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‘You will change in time. You will have a mask soon, I think.’ Steiner thought he heard a mocking tone in Khigir’s words.
‘Why would I need a mask?’
‘Come now, boy,’ said Khigir. ‘It is time to depart.’
‘I’m not your boy,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘My name is Steiner.’
The wind gusted across the bay and the townsfolk drifted along the coastal road in threes and fours, like frail autumn leaves. Steiner glanced down the pier one last time and saw the crowd part around Marek as Verner led him away. Anger burned brightly even as a stony desolation filled his chest. A light rain began to fall, making a susurrus on the surrounding sea.
Shirinov was elsewhere as Steiner descended from pier to boat, shouldering his way between surly children who scowled as he sat down. Steiner struggled to keep his composure and he bowed his head, clenching his hands into tight fists.
The last words he’d said to his father rang in his ears, Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell. Anything to keep her out of the hands of the Empire and its Vigilants. Rain dripped from his nose and down his temples.
At least no one will notice if I shed any tears, he thought.
The Hierarchs struggled to take their seats, aided by the arms of four stronger, younger soldiers, who joined them. The effort of embarking ushered a coughing fit from Shirinov, who slumped into a doze when the wracking passed.
They were halfway to the frigate, bobbing across the dark green waters, when another rowing boat passed them. Romola was aboard, stood at the front without a care, heading towards the stone pier. A few crew manned the oars and shot sour glances at the Hierarchs and darker looks at Steiner himself.
‘Romola?’ said Steiner.
‘You have seen her before?’ intoned Khigir.
Steiner nodded. ‘Does she work for the Empire?’ he asked, annoyed he’d let the Vigilant goad him into conversation.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Is that the same manner that murders children?’ asked Steiner.
‘Such spirit,’ Khigir leaned forward, ‘will not last for long. Vladibogdan changes everyone.’
Any romantic notions of sailing Steiner entertained were quickly drowned. He’d not had a chance to take in his surroundings before being forced into the hold. There were no seats, only old crates, the smell of salt water and darkness. The sole chance to fend off the spiteful chill was to choose from a selection of mangy blankets, though lice roamed the folds of the fabric causing children to squeal as they shook them loose. It was difficult to count just how many captives were confined in the gloomy hold. Steiner had not expected the ship to groan and creak and struggled to keep the alarm from his face. The motion of the sea did nothing for his hangover and he settled down between two crates and closed his eyes.
Invigilation began at age ten and continued once a year until a child left school at sixteen. Many children dropped out of school long before then, required to attend the Invigilations all the same. Steiner had heard tell of cunning parents who sought to keep their children off the school registers in remote villages, far from the prying eyes of the Synod. None of their efforts mattered in the end. A vast network of the Synod’s clergy scoured the continent, sending their finds north and west until the children fetched up in Cinderfell, escorted by soldiers.
Steiner recalled his father’s words from the previous night. The thing is, the children sent to the island aren’t executed.
At least we don’t think so.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Steiner to no one in particular.
He was answered by a whimper and opened his eyes to find a boy of ten squatting down and clutching himself. He had a hint of Shanisrond blood in him; his delicate eyes were at odds with his plump, olive-skinned cheeks.
‘Hoy,’ said Steiner. ‘Get yourself a blanket.’
The boy shook his head.
‘What’s your name?’
‘M-Maxim.’
‘Why don’t you get a blanket?’
Maxim raised a hand towards a pile of crates where a blond-haired boy sat atop an improvized throne. ‘He won’t let me.’
Steiner pushed himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He felt scores of eyes upon him and realized he was the eldest by a couple of years, and certainly he was the largest.
‘Wait here,’ he said to Maxim. The boy nodded and his bottom lip quivered with misery. Steiner crossed the hold, stepping over huddles of children until he stood before the pile of crates. The boy who sat at the summit had nestled among a dozen blankets, looking impossibly smug.
‘And who might you be?’ Steiner asked with arched eyebrow.
‘I am Aurelian Brevik; my father is the richest man in Helwick. I won’t be staying long.’ He smiled. ‘Once my father has paid off the Empire I will return home.’
‘Is that so, son of the richest man in Helwick?’
‘Of course.’ Aurelian pouted. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t possibly have witchsign, not like these disgusting creatures. Not like you.’
Steiner guessed Aurelian was around sixteen years old. He had eyes as cold as the north wind and was dressed in sheepskins dyed red, splendid and expensive. His heavy boots were fine and new.
‘How about you hand over some of the blankets?’ suggested Steiner.
‘I think not,’ replied Aurelian.
‘Listen to me,’ said Steiner, voice low. ‘I’m hungover, I’ve just lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I didn’t pack much in the way of patience.’
‘Am I supposed to be intimidated?’ sneered Aurelian. He stood up but the smile slipped from his face. The throne had given him the impression he was taller than Steiner. They stood face to face and Steiner knew Aurelian wouldn’t back down. Money never did.
‘Why don’t you crawl back to your side of the ship like the peasant you are and I’ll forget—’ Aurelian got no further as Steiner’s fist took him on his left eye and nose. He fell back against his improvized throne and released a whimper, holding a hand to the source of his pain.
‘You dare strike me?’
‘I dare just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘And I’ll dare again if you don’t shut your stupid face.’
Steiner took the bundle of blankets from the throne of crates and began handing them out to the children that lacked them.
‘Shake it out. Get rid of the lice,’ he said to one child. ‘Calm yourself and dry your eyes,’ he said to another. ‘Here you go.’ He passed a blanket to Maxim and before long he’d drawn an audience of fifteen imploring faces, all sensing protection was at hand and drifting towards it.
‘Ugh,’ managed Aurelian from across the hold, but he held his tongue.
Steiner settled down among his adopted charges, massaging his aching knuckles, then cleared his throat.
‘All right, stop crying. I know it’s a sad business being taken from your families and all. And I know you’re scared. Hel, I’m scared too.’ More faces appeared at the huddle.
‘How will they kill us?’ asked a painfully thin girl, perhaps eleven summers old.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Steiner. He wanted to promise them they wouldn’t be killed at all, but it was a promise he couldn’t give in good faith. ‘All I know is that we’re being sent to an island called Vladibogdan. Stay together, work together, you’ll need each other if we’re to survive this.’
It was strange to have such a rapt audience. He’d spent his life being the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the strange girl. He’d largely been ignored by the teachers at school. No one had paid him much mind before Kristofine. His face contorted as he thought of her, thought of never seeing her again. He shook his head and cleared his throat.
‘And I don’t want to see any more of this kind of foolishness.’ He gestured towards Aurelian. ‘All we’ve got is each other now.’
The younger children settled down and the older children spread word through the hold to other pockets of children. Maxim wriggled beside Steiner and fell asleep in his lap. Kjellrunn had been much the same when she’d been five and six. The memory of it brought tears to Steiner’s eyes, tears of frustration and tears of loss.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kjell?’ he whispered. For long moments he sat, head slumped, resigned to his misery. The feeling of being watched pressed against his awareness and he raised his head to find Romola peeking over the edge of the hold. She was not smiling as she had done in Cinderfell, nor did she give any indication she recognized him.
The Spøkelsea was not the serene expanse of water Steiner had hoped for. The ship lurched and rocked with each wave that broke against the hull. A few of the children began retching and the hold filled with the unmistakable scent of vomit.
‘Frøya save me.’ Steiner covered his nose. ‘I had to choose today for a hangover.’
Maxim looked up with sleepy eyes. ‘Wha?’
‘Nothing, but if you throw up on me I’ll toss you overboard.’
Maxim nodded with a solemn expression that said he would do the same if their places were reversed. The boy wriggled closer and went back to sleep.
‘How long does it take for a frigate to travel twenty miles anyway?’ muttered Steiner, just as a member of the crew climbed down from the deck above. She was a hard-looking woman with a black headscarf and a faded tunic the colour of mud. It was her britches Steiner liked the most: broad stripes in black and white.
‘I like your britches.’
‘Thanks. You Steiner?’
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘You tell me.’ The sailor shrugged. ‘Captain wants to see you. Follow me, and don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re already a good five miles from Cinderfell and I doubt you can swim that far.’
Steiner cocked his head to one side and considered it.
‘Trust me,’ said the sailor. ‘The current is strong and you’d likely fetch up in Shanisrond. In a few months after the fishes had nibbled on your corpse.’
Steiner dislodged the sleeping Maxim as gently as he could. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said when the boy whimpered.
‘Didn’t realize you had a little brother,’ said the sailor.
‘Neither did I.’ Steiner followed the sailor onto deck and was certain Romola had overheard him speaking to the children, just as he was certain she would have informed the Hierarchs. He didn’t relish another conversation with Khigir and Shirinov; they might suddenly realize the witchsign was mysteriously absent and throw him overboard. All these thoughts weighed on him like the coils of rope on deck, damp with mist and sea spray.
‘Here you are,’ said the sailor. She jerked her thumb at a door and then reached out a hand to steady herself as the ship lurched.
‘How much longer until we get there?’ asked Steiner.
‘The wind’s not on our side, so we’re not able to sail as the crow flies.’
‘What’s he like?’ asked Steiner.
‘Who?’
‘The captain. What’s he like?
The sailor smiled. ‘Best you see for yourself.’ And with that she opened the door and ushered him into the gloomy cabin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steiner
The uprising against our draconic masters cost Vinterkveld dearly. Many men and women lost their lives. It should be noted that the various pockets of Spriggani, who infest the forests like fungus, did not answer the call of revolution against the dragons. It is for this reason they are not, nor will they ever be, members of the Empire.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
The cabin was full of curios and oddments from across Vinterkveld. Here a tankard with the embossed crest of Vannerånd, there a bone dagger with a hilt bound in lizard skin, while the floor was home to a yak-skin rug. The cabin’s two lanterns contained coloured glass, shedding red and blue light over everything, yet it was the music that entranced Steiner most of all.
Romola sat with her back to him, one hand strumming the strings of a long-necked instrument with a rounded body. The tune was restful yet carried an undertow of melancholy. Each note was a tiny miracle, each chord a sound from dreaming. No one in Cinderfell had ever had the money for such things; there had barely been money for food when the winters were bad. Music had remained as rousing song and hearty claps to keep time, the stamp of boots and hollered choruses. Instruments belonged to another world somehow.
‘Where did you get such a thing?’ Steiner asked in a reverent whisper.
Romola looked up from her playing and regarded Steiner from the corner of her eye. ‘I took it from an old lover. It’s called a domra.’ A sad smile touched her lips and she sighed. ‘He and I had a parting of the ways when I discovered he’d kept certain truths from me.’
Sadness weighed on Steiner, recalling his father’s admission in the smithy and Kjellrunn’s revelation. That Verner too had kept his own secrets had only salted the wound.
‘Keeping certain truths,’ he said.
‘I never really said goodbye,’ added Romola, her eyes looking away to a corner of the cabin deep in shadow. ‘Just took his coin purse and the domra. And never looked back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s hard when—’
‘All of life is a game of cards. You bet big and you bet small.’ Romola cocked her head on one side. ‘You’ll never really know how things will play out until they play out.’
Steiner nodded. He’d not been one for cards, but he understood the sentiment.
‘When will I meet the captain?’ His mind lingered on stone piers and the last angry glares he’d favoured his family with.
Romola couldn’t hide her amusement. ‘The captain? You were expecting a burly man with a long beard and parrot, right?’ She stood and performed a bow.
‘You?’
‘No wooden legs here I’m afraid.’ Another smile, halfway mocking.
‘But you’re a storyteller?’
‘I tell stories on my nights off.’ She placed the domra on her bed with care. ‘It’s good to get off the ship, and I make it my business to sleep one night in every town we put in at. No point sailing the world if you’re not going to see it.’
‘There’s not much to see in Cinderfell.’
‘Something we agree on.’ She sat down and reclined, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, then narrowed her eyes.
‘You might have mentioned you were the ship’s captain when I saw you in Cinderfell.’ Steiner narrowed his eyes; he had the feeling he’d been made a fool of and didn’t care for it much.
‘And what would that have achieved? People are hardly going to thank me for bringing the Empire to their shores, are they?’
‘So why do it? Why bring Shirinov and Khigir to Cinderfell?’
‘Why does anyone do anything?’ Romola shrugged. ‘Money. And it keeps me in the good graces of the Empire.’
Steiner clenched his fists and tried to think of something to say.
‘That was a good thing you did for the children in the hold,’ she said.
‘And I suppose you told Shirinov and Khigir.’
‘No. I don’t make trouble when I can help it.’ Romola poured herself a tumbler of wine. ‘But you need to be more careful when speaking out against the Empire. Men have been killed for less.’
Steiner nodded. Difficult to argue with reason that sound.
‘And how does a storyweaver find herself working for the Solmindre Empire? If Shirinov caught you telling folk tales about dragons and—’
‘It’s forbidden to tell such stories in the Empire, but the same rules don’t apply in the Scorched Republics, part of the reason I gave up the Ashen Gulf for the Sommerende Ocean.’
‘So you gave up the life of a pirate so you could be a mercenary for the Empire?’
‘You’re so young.’ Romola smiled. ‘Everything is so black and white when you’re young. Wait a few years, then you might start to understand.’
Steiner looked around the room, noting a framed illustration of a dark bird.
‘Your figurehead. It’s a crow?’ Steiner asked, keen to change the subject.
Romola nodded. ‘The ship is called the Watcher’s Wait. I’m hoping we appeal to Frejna so that she spares us misfortune.’ Romola reached under the chair and brought forth a weighted sack, the fabric straining with the load.
‘This is for you. An old acquaintance of mine insisted I bring it on board.’
Steiner approached knowing it must be the sack his father had offered back at Cinderfell. There was a wave of relief, but also of regret that he’d refused it, and beneath both feelings the undertow of betrayal remained. Had they thought him too stupid to be a spy, or too weak? He wasn’t a child any more.
‘You can take it, it’s yours,’ said Romola, noting his hesitation.
The lurching motion of the ship tipped him towards Romola and the bundle she offered. The rough cloth parted to reveal a wooden handle. He drew it out of the sack and eyed the stout metal head at the opposite end.
‘Verner gave it to me,’ said Romola. ‘Apparently this is your great-grandfather’s.’ Steiner blinked and held up the sledgehammer, the wood filigreed with dust, while the metal was dull. It was not beautiful in any way, a simple tool for a simple task. The sack was not empty. Further investigation revealed a pair of heavy boots.
‘Those belonged to your mother,’ offered Romola. ‘She must have been a half ogre judging by the size of them, right?’
‘Ogres don’t exist,’ scoffed Steiner.
‘No, you’re right,’ said Romola, looking away. ‘Not any more.’
Steiner ignored the comment, thinking she was gaming him, more interested in the boots. His own mother had laced these boots and worn them on cold days and long walks. He’d never seen such fine craftsmanship and the boots reached to his calves when he tried them on.
‘We have the same size feet,’ he mumbled.
‘Maybe you’re a half ogre too.’ Romola smiled.
‘Hardly.’
‘You’re still young. There’s plenty of growing to be had.’
‘What in Frejna’s name am I supposed to do with this?’ He gestured to the sledgehammer.
Romola waved off his question. ‘I’m just the messenger, right?’
‘Am I supposed to use it on the island? What will happen when we get there?’
‘I don’t know, and if I did know I could be killed for telling you.’
‘Please, will we be executed, or drowned, or—’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been no further than the gatehouse at the top of the steps—’
‘What steps?’
‘You’ll see.’ Romola cocked her head on one side and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come up on deck to get some fresh air?’
‘What about the Vigilants?’
‘They’re asleep, or throwing up everything they’ve ever eaten.’
‘Don’t even speak of it.’ Steiner held a hand to his mouth.
‘You think you’ve got it bad, you should see Shirinov,’ said Romola, stifling a laugh.
Steiner followed the captain out of the hold and emerged on deck to see a touch of gold along the horizon. The sun was brightest at dawn. Only as the day progressed was it subdued by the endless grey of Nordvlast’s skies.
‘I don’t think much of your ship,’ said Steiner. ‘It’s taken all night to sail twenty miles.’
‘It’s not been the crossing I’d hoped for,’ admitted Romola. ‘Come up on the quarter deck with me.’ She took the ship’s wheel from a sour-looking sailor with a scar that had healed badly and left him with a permanent sneer. The sailor ignored him and slunk away.
‘He must be related to Håkon,’ said Steiner.
‘The infamous butcher of Cinderfell.’ Romola smiled. ‘That Kristofine is a fine-looking girl. Were you two …’ The pirate arched an eyebrow and Steiner felt himself blush at the implication.
‘Looks like it ended before it began,’ said Steiner. He realized he’d lost more than just his family, and a swell of bitterness rose within him.
‘If I can get word back to her I will, let her know you’re safe and all.’
‘And will I?’ Steiner shook his head. ‘Will I be safe?’
Romola shrugged. ‘That’s up to you.’
‘And my father, will you get word to him?’
Romola nodded. ‘Your father and I go back a way, and you’ll keep that bit of information to yourself.’ She gave him a stern look at odds with her usual wry demeanour. Steiner felt a dozen more questions beg to be answered, but the look on Romola’s face said he’d get no answers from her.
They stood on the deck in silence as the ship heaved itself over rising waves, Steiner clinging on to a railing and trying not to shiver. This might be the last bit of freedom he’d have, and he was keen to grasp it with both hands.
Romola shook her head, then pointed out to sea. ‘Those are the Nordscale islands. They keep the worst storms from battering Cinderfell.’
Steiner squinted into the distance and sighted near two dozen pinnacles of dark rock emerging from the sea. Some were slender, like huge fangs, others were squat, cracked things. The largest formed an imposing mass that dominated the sea ahead, the stone reached far into the sky and a steady plume of smoke emerged from hidden places.
‘Is it a volcano?’ asked Steiner.
‘It’s no volcano,’ said Romola. The smoke formed a dark halo about the island, fading to dark grey as it rose higher, staining the sky in all directions.
‘Vladibogdan,’ whispered Steiner.
‘Right.’ None of Romola’s wry amusement remained in the shadow of the island. ‘Your new home, I’m afraid.’
The vastness of the dark rock gave no clue of habitation, there seemed no way to live there at all. Romola barked some orders and the ship began to circle the island.
‘I don’t suppose you’re looking for a new deck hand, are you?’ said Steiner. ‘I’m a hard worker.’
‘Nice try, and I like you and all, but our paths don’t lie along the same route.’ She turned the wheel until the Watcher’s Wait sailed in a channel between Vladibogdan and the smaller Nordscales. The ashen pall was darker here, an ominous presence lingering in the sky.
‘It would be no bad thing if this whole island slipped beneath the waves,’ said Romola.
‘Before I disembark would be preferable,’ said Steiner.
The cliffs grew ever higher as they approached, sweeping down at the rear of the island until a wide cove revealed black sands and dark-eyed watchtowers. Gulls drifted on the morning air, calling out to them with mournful cries as the Watcher’s Wait cut through the water.
‘What happens now?’ said Steiner.
Romola shrugged. ‘Can’t say. I’ve never set foot in the Dragemakt Academy.’
Steiner raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of any academy before.’
‘You’ll see when you get there.’ Romola frowned, annoyed that she’d said too much.
‘An academy. That’s just what I need.’ Steiner shook his head and drew an anxious breath.
‘Something to do with the Vigilants,’ added Romola. ‘I tried to find out once, but I never got further than the gatehouse. They don’t like prying eyes around these parts.’
‘An academy,’ said Steiner, with a tiny suspicion of what was to come.
‘You had better get below,’ said Romola. The island had cast a shadow over the Watcher’s Wait, crowding out the sky as they passed into the cove. ‘I can’t risk you being seen up here. Go on now.’
Steiner headed back to the hold and tried to slip in unnoticed, but there was small chance of that. The other children were wide-eyed and full of questions. There were a few pointed comments about being ‘the captain’s favourite’, but the conversation focused on what he’d seen. Steiner answered their questions as best he could, close-mouthed for the main, until he felt the ship slow and the Spøkelsea’s constant motion troubled them no more. All eyes turned upward, staring at the rectangle of grey sky above the hold where soldier’s faces would appear, summoning them on deck, leading them to Vladibogdan.
The cove was not large and the ship rested in sombre waters, a scarlet shadow beneath granite cliffs. The children were ferried to a stone pier and told to wait by looming soldiers, as if any might be inclined to venture to the black sands and the many steps that rose beyond.