Witchsign. Den Patrick

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 beside 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.

      ‘I’m not going to turn you into a toad, you fool.’ She regretted the words the moment they left her lips. The fisherman looked away, hurrying in to town. No doubt there’d been a good deal of talk about the blacksmith’s son, and hadn’t everyone always assumed it would be his daughter that would fail the Invigilation? Hadn’t she always been the strange one? Not Steiner, so strong and dutiful. Not Steiner, who dreamed of hammered metal in his sleep. Not Steiner, though he struggled to read and had no head for numbers.

      Her strides became longer, quicker. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, and Kjellrunn felt them keenly, as if they meant to suffocate her. The cobbles gave way to a road of hard-packed earth, the cottages replaced by hedgerows and sickly evergreens. She hadn’t intended to head north and the wind admonished her with every step. Each breeze and gust was light but the chill it carried was bitter. Kjellrunn shivered and clutched her shawl tighter, glad when she reached the edge of the woods.

      ‘Hello, my friends,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve much need of you today.’

      The trees did not whisper back. The stark bare branches of the oaks had no welcome for her, while the pines stood dark and silent. Gone was the ecstatic susurrus of summer, trees whispering in a joyous hush. Gone were the many sounds of life, bird song and the commotion of woodpeckers. The ground