘No. Why is that way north?’

  ‘Because, it’s not south?’ Kjellrunn shrugged. The forest was still moving at the edges of her vision, but the dizziness was easing.

  ‘Very good. Very funny,’ said Mistress Kamalov with a scowl. ‘The smart girl has a smart answer for everything.’

  ‘I don’t know why it’s north. It just …’ Kjellrunn sighed. ‘It feels like north. I can’t explain it, I just know.’

  ‘This is good, remember this feeling.’ Mistress Kamalov clapped her hands and grinned with something approaching mania in her eyes. ‘Ha! I knew it. I knew you had it.’

  Kjellrunn took a step back, stunned by the look of delight from the stony-faced old woman.

  ‘What does it mean that I know which direction north is?’

  ‘It means you have the gift of earth, and the gift of earth will help you endure the times ahead.’ Mistress Kamalov stroked her chin. ‘Fire would better, but we must work with what we can.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kjellrunn bitterly.

  ‘I mean no insult,’ replied Mistress Kamalov, and had the good grace to look ashamed for a moment. ‘The gift of earth means many things, but can be difficult to master. It requires the utmost discipline. Not like hotheads from the school of fire. Flame, flame is anger and instinct, but earth, earth is measure and concentration, yes?’

  Kjellrunn nodded. They’d spent the morning finding north, something any damn fool woodsman could achieve.

  ‘Yes. This is good.’ Mistress Kamalov clapped her hands again.

  But it didn’t feel good to Kjellrunn. How would knowing true north help her rescue Steiner? How would she fight her way past soldiers, or sneak past them?