Witchsign Read online

  HarperVoyager

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2018

  Copyright © Den Patrick 2018

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  Den Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008228132

  Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008228156

  Version: 2018-04-17

  Dedication

  For Kevin

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One: Steiner

  Chapter Two: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Three: Steiner

  Chapter Four: Steiner

  Chapter Five: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Six: Steiner

  Chapter Seven: Steiner

  Chapter Eight: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Nine: Steiner

  Chapter Ten: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Eleven: Steiner

  Chapter Twelve: Steiner

  Chapter Thirteen: Steiner

  Chapter Fourteen: Steiner

  Chapter Fifteen: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Sixteen: Steiner

  Chapter Seventeen: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Eighteen: Steiner

  Chapter Nineteen: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Twenty-One: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Steiner

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Thirty-One: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Steiner

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Steiner

  Chapter Forty: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Forty-One: Steiner

  Chapter Forty-Two: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Forty-Three: Steiner

  Chapter Forty-Four: Steiner

  Chapter Forty-Five: Steiner

  Chapter Forty-Six: Kjellrunn

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Kimi

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Steiner

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Kjellrunn

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Steiner

  The Holy Synod has done much in the last decade to expunge all mention of the goddesses Frøya and Frejna. We have had less success in the Scorched Republics, whose people still hold affection for the old ways. It is the Synod’s hope that veneration of these goddesses passes into history as our grip tightens on Vinterkveld.

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

  The furnace burned bright in the darkness. The old timbers of the smithy were edged in orange light, tools hung from iron hooks, gleaming. Steiner loved it here, the smell of hot metal and coal dust, the pleasant ache of muscles hardened from work, jobs in need of doing and jobs well done. The product of his labour lined the walls: small knives; pots and pans; hammers; scythes and the odd sickle.

  The anvil chimed as Steiner brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. Sweat dampened his brow and ran down his back with each breath. A deep contentment settled upon him; something was being made, something was being created.

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ said his father. ‘Looks like you’re making a sword. And you know how the Empire feels about that.’

  Steiner grinned. ‘Could I at least finish it? I’ll melt it down afterwards.’

  Marek allowed himself a smile, caught up in Steiner’s enthusiasm. ‘A sword does a strange thing to a man’s mind—’

  ‘Being beaten over the head with one thing is much like another, I reckon.’ Steiner shrugged and gave a chuckle.

  ‘I mean wielding a sword, you oaf.’ Marek returned Steiner’s chuckle with one of his own. ‘It makes a man think he has some destiny or privilege.’ Marek’s tone made it clear exactly how he felt about the latter.

  ‘Not much destiny or privilege in Cinderfell,’ said Steiner, feeling the joy of creation grow cold despite the searing heat of the smithy.

  ‘No, there isn’t. It’s why I moved here.’ Marek rolled his heavy shoulders and rubbed one scarred forearm with an equally scarred hand. ‘Come on, we’re done for the day.’

  They stepped out beneath overcast skies. Every day was overcast in Cinderfell. The Empire said it was a legacy of the war with the dragons, that the terrible creatures had scorched the skies above the continent for decades to come.

  ‘Must it always be so grey?’ muttered Steiner, as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin.

  ‘It’s not like this in the south,’ said Marek. ‘They can see the sun in Shanisrond.’

  Steiner gave an incredulous snort. ‘Next you’ll be telling me the dragons still live.’

  Marek shook his head. ‘No, the Empire saw to that. And you know that when the Empire take an interest in something—’

  ‘It usually ends up dead.’ Steiner ran a hand over his jaw, the feel of stubble beneath his callused fingers still a novelty. The downy fuzz of his early teens had given way to something rougher. ‘So why don’t we buy a cart, pack up, and head off to Shanisrond?’

  Steiner followed Marek’s gaze as he looked over the town and the cottages that nestled against the steep incline rising up from the coast. The small windows bore heavy wooden shutters stained with salt, and verdant moss clung to thatched rooftops. The dour atmosphere was well matched by the cruel temperature.

  ‘Not much of a home, is it,’ admitted Marek.

  ‘So why stay?’

  Steiner regretted the question as soon as he saw the pained expression cross his father’s face. For a moment they stood in silence beneath the flat grey sky. Marek lifted his eyes to the sea and Steiner wasn’t sure if he was searching or pleading with the choppy waves that danced against the stone pier.

  ‘You still hope she’ll come back.’

  Marek nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and headed back into the smithy.

  ‘Did you sell the sickle we made last week?’ asked Steiner, keen to change the subject from an absent mother, an absent wife.

  Marek nodded but said nothing. Steiner was well used to his father’s silences.

  ‘Strange time of year to harvest herbs. Who bought it?’

>   ‘One of the fishermen.’ Marek cleared his throat. ‘I don’t remember now.’

  Steiner frowned and pulled off his thick leather gloves. In a town this small they knew every customer by name. The sale of a sickle was no small matter and would bring some much needed coin. He opened his mouth to press for an answer but the latch on the door rattled and his father nodded towards it.

  ‘I wondered where Kjell had got to,’ said Marek.

  The door to the smithy creaked as Kjellrunn pushed the heavy wood aside. She stepped forward into the furnace’s glow. Small for her age, she looked closer to twelve than her sixteen years. Her tunic was overlong, reaching her knees, while her britches were patched many times; Steiner’s hand-me-downs. All their coin was spent on food and supplies for the smithy; money for clothes was scarce.

  ‘Would it kill you to pull a brush through your hair before you go to school?’ said their father with a slow smile.

  ‘She does a fine impression of a rusalka,’ said Steiner, noting the driftwood and black feathers she clutched; treasures from the beach no doubt.

  ‘You said you don’t believe in the old tales,’ replied Kjellrunn.

  Steiner shrugged. ‘That may be, but I’m still halfway convinced you’re one of them.’

  ‘There are worse things than rusalka,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘A ship has just arrived in the bay.’

  ‘We were out there not more than a minute ago,’ replied Steiner.

  ‘See for yourself if you think I’m a liar,’ she replied, jutting her chin with an obstinate look in her eye.

  ‘I’d rather start preparing dinner if it’s all the same to you,’ said their father. He looked away, unwilling to meet their eyes. ‘A ship in the bay means the Empire.’

  ‘And that means a troika of Vigilants,’ said Steiner, feeling the familiar fear the Holy Synod evoked.

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Kjell eyed both of them. ‘Not this time. You’ll want to see this.’

  ‘Did Uncle Verner bet you could lure us down to the bay?’ Steiner asked as they followed the rutted track that led to the coastal road.

  ‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ replied Kjellrunn, her eyes fixed on the blue-grey swell of the sea. Something between mist and rain dampened their spirits even as curiosity kindled inside them.

  ‘There it is,’ said Marek, pointing a finger. The bay rarely saw anything larger than fishing boats; no one put in at Cinderfell to trade. Only when the Sommerende Ocean sent vicious storms did captains seek the safe haven of the drab town.

  ‘A ship,’ said Steiner. ‘A frigate, I reckon. Though why you’d care to paint it red is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘You reckon right,’ said their father. ‘It’s a frigate, but not like I’ve seen before.’

  They continued to walk down to the bay, past cottages arranged in curving rows, down the narrow cobbled road that wended its way to the shore. The Spøkelsea rushed over the shingle beach in a hushed roar, leaving trails of foam and seaweed as the water retreated once again. Steiner studied the sleek ship as it lay at anchor, sails stowed like folded wings. The sailors aboard were ant-sized at this distance and just as busy. The whole vessel was dark red from prow to stern while the figurehead jutted from the front in forbidding black, wings outstretched along the hull.

  ‘What is that? muttered Steiner.

  ‘It’s a crow,’ replied Kjellrunn. ‘After Se or Venter, I expect.’

  Steiner frowned. ‘More of your folk tales, I suppose?’

  ‘Se and Venter belong to Frejna, they’re her crows.’

  ‘It’s not an Imperial ship then,’ said Marek.

  ‘You know how they feel about the old gods,’ added Steiner.

  ‘Goddess. Not god. Frejna is a goddess.’ Kjellrunn rolled her eyes. ‘Of winter, wisdom and death.’

  Other families had appeared at the doorways of cottages or emerged from the few shops to see the dark red ship. Parents held their children close and anxious glances were traded.

  ‘All the Imperial ships are in the south,’ said Marek, ‘harassing Shanisrond or escorting cargo ships up the Ashen Gulf.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re pirates,’ said Steiner with a smile, nudging his sister.

  Kjellrunn looked over the town and wrinkled her nose. ‘How much do you think they’d give me for a half-trained, half-wit blacksmith?’

  ‘Just because I can’t read doesn’t make me a half-wit,’ said Steiner through gritted teeth.

  ‘If they are pirates they’re not trying very hard,’ said Marek. ‘Perhaps they stopped in for repairs,’ he added, before turning to walk back up the hill.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Steiner called after him. The frigate’s arrival would be the talk of the town for weeks to come.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Marek frowned and cleared his throat, as if it troubled him. Kjellrunn stopped and looked over her shoulder. There was a faraway look in her eye, as if she could see something Steiner could not. It was the same look she had after she’d been in the woods, or when she spoke of folk tales.

  ‘No good will come of it,’ she said, ‘whatever it is.’ Her words were as cold and grey as the skies overhead. Steiner struggled to suppress a shiver as she turned her eyes on him. There was something not right in his sister, nothing he could put a name to, yet he feared they would find out what it was all too soon.

  ‘Hoy there, Steiner.’ Kristofine stood outside the tavern’s doorway with a playful smile, arms folded across her chest. She was of a similar age to the blacksmith’s son, always top of the class and always polite to her teachers, though their school days had ended two years previously.

  The meagre daylight had dimmed and a stillness had descended on the bay, as if the four winds themselves held their breath in anticipation.

  ‘Hoy there,’ said Steiner. ‘Working tonight?’

  ‘And every night, my curse for having a father who owns a tavern.’

  ‘Is my uncle here?’

  Kristofine nodded. ‘Was it only your uncle who you came to see?’

  Steiner shrugged. ‘Well, you never know who you might run into at a place like this.’

  They smiled at each other and Steiner wondered what to say next. Kristofine watched him for a moment and looked away.

  ‘What’s got you hanging around the doorstep on a cold night like this?’

  Kristofine nodded to the bay, where the ship’s lanterns looked like stars fallen to the sea. ‘Our new friend there, not that you can really see it now.’

  ‘What news?’ asked Steiner.

  ‘The worst kind,’ she replied. ‘It seems the ship brought a score of soldiers ashore. They’re staying at the Smouldering Standard, booked out every room.’

  ‘Imperial soldiers?’

  ‘It has to be the Synod,’ said Kristofine. ‘Though they’re late this year.’

  ‘An Invigilation then?’ said Steiner, thinking of Kjellrunn. This would be the last year she’d have to face it, but the fact offered small comfort. ‘You going to let me in before I die of cold?’ he asked, forcing a smile.

  ‘Maybe I’ll charge you a kiss to step over the threshold.’ She cocked her head to one side and Steiner wondered at this new-found playfulness. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed her. Everyone in Cinderfell had noticed Kristofine.

  ‘A kiss is about all I’ve got,’ he replied.

  ‘Then how will you pay for the beer?’

  Steiner rattled the coins in his pocket. ‘Maybe I have more than just kisses.’

  Kristofine pushed back against the door and Steiner felt the faint sting of disappointment as he realized there’d be no kiss after all.

  The tavern was full of old salts, fresh-faced youngsters and all ages in between. Bright lanterns hung from the beams and the smells of stale beer and pipe smoke teased Steiner’s senses, not unkindly.

  ‘He’s over here,’ said Kristofine, beckoning to him. They emerged through a knot of fishermen to find his Uncle Verner sitting alone in a corner, away from the hustle of th
e main bar.

  ‘Hoy there, young Steiner!’ Verner had his boots up on the table and was cleaning his nails with a short knife. He was a blond man with a face lined deep by wind and rain, and he wore his beard short, unlike many of the Cinderfell men.

  ‘The wanderer returns,’ replied Steiner.

  ‘You going to sit down or fall down? You look shattered. Isn’t Marek feeding you?’

  ‘Money is tight, there’s not much food. You know how it is.’

  Verner rose from his seat and caught him in a rough embrace. ‘Kristofine, a beer for my nephew and a bowl of stew with some bread to go with it. We need to get some meat on these bones.’

  Kristofine paused to look Steiner over. ‘That we do.’ She slipped away through the crowd, Steiner’s eyes searching for her even as she was lost from view.

  ‘Frøya’s tits!’ said Verner. ‘I’m out of town for a week and you’re all but courting Kristofine there. Not that I blame you.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. We’re not courting,’ said Steiner. He leaned in closer. ‘We’ve missed you, I’ve missed you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Ah, it was nothing.’ Verner took a sip from his tankard. ‘Nothing important. I just took some smoked fish to market in Helwick.’

  ‘Helwick? The local market not good enough for you any more?’

  Verner smiled but said nothing. The chance to ask further questions slipped away as Kristofine arrived at the table with a battered wooden tray bearing equally battered tankards.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Steiner.