by Den Patrick
‘Ah!’ Xen-wa held up a finger and grinned. ‘I missed a part, so many are the deeds of Steiner and Kristofine. Let us retrace his steps to shortly after the battle of the mountain pass.’ The tale continued to unfold until Xen-wa reached the point where Marek had been captured by Exarch Zima in Vostochnyye Lisy.
‘What?’ Kjellrunn lurched from her seat, eyes wide. ‘My father has been captured by the Empire and you’re just telling me now?’
‘I’m a storyweaver.’ Xen-wa shrugged. ‘I thought Steiner and Kristofine were the most important part of the …’ His words dwindled into silence as Kjellrunn stalked up to him. For a second she was sure she would slap him across his handsome face, before she remembered she was wearing initiate’s robes. Attacking people in the Temple was hardly the conduct of a priestess of Frejna.
‘This is how I find out my father has been captured?’ she whispered. ‘This isn’t simply a story to earn you coin. This is my family you’re speaking of.’
‘Perhaps I should have said something sooner,’ admitted Xen-wa with a rueful look. He took a step back, hands held up to placate her. Kjellrunn marched out of the temple, keen to be away from anyone and everyone.
The familiar form of the Watcher’s Wait lay quietly by a stone pier, though she was much diminished from her recent encounter with two Imperial galleons. The stout Imperial vessels had carried Vigilants in addition to their regular crew, and arcane fire had rained down on the masts and sails of Romola’s ship, rendering it little more than a scorched barge. The pirates who could walk were doing what they could to salvage timber from the wrecks of the Imperial ships, though it was slow work in the Shanisrond heat. Kjellrunn stood on the beach and watched the men and women work, feeling the sand between her toes, trying to overcome the shock of Marek’s fate.
‘He’s not bad,’ said Romola from over Kjellrunn’s shoulder. The captain had followed her down to the shore but Kjellrunn had not slowed her pace. She had wanted to be alone after all. Romola, being Romola, had doggedly followed her all the same. ‘The storyweaver, I mean. He’s not that bad.’
‘He’s not that handsome,’ muttered Kjellrunn.
‘I meant his storytelling, not his looks.’ A slow smile crossed Romola’s face.
‘My father.’ Tears sprang to Kjellrunn’s eyes and she fell into Romola’s arms. The pirate captain looked surprised for a heartbeat before wrapping her arms about the slender young woman. ‘He could already be dead by now,’ sobbed Kjellrunn. Romola said nothing and simply held her. ‘And that stupid boy blurted it out in front of everyone.’ Kjellrunn broke the embrace and wiped her tears on the back of her hand.
‘I forget how young you are sometimes,’ said Romola, trying to stifle a laugh behind her hand.
‘What?’ Kjellrunn frowned.
‘He’s really got under your skin, right?’
‘That’s ridiculous. I’ve barely known him an hour. I’m not sure I even like boys that way.’ Kjellrunn sniffed and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. ‘It’s my father that I’m upset about.’ She looked out to sea and felt the comforting presence of the leviathan, solid and patient.
‘He’s a thoughtless fool for not telling you about your father sooner,’ admitted Romola. ‘But he’s very young.’
‘Young and annoying.’ Kjellrunn gazed towards the north-east where her family were. ‘If I’d been able to hear whispers on the wind I would have gone to them—’
‘Leaving everyone here undefended. They would have surely perished without you.’
‘That may be true, but I have to go to Arkiv and find Steiner,’ she added calmly. ‘And then I’m going to find my father.’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Romola, indicating the Watcher’s Wait. ‘I want to set sail as badly as you do, but we’ve no masts and I’m not even sure we’ve enough crew to make a voyage into open seas, right? I lost a lot of people.’
‘Then I’ll go on foot,’ said Kjellrunn, knowing full well she’d have to walk all the way to Vend Province and back down the other side of the Ashen Gulf before reaching Khlystburg. Such a journey would take months. It was a childish thing to say, but she felt childish. She wanted her father, her brother, her family, and she would do anything, go anywhere to get them back.
‘It’s bad enough that I never knew my mother.’ She clenched her fists and looked at the wrecked hulks of the Imperial galleons. ‘I refused to lose anyone else to the Empire.’
‘Why don’t we go back to the temple and have some tea?’ replied Romola. ‘I’m sure Sundra will have something helpful to say on the subject, right?’
‘You cannot leave,’ shouted Sundra in the temple’s kitchen. ‘You are an initiate of Frejna. Your place is here tending to the people of Dos Khor. You made a commitment to the goddess, and to me.’
‘This was not what I had in mind,’ muttered Romola, taking care to stand in the doorway away from the two priestesses. The argument had started almost the moment Kjellrunn had returned from the beach.
‘What if it was your brother out there risking his life?’ shouted Kjellrunn.
‘My brother is out there risking his life!’ replied Sundra, though the heat faded from her words and an expression of pained worry crossed her face. ‘I don’t know where he is or even if he is still alive, or Taiga either.’ Sundra drew closer to Kjellrunn and took her hand gently. ‘I don’t want to lose anyone else, Kjellrunn, least of all you.’
‘But Father needs me. I could help. The goddesses have given me these powers and a rebellion is raging across the gulf. I should go to them.’
‘Kjellrunn.’ Sundra pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘How are you going to get there?’
‘Perhaps if I can get to Arkiv I can find Steiner and we can look for my father together.’
‘We lost so many on the beach that day.’ Sundra shook her head with an expression of deep sadness. ‘Now I’m going to lose you too.’ She sat down slowly and all her years settled about her shoulders like a great weight.
‘I can’t just stay here like a little girl while the men in my family are risking everything,’ added Kjellrunn, her voice low and calm.
‘But you are a little girl,’ whispered Sundra. ‘Just sixteen summers.’
‘And if you were me?’ asked Kjellrunn.
‘If I were you’ – Sundra gave a small begrudging laugh – ‘I would be full of the same determined intensity. But I worry for you, Kjellrunn. The bones whisper your name. They whisper death.’
‘It’s not my death you see,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘It’s the death that follows in my wake; it is the death that goes ahead of me like a stormtide.’
‘Kjellrunn, listen to yourself,’ chided Sundra.
‘You said yourself, sometimes a priestess must watch and wait, but there are times when we must act.’
‘And now is one of those times,’ said Romola softly. ‘If Steiner or Kimi fail to kill the Emperor then we’ll have perhaps six seasons before Shanisrond is crawling with Imperial soldiers.’
‘But she’s so young,’ said Sundra in a small voice.
‘I’ll go with her,’ said Romola. ‘I know a thing or two about getting around Vinterkveld. I can get her as far as Khlystburg.’
‘But you have no ship,’ added Sundra, a look of annoyance on her face.
‘Not one with masts,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘But perhaps we don’t need them.’
Kjellrunn swept back into the temple, where Xen-wa was trading coins for gossip from the other towns.
‘I hope you’re going to donate some of that to the temple,’ said Kjellrunn with a hard look. Xen-wa glanced from priestess to pirate.
‘I always feel like I’m in trouble when I speak to you,’ he said slowly. His usual veneer of confidence seemed to have worn distinctly thin.
‘I need you,’ began Kjellrunn. Her cheeks became warm as she blushed, suddenly aware of what she’d said. ‘We need you, is what I mean. We’re heading to Arkiv by ship, but I – I mean we need someone with your talent.�
��
‘I could, but I promised my family in Nadira I’d be back in the next month.’
‘You have family?’ Kjellrunn found this more implausible than the fact Xen-wa had arcane gifts.
‘An aunt and a cat. And someone else.’ He waved his hand vaguely but Kjellrunn understood perfectly.
‘The Empire could be here in as little as a year and a half and I don’t suppose your aunt, your cat, or your “someone” will enjoy that very much.’
‘I am not coming to Khlystburg,’ replied Xen-wa softly. ‘I have to go home.’ And with that he departed the temple with the same maddening saunter that he’d entered with. Kjellrunn looked at Romola, who returned the look with a shrug before rubbing her forehead with one hand.
‘Men, right?’
‘What about boys?’ Maxim had been standing by the altar the whole time, listening to the exchange between Xen-wa and Kjellrunn. Trine hovered just behind him, looking a touch guilty for such obvious eavesdropping. ‘You need someone that can hear whispers on the wind—’
‘Maxim, you’ve only just come into your powers. I can’t ask you to do this.’
‘You’re not asking me,’ he said in a tone much older than his years. ‘I’m volunteering.’
‘Maxim.’ Romola dropped to one knee and smiled. ‘You’re just a kid and Khlystburg is the most dangerous place in all of Vinterkveld.’
‘Dangerous?’ Maxim frowned. ‘I was with Steiner at the very beginning. I met him on the ship to Vladibogdan. Your ship!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Romola, who stood up and backed away.
‘I needed the money.’ Romola glanced at Trine with a guilty expression. ‘It wasn’t my finest hour, right? I’ve changed since then.’
‘I know about danger,’ continued Maxim. ‘Steiner and I saved each other’s lives. I’d still be on that island now if it wasn’t for him.’
‘Where he goes I go,’ added Trine, one hand resting on the boy’s shoulder.
‘Seems you’ve got yourself a crew,’ said Romola. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Now we buy rope,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Or salvage it.’
‘How much rope?’ replied the captain. ‘And what for?’
‘All the rope we can lay our hands on.’ Kjellrunn led her crew from the temple. ‘Come on.’
‘You haven’t told us what the rope is for,’ pressed Trine.
‘You’re right. I haven’t.’ Kjellrunn bit her lip, unsure how her friends would react once she’d revealed how she intended to reach Arkiv and Khlystburg without sails.
CHAPTER TEN
Ruslan
Seven decades may not seem like a terribly long time to an academic or a historian, but there are a few considerations to include when it comes to the preservation of truth and the tales that are passed down over time. Men could expect to survive to fifty if they lived in the poorer provinces of the Empire, being engaged in more manual work as men often are. Low-born women could hope to see sixty years on average, but even the nobles rarely lived beyond sixty-five. Those who saw the war with the dragons first-hand were likely enjoying their final rest, and the only people who could truthfully say they remembered the giant reptiles were the Emperor himself and Silverdust. Memories fade and stories passed from generation to generation lose something in the retelling. Many city folk thought they had succumbed to madness when the dragons returned in the skies above Khlystburg. How had these creatures from story and myth appeared in the humdrum everyday life of thankless toil and harsh taxes?
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
The north of the city was noticeably more affluent than the other districts of Khlystburg. The Boyar had given him permission to take his leave, and so with no tasks to fulfil and a little money available to him, Ruslan had explored. The streets were swept by teams of low-born men and women, while the shop fronts were in good repair and recently painted. There were fewer carts transporting food and cargo, and more carriages ferrying the nobles and officials of the Empire. The homeless and the desperate were moved on by roving pairs of black-armoured soldiers and Ruslan felt their gaze fall upon him more than once. He’d been able to avoid them in the main, but finally his luck had run dry, and the aide found himself facing two soldiers, their black helms giving nothing away, save for their loyalty. The red star of the Solmindre Empire was plain to see above the eye slot.
‘What business have you in this part of the city?’ said one of the soldiers. Ruslan’s gaze drifted to the soldier’s mace, clenched in an eager fist.
‘I am exploring the city, nothing more. I’m from Vend Province.’
‘Vend?’ He could hear the scorn in the soldier’s voice. ‘Buildings and roads must be quite a shock to you.’
Ruslan forced a smile and refused to rise to the soldier’s bait.
‘Who are you?’ said the second soldier, stepping closer. ‘And why are you in Khlystburg?’
‘I am Ruslan Hasanov, aide to Boyar Augustine Sokolov, who has been summoned here by the Emperor himself.’ Something unsaid passed between the soldiers, but neither of them moved. ‘Am I free to go on my way?’
‘You can go on your way,’ said the soldier clutching the mace, ‘but I doubt you or your Boyar will be free for much longer after that business with his son.’
‘You know about Dimitri?’ Ruslan had known the scandal was the talk of the nobles; clearly he’d been naive to think the news would remain within the upper echelons of the Empire.
‘Everyone and their mother knows.’ The soldiers turned their backs and began to walk down the street at a leisurely pace, seeming to enjoy the intimidation caused by their presence.
‘Be careful now,’ said an old man guiding a handcart. A rattling cough shook him as he held up a fist to his mouth. ‘They’re arresting all sorts these days, rich and poor.’ He had white hair and a beard that reached his chest. One shoulder sat higher than the other and his head was cocked to one side as if he were waiting on an answer. The man’s eyes were quick and bright. Ruslan didn’t doubt he’d seen plenty and had plenty to tell. The cart contained rancid bones and Ruslan hoped they had belonged to animals. ‘Even the loyal aren’t safe when the Okhrana knock on the door at midnight,’ said the old man, casting a look over his shoulder.
‘Why do they come for loyal subjects?’
‘The Emperor is losing his grip; he sees danger in every shadow. And even the skies are no longer safe.’
Ruslan looked up in the pale blue spring sky; it was another bright day in Khlystburg. It was still cold enough to kill any drunks should they pass out in the street.
‘Has there been an attack today?’ said Ruslan quietly.
‘Not yet,’ replied the old man. Columns of smoke on the horizon were testament to night-time predations. Draconic fire had rained down and cost people their homes and most likely their lives.
‘Devoured from within,’ said the old man, looking at the soldiers. ‘And devoured from without,’ he added, jutting his head at the skies to the north. ‘The Emperor made us all believe these were the golden days, but night has fallen, I think. It’s only a matter of time until darkness consumes everything.’
An uncomfortable chill raced down Ruslan’s spine at the man’s words as he made his way back to the apartments where his master brooded behind brocade drapes.
The Boyar had said little since his audience with the Emperor in the catacombs, settling into a deep melancholy upon their return. It had lasted nearly a week. Neither of them had voiced their relief that the Boyar still lived, but Ruslan felt it keenly.
‘Good. You’re back,’ said Sokolov as Ruslan entered his master’s suite. The drapes had been drawn back while an untouched breakfast waited on a tray. The bed had been made and windows left ajar, which had remedied the airless and dusty atmosphere in the chamber but introduced a spiteful chill. The Boyar remained as grey as he had during the voyage, but he was dressed at least. He stood at the window watching the comings and goings of the Imperia
l capital with a quiet intensity.
‘I think I’ve explored enough,’ said Ruslan. ‘The streets are not the safest place for one such as I.’ His master refused to be drawn into conversation, wearing his silence like armour. ‘I’m not used to having time on my hands, my lord,’ continued Ruslan. ‘Why the endless waiting? I thought we were charged with locating Steiner Vart—’
‘I don’t pay you to think,’ snapped the Boyar. ‘We came here to make sure House Sokolov endures, nothing more.’
Ruslan settled into a chastened silence, all too aware he’d overstepped his bounds as a simple aide.
‘It’s good that you have explored,’ said the Boyar, squinting at something in the street. ‘It’s good to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. One can be better prepared for surprises when one knows the lie of the land.’
Ruslan was about to ask the Boyar to clarify his rather cryptic pronouncement when a knock sounded at the door. It was a measured and polite tap of someone who waited on nobility often, Ruslan guessed. A delicate, mousy girl with large eyes entered the room. She looked pale and anxious in equal measure – and for good reason, as it turned out.
‘Exarch Zima is here to see you, my lord.’ She bobbed a curtsey and took her leave, disappearing into the darkness of the corridor. Moments later a bestial face appeared from the gloom, the wolverine mask of Zima leering at the Boyar. He still had one arm in a sling, yet there was little to suggest he was frail or in pain.
‘I would speak to you,’ said the Exarch. He inclined his head towards Ruslan just a fraction and tapped his thigh impatiently with his one good hand.
‘I didn’t think you were here to play cards,’ said the Boyar from between gritted teeth, not looking away from the window.
‘I would speak to you privately,’ pressed the Exarch, and Ruslan felt the weight of Zima’s gaze fall upon him. He couldn’t be sure what foul witchery the Exarch was capable of and had no wish to find out. Perhaps he could excuse himself.
‘Ruslan stays,’ said the Boyar. Sokolov sat in one of the high-backed leather armchairs that dominated the centre of the room, and crossed his legs. He looked at the Exarch with a grave expression, peering over his steepled fingers.
