‘All right. How by every God crying did two members of The Raven end up as Lord of the Mount and, unbelievably, king, respectively?’

‘You know neither of us really wanted what happened after the demons were beaten,’ said Denser.

He felt cold. It was always the same when the dark days resurfaced in his mind.

‘I believe that of Sol. Not so sure about you,’ said Hirad.

‘I’m really disappointed you think that of me.’

‘Oh come on, Denser. I may have spent my youth in the wilds of Rache and my best years trying not to die but I did pause to look around once in a while. And even I know that every Xeteskian mage aspires to the Mount. Why are you different?’

‘I’m not. And yes, I did aspire to the Mount but not in the way it happened. Because I didn’t want The Raven to be gone. But it has gone and we move on. And does not every man aspire to be king? To rule others?’

Hirad jerked a thumb at Sol. ‘In his case, no. Seems to me you’ve been shut in the Mount for too long.’

‘Seems to me you haven’t been dead long enough.’

Denser saw Hirad flinch. So hard to believe it really was him behind the mask of a murdered merchant; so hard to argue it wasn’t him having heard him speak of things none but Hirad would know. The heartbeat of The Raven, Sol always called him. He never had been good at tact, though.

‘Sorry, Hirad.’

Hirad shrugged. A line of fresh blood leaked from his wound.

‘It’s just that you weren’t here and you don’t understand what happened in the aftermath of the demon war.’

‘Being dead does take the edge off, doesn’t it?’

Denser sighed and stopped walking. ‘Whatever else you blame me for, don’t blame me for surviving, all right? If you’re bitter, fine, that’s your choice. Me and Sol, we’ve had to get on because it’s the only thing left to do. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish you were still alive. And not a moment goes by that I don’t want Erienne, my wife remember, to be beside me still. We’re trying to build something worth the sacrifice you and the rest of The Raven’s dead made that day. Wallowing in grief and bitterness won’t do it. Remembering your friends and those you loved that would lay down their life for you, that is what is behind every breath I take.’

‘Right, I get it,’ said Hirad. ‘Your wealth and position are things that you hate. A heavy burden you take on your shoulders for the good of us all. Well, we’ll see what you’re made of, won’t we? Because what’s coming at you is going to make the demons seem like irritating insects.’

Denser smiled. ‘It’s been a long decade and we have made great strides. Perhaps I should show you a few reasons why we shouldn’t get too worried about this enemy right now.’

‘Well my time dead hasn’t dampened Xeteskian complacency at all, has it?’

‘Let’s keep this for inside four walls, shall we?’ Sol’s voice stayed Denser’s next words. ‘And can we move on? I’ve become tired of repeating myself. We need to compose a city wide announcement.’

‘Yep, one that orders immediate evacuation,’ said Hirad.

‘Where to?’ Denser spread his arms. ‘Somewhere safer than within the walls of Balaia’s most powerful city? I’m sure we’d all love to know where this mystical place is.’

‘Denser . . .’ began Sol.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hirad. Tears had begun to fall down his cheeks. ‘I just know we can’t stay here and I want you to believe me before the pain inside gets too bad. Please, Denser, I don’t want to be here but I know I have to help.’

Denser stared at Hirad and sucked his lip, feeling about as tall as the pebble by his foot.

‘Let’s get to the Mount, shall we?’ he said.

There were a few people waiting at the gates of the college. All of them were plainly bodies of the recently deceased; and all of them were waiting for Denser and for Sol.

In a large meeting room in Denser’s tower sat The Raven. Or rather, the souls who had once made up The Raven now unhappily ensconced in other bodies. What struck Denser immediately was that some of them had never even met each other though they had all been part of Balaia’s most famous fighting team. What made him uncomfortable was that Sirendor Larn, who was currently seated next to Hirad, kept staring at him. He could understand the baleful expression. But mostly he just felt sad because this was an unwanted reunion for them.

The silence was stifling, adding to the already suffocating odours emanating from the assembled bodies that the opening of every window and balcony door had failed to address to any significant degree. While none of the bodies had ever been interred, each had brought with it the dirt of where it had fallen and in some cases the disease that had killed it. One of Denser’s mages had already cast a number of cleansing spells.

‘You know, it’s depressing to realise that so many Xeteskians die alone and lost,’ said Denser.

No one replied. The Raven were staring at one another, desperately trying to come to terms with their plight. The shadows on the walls from the steady light of lanterns picked out the true identity of each soul, but more than that, they all just knew too much to be any other than who they said they were. And, that done, they had lapsed into this confused quiet.

So much tragedy, so much irony too. Darrick the great cavalry general had found a body most unlikely to prove as competent in the saddle as he had been. Very tall and altogether too middle-aged. Died of a heart attack.

And Ren’erei too, lover of Ilkar, now sitting bewildered and scared, in pain and with nothing anyone could do about it, not in the short term. Her new body was that of a girl of about twelve. Pretty but for the sores across her face, evidence of the disease which had claimed her.

But no greater cruelty than poor Erienne in the body of a five-year-old girl. Erienne’s daughter, his daughter, Lyanna had been five when she had died. And she was not here. And of The Raven, four were missing, most notably Thraun the shapechanger.

There were tears running down Ras’s cheeks. The warrior, who had died on the same day Denser met The Raven at Taranspike Castle, was rocking back and forth, his arms folded tightly around his ribs. His body was that of a middle-aged man who had died of a cancer of the kidneys. The body was yellow and covered in dull brown spots. Ras’s soul had made the body walk but that was about all.

‘This man did not die alone,’ said Ras eventually, his voice rasping out over a throat raw from coughing up the blood that still stained his once-white woollen shirt. ‘As his soul fled, mine entered his body. He is lost forever and all I have done is cause such pain to his family, all there to comfort him into death. I don’t understand why I’m here.’

Sirendor put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It will come to you. It seems both you and I have been dead a long time. How fate plays her hand, eh?’

‘We can ease the pain further,’ said Denser. ‘Fix you up so at least you can function.’

Denser felt Sirendor’s gaze again and there was hate in it. He met it full on. Large bloodshot eyes stared out of a thickset face with chin, neck and cheeks hidden by a large growth of beard. What could be seen of the skin was sheet white. Blood matted the beard on his neck and dried onto a filthy brown shirt that reeked of damp. The slashed throat still oozed when he turned his head. It needed properly repairing before too long or he wouldn’t be able to start his heart, much as Hirad couldn’t just yet.

‘I didn’t mean it to be the way it was,’ said Denser.

‘That’s comforting. One little cut of a poisoned blade. The wrong man moulders in the ground and the other rises to become Lord of the Mount.’

‘I’m sorry, Sirendor. I don’t know what else to say.’

‘Your death saved Balaia from the Wytch Lords,’ said Sol. ‘You died a hero.’