He didn’t realise he’d been marked as a martyr, not a hero.

It was noon. Delyr and Sapon straightened and walked quickly back towards the spikes. The rip hung in the air, waiting, its shadow wide and clear, uncluttered by the fog of cloud, its edges hard and distinct.

Swiftly and without conversation, the two mages took up opposite positions, north and south, and began their task, leaning close to the ground to gauge the exact end of the shade and the beginning of light. Once satisfied, they placed spikes in their marks and, with small iron mallets, drove them into the earth beneath the paving of the square. Moving around the compass points anti-clockwise, they repeated the operation in less than five minutes.

Jayash could see the mages’ consternation immediately, saw the anxious glance they exchanged and began walking towards them. Delyr and Sapon met by the south line and measured the distance the new spike sat from yesterday’s using both a length of carefully marked rope and a carved length of rod-straight wood in which they made two marks. In this way they took readings from three points before Delyr consulted a parchment he fetched from a leather bag lying on the ground.

‘What is it?’ asked Jayash but he knew the answer already.

‘Just a moment,’ said Delyr. He and Sapon scribbled on the parchment, re-took their measurements and entered the figures in the log. Delyr looked up.

‘Instant assessment?’ suggested Jayash.

‘We’re in deep trouble.’

‘Justification?’

‘We’ll check again tomorrow but the rate at which the shade is growing is increasing. It’s not stable, or doesn’t appear to be.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the bigger it gets, the faster it grows.’

Jayash pushed his tongue into the inside of a cheek. ‘So, time is shorter than you originally calculated.’

‘Yes, much,’ said Delyr. ‘And we have no way of knowing whether the rate of increase will continue to rise. I suspect that it will.’

‘So what’s the new estimate?’

‘Yes, hold on . . .’ Delyr looked at Sapon who had been writing furiously. He underlined a figure on the parchment and handed it to Delyr, whose eyes widened.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Sapon nodded. ‘I’ll refine it later but it’s not far away from accurate.’

‘Well, before, we had thirty days before the rip covered Parve. We now have eight.’

Jayash said nothing, just stood at the rip above, shuddered and imagined the dragons pouring through.

It was the longest night of Ilkar’s life. Between them, The Unknown and Denser set a direct course across Triverne Inlet, using the stiffening breeze to drive them on a single tack towards the meeting of water and the Blackthorne Mountains on the eastern side of the Inlet. At least the Xeteskian was making good on his desire to learn to sail. Further out into the expanse of tidal sea, the swell deepened, making the quiet choppiness near the shore a distant memory. The small boat, never in danger under the stewardship of its dual skippers, pitched and yawed through the swell but made good headway, sail taut and full.

But something was wrong. Ilkar had always thought himself naturally empathic but even he was taken aback that Hirad in particular seemed to have no inkling that it was much more than the fact that Thraun had not returned to human form.

For Ilkar though, it was as obvious as the sun in a cloudless sky. He had taken The Unknown’s advice and kept his eye on the horizon, feeling an initial wash of sickness slowly subside as his brain registered normality forever just out of reach. But increasingly, he found his attention straying to the boat’s other occupants. It was the quiet. At first, Hirad had quipped away, talking the irrelevancies that were his trademark in relaxed situations, but received at best low chuckles and short answers in response. Ultimately, there was no reaction and he had shrugged and joined the silence. But quiet was so unlike The Raven. There had been little discussion of their direction on reaching the eastern shore save to try and find horses quickly for the ride to Julatsa. Beyond that, there seemed no plan and, without The Unknown to drive the discussion, the energy to talk was lacking.

Ignoring his protesting gut and swimming head, Ilkar turned to look at the Big Man and felt a chill in his body. Never given to joviality, The Unknown typically had his eyes everywhere in every situation, playing the role of the guardian angel with consummate skill, snuffing out threat to his friends before it became deadly. But now he was inside himself. Ilkar saw him glance occasionally in their direction, or up at the sail and even more rarely murmur to Denser to trim the tiller position or release a handful of mainsheet.

Aside from that, his head was angled forward, his eyes closed or fixed firmly on the timbers between his feet and the set of his body slightly slumped. Ilkar knew what had to be troubling him and there was nothing any of them could do about it. He had changed during his brief time as a Protector. Not because of the harsh regime under which the demons held them in thrall but because of the closeness of souls in Xetesk’s Soul Tank.

He had hinted as much in the days after his release and had appeared to shake off the memories of the bonding he had undergone but now, as they returned to the East, the memories resurfaced. Because every passing moment brought them closer to the Colleges, closer to Xetesk and closer to the Soul Tank from which his soul was wrenched. Ilkar wondered if he could still hear them calling him.

‘Unknown?’ said Ilkar. The Big Man looked up, his eyes heavy and full of pain. ‘Can you feel them?’

The Unknown shook his head. ‘No. But they are there and I am not. Their voices still sound in my memory and tear at the strings of my heart. The emptiness has not filled inside my soul. I think it never will.’

‘But . . .’

‘Please, Ilkar. I know you want to help but you can’t. No one can.’ The Unknown returned to his examination of the bottom of the boat, his last words directed at none who could hear them. ‘To reach the dragons I will have to walk by my grave.’

Ilkar felt a pang in his chest and drew in his breath sharply. He caught Denser’s eye. The Dark Mage looked no better than The Unknown and Ilkar felt despair. He had hoped the manner of their escape from the camp would have rekindled his enthusiasm. But it was clear now that it was a spark derived from the innate desire for self-preservation.

Denser believed he had already served his life’s purpose: Dawnthief was cast and the Wytch Lords were gone. But they had to close the rip in the sky or there would be no hiding place from the hordes of dragons that would eventually fly through it. Not for Denser, not for The Raven and not for Erienne and their child.

Why then, would he not take his place in the heart of The Raven and drive like he had done all the way to Parve? Ilkar understood very well that he must be fatigued but his mana stamina had returned and any bone-weariness was surely shared by them all.

‘Thanks for not dropping me back there,’ said Ilkar.

‘No problem. I’d rather have you alive than dead at the hands of the Wesmen.’

Ilkar took that as a compliment but it saddened him at the same time. The old Denser, that which had surfaced to such spectacular effect in the Wesmen camp, had quickly disappeared beneath the waves of his own self pity once again. It took all the elf’s control not to tell him so.

‘You must be tired.’

Denser shrugged. ‘I’ve been worse. When you’ve cast Dawnthief, any other exhaustion rather pales.’

‘Good effort though, Denser,’ said Hirad. Ilkar glanced down at the barbarian, half-sprawled and half-asleep on his bench, a cloak under his head, his eyes closed. Thank the Gods for Hirad. At least, in his ignorance of the mood suffocating The Raven, he was not affected by it. They would need his strength and aggression in the time ahead, that was clear.