Witchsign. Den Patrick

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      The crowd withdrew from Steiner as if the taint of the arcane was contagious. Men and women and dozens of children watched; a few kissed their fingertips as he passed – the old sign for warding off evil. Steiner struggled not to curse at them. At least Kristofine was not among the townsfolk, he was glad of that. She was the last person in Vinterkveld he trusted; he’d rather she’d be spared witnessing his departure.

      The pier was clear of everyone but soldiers, six of them forming a cordon to keep back any desperate parents, though none had followed their offspring north from the other Scorched Republics. Hierarchs Khigir and Shirinov lurked together, all folded arms and stooped shoulders.

      ‘I told you the boy had spirit,’ said Khigir in his deep drone. The frown on the plain bronze mask was no less strange.

      ‘I was about to order the sacking of the blacksmith’s cottage,’ said Shirinov from behind the silver smile.

      ‘Sorry to have made you wait in the cold so long,’ said Steiner. ‘Must be hard when a chill gets into old bones.’

      Shirinov slunk forward, then raised his hand.

      ‘Steiner!’ The shout came from the crowd.

      The Hierarch stopped and looked at the newcomer but Steiner had no need to turn. He knew the voice well enough.

      ‘Steiner, I have something for you.’ Marek’s statement was a plea, but Steiner had no care to answer it. ‘Steiner, please?’

      He flashed an angry glance over his shoulder and saw the blacksmith and fisherman side by side, held back by soldiers. Kjellrunn was nowhere to be seen, probably for the best with Vigilants so close at hand. Marek held a rough sack and offered it towards him.

      Steiner walked to the cordon of soldiers and eyed the sack.

      ‘What am supposed to do with this?’

      ‘It’s for the journey,’ replied Marek, his expression pained.

      ‘Keep it,’ replied Steiner. ‘I want nothing from you.’

      ‘Steiner, I’m sorry.’ Marek’s voice cracked.

      ‘Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell.’

      ‘Steiner.’ Marek looked crushed but Steiner couldn’t find it within himself to feel much pity. He turned on his heel and walked the length of the pier, away from the cordon of soldiers, away from the despairing eyes of his father. The sound of the Spøkelsea washed over him and several gulls pierced the quiet with mocking calls, setting his nerves on edge.

      ‘You turn your back on family?’ It was Khigir, the frown of the pitted bronze mask no less intimidating up close.

      ‘What do you care?’

      ‘There are some who are taken and never truly let go of their previous lives.’ Khigir looked back towards the crowd. ‘Yet you are not one of them.’

      Steiner shrugged and watched the rowing boat leave the ship.

      ‘You are a contradiction, yes?’ added Khigir.

      ‘I’d say I’m straightforward if you’ve a care to know me.’

      ‘Straightforward how?’

      Steiner took a step towards the Vigilant. ‘When I’m happy I smile and when I’m angry I frown. I don’t need a mask to hide behind.’

      ‘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.

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