Witchsign. Den Patrick

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      – From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.

      The day let itself be known to Kjellrunn in glimpses and flashes, like sunlight reaching far into the depths of the ocean. Here the sound of a voice in the street outside, elsewhere a maddened dog barking in the distance. She was warm and heavy with darkness, wrapped in blankets and yesterday’s clothes. Her eyes were comfortably heavy-lidded and she’d no wish to rouse herself. Let Marek fetch the water from the well. Steiner could make his own breakfast. It wouldn’t hurt him to sweep the kitchen and stoke up the fire.

       Steiner.

      Something was wrong, something nameless and sour.

      ‘Steiner?’ she mumbled, but no answer came.

      Kjellrunn rolled onto her side and forced herself to stand. She’d been disorientated before, blindly stumbling through mornings, but never anything like this.

      ‘Steiner, I think I’m ill.’ Still no answer.

      Her thoughts were like dandelion seeds drifting on the wind.

      ‘Steiner?’

      No need to dress, her rumpled clothes were testament to her collapsing into bed late last night. It must have been a long day. She became very still in the darkness of the loft.

       The Invigilation.

      To call it running would have been inaccurate, but her body did its best to obey her wishes, her feet slipping and catching on the staircase down. No need to search the smithy or the kitchen. She was out into the street and loping towards the bay with her heart beating fierce and insistent. The sun was well up past the horizon, up behind the blanket of frail grey cloud that hung over Cinderfell day in and day out.

       How could I have slept in on a day like this?

      She ran on, her senses becoming clearer, the cold air jagged in her lungs and throat. Her fingers burned with cold. She hadn’t even noticed the light rain until she almost slipped on the slick cobbles.

       How could I have forgotten what happened yesterday?

      Through the town and past cottages with plumes of grey smoke drifting from their grey stone chimneys, down the street with dark grey cobbles shining wetly in the rain. So much grey she could almost feel it, leaching the life out of her, leaching hope.

      Steiner. He was all she could think of, and though her calves burned with pain she ran onward. Pinpricks of agony stabbed at her lungs, and still she ran.

      Steiner. Kjellrunn knew he’d gone before she’d reached the pier. The dark red frigate was nowhere in sight, only a flat expanse of the Spøkelsea. Kristofine stood on the pier, a lonely watcher, head covered with a shawl. Gulls keened above them and the wind gusted into land, bringing showers like formless spirits trying to return home from the sea.

      ‘He’s gone,’ said Kjellrunn, unable to think clearly, tears tracking down her cheeks.

      Kristofine turned and opened her mouth, closing it quickly to still her quivering lip, then answered with tears of her own.

      ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Kjellrunn. A deathly stillness had come to Cinderfell, and not a soul could be seen except for the woman beside her.

      ‘They’ve all retired home,’ replied Kristofine, her voice flat and tired. ‘They came to watch him leave.’ She paused a moment, a shadow of frown crossing her face, a fleeting sneer on her pretty lips. ‘They came to make sure he was taken. A few even watched the ship sail away, but they’ve all slunk home now like whipped dogs.’ She took Kjellrunn’s arm in hers and led her back to the town, beginning the incline up to the tavern.

      Kjellrunn wanted to speak, but her mind remained blank and the words wouldn’t come. No sobs wracked her slight frame, but new tears appeared every few heartbeats, new tears that burned with cold as they dried on her face.

      ‘There are a few dozen old sots at the Smouldering Standard and half that at my father’s,’ said Kristofine. ‘Most people are home with their loved ones, I expect.’

      ‘Grateful their own weren’t taken,’ replied Kjellrunn, gazing ahead and holding tight to woman beside her.

      ‘Yes, I suppose they are. Nothing like this has happened in Cinderfell for decades.’ Kristofine sighed. ‘I see them take the children away every year, but somehow witchsign was always something that happened to other towns, other countries, other people.’

      ‘Like an accident,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Like a cart that overturns and kills the driver.’

      Kristofine stopped and looked into her eyes.

      ‘Are you unwell, Kjellrunn? You seem, I mean I know what’s happened to Steiner is awful, but you seem drowsy—’

      ‘Or drugged,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the bitter tang of the hot milk that Marek had given her. ‘My father drugged my milk so I wouldn’t wake this morning and cause a fuss, wouldn’t tell them …’

      ‘Tell them what?’

       Tell them not to take Steiner, tell them that’s it’s me with the witchsign, it’s me they should be taking to the island. This is all my fault and—

      ‘Tell them what, Kjell?’ Kristofine’s words silenced the deep ocean of guilt and the undertow of shame. Kjellrunn swallowed and stared into her eyes.

      ‘Tell them not to take Steiner, of course.’ For a second she wasn’t sure if Kristofine believed her. Kjellrunn dropped her gaze.

      ‘My own father drugged me so I wouldn’t wake. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’ More tears tracked down her cheeks, though it made small difference in the rain. Kristofine pulled her close and woman and girl resumed their walk up the hill to Bjørner’s tavern.

      ‘I can’t come in with you,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the flat, unfriendly stares she’d received yesterday and Håkon’s looming presence.

      Kristofine inclined her head and circled the building, leading Kjellrunn through a side door. A small sitting room waited for them, shrouded in darkness. Kristofine lit an expensive-looking brass lantern.

      ‘Wait here, build up the fire if you like. I’ll make you some tea to warm you up. And I’ll bring a blanket. We should try and dry your clothes or you’ll catch a chill.’

      Kjellrunn could only nod, too stunned to smile. No one had ever fussed over her so tenderly. Marek was a good father, but his was a functional mind, only affectionate when he remembered to make the effort.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn, an uncertain smile on her slender face.

      ‘I’ll be right back.’ Kristofine left the room and her footsteps sounded on the stairs in a series of creaks.

      The sitting room had three armchairs, all draped with blankets and cosy with cushions. Kjellrunn wondered what it must be like to have another room besides the kitchen and a place to sleep. Another door led from the sitting room; the rumble of men’s voices could be heard through timber. СКАЧАТЬ