Witchsign. Den Patrick

they take them to Khlystburg?’ said Kjellrunn. It was an age-old pastime, wondering where the ships took children tainted with witchsign.

      ‘Khlystburg.’ Capital of the Solmindre Empire and final destination of dissenters and traitors. ‘No, they’re not taken to Khlystburg,’ said Steiner.

      ‘Then where?’ She eyed him and frowned. ‘Do you know?’

      Steiner’s eyes strayed to the sea even as his thoughts turned to Vladibogdan, the mysterious island Verner had mentioned. The waters were a flat green expanse that swallowed each snowflake and Steiner reached for Kjellrunn’s hand and held it tight. Together they watched parents walking their children to the Invigilation with heavy hearts. The chill in their bones had nothing to do with the weather.

      ‘I wish Mother was here,’ said Kjellrunn, her grip tightening on his hand as the words slipped free. ‘I’d like to see her just once in my life.’

      ‘Your life isn’t over, Kjell. They’ll not take you today. Look them in the eye when they come close, don’t let them see you’re afraid.’

      ‘That’s easier said than done,’ grumbled Kjell.

      ‘Don’t look down at your boots, it makes them think you have something to hide. And don’t sing, even to comfort yourself. Don’t breathe a word about the old gods either.’

      ‘Goddesses. And I’m not a fool. You really think I’d bring up Frøya and Frejna on a day like this?’

      Steiner didn’t answer, but watched Kjellrunn’s expression darken.

      ‘Of course not,’ he replied after they’d trudged on a dozen feet. ‘I’m just worried is all. There’s been no witchsign in Cinderfell for decades and I don’t want that to change today.’

      ‘Nor will it,’ said Kjellrunn, her hand straying to the hammer brooch Marek had given her.

      Steiner considered another truth, one the fishermen spoke of when they were in dark moods and well into their cups. Was it possible that the Vigilants had darker motives for taking the children away? Kjellrunn marched beside him, all tangled hair, built like a sparrow with a watchful cast to her eye. She was more urchin than woman, and Steiner hoped it would provide some measure of protection.

      Kjellrunn scowled over her shoulder at the blood-red ship. The clouds overhead had darkened and a cold breeze carried the scent of fresh snow. ‘What if I refused to go? I doubt the Vigilant will notice the absence of one child. We could go home right now.’

      They’d played this game before, two children teasing at ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. The outcome was always the same: bleak as the Cinderfell weather.

      ‘It’s their job to notice,’ replied Steiner. ‘They’re called Vigilants and they have the school register. If you don’t attend then they’ll come to the house for you.’

      ‘I’ll hide in the woods all day,’ she replied, daring to look pleased with herself.

      ‘And then they’ll search the whole town and the soldiers won’t be gentle or shy about letting people know how much they dislike being defied.’

      ‘I won’t go!’ She stopped walking and folded her arms, a scowl on her face. All traces of the Kjellrunn fascinated by Spriggani and rusalka had disappeared, only a stony-eyed blonde girl remained. Steiner looked down the slope to where the track met the coastal road. The three soldiers he’d seen on the pier were headed for the school, coming closer with every heartbeat.

      ‘Come on,’ he whispered, but Kjellrunn shook her head. ‘Come on, Kjell. I never wanted to go either but …’

      ‘Maybe our mother didn’t leave at all,’ hissed Kjellrunn. ‘Maybe she was taken, taken by the same soldiers who are here today.’

      ‘Kjell, you’re just telling stories now. Come on, please.’ The soldiers were coming closer, less than a stone’s throw from where they argued.

      ‘You’d hand me over to the same Empire that took our mother?’

      ‘Kjell, you don’t know that’s true, Father never mentioned anything like this—’

      ‘He’s barely mentioned her at all.’ Kjellrunn turned and walked into the chest of the nearest soldier with a grunt. They were all taller than her by a head and a half at least, mail gleaming in the gaps between their black enamelled armour. Their matching helms bore the red star of the Solmindre Empire while the narrow eye slots revealed nothing of the men inside. The same red star was embossed on each arm and heavy maces hung from loops at their leather belts. Their cloaks, boots and gloves were as black as tar. Steiner held his breath; he’d seen soldiers before but never this close.

      ‘You’d best be moving on,’ said the nearest soldier in heavily accented Nordspråk. ‘You wouldn’t want to be late now, would you?’

      Steiner watched as Kjell’s anger was eclipsed by the sheer size of the three men. Her head bowed, shoulders slumped with resignation.

      ‘N-no,’ was all she managed.

      Cinderfell’s only school had started as a lone classroom, a log cabin with a stone chimney and a thatched roof that had gone green with moss. Some said the chimney had stood since before the uprising against the dragons. Other classrooms had been added, and one had famously burned down, though not from dragon fire despite many a tall tale. The cabins were arranged around two wide squares, rebuilt in stone as the decades passed. New storeys had been added, a bell tower and then a cloister. Columns supported covered walkways inside each square, keeping the students dry from grimy rain during the wet months and free from the dirty snow during the cold ones. A fine layer of soot settled on everything during summer, adding to the misery. The lawns of the school were kept neat and a lone spruce pointed towards the overcast skies.

      The children filed into the square, swapping fearful gazes as if eye contact alone might save them. Row by row they formed an anxious mass, boots crunching in the gritty slush. Steiner took up a spot by the archway, reluctant to head into the school. The snow had stopped but an unrelenting chill persisted.

      ‘Steiner, I’m scared,’ said Kjellrunn in a harsh whisper.

      He nodded. ‘Everyone is,’ he said softly. ‘Go and stand with the others. It will be over quick enough.’

      Kjellrunn picked her way through the rows and found a space to stand with her classmates. None spoke to her, none offered so much as a look. She was a strangeling among the townsfolk, a curious girl with a head full of old gods and things that were no longer fashionable to speak of in Nordvlast. Soon all talk of Frøya and Frejna would be forbidden, just as it was in the Empire, and in Drakefjord, so it was said.

      The soldiers entered first, their spiked maces clasped in gloved fists. The armoured men took up positions at each corner of the cloister, figures of deeper darkness on an overcast day. Steiner felt a terrible dread settle upon him, a compulsion to look over his shoulder. Not one but two members of the Synod approached. 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