‘As I always said,’ replied Shirinov, wiping the blood from his mask with the back of a gloved hand.
‘This is so,’ added Khigir.
Steiner swallowed in a dry throat, then shook his head, confused.
Felgenhauer turned to the two Vigilants, and Steiner saw them for what they were: two old men, attired in frayed finery, dressed up with self-importance.
‘Put down the sledgehammer and remove your boots,’ said Felgenhauer without turning.
‘W-what?’ replied Steiner.
‘I said, “Put down the sledgehammer and remove your boots,”’ she bellowed.
‘I’m not deaf,’ mumbled Steiner.
‘You’re not stupid either,’ said the Matriarch-Commissar. ‘So don’t ever dream of speaking back to me again.’
Steiner relinquished the gifts Romola had given him just a few hours before. The sledgehammer made a dull scrape on the flagstones as he set it down. One boot followed another and the cold crept into the soles of his feet through the worn wool of his socks. Felgenhauer drew close and Steiner forced himself to look at the dragon, wreathed in terrible flames, anything to be spared the piercing eyes of the Matriarch-Commissar. She picked up one of the boots and spent a few seconds inspecting it as if it were a precious jewel or sacred relic.
‘Nice boots,’ she said quietly.
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Steiner on instinct. ‘My mother gave them to me,’ he added, without really knowing why.
Felgenhauer turned to Shirinov and shook her head.
‘You fool! Can you not tell the difference between witchsign and enchanted boots? How many years have you served, how many decades?’
‘Boots?’ replied Shirinov. ‘What enchanted boots?’
‘What?’ moaned Khigir.
‘I’ve more arcane power in my smallest finger than this boy does in his whole body,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘How could you make such a mistake?’
Khigir shook his head and Shirinov could only hold out placating hands.
‘This is most irregular.’
‘What am I supposed to do with a boy without witchsign?’ said the Matriarch-Commissar.
‘I’m a man really,’ said Steiner. ‘I turned eighteen last—’
‘Shut up,’ said Felgenhauer quietly.
‘How could I know the boy wore enchanted boots?’ replied Shirinov. ‘Peasants don’t possess such items. I’m sure he wasn’t wearing—’
‘Be quiet,’ said Felgenhauer.
Khigir stepped forward. ‘Only the very highest-ranking—’
‘I said be quiet!’ growled Felgenhauer.
Shirinov’s shoulder’s slumped and he clutched his walking stick with both hands. Khigir all but cowered behind him.
‘This is unprecedented,’ stated Felgenhauer. The other Vigilants conferred among themselves, the snarling wolf face turning to a Vigilant wearing a silver oval, blank of any feature including eyes. Steiner felt sure he was being watched despite the omission. There was a faint haze around the Vigilant, and motes of grit flared silver before burning up.
The Matriarch-Commissar turned to the Vigilant with the blank silver face.
‘Silverdust, take these soldiers and escort the boy to my office. Don’t take your eyes off him.’ Felgenhauer’s eyes glittered behind the angular mask.
‘What will happen to me?’ asked Steiner.
‘You raised a weapon against a member of the Holy Synod. Such crimes do not go unpunished, and on Vladibogdan the punishments are severe.’
The Vigilant called Silverdust drew close, raised one hand and gestured for Steiner to follow.
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
