‘Give me a moment,’ said Hirad. ‘I don’t think my legs’ll carry me anyway.’ He glanced around the table. They were all staring at him, their food forgotten. He shrugged. ‘I didn’t even believe they existed,’ he said in explanation. ‘So big. So . . . so huge. And right here!’ He put a quivering palm in front of his face. ‘Too powerful. I can’t—’ He broke off, shuddering the length of his body. Plates and cutlery on the table rattled. Tears fogged his vision and he felt his heart trip-hammering. He swallowed hard.

‘What did it talk about?’ asked Ilkar.

‘Loud. He thundered in my head,’ said Hirad. ‘He talked about dimensions and portals and he wanted to know what I was doing. Huh. Funny . . . that huge and he cared what I was doing. Me. I’m so small but he called me strong.’ He shivered again. ‘He said he’d know me. He had my life. He could have crushed me just like that. Snuffed me out. Why didn’t he? I wish I could remember everything. ’

‘Hirad, you’re mumbling,’ said Sirendor. ‘I think we should leave this for another time.’

‘Sorry, I think I’ll lie down now, if you’ll help me.’

‘Sure thing, old friend.’ Sirendor smiled. He pushed back the bench and helped Hirad to shaky feet.

‘Gods. I feel like I’ve been sick for a week.’

‘You’ve been sick all your life.’

‘Sod off, Larn.’

‘I would, but you’d fall over.’

‘Make sure he drinks plenty of hot, sweet liquid,’ said The Unknown as the friends shambled past. ‘Nothing alcoholic.’

‘Is the Xetesk mage still here?’ asked Hirad. The Unknown nodded.

‘In Seran’s chambers,’ said Ilkar. ‘Asleep. Hardly surprising after the casting he’s done today. He won’t be leaving until I’ve spoken to him.’

‘You should have let me kill him.’

The Unknown smiled. ‘You know I couldn’t.’

‘Yes. Come on, Larn, or I’ll collapse where I’m standing.’

The two men sat in low chairs either side of a fire long dead. Night hurried to engulf the College City of Xetesk and, in response, lanterns glowed, keeping the dark at bay and lighting up the massed shelves of books that stood at every wall in the small study. On a desk kept meticulously tidy, a single candle burned above the ribboned and titled sheaves of papers.

Far below the study, the College quietened. Late lectures took place behind closed doors, spells were honed and adjusted in the armoured chambers of the catacombs, but the air outside was still.

Beyond the walls of the College, Xetesk still moved, but as full night fell, that movement would cease. The City existed to serve the College, and the College had in the past exacted a heavy price for its own existence. Inns would lock their doors, patrons staying until first light; shops and businesses feeding off those who fed off the College would shutter their windows. Houses would show no light or welcome.

No longer did Protectors issue from the College to snatch subjects for experiment. And no longer did Xetesk mages use their own people for sacrifice in mana-charge ceremonies. But old fears died hard and rumours would forever fly through the markets that bustled by day but echoed silence at night.

As darkness fell, a malevolent quiet still emanated from the College in a cloying cloud of apprehension and anxiety like fog rolling in from the sea. Countless years of blood ritual would never be forgotten and forever hearts would quicken at the sound of wood splintering in the distant dark, and cries would be stifled as footsteps were heard slowing by locked doors. Dread ran through the veins of Xetesk and the foreboding receded only with the lightening of the sky on a new morning.

It made the job of City Guard simple, as at dusk they closed the gates of the only fully walled City in Balaia and patrolled the empty streets. Fear stalked the alleyways as it had done for centuries. But now it was a legacy. It had no substance.

Change was so slow and the City was suffocating. Few native Xeteskians had left to enjoy the freedom granted them by the latest Lord of the Mount as his first action on assuming the mantle of the College’s ruling mage. And in the twelve years since, Styliann had encountered nothing but reluctance to cast aside the old ways, as if his people drew perverse comfort from living in fear of everyone they met. Yet now, his failure to change the collective will and mind of his people could work to his advantage.

Styliann was an imposing figure, well in excess of six foot, with the body of a forty-year-old disguising his true age of somewhere over fifty. His hair, receding halfway across his skull, was long, dark and brushed hard into a ponytail that reached beyond his shoulders. He wore dark trousers and a shirt of deepest blue, and his cloak of office, gold-trimmed black, was draped about his shoulders. His nose was long and thin, his jaw set harsh and his cold green eyes scared all they looked upon.

‘I take it she escaped Terenetsa unharmed?’ asked his companion across the fireplace.

Styliann blinked several times and shook his head to clear his mind of his reverie. He regarded Nyer, a senior aide and archmage, for a few moments, remembering the old maxim concerning where to keep your friends and enemies. He thought he had Nyer, a wily political animal and sharp thinker, placed about right.

‘Yes, she did. Just. And she’s now well clear.’ He shivered at the memory of his recent contact with Selyn, anxious for the mage spy’s safety. Even under a CloakedWalk, she had been at risk from those she watched and the manner of her escape from Terenetsa, a small Wesmen farming community not far west of the Blackthorne Mountains, would trouble his dreams that night. He reached a slightly tremulous hand down to a low table and picked up his wine, a deep and heavy red that had not kept as well as he’d hoped. He felt tired. Communion over such a range sapped the strength and he knew he would need to visit the catacombs for prayer later that evening.

‘But something is troubling you, my Lord.’

‘Hmm.’ Styliann pursed his lips, knowing any reluctance to speak would be taken by Nyer as a personal slight. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet. ‘She saw everything we have been fearing. The Wesmen are subjugating villages near the Blackthornes. She heard the Shaman offer them life for crops and obedience. The evidence is just overwhelming. They are massing armies, they are united and the Shaman magic is strong.’

Nyer nodded, pushing his hand through his long greying hair.

‘And Parve?’ he asked.

‘I have asked her to travel there.’

‘Selyn?’

‘Yes. There is no one else and we must have answers.’

‘But, my Lord—’

‘I am well aware of the risks, Nyer!’ snapped Styliann. His expression softened immediately. ‘My apologies.’

‘Not at all,’ said Nyer. He placed a comforting hand briefly on Styliann’s knee.

‘We must be so careful now,’ said Styliann after another sip of wine. ‘Are our Watchers sure the Wytch Lords are still held?’

Nyer breathed out, a long, sighing sound. ‘We believe so.’

‘That isn’t good enough.’

‘Please, Styliann, let me explain.’ Nyer’s use of his Lord’s name was against protocol but Styliann let it go. Nyer was an old mage who rarely followed etiquette. ‘The spells to determine that the Wytch Lords are still in the mana cage are complex and are nearing completion for this quarter. Delays have been caused through unusually high activity in the interdimensional space in which the cage is located.’

‘When will we have an answer?’ Styliann pulled an embroidered cord next to the fireplace.

‘In the next few hours. A day at most.’ Nyer raised his eyebrows in apology.

‘You know it’s only a matter of time, don’t you?’

‘My Lord?’

‘The evidence is all there.’ Styliann sighed. ‘The unification of the Wesmen tribes, Shamen at the head of war parties, armies building in the south-west . . .’