Kurkas wolfed down a final mouthful of bread, savouring the salted butter, and tossed the rest over the rampart. It flared briefly as it passed through the enchantment, then fell away into an unnatural darkness that went far beyond the gloom of overcast skies and into the cold embrace of night.

Scores gathered in that darkness. A mass of young and old, their raiment spanned from rough farmer’s garb to the black and gold silks of serenes and everything in between. Motionless, they stared unblinkingly at the gate as if willing it to open.

“I’ll call out the guard,” said Brask. “They’ll disperse before steel.”

Kurkas shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure. How many soldiers do you have in Branghall?”

“Twenty, plus three proctors and a kraikon.”

He let his gaze drift across the crowd. No, not a crowd. Crowds made noise. And their manner. The unity of posture and expression. The darkness hid their eyes just as it hid their numbers. Only close to the wall, where sunlight bled out from within, were they more than shapes. But Kurkas already knew what he’d see. Glittering black, just like Halvor’s. Hundreds upon hundreds of glittering black eyes.

“It’s not enough,” he said softly. “The gate stays closed.”

Brask glared at him. “And if the archimandrite tries to get through?”

Kurkas spat on the rampart. “I guess we’ll find out how much Lumestra really loves him.”

Her gaze grew every bit as frosty as the air wafting in over the crest of the wall. “Captain Kurkas. I don’t care for your manner.”

“My manner’s the least of your bloody problems. Reckon this is bloody normal, do you?”

Brask bristled. “It’s a consequence of the enchantment.”

“Really? Winter’s night out there and a summer evening in here? No. Something’s badly bloody amiss. Given the state of that lot, I’ll wager it’s not us who’ve the problem. I’ve seen more spark in a priest’s conscience.”

Brask’s expression flickered between pride and outrage. Neither concealed the worry bubbling beneath. “So what do you suggest, captain? Well?”

Kurkas offered a lopsided shrug. “We go back inside. No sense worrying until we know what we’re worrying about, and we’ll think better away from those dead-eyed stares.”

Brask scowled but nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll post more men, and . . .”

“Blessed Lumestra,” muttered the sentry.

Kurkas stared into the rain. At the far end of the drive, where the silent mass faded into the sea of downcast grey, the press of bodies drifted apart to form a clear channel.