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hill.
    Norman and Lucian watched her go until she was out of earshot.
    “She’s right. The time’s now. You need to start taking charge,” Lucian muttered.
    Norman ground his teeth, but kept his voice level. “I’ve told you… I’ve told all of you: I don’t want this.”
    “We’re going to need somebody to step up soon. Alex isn’t going to be around forever. And you need to be ready to take over when the time comes.”
    “If somebody needs to step up so bad, then why don’t you do it?”
    “Because it was always going to be you. Alex has spent the better part of twenty years getting you ready for it.”
    “That’s just it: he picked me. I didn’t ask for this.”
    “Your parents thought you could do it. They died as much for Alex as they did to save you, to make sure you had the chance to be what we need. You might have your doubts now, but it doesn’t matter. You are going to lead.” Despite his emphatic delivery, Lucian’s words were flat, regurgitated. Not his own, but Alexander’s.
    Norman had heard it all a million times over. He whirled on his saddle, his teeth gritted. “This conversation’s so worn that it’s like a bad joke. But no matter how many times you spit out that same old speech, there’s some part of me that thinks maybe you don’t believe it at all. The others might think I’m some kind of saint, but not you.”
    Lucian didn’t reply. A breeze kicked up, casting a cascade of long-dead leaves against their calves. He drew a ragged breath and, for the briefest of moments, looked as though he meant to say something. Instead, he merely kicked at his horse’s sides and descended the hillside.
    Norman watched him go until the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the brute that inhabited the base of his skull prodded him forwards, towards the light. He followed soon after, a curse passing his lips.

III

     
    The Stour trickled seaward, glassy-smooth in the evening hush. Only occasional shallow wavelets sprayed the cobbled street running parallel to its meandering path. A small wooden rowboat rocked close to the water’s edge, against archaic stonework, its oars jostling within its depths with each resounding bump. This part of the city was not directly illuminated, but only caught the glare of the streetlamps across the river.
    Alexander Cain stood alone at the edge of the path, where stone gave way to water. From even here he could identify Lucian McKay, with his slim build and steel-grey hair scintillating in the youthful twilight, which made him recognisable at a fleeting glance.
    Two more dark forms were also descending into the city, and soon the snuffling of horses was on the brink of audibility. They were still some distance away, but they would reach him shortly.
    Alexander had crossed the river only minutes before, rowing up from the cathedral as the streetlights had spluttered alight. People had seen him go, but none had questioned him. Nobody had thought to doubt him for a great many years.
    Enough time had certainly passed since the End to have cemented the kind of look that people gave him: the downcast gaze, aimed not at his eyes but the ground over which he walked; the respectful nod—in some more of an awkward bow; and the slight trace of awe, as though he carried in his pockets not fluff and lint, but tablets inscribed with divine wisdom.
    Long ago, when his struggles to unite the fractured tribes of the Early Years had begun to gain traction, he had tried to dispel the special status that people had awarded him. But the more effort he’d made to sit around campfires and work in the fields along with the everyman, the stranger the looks had grown, until eventually all eyes had turned to him whenever he made an appearance, and he had stopped bothering.
    He had been forced into a costume and mask to match, to play Fearless Leader to the masses for year upon year, until now he was to the people of New Canterbury naught but a wandering Messiah.
    Keeping