Читать книгу Witchsign - Den Patrick - Страница 16

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 was a sea of fallen leaves, consumed with the gentle business of decay. The ferns, so abundant in summer, so vibrant and green, were now an unlovely brown signalling their intent to rot. They would return to the very earth that had nurtured them.

‘How nice it would be to simply slip to the floor and do nothing but dream of spring, speak to no one, see no one, be spared Cinderfell and Nordvlast and the Empire.’ She brushed fingers against an oak tree’s rough bark. The tree was a marker, the tiny clearing a spot she retreated to, an enclave away from the town. ‘But not today,’ she whispered, pressing deeper in to the woods. Marek had warned her it was unwise to wander so far from home, but she refused to turn back. Chilled fingers gathered the odd stick of wood; the idea of going home empty-handed was not a welcome one. Her father may not notice, lost to grief as he was, but they’d need firewood soon enough.

She journeyed deeper into the forest, lost to her thoughts and picking out sticks of firewood when she remembered. The chalet was as unexpected as it was unremarkable. A single storey with the thatched roof and short chimney so common to Cinderfell. Moss grew in a rich blanket across one wall, finding purchase on the slope of old thatch above. Windows remained shuttered against the day, yet the door was ajar, though only to the keenest eyes.

‘It can’t hurt to take a look,’ she reassured herself.

A wide stump of wood emerged from the earth between Kjellrunn and the chalet door, marked with cuts now dark from rain and moss. A woodcutter’s chalet then. Her father had mentioned it before, but she’d never given much thought to where it was.

She drew closer, curiosity making her bold. No light flickered from the gap in the door. No golden glow escaped the shutters’ edges. A trio of sensations gave her pause: unease at being alone in such a secluded place, cold at the dictates of the wind that found a way to her, even here deep in the woodland. And of being watched, yet that was the work of a foolish mind, she chided herself.

‘I’m not scared,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’ll not jump at shadows,’ she said, keen to reassure herself.

The snap of a branch beneath her foot made her flinch so hard she slipped and fell amid the dead leaves. The firewood she had gathered lay all around her. No sooner had she recovered herself than two crows called out, strident at first then settling into a brooding silence.

‘You might have warned me about the branch.’ Kjellrunn favoured the crows with a dark look. The first hid its head under a wing, while the other raised tail feathers and released a jet of watery droppings.

‘Would it kill you to show some manners?’ Kjellrunn turned her back on the birds and regarded the chalet. It was less imposing now she’d scared herself insensible. She reached for the door and once again the crows called out. Kjellrunn froze; a wary look over her shoulder confirmed the raucous birds were agitated. They flapped wings and fussed until one knocked the other from their perch, causing Kjellrunn to smirk.

Steiner wouldn’t be deterred by a couple of noisy old crows.

One of the birds stared after her, the other flapped about on the ground, aggrieved.

Her chilled fingers pushed the door open and Kjellrunn blinked in the gloom. She remained in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold, hoping the meagre daylight would reveal some clue about the derelict dwelling. Nothing stirred in the darkness yet Kjellrunn’s curiosity burned brightly. She crossed to the hearth, hands held out to ashes, palms rewarded with the faintest warmth. Someone had been here, just last night perhaps. A puddle of water had collected in the dust nearby. Kjellrunn traced the source to a cloak hanging from an iron peg. She had a vivid impression of stumbling through the woods late at night, wet to the skin and desperate for shelter.

The chalet was not so different to her own home. Three chairs attended a table standing in the centre of the room. An unlit lantern hung from a hook by the door, soot-black and rust-red. Leaves lay strewn about the flagstones, collected in drifts at the corners, the alcove beside the fire deep with them. Dead ferns and twigs added to the debris. Rustling sounded and Kjellrunn stared with widening eyes. A breeze gusted through the doorway, making her shiver. Wild thoughts summoned the spirit of a long-dead woodcutter, appearing to defend the home he had loved so much in life. The leaves in the alcove continued to shake. Kjellrunn lurched towards the door as a bleary-eyed winter fox appeared, snuffling about the cold flagstones.

Kjellrunn released a long sigh. ‘Sorry to wake you.’

The winter fox blinked at her, white fur spectral in the darkness.

‘It’s fine,’ said a voice from the back room, rusty with sleep.

Kjellrunn’s heart kicked in her chest and she was running before the thought had occurred. Her elbow glanced painfully off the doorway as she fled through it and she was under the grey sky again, panic gripping lungs that sought air to speed her on. Feet slipped and skidded on mud, tree branches reached for frantic eyes and all was blind panic. Only when she reached the opposite side of the clearing did she stop, listening to her ragged breathing, eyes fixed on the chalet door.

No one emerged, living or dead. Not the phantom woodcutter of her imagination or the slumbering winter fox. No one chased after her, nor did they peer from the doorway with a frown. The crows called out, mocking this foolish frightened girl, she imagined.

‘Shut your beaks,’ said Kjellrunn, not taking her eye from the lonely chalet. The occupant did not sate her curiosity by stepping outside.

‘I was more frightened than the fox was,’ she muttered. Still nothing. No sign of the voice in the darkness.

Kjellrunn gathered the scattered firewood as she departed. Perhaps I imagined the voice. A figment of a scared girl in the woods alone. She knew full well her imagination needed no provocation.

The chalet was almost lost from sight when she stole a glance over her shoulder. A curl of smoke drifted from the chimney, faint grey but unmistakable. Someone had lit a fire, but who?