Witchsign. Den Patrick

followed Marek’s gaze as he looked over the town and the cottages that nestled against the steep incline rising up from the coast. The small windows bore heavy wooden shutters stained with salt, and verdant moss clung to thatched rooftops. The dour atmosphere was well matched by the cruel temperature.

      ‘Not much of a home, is it,’ admitted Marek.

      ‘So why stay?’

      Steiner regretted the question as soon as he saw the pained expression cross his father’s face. For a moment they stood in silence beneath the flat grey sky. Marek lifted his eyes to the sea and Steiner wasn’t sure if he was searching or pleading with the choppy waves that danced against the stone pier.

      ‘You still hope she’ll come back.’

      Marek nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and headed back into the smithy.

      ‘Did you sell the sickle we made last week?’ asked Steiner, keen to change the subject from an absent mother, an absent wife.

      Marek nodded but said nothing. Steiner was well used to his father’s silences.

      ‘Strange time of year to harvest herbs. Who bought it?’

      ‘One of the fishermen.’ Marek cleared his throat. ‘I don’t remember now.’

      Steiner frowned and pulled off his thick leather gloves. In a town this small they knew every customer by name. The sale of a sickle was no small matter and would bring some much needed coin. He opened his mouth to press for an answer but the latch on the door rattled and his father nodded towards it.

      ‘I wondered where Kjell had got to,’ said Marek.

      The door to the smithy creaked as Kjellrunn pushed the heavy wood aside. She stepped forward into the furnace’s glow. Small for her age, she looked closer to twelve than her sixteen years. Her tunic was overlong, reaching her knees, while her britches were patched many times; Steiner’s hand-me-downs. All their coin was spent on food and supplies for the smithy; money for clothes was scarce.

      ‘Would it kill you to pull a brush through your hair before you go to school?’ said their father with a slow smile.

      ‘She does a fine impression of a rusalka,’ said Steiner, noting the driftwood and black feathers she clutched; treasures from the beach no doubt.

      ‘You said you don’t believe in the old tales,’ replied Kjellrunn.

      Steiner shrugged. ‘That may be, but I’m still halfway convinced you’re one of them.’

      ‘There are worse things than rusalka,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘A ship has just arrived in the bay.’

      ‘We were out there not more than a minute ago,’ replied Steiner.

      ‘See for yourself if you think I’m a liar,’ she replied, jutting her chin with an obstinate look in her eye.

      ‘I’d rather start preparing dinner if it’s all the same to you,’ said their father. He looked away, unwilling to meet their eyes. ‘A ship in the bay means the Empire.’

      ‘And that means a troika of Vigilants,’ said Steiner, feeling the familiar fear the Holy Synod evoked.

      ‘Perhaps not.’ Kjell eyed both of them. ‘Not this time. You’ll want to see this.’

      ‘Did Uncle Verner bet you could lure us down to the bay?’ Steiner asked as they followed the rutted track that led to the coastal road.

      ‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ replied Kjellrunn, her eyes fixed on the blue-grey swell of the sea. Something between mist and rain dampened their spirits even as curiosity kindled inside them.

      ‘There it is,’ said Marek, pointing a finger. The bay rarely saw anything larger than fishing boats; no one put in at Cinderfell to trade. Only when the Sommerende Ocean sent vicious storms did captains seek the safe haven of the drab town.

      ‘A ship,’ said Steiner. ‘A frigate, I reckon. Though why you’d care to paint it red is anyone’s guess.’

      ‘You reckon right,’ said their father. ‘It’s a frigate, but not like I’ve seen before.’

      They continued to walk down to the bay, past cottages arranged in curving rows, down the narrow cobbled road that wended its way to the shore. The Spøkelsea rushed over the shingle beach in a hushed roar, leaving trails of foam and seaweed as the water retreated once again. Steiner studied the sleek ship as it lay at anchor, sails stowed like folded wings. The sailors aboard were ant-sized at this distance and just as busy. The whole vessel was dark red from prow to stern while the figurehead jutted from the front in forbidding black, wings outstretched along the hull.

      ‘What is that? muttered Steiner.

      ‘It’s a crow,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘After Se or Venter, I expect.’

      Steiner frowned. ‘More of your folk tales, I suppose?’

      ‘Se and Venter belong to Frejna, they’re her crows.’

      ‘It’s not an Imperial ship then,’ said Marek.

      ‘You know how they feel about the old gods,’ added Steiner.

      ‘Goddess. Not god. Frejna is a goddess.’ Kjellrunn rolled her eyes. ‘Of winter, wisdom and death.’

      Other families had appeared at the doorways of cottages or emerged from the few shops to see the dark red ship. Parents held their children close and anxious glances were traded.

      ‘All the Imperial ships are in the south,’ said Marek, ‘harassing Shanisrond or escorting cargo ships up the Ashen Gulf.’

      ‘Perhaps they’re pirates,’ said Steiner with a smile, nudging his sister.

      Kjellrunn looked over the town and wrinkled her nose. ‘How much do you think they’d give me for a half-trained, half-wit blacksmith?’

      ‘Just because I can’t read doesn’t make me a half-wit,’ said Steiner through gritted teeth.

      ‘If they are pirates they’re not trying very hard,’ said Marek. ‘Perhaps they stopped in for repairs,’ he added, before turning to walk back up the hill.

      ‘What do you think it is?’ Steiner called after him. The frigate’s arrival would be the talk of the town for weeks to come.

      ‘I don’t know.’ Marek frowned and cleared his throat, as if it troubled him. Kjellrunn stopped and looked over her shoulder. There was a faraway look in her eye, as if she could see something Steiner could not. It was the same look she had after she’d been in the woods, or when she spoke of folk tales.

      ‘No good will come of it,’ she said, ‘whatever it is.’ Her words were as cold and grey as the skies overhead. Steiner struggled to suppress a shiver as she turned her eyes on him. There was something not right in his sister, nothing he could put a name to, yet he feared they would find out what it was all too soon.

      ‘Hoy there, Steiner.’ Kristofine stood outside the tavern’s doorway with a playful smile, arms folded across her chest. She was of a similar age to the blacksmith’s son, always top of the class and always polite to her teachers, though their school days had ended two years previously.

      The meagre daylight had dimmed and a stillness had descended on the bay, as if the four winds themselves held their breath in anticipation.

      ‘Hoy there,’ said Steiner. ‘Working tonight?’

      ‘And every night, my curse for having a father who owns a tavern.’

      ‘Is my uncle here?’

      Kristofine nodded. ‘Was it only your uncle who you came to see?’

      Steiner shrugged. ‘Well, you never know who you might run into at a place like this.’

      They smiled at each other and Steiner wondered what to say next.