The sun’s reflection off the water was blinding. She closed her eyes, let her mind fall away until there was nothing but the feel of the warm water slipping around her legs. She felt an exhaustion that was beyond physical. She could not stop herself lashing out, and every face she made turn her way became a mirror. There has to be a way to reflect something other than hate and contempt.

No, not a way.

A reason.

‘My hope is that the Otataral entwined in you is enough to drive away that insane mage,’ Kulp said. ‘Otherwise, we’re in for a rough voyage.’ Truth had lit a lantern and now crouched in the triangular forecastle, waiting for them to set out for the reef. The yellow light caught reflective glimmers in Heboric’s tattoos as he grimaced in response to Kulp’s words.

Gesler sat leaning over the steering oar. Like everyone else, he was waiting for the ex-priest. Waiting for a small measure of hope.

The sorcerous storm raged beyond the reef, its manic flashes lighting up the night, revealing tumbling black clouds over a frothing sea.

‘If you say so,’ Heboric eventually said.

‘Not good enough—’

‘Best I can do,’ the old man snapped. He raised one stump, jabbed it in front of Kulp. ‘You see what I can’t even feel, Mage!’

The mage swung to Gesler. ‘Well, Corporal?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘We got a choice?’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Kulp said, fighting to stay calm. ‘With Heboric aboard I don’t even know if I can open my warren – he’s got taints to him I wouldn’t want spreading. Without my warren I can’t deflect that sorcery. Meaning—’

‘We get roasted crisp,’ Gesler said, nodding. ‘Look alive up there, Truth. We’re heading out!’

‘Yours is a misplaced faith, Corporal,’ Heboric said.

‘Knew you’d say that. Now everyone stay low – me and Stormy and the lad got work to do.’

Although he sat within arm’s reach of the tattooed old man, Kulp could sense his own warren. It felt ready – almost eager – for release. The mage was frightened. Meanas was a remote warren, and every fellow practitioner Kulp had met characterized it the same way: cool, detached, amused intelligence. The game of illusions was played with light, dark, texture and shadows, crowing victory when it succeeded in deceiving an eye, but even that triumph felt emotionless, the satisfaction clinical. Accessing the warren always had the feel of interrupting a power busy with other things. As if shaping a small fraction of that power was a distraction barely worth acknowledging.