Witchsign. Den Patrick

They wore padded cream jackets that reached their knees with long sleeveless leather coats over the top. The leather was embossed with the geometric designs of the Holy Synod and dyed the colour of dried blood. Only their masks were different. The first wore a mask of polished silver with a gentle smile whereas the second had opted for an almost featureless mask, save for the frowning brow above the eye holes. Crafted from pitted bronze, the mask made the Vigilant appear like some ancient horror. The first announced himself in a voice so loud that several children flinched.

      ‘I am Hierarch Shirinov of the Holy Synod of the Solmindre Empire, and my colleague is Hierarch Khigir.’ The heavy Solska accent made each word more severe. Shirinov had the stoop of an old man and his steps were aided by a stout walking stick, yet his frailty did not extend to his voice.

      ‘Fear not, children of Cinderfell,’ said Khigir, in a deep and mournful tone. ‘The pitiful Scorched Republics only produce witchsign but rarely.’

      Steiner frowned. Vigilants operated in groups of three, known as Troika, when they were about the Emperor’s business. That two Vigilants should visit Cinderfell was most unusual and Steiner feared some deeper problem.

      ‘Know that I will spirit away the unclean souls bearing the taint of witchsign,’ said Shirinov. ‘Think of me not as a persecutor, but a cure for the sickness of draconic sorcery.’ The Vigilant stopped before Kjellrunn, the smiling silver mask so close their noses almost touched.

      ‘And what is your name, girl?’

      ‘Kjellrunn Vartiainen,’ she replied. Steiner’s hands became slick with sweat. Surely it could be no accident that the Hierarch had gone straight to her? Wouldn’t a brother know if his own sister had been corrupted by the taint of dragons? Rumours spoke of bodies rebelling against the strangeness: discolouring, twisting, wasting away, yet Kjellrunn remained whole. Other tales mentioned strange dreams, or being able to able to pluck thoughts from people’s minds. Nothing of the sort had befallen Kjellrunn, and yet in that moment Steiner was sure she would be shipped away to Vladibogdan, never to be seen again. Steiner promised himself he’d be a better brother if Hierarch Shirinov turned away, promised himself he’d look after his sister until the end of days if she walked free from the Invigilation.

      ‘Now,’ said Shirinov, voice booming across the square. ‘Let us see what we shall see.’ A few of the children began crying. Others stared into space and trembled. Steiner watched as Kjellrunn bunched her hands into fists and stared straight ahead, just as he’d told her.

      ‘That’s it, Kjell,’ he breathed. ‘Show them no fear.’

      Shirinov pressed his face up close to her once more and Steiner realized he was holding his breath. The Hierarch’s gaze shifted to another child and he hobbled away, Kjellrunn instantly forgotten.

      Every Invigilation was different. Some Vigilants would prowl the rows of children, dismissing each in turn once satisfied the taint of witchsign was not present. All fine and good if you were the first child inspected, not so much if you were the last, kept waiting in terrible anxiety to the bitter end.

      ‘Hel is all waiting,’ Verner often said and Steiner couldn’t help but agree as he stared at Kjellrunn, hoping she would pass.

      Some said witchsign had a scent, a scent only a Vigilant could detect. Others told of a ghostly aura or shadows that writhed in the cold. Steiner didn’t know the truth of it, simply glad to have passed his own Invigilations.

      Shirinov did not inspect them one by one, nor did he work through the rows in an orderly fashion: he circled, he wandered, he dawdled. Hierarch Khigir stood to one side, unable or unwilling to move among the children, observing them from afar.

      Three times Hierarch Shirinov returned to Ditlef, sniffing at the boy until he was pale as milk, hair slicked to his forehead with nervous sweat. It would not do to wail for one’s parents at times like this. Those children who fainted, or worse yet lost control of their bladders, were not given an easy time in the months following an Invigilation. Steiner wondered if the Vigilants didn’t pass on some measure of their cruelty to the children during their yearly visit.

      Moment after anxious moment crawled by. No one wanted to be marked out for bearing the draconic taint, no one wanted to be cursed with arcane powers. The Empire had spent the last seventy-five years erasing all trace of the dragons, and exterminating anyone who evinced their powers.

      The Hierarch wound his way through the rows, feet crunching in the gritty slush, his cane stabbing the ground hatefully. Steiner watched as Shirinov drew close to Kjellrunn and felt powerless to stop what he felt sure would come next.

      ‘You are all free to go, children of Cinderfell,’ barked the old man. He slumped against his cane as if weary, and Steiner thought he heard disappointment in Shirinov’s voice. Several of the children cried out with relief, while others merely clutched themselves and fled the cloister. Kjellrunn approached him in a daze, walking slowly as if recently woken.

      ‘I can’t believe it,’ whispered Kjellrunn. ‘When he came straight to me at the beginning …’ Brother and sister clung to each other, and Steiner suppressed a sob which Kjellrunn answered with one of her own.

      ‘Come on,’ said Steiner, eying the two Hierarchs. ‘Let’s tell Father you’re safe.’

      They slunk from the cloister together, emerging from the school with relieved smiles on weary faces. Steiner couldn’t wait to get back home and put the ordeal behind them once and for all.

      ‘You made it, Kjell. That’s the last time you have to go through that.’

      Kjell nodded and smiled through tears that gleamed silver as they tumbled from her cheeks.

      ‘I’ll make a fish stew tonight,’ said Steiner.

      ‘And boiled potatoes served in butter and herbs?’ asked Kjellrunn.

      Steiner nodded. Not much of a celebration meal, but it was important to remember the small victories. Small victories were all you had in Cinderfell.

      ‘Wait.’ Kjellrunn stopped.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘The brooch. It just came loose. I felt it fall but I can’t see it.’

      The pair of them looked at the muddy ground, casting about for Marek’s hammer brooch, while all around them children were held close by their parents.

      ‘It can’t be far,’ said Steiner, as his eyes scoured the gritty slush at their feet.

      ‘It’s important, Steiner,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘It was Mother’s.’

      ‘I know,’ he replied. While he didn’t believe in superstition there was something about the crude lump of metal, some luck that had seen his sister walk free of the Vigilant’s grasp.

      ‘You there! Stop!’ Steiner froze as the few children and parents who remained looked on with sickened expressions. Shirinov and Khigir passed under the arch, smiling silver face and frowning bronze mask fixed on them.

      ‘Steiner, run,’ whispered Kjellrunn, as two soldiers emerged from the school, flanking the Hierarchs. A look over his shoulder revealed two more soldiers waiting down the street.

      ‘There’s no running,’ said Steiner. ‘Not from the Empire.’

      Shirinov hobbled forward, his cane dragging a furrow through the grey slush. Khigir loomed at his shoulder, ever frowning.

      ‘The brooch!’ whispered Kjellrunn, her eyes staring wildly at the ground.

      ‘Never mind that now, it’s gone,’ said Steiner, pulling her close as the Hierarchs approached. ‘Get behind me, Kjell.’

       CHAPTER FOUR

       Steiner