by Den Patrick
‘I’d say you’re a bit more than half-mad,’ replied Streig as he sifted through the scraps of parchment that littered the surface. None of them made much sense: single sentences of cryptic warnings, often with a symbol or dots, though he did not know what these might mean. He crossed the room and fetched the urn, then set it down on the desk.
‘See for yourself.’
We are in Felgenhauer’s tower.
‘Felgenhauer? What makes you think she’s been here?’
Because this is her handwriting and these are the ciphers we devised when we were on Vladibogdan.
‘She must have left after the library …’ Streig gestured to the window. The sun was beginning to set on Arkiv, and the many avenues and boulevards were showered in a golden light that picked out the multicoloured masonry and revealed the architecture in pleasing ways. But no matter the city’s splendour, his eye was always drawn to the ruin of the Great Library. It pained him to glance at the debris, and yet there were people exploring the desolation, sullied with ash and desperation. Some pointed and called out to one another but the search continued. The evening light revealed a common motif: the red star of the Solmindre Empire, worn on the brow of every helm.
‘Just what we need.’ Streig began to close the curtains slowly, so as to not draw attention to himself. ‘Soldiers are searching the ruins.’
Silverdust made no reply from his place on the desk. The dour grey urn sat in silence, the lid ajar. A jolt of panic stabbed Streig’s gut as a trio of soldiers began to make their way towards his tower, black cloaks flaring in the evening breeze.
‘Frejna’s teeth.’ One of the soldiers raised his head, and though Streig could not see the man’s eyes on account of the helm, he felt sure he had been seen. ‘They’re coming. What do I say?’
In a time of incessant lies, sometimes the truth is the best course.
‘You’re saying I should tell them I fought Bittervinge alongside Steiner Vartiainen?’
Only if you wish to dance a short jig at the end of a rope. Tell them you served me. Tell them you are wounded. Tell them Bittervinge consumed me.
‘And then?’
The soldiers hammered on the door at the base of the tower and called for Streig to open up. He headed out of the chamber door and peeked down the spiral staircase. The latch rattled as the door was opened and a low murmur of voices drifted up the steps to him.
Perhaps you play up your injury.
Streig nodded and felt his mouth go dry. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat down on the chair before the fire, stoking the nearly spent firewood though it pained him to grip the poker. Armoured footfalls sounded on the stairs, the jingle of buckles and mail becoming closer and louder.
‘Hoy there!’ came a voice from the other side of the door. A woman’s voice.
‘Come in,’ replied Streig. ‘It’s safe.’ The door opened and three hulking soldiers in black enamelled armour entered the room. It was suddenly very crowded. Streig’s breathing was shallow as one of the soldiers removed her helm, revealing a pale face with lines aplenty at the corners of her eyes and a look of concern etched on her face.
‘Hoy there. Seems you barely made it out alive.’ The soldier nodded at Streig’s hand, which lay in his lap, a bruised claw. ‘I assume you were caught up in the fighting?’
‘I was. Forgive me for not standing and saluting, sergeant.’
‘Sergeant.’ The soldier laughed and her eyes twinkled a moment. ‘Be a fine thing if I ever got promoted. I’m merely a corporal and I don’t stand much on ceremony.’ Streig forced a smile and nodded in thanks. ‘You were in the library?’ Impossible to miss the note of wonder in the corporal’s voice. ‘When it happened?’
‘I was.’
Only answer what they ask you. There is no need to be generous. Streig’s eye flicked to the desk and the old corporal followed his gaze.
‘Friend of yours?’ she said, looking at the urn.
‘He was. That’s all that’s left of Exarch Silverdust.’
‘Blood and ashes.’ The corporal raised her eyebrows and let out a long sigh. ‘I had no idea. How did he …?’
‘Bittervinge got loose. It was terrible. The Exarch tried to defeat the dragon, to contain it, but in the end …’ Streig shrugged and looked away to the fire.
‘You’ve been a great help,’ said the old corporal. ‘My lieutenant will greatly pleased with this information. Is there anything you need?’
‘Perhaps you could forget you saw me,’ said Streig. He lifted his wounded hand. ‘I’m not sure how much more use I can be to the Emperor.’
‘I see.’ The old corporal nodded; then she gestured to her comrades. The armoured men took their leave, black cloaks swirling about them as they descended the stairs. ‘You know how it is for soldiers,’ said the corporal quietly. ‘None of us really retire.’ She paused a moment and looked out of the window at the ruins, now almost shrouded in darkness. ‘I’ll tell my lieutenant you need a while to heal. Hopefully he’ll forget you’re here. That’s the best I can do.’
‘I fought the father of dragons and dug myself out of the rubble,’ replied Streig. ‘I’m not asking to retire; I’m asking to be forgotten.’
‘As I said, maybe the lieutenant will forget about you.’ The corporal gave an apologetic sort of smile and left.
We must be careful for the next few days.
Streig crossed to the window and peeked through the closed curtains. ‘We’re always careful,’ he muttered. ‘And yet trouble keeps finding its way to our door.’
Scritch, scritch.
‘Do you hear that?’ said Streig in a voice thick with sleep. The deep darkness of night was fading with the approaching dawn. Light lingered at the edges of the curtains, making the room’s furniture ghostly.
It would seem we have a visitor. Silverdust, the two glowing orbs that remained of him, crested the lip of the urn to look across the room.
Scritch, scritch.
‘There it is again,’ he said. Streig lifted his head from the pillow and stared into the gloom for some clue. The sound came again.
Scritch, scritch.
He swung his legs over the bed, relieved that his ribs were paining him less. It took a moment to shake off the disorientation of waking before he approached the window.
Scritch, scritch.
He pulled back the curtain to find a great black bird perching on the ledge outside. One beady eye fixed upon him before the bird released a strident call.
‘What the Hel is …?’ Streig’s gaze fell on the desk, Felgenhauer’s desk, covered with tiny scraps of parchment. Scraps of parchment so small one could affix them to the leg of a bird. Streig opened the window.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the dark bird. ‘In you come then.’ The crow did just that and hopped on to the desk, staring around the room with quick motions of its head. Silverdust watched all this from his vantage point on the mantelpiece.
I had forgotten about the messengers. Felgenhauer couldn’t glean information from whispers on the wind but she had a dozen or so contacts spread around the continent. They’d send word when they thought it necessary.
Streig eyed the sharp beak and the equally sharp talons and hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I want to try and take the message off him.’
He is a she. All the messengers are. Be assertive yet gentle.
Streig called to the crow and softly took the bird in one hand, his fingers slipping around the breast with one thumb atop the bird’s body to stop it from wriggling away. He took a moment to unpick the knot and a moment later a small roll of parchment hit the surface of the desk.
‘Not a scratch,’ he said proudly, then deposited the bird in the empty cage.
A masterful first attempt.
Streig took the note and smoothed out the parchment.
And? Silverdust loaded the word with impatience.
‘It says, “A new power rises in Shanisrond. A wielder of the arcane perhaps the equal of the Emperor
himself. They call her the Stormtide Prophet.”’ Streig regarded the scrap a few moments before looking up. ‘What does it mean?’
It means the Emperor has more to worry about than just Steiner Vartiainen and Felgenhauer. It means change is coming to Vinterkveld.
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ said Streig as he stepped outside the tower. He clutched the urn and raised his eyes to the cloudy skies. Spring was coming to Vinterkveld in a procession of blustery showers and overcast days.
You’ve been in that room for over a week. It will do you no good to be cooped up like that. Besides, I need something; it is calling to me.
The cinderwraith had a point, and though there was the occasional snarl of pain from Streig’s ribs the breeze on his face felt good.
‘Not a single part of it survived,’ he said quietly as they crossed the wide courtyard. Somehow the ruin of the Great Library seemed worse up close than when viewed from the tower. The smell of smoke lingered in the solemn air over the site of so much devastation. ‘Where do you think Bittervinge is now?’
I would rather not think about where the father of dragons is. We have more than enough problems.
‘That much is true.’ Streig squinted into the distance towards the docks. A glimmer of dark green sea showed itself between the spectacular buildings. ‘Food becomes more expensive every day and the blockade continues without an end in sight.’
A few rag-wrapped people moved about the ruins, picking over the remains like carrion feeders. In the main they kept to themselves, lonely figures amid the rubble. The only exception was a gang of four children who fought and squealed, their swearing and laughing a jarring contrast to the scene around them.
‘People died here,’ said Streig, favouring the children with a dark look. One of their number stooped and fussed for a while, earning the attention of her peers. She lifted blackened stones with bare hands and brushed away the ash until she located some relic that had survived the fire.
‘It’s mine. I found it!’ she shouted. A larger boy shouldered his way past the other children and tried to snatch it from her.
‘Give it up, or you know what you’ll get,’ said the surly boy. The children were so intent on their argument that they failed to notice Streig approach. The girl held a mask, and though it was covered in ash Streig had no doubts whom it belonged to.
‘That belonged to a member of the Imperial Synod,’ he said, his voice strong, every word carrying over the ruins. ‘It belonged to an Exarch called Silverdust.’ The children turned to Streig with surprise written across their dirty faces. None of them was older than thirteen and all needed feeding as much as they needed bathing. ‘A lot of people died in the fire,’ continued Streig. ‘This place is a grave and you have my friend’s mask.’
The girl blanched at this and began to offer her salvage to Streig but the large boy snatched it from her. He turned to Streig and jutted his chin, both pugnacious and stubborn.
‘We found it. What’re you going to give us for it?’
‘Is it wrong to want to punch a child in the face?’ said Streig under his breath.
Unfortunately, came the response from the urn. But there are exceptions to every rule.
‘How much money have you got?’ said the surly boy.
‘What do you imagine will happen to you if you’re caught with the mask of a fallen Exarch?’
‘What do you mean?’ The boy grasped the mask a little tighter.
‘What do you imagine will happen to a snot-nosed lad who is caught with the mask of a dead Exarch?’
‘We were just looking for things to sell,’ said the girl. ‘Food is getting pricey and we’re all hungry.’ Her look was apologetic and Streig didn’t need the arcane to sense her shame.
‘Take this,’ said Streig, reaching into his money pouch. ‘I don’t have much, but I want the mask and doubt anyone else will buy it from you.’ The surly boy dropped the offending item at his feet and stalked off, gesturing his friends to follow. The girl remained and took a handful of coins from Streig.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have any family?’ he asked. The girl shook her head, not looking him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.’
‘You just did,’ replied the girl, looking at the coins in the palm of her hand. ‘Thank you.’ A ghost of a smile crossed her lips and then she ran off across the ruins. Streig held the mask a moment before polishing it with his sleeve.
‘This is what was calling to you?’ he asked as the mask began to gleam.
Yes, came the reply from the urn. I have owned it for a great amount of time, and it is imbued with some small measure of my power. The sun shone a little brighter before Silverdust spoke again. You’re a good person, Streig. What you did for that girl. There are not many …
‘Let’s get you back upstairs and on the mantelpiece, shall we?’ He turned back to the tower and prepared for the long climb up the spiral staircase.
CHAPTER NINE
Kjellrunn
Storyweavers occupy a strange place in the societies and cultures of Vinterkveld. Often small towns can go weeks or months without word of events occurring in the wider word. Storyweavers, sometimes known as skalds in Nordvlast, Drakefjord, and Vend, are part gossipmonger, part itinerant layabout, and part keeper of ancient tales. It’s a matter of prestige for a storyweaver to know a wide selection of stories, to tell them well, and be invited back to a place. Arkiv Island was overlooked by storyweavers during my time there, but there was no denying that word of the Empire’s lies and the re-emergence of dragons was disseminated by these charismatic wanderers. What the stories lacked in truth and accuracy was made up for in the enthusiastic way the storyweavers told them.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
Xen-wa sauntered through the town towards the temple. Kjellrunn could think of no other word for it. He neither hurried nor dawdled despite the novices trailing behind, almost tripping over themselves in fascination. A dozen townsfolk also followed, curious to see what the young man had to say. Kjellrunn found the scene perplexing and decided Xen-wa was nothing more than a chancer and a charlatan with good cheekbones and mischievous eyes that served him well. That Maxim trotted along by the older boy’s heels only served to irritate her further.
‘So you can hear whispers on the wind?’ asked Maxim. Kjellrunn’s own considerable powers were rooted in earth and water and she felt a sharp pang of jealousy.
‘I can.’ Xen-wa shrugged as if speaking of the price of flour. ‘People thought I was touched in the head at first, but then I started making sense of the messages.’
‘And you can send messages?’ Kjellrunn felt a moment of hope but Xen-wa shook his head.
‘I never learned. It seems like a good way to end up dead. The Empire doesn’t take kindly to people like me, even in Shanisrond.’ He stopped a moment and looked at Kjellrunn with wariness. ‘People like us, I should say.’ His gaze passed over the novices as they followed behind. ‘Like of all of us.’
‘I have premonitions!’ said Maxim brightly. ‘Though I can’t control them.’
Xen-wa gave Maxim a friendly smile and entered the temple. He approached the altar as if he’d lived there his whole life. Kjellrunn envied the self-assured way he strolled through life. No doubt, no second-guessing.
‘What guest enters this holy place?’ said Sundra, emerging from her room with a stern expression. Trine followed behind the priestess, mimicking the older woman’s demeanour.
‘I mean no harm.’ Xen-wa gave one of his disarming smiles. ‘I’m just a young storyweaver with word of the great events occurring across the continent.’
Sundra made a decidedly gruff unsatisfied noise but did not object. She looked from Kjellrunn to the storyweaver and back again, though Kjellrunn was unsure why. Xen-wa encouraged everyone to take a seat for his storytelling. A few of Romola’s pirates appeared along with Romola herself, who stood at the back with her
arms crossed and a cool expression on her face.
‘I’ve heard whispers on the wind,’ said Xen-wa in a strong voice that carried to the back of the room. ‘And I’ve pieced together what has happened in the north, where even now the Empire sets its gaze on Shanisrond with evil intent.’
‘Get on with it,’ muttered Kjellrunn, earning herself a dark look from Maxim. Xen-wa revealed how Steiner had crossed the continent on foot, making allies of bandits before attacking a mountain pass. The tale took a darker turn when Xen-wa revealed a dozen Imperial soldiers had been burned alive in the attack. Kjellrunn put this down to exaggeration.
‘Steiner would never resort to such barbaric methods,’ she whispered to Maxim, but the boy shushed her, eager to hear more. The storyweaver explained how the bandits had gone on to make further attacks on the Empire from their hiding places in the forests of Karelina Province.
‘But what of Steiner?’ called out Maxim impatiently.
‘And my father,’ whispered Kjellrunn. A deep undercurrent of anxiety swirled within her.
‘And just days ago Steiner appeared on the island of Arkiv with his great love, the Lady Kristofine—’
‘The Lady?’ whispered Maxim.
‘I thought she was barmaid,’ muttered Kjellrunn. Not that there was anything wrong with barmaids of course, but Kristofine was hardly nobility.
‘—and took part in a mighty battle with several allies. A wounded dragon was seen fleeing from the Great Library, which burned to the ground in a terrible conflagration.’
‘Frejna, please, no,’ whispered Kjellrunn, feeling as if she were going to be sick. Xen-wa continued to embroider his story, building up Steiner’s prowess and the terrible destruction wrought by the conflict.
‘They are saying Bittervinge has returned to have his vengeance on the Empire.’
A wave of despondency rippled through the room in hushed yet urgent whispers and wary glances. But something wasn’t right. Someone was missing from the story was missing.
‘What of Marek Vartiainen?’ called out Kjellrunn, unable to leash her curiosity any longer.
