They joined the shiftless procession, which in truth wasn’t all that much faster than Kurkas’ crutch-bound pace, and joined the crowds packed in the shadow of the reeve’s manor. Taking up position towards the rear – but not so far back as to seem unwilling – Kurkas glanced around. He took in dispirited face after dispirited face; the ring of king’s blue soldiers at the periphery and the one broken-down kraikon salvaged from the battle.

Hard to believe the marketplace had rung with cheers just a week before.

The crowd should have been rife with discontent – mutters loud enough to carry, but not so loud as to identify those who gave them voice. There was nothing, just the drum of raindrops on wattle and timber – the swish of boots traipsing across waterlogged cobbles.

“Don’t know why they’re bothering with the soldiers,” muttered Kurkas. “This lot look ready to lie down for just about anything. So much for the unruly south.”

The expected protest from Halvor never arrived. Kurkas turned about to find her staring distantly at the reeve’s balcony. As a man with few friends and no family beyond the one offered by the hearthguard, Kurkas knew he’d never really understand the depths of Halvor’s losses. Sure, Zanya had cost her, but there’d been hope things might change. Now? Now she was fifteen years older. If Akadra couldn’t set things right, she’d more chance of seeing the mists of Otherworld than a free Southshires.

“Nothing lasts for ever,” he said softly.

Halvor blinked and stared at him with fleeting confusion. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Branghall’s clock chimed for six. Heralds appeared on the balcony. Buccinas blared their brash chorus. Even in the deluge, Makrov couldn’t resist pomp and ceremony.

As the notes faded into the rain, the archimandrite appeared on the balcony, scarlet robes bright in the gloom. Yanda stood a little to the side, her expression only a shade less dour than the assembled southwealders. A trio of veiled serenes stood in silent attendance behind.

“People of Eskavord!” Makrov’s querulous tone was a poor match for the rain. The more he strove to overcome the din, the more his voice cracked and broke. “Blessed Lumestra despairs how you have strayed from the Council’s authority! I will guide you back to the light. Lumestra’s radiance may once more grace this town. But it must be earned!”

If Makrov hoped to fan the flames of fervour, he’d sorely misjudged his audience, who regarded him with the same sullen indifference they’d earlier reserved for the rain.