SONGSPINNERS

Khassian shaded his eyes, squinting into the rising sun. Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie, was a shadow silhouetted against the blinding glare.

‘I had not realised you were quite so young. So young and so talented. A god-given talent. Only once or twice a century one as gifted as you is born, Illustre. Come into the light. I want to look at you.’

When Khassian did not move, two Guerriors seized hold of him by the arms and dragged him forward.

‘Let go of me!’ Khassian shook himself free. The two Guerriors stood at his side, staring into the dazzling sun, faces unmoving.

‘Oh, please sit down, Illustre Khassian. This interview may take a little time.’

Hands were placed on Khassian’s shoulders. He was pressed down, gently but firmly.

‘Then why the secretary?’ Khassian nodded towards the grey-suited officer discreetly writing in a ledger.

‘If you have nothing to hide from us, Illustre, then you need not fear a record being kept of our conversation.’ Girim sat back in his chair. ‘You showed such promise, even as a young child. All that burgeoning talent so sadly misused. Abused. Frittered away in sick, sad projects like this… what did you call it?… Elesstar – or Litanies of Transubstantiation?‘

‘But blasphemous. Even the title reeks of heresy. You arrogant young intellectuals – why must you mock and deride what you do not understand? I am called back to Bel’Esstar, Jewel of Cities, my spiritual home – and what do I find? The Blessed Mhir’s shrine neglected – even His name, His holy writings, desecrated in – in vulgar entertainments.’

‘Elesstar is not an entertainment!’ cried Khassian. ‘It is my interpretation of Mhir’s writings. The Vineyard Verses.’

‘Your misinterpretation,’ said Girim coldly. ‘Your blatant distortion of holy texts. It seems a remarkably contentious work to me, Illustre. A work calculated to disturb. To provoke. Inflame.’

‘Oh, I think you understand very well, Illustre. For a young man, you demonstrate a great degree of understanding. In the Opera House you know how to rouse the passions of your audience. You manipulate them through your art.’

‘Music is the most powerful manipulator of the emotions. In the hands of the corrupt, the spiritually warped, it can be a terrifying weapon. My role is to protect the vulnerable, the innocent, the untainted, Illustre. I have to guard my flock from the wolves.’

‘If I read this libretto aright, you planned to depict the seduction of the Blessed Mhir by the Angel Messenger sent by Iel the All-Seeing. The carnal seduction.’

‘Mhir’s words are explicit: “Then he put His mouth to my mouth and His tongue was a scorching flame. The fire of His words flowed into –”‘

‘You have no need to quote the holy texts to me, Illustre. I have spent a lifetime in study and contemplation of Mhir’s words. And I find your interpretation a lewd distortion of what is essentially a poetic metaphor.’

‘I question your motives in portraying literally what was meant to be interpreted metaphysically. I question your motives in portraying Mhir on stage in a work of entertainment. In my opinion this opera of yours is a blasphemous abomination. The anger it arouses amongst true believers is justified.’

‘I do not condone the arson attack upon you and your company. But your opera has stirred up strong feelings, Illustre. Dangerous feelings.’

Khassian had focussed his attention on the Grand Maistre’s hands; the nails perfectly manicured, the skin smooth and pale and supple. The hands of an aesthete, one who does not sully his fingers with everyday matters, Khassian thought. Before the fire his own hands had always been stained with ink, the nails chewed: craftsman’s hands; honest hands.

‘Together, Illustre, we could re-fashion your opera into a celebration of Mhir’s life. The aggressive musical language of your recent works would be wholly inappropriate, of course. But a composer as versatile as you would have no problem adapting his style to create a less contentious work.’

Girim was looking at him over steepled fingers. His eyes were colourless; neither the grey of winter skies nor the pale brown of endless sands. For a moment Khassian was balancing on the top of a dizzy precipice; far below the clouds eddied and swirled.

The steepled fingers slowly lowered. There was silence in the panelled chamber; even the scratching pen stopped.

‘I beg you to reconsider,’ Girim said quietly. ‘We can find you an amanuensis.’

‘You understand nothing about music! Even with an amanuensis, it would be impossible. You ask me to compromise my name as a composer, to compromise my own style, my own voice – I will not do it.’

‘So be it.’ Girim turned to the secretary. ‘Let it be set down that I offered the Illustre Khassian the opportunity to recant. And he refused.’

‘I will give you one more chance to change your mind. So I am sending you to the Sanctuary, Illustre. There, in a solitary cell, you will have time to reflect upon the answer you have just given me.’

‘If music overstimulates certain areas of her brain, provoking these manic episodes, then yes, I must do it. She’ll come to see the sense of it in time.’

No music meant never to see Amaru Khassian again. Never to share again the unique melding of musical consciousness that had bonded their minds.

How could Papa say he loved her – and deprive her of the one thing she cherished most?

To live a sterile life, safe from the dangerous influence of music, a sheltered life, trapped within the silent walls of the Sanatorium…

… or to break free, to follow the glamour of the music wherever it led her, to dance to its tune until the madness finally claimed her.

Jerame looked up from his breakfast to see Orial propping herself against the doorframe.

‘My dear, you have been very ill.’ Jerame tenderly helped her into a chair. ‘You must try to regain your strength slowly, not rush at everything.’

‘But there is so much to be done! The Illustre will be wondering what has become of me –’ She stopped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.

‘I know,’ Jerame said, steeling himself to tell her what had happened. ‘I know what you were doing.’ Better he told her the truth than that she heard some garbled version from Cramoisy Jordelayne. ‘Listen, Orial. Khassian has gone back to Bel’Esstar.’

‘Gone back!’ she echoed in an incredulous whisper. ‘And he left no word for me?’

‘He had very little time, I believe, to leave word for anyone. There was an extradition order.’ He moved to the window, pretending to look out at the weather. ‘He had to go.’

‘There were charges he was obliged to answer in Allegonde. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen –’

‘Who have you been talking to?’ She was looking at him shrewdly. ‘Because don’t you believe for one moment, Papa, that his rights as a citizen will be respected in Bel’Esstar. I must see the Diva. We must organise a petition on his behalf. We – we must –’ She tried to raise herself from the chair but sank back, drained.

‘All in good time,’ soothed Jerame, tucking a shawl about her legs. ‘Right now you must conserve your strength.’

‘This is most vexing,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Can you not at least invite the Diva here, Papa? Talking should not exhaust me.’

‘I have much work to catch up with, my dear. Maybe in a week or so… when you are stronger. Rest now. And don’t forget to drink your restorative tincture; it is made from mountain herbs and flowers.’

He did not tell Orial that the Diva had been calling every day, begging to see him – and every day Jerame had somehow managed to avoid him, to send him away.

But how long would it be before Orial discovered the part he had played in Khassian’s deportation?

Another sad band of Sanctuarees had arrived. Acir Korentan stood and watched the prisoners trail after nel Macy as he marched them to their quarters, barking out orders.

They had taken one away from the others and were hurrying him towards a separate wing of the Sanctuary. Acir frowned into the sunlight. There was something oddly familiar about that defiant stance, that shock of tousled dark hair.

Acir hurried down the steps after the prisoner and his escort. But before he could reach them, nel Macy hailed him.

‘Will you take charge of their induction? I’ve been called to the Fortress.’

Take charge. A chance at last to assess what processes were at work within the Sanctuary. A chance to find out how it was that Amaru Khassian had come – in spite of all Acir’s efforts – to be imprisoned here.

‘And the last prisoner?’ he asked casually. ‘What are the instructions regarding him?’

‘Who? 654? He’s marked down for Meditation. Special instructions. A hard one to break, apparently.’

Meditation. Another of Girim nel Ghislain’s euphemisms. Meditation meant solitary confinement. Acir’s hopes of making contact with Khassian were immediately dashed.

‘You were sent here as a spiritual advisor, Korentan.’ Nel Macy clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You can take charge of the weekly confessionals.’

‘And what,’ Acir said levelly, ‘is the precise purpose of these confessionals?’

‘When these rebels arrive at the Sanctuary, they’re in poor shape spiritually. Morally weak. We talk to them. We give counsel. We keep a check on their spiritual progress. And if any feel ready to make a public renunciation of their old beliefs, then we welcome them back into the faith. There have been torchlight ceremonies in Bel’Esstar – crowds of onlookers. A stirring sight!’

Everywhere the posters advertising the second appearance at the Guildhall of Cramoisy Jordelayne By Public Demand were slashed across with red writing proclaiming the blunt message: CANCELLED.

The sky was filling with clouds as Orial hurried towards the Crescent; the first drops of rain began to patter on to the pavements as she went up to Mistress Permay’s door and rapped loudly with the knocker.

Raindrops spattered Orial’s head; the sky had darkened and the pavements were already glistening with the downpour.

‘He’ll receive me.’ Orial could feel the rain trickling into her hair. She took a step forward. Mistress Permay blocked her way.

‘Oh? Well, that’s different, then, I suppose you’d better come in.’ Mistress Permay grudgingly moved aside to allow her into the hall. ‘Mind you wipe your feet. The floor’s just been polished. Can’t have mud and filth trodden in everywhere.’

Orial wiped her feet on the mat and hastened across the shiny floor under Mistress Permay’s watchful eyes.

She tapped on the door of Cramoisy’s apartments. There was no reply. She quietly pressed the handle and opened the door.

The salon was exactly as it was the day she had been taken ill – except for the absence of Amaru Khassian. She had half-expected to see him in his customary position by the window, turning to greet her.

Now she felt a bleak chill wrap round her heart as she gazed around the empty room.

The Diva was sitting staring into empty air. His hair was unkempt, lying lank and straggling about his shoulders. He was still in déshabillé, not having bothered to dress; from time to time he pulled at the lace on a crumpled handkerchief clutched in one hand.

‘Cramoisy?’ Orial called his name softly. The Diva started and glanced around; his face was streaked with black-stained tear runnels.

‘Orial?’ Cramoisy said bemusedly. ‘But – but I thought you – they said –’

‘I had feared the worst.’ The Diva hesitated a moment – and then he enveloped her in his arms, crushing her in a pomade-scented embrace. His fingers tremblingly touched her face. ‘And here you are – healed.’

Orial, overwhelmed by this unexpected show of emotion, gently extricated herself from the Diva’s fond embrace.

‘Listen to me, babbling on.’ Cramoisy made an effort to control himself. ‘But it is so good to see you – when everything else –’ his voice cracked again ‘– everything else is in ruins.’ The tears began to well again and he raised the handkerchief to his mouth as though to smother them.

‘So – upset – my voice –’ He could not finish; one hand pointed at his throat.

‘It can happen, you know. Shock. And once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. It never comes back. My performing career is over,’ he said starkly.

‘Amaru – was arrested.’ This was no performance; Cramoisy’s distress was genuine. ‘Deported – no word now – for days –’ He turned to Orial, mouth contorted with anguish. ‘How could he do it? Didn’t he know he was sending him to his death?’

‘I’m sorry to speak ill of your father, carissa. Doubtless he thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He was acting as a responsible citizen. He-’

‘But why?’ Even as she asked the question, Orial realised that she knew the answer. ‘Oh, no. Not because of me?’

‘I will plead his case with the Grand Maistre – with Prince Ilsevir himself, if he’ll see me.’

‘No. Oh, no.’ Cramoisy made a tutting noise. ‘Have you any idea what it is like in Bel’Esstar? You’ve heard the horrific stories Azare and Valentan have to tell. It’s no place for a young girl –’

‘And how can you be so sure? How can we trust him? He was in league with that so-called Contesse, that brassy strumpet parading herself in her fine gowns and millinery…’

Orial went to the window and looked out through the rivulets of rain darkening the panes.

‘I shan’t ask his permission,’ Orial said, gazing out over the rainswept city. She swung around and looked the Diva directly in the eyes. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Me?’ The Diva tried to get to his feet but instantly sank back as though exhausted by the effort. ‘Oh, it’s hopeless, hopeless… every time I think of Amaru in Bel’Esstar, I come over so faint…’

‘And there’s the problem of papers. Of course, there might be another solution…’

‘I have a mind to play the Commanderie at their own game. Yes, that’s it!’ Cramoisy clasped his hands together, as though clutching the idea tight to his breast. ‘I’ll play the penitent. I’ll tell the Grand Maistre in a heart-rending scene that I have seen the error of my ways. The Diva decides to be converted – what a coup for the Commanderie!’

‘But that would mean –’ Orial stopped. ‘I couldn’t ask you to compromise your principles, that would be too great a sacrifice.’

‘Fa to principles! Listen, carissa, a Diva can’t afford to have principles. He sings for whoever pays the highest price.’

Orial gave the castrato a long, pensive look. It seemed as if he was in earnest, in spite of the extravagant words and gestures… though it was always hard to tell.

‘But we’ll need funds.’ He rose from the couch and went to unlock a walnut casket on a side-table, talking all the while. ‘I could sell this jacinth brooch, I suppose it might fetch fifty courons or so. And the matching buckles – I always thought they were a trifle tawdry.’ He took out one piece of jewellery at a time, laying them side by side on the table. ‘That pays for our passage. Now for the lodgings…’ Cramoisy began to count on his fingers, silently calculating the sums.

‘Well, there’s precious little to do here in Sulien. Besides, I have a pressing desire to see what is being worn at court this summer.’

On the curved staircase, Orial faltered, grasping at the rail to steady herself.

She could still hear her own voice, clear and determined, ringing out across the echoing salon:

She reached the front door; outside, shafts of light penetrated the looming clouds and puddles glistened between the paving stones. The rain had stopped.

Where had the courage come from to speak out? Now that she had time to think about what she had said, she was astonished at her own boldness.

How long have I got before the Accidie finally claims me? Is it long enough to repair the damage my father has done?

Orial drew out her leather valise from beneath her bed. The rain drummed relentlessly on the window panes. What did one take on such an unpredictable journey? And was the weather hot at this time of year across the mountains in Bel’Esstar – or grey and stormy, as in Sulien? She knelt back on her heels, perplexed. Where to start?

She knew she was living on borrowed time. But if there was only a little time left to her, she wanted to use it to the full. She felt a strange sense of calm now that she had made her decision to go. Besides, who could foretell what the future might bring? Anything might happen.

How was it possible to love someone – and yet be so desperately ashamed of what they had done?

She went to the window and saw him striding purposefully away down the street, case in hand. But from this height she could see the little patch on the top of his head where his immaculately trimmed hair was thinning. In spite of his brisk step and his neat appearance, he was ageing. And who would care for him when she was gone?

I have to go away for a little while. Don’t worry about me, Papa, please, I shall be quite safe – and you know I am more than capable of looking after myself.

Your loving daughter,

Orial

She went to the drawer and took out her only jewellery: a necklace of black and ivory pearls with ear-drops of matching pearls that had belonged to her mother. Maybe they would act as a talisman, a token of good luck. She could not bear to leave them behind – but to wear them might attract unwelcome attention.

It would be sensible to sew them into the hem of her dress; she had heard tales of unscrupulous thieves and pickpockets in Bel’Esstar.

She swiftly unpicked a few stitches and threaded the pearls inside the hem, sewing them tightly in. She stood up, smoothing out the folds; no one would guess the pearls were there.

She took up the valise and placed the note on her coverlet next to her old rag doll and much-loved book of faery tales.

The diligence to Bel’Esstar stopped in the courtyard of the Moon and Sickle inn in the centre of Sulien. Carriages and mail coaches for all other destinations in Tourmalise used the Three Hares tavern on the far side of the city.

Orial approached the busy yard warily, glancing all around, hoping no one would recognise her. She had collected her travel permit from the Guildhall, her valise was packed – now all that was needed was the Diva and the tickets.

Ostlers bustled about within the cobbled yard, leading fresh horses from their stalls. There was a rich, all-pervading odour of trampled hay and horse-manure.

The passengers from the capital were descending and collecting their luggage. But where was Cramoisy?

A sudden shrill whistling pierced her mind, a bolt of blue lightning, icily cold. She stumbled, clutching at the wall to support herself.

One of the stable lads passed in front of her, laden with fresh nose-bags for the horses. He was whistling ‘Come Kiss Me Now’, a popular dance air. An innocuous little tune in itself, it threatened to bring all her plans to a premature conclusion.

She squeezed her eyes tight shut but ‘Come Kiss Me Now’ etched itself across the darkness in zig-zags of dazzling light.

He gave her a peculiar look, hefted up the nose-bags and disappeared into the nearest stall. At least he had stopped whistling.

She looked around to see Alizaeth coming towards her, arms outstretched, ribbons and laces streaming from an absurd little feathered hat perched like a sparrow on one side of her head.

There was no escape. Alizaeth’s arms enfolded her and she dutifully kissed her friend on the cheek, almost overpowered by the sweet fragrance of lilac water.

‘We’ve just returned this very minute from the capital. Such modish fashions, Orial! Look at my new bonnet – isn’t it becoming? Alyn bought it for me – he’s such a darling. Have you met him yet? There he is – collecting our baggage. Alyn – yoo-hoo! Come and meet my old school friend Orial.’

Of all Orial’s acquaintance in Sulien, gossiping Alizaeth was the last she would have chosen to encounter.

‘What are you doing here?’ Alizaeth asked brightly. ‘Going on a journey?’

‘Bel’Esstar coach leaves in five minutes!’ cried the coachman from the inn steps.

There was one ruse that might silence her old friend. Orial placed one finger to her lips.

‘Hush. You’re not to breathe a word. I would not have confided in you – if it were not for our long friendship.’

‘Bel’Esstar coach ready to depart!’ The coachman had climbed up on to the driver’s seat and was settling himself, spreading his cloak around him. He clicked his tongue to the horses, drawing the reins together in one hand. Stableboys ran to drag open the doors.

The Diva came sweeping into the yard, one bejewelled hand imperiously upraised, scattering ostlers and stableboys. Behind him, two servants struggled with a heavy trunk.

Cramoisy climbed up into the diligence. He paused on the step and turned around and, with an arch smile, grandly beckoned to Orial.

Alizaeth’s mouth had dropped open in astonishment. Orial could just imagine what she would tell her friends: ‘Orial Magelonne has eloped with a castrato, but then you know what they say about those castrati, my dear!‘

She gave Alizaeth’s hand a farewell squeeze and, picking up her valise, ran across the yard to board the diligence.

‘Ohh – ohh,’ moaned Cramoisy. ‘They’ve stopped the coach. They’re going to arrest us.’

‘Hush,’ Orial said curtly. It was warm in the coach and the sickly scent of Alizaeth’s lilac water still clung to her clothes. She was beginning to tire of the Diva’s attacks of the vapours – partly because they were occurring with increasing frequency and partly because they were beginning to make her feel apprehensive too. She feared that Jerame might have set out after her – although she had done her best to ensure he would not discover her absence until they had crossed the border into Allegonde. And there was a far deeper fear. How long before the Accidie took hold again? How long before –

‘Your papers, please.’ A Guerrior of the Commanderie stood at the open door; another stood further off, observing.

Orial presented their passes. Beyond the Guerrior she glimpsed vertiginous crags, brown cinder pines, a tumble of scree. From high above came the keening cry of a mountain hawk.

‘Demselle Orial Magelonne? Eighteen years? Native of Tourmalise? A three-month permit to attend the Conservatoire in Bel’Esstar?’ The Guerrior gave her a searching look and then glanced past her at Cramoisy.

‘Cramoisy Jordelayne. The Diva.’ He pronounced the name slowly, consideringly. ‘You have been away a long while from Bel’Esstar, Diva.’

‘I’ve been giving recitals,’ Cramoisy snapped. ‘That’s what I do. I’m a singer. Is that a crime?’

‘I’ve had time to reflect… and I have decided to seek an audience with the Grand Maistre –’

A deep, distant rumble interrupted the Diva. The ground trembled and the horses twitched their heads uneasily, setting their bridles jingling.

‘What’s that noise? Thunder?’ Cramoisy craned his neck to stare up at the sky. ‘I can’t see any clouds. Is there a storm coming?’

Orial saw the Guerrior glance at his companion; the papers were hastily stamped and handed back.

‘Didn’t you think that strange?’ Orial said. ‘Thunder – without a cloud in the sky? What exactly are the Commanderie doing up here, so close to Sulien?’

‘It sounded like firedust. Are they testing out new weapons? Arquebuses? Cannons?’

‘You should never have come.’ Cramoisy was not paying attention to what she was saying. ‘Your father will never forgive me for allowing it.’

‘And now news of my return will reach the capital long before us. Grand Maistre Girim will have his reception party prepared.’

‘Shall we turn back then?’ Orial cried. ‘Shall we leave Khassian to his fate?’

‘All we need to do is to find Captain Korentan and explain the mistake. He seemed a fair-minded man. I believe he might be prevailed upon to help us.’

The coach juddered and creaked as it began its erratic descent towards the river plain far below.

‘But the case my father brought against Khassian can be quashed.’ Orial caught hold of the leather strap as the coach swerved to the right. ‘Here I am! Living proof!’

‘My dear child, the Commanderie would have seized on any excuse to get Khassian back into their clutches. He is their trump card. If he capitulates then all resistance to the Commanderie will collapse. Don’t misunderstand me, I admire what you are doing. And I know you are doing it for the best of reasons. But Girim nel Ghislain will not give up until Khassian has prostrated himself at his feet in Mhir’s shrine and made full public confession that his opera was decadent and dissolute. I fear we are wasting our time.’

‘Ouf!’ Cramoisy reached into his reticule and brought out a metal flask. ‘More cordial?’

Orial listlessly shook her head. Cramoisy had added a little spirit to the dilute elderflower cordial but even the dash of alcohol did not improve the metallic taste of the lukewarm liquid.

It was bakingly hot inside the coach and the tannery smell of hot leather was beginning to make her feel queasy. She opened the window – but a cloud of dust from the road forced her to close it again to just a crack.

‘On the Dniera plain? Always. Sometimes there are thunderstorms – terrifying thunderstorms that sweep across the plain till it boils with water like a vast lake.’

Orial gazed out of the window, checking for clouds. There were none against the burning sheen of the sky – but there was a distant shadow on the horizon.

‘And not before time. If I have to spend much longer in this oven of a coach, I shall expire!’

‘City of a Million Lights,’ Orial said softly. The name conjured visions of candle-lit concerts, the royal chapel echoing to the sweet voices of the boys’ choir, the glittering stage of the great Opera House itself…

The visions faded into smoke, dispersing like charred fragments of a burning manuscript.

There was no Opera House. The Prince’s preferred music nowadays, Cramoisy had said with a sniff, was the Psalms of Mhir or the battle-hymns of the Commanderie.

A small, persistent voice kept whispering that she was on a fool’s errand. Who would pay attention to an insignificant doctor’s daughter? She was wasting her time.

She kept her gaze fixed on the shadow of the city as it slowly grew – until it filled the horizon.

Acir ducked just in time to avoid grazing his forehead on the low arch. His feet slopped through muddy water that seemed perpetually to drip off the glistening walls. The old prison stank of mould; it would take more than a coat of whitewash to make it habitable. Demolition was the most appropriate solution, he thought wryly. Ironic that so many men and women should be imprisoned here in squalor – and forced to labour all their waking hours to build a house for a god.

‘This wing has still to be fully restored.’ said the Guerrior over his shoulder. He stopped and, selecting a key from the ring he wore at his belt, unlocked the door at the far end of the low-arched passageway.

The Sanctuaree was gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Shabby work overalls, powdered with stone dust, hung loosely on his emaciated frame. Acir noticed that he flinched whenever the Guerriors touched him. Only in his sunken eyes a dark spark of defiance still glimmered.

The stark facts in front of him told him that Gualtier Tomasin had been a claveciniste and repetiteur at the Opera. He was also the composer of several ‘degenerate works of music, written in an uncompromising style wholly unsuited to the needs of the new regime in Bel’Esstar’.

‘I see that you have been brought here regularly for spiritual counselling since your arrival.’

‘So what is it to be this week? Another letter from my wife? Our son is sick, she has no more money for medicine, no money for food. If only I would overcome my pride and do as the Commanderie wish…’

‘Oh, so that’s the tactic now? Leave me wondering why, what’s become of them? You won’t break me that way, confrère. I’ve listened to your Commanderie fabrications for too long.’

Acir did not respond. Shame had tied his tongue. Nothing he said would change Gualtier Tomasin’s view of the Commanderie – but what Gualtier Tomasin had said revealed a great deal about the Guerriors in the Sanctuary.

‘You call yourselves men of god. What kind of a god has priests who starve and torture their charges? Who imprison a man for stringing together a few notes of music in the wrong style? Your god couldn’t give a fig about my music.’ Tomasin’s thin face was twisted with anger. ‘Surely gods have better things to do than concern themselves with such petty issues? Surely –’

The door was flung open and the Guerriors ran in, seizing hold of the musician, pinning his arms behind his back.

‘No, no!’ shouted Tomasin. He went on shouting as they wrestled him to the floor.

They bundled him into the lightless room and slammed the door shut. Tomasin beat on the door with his fists, still screaming.

‘Governor’s orders!’ repeated Acir coldly above his screams. ‘What about my orders?’

‘Because he has been maltreated. Locked and left in the dark. Beaten. Now take him out of there before he has a fit.’

They unlocked the door and Tomasin fell out on to his knees. He looked up at Acir and his bloodshot eyes narrowed.

‘You won’t break me this way. They’ve tried that trick too. You’ll never break me.’

A group of Sanctuarees were hauling a block of stone up to the second tier, using a pulley; Acir could hear the creak and groan of wood and rope, strained to the utmost by the weight of the massive block, the grunts of the men as they heaved on the rope.

Gazing upwards, he saw the stone rise slowly, jerkily above his head – too jerkily.

Instinct saved him – he flung himself to the ground and rolled away as the stone came crashing back down, thudding into the earth at the exact spot where he had been standing.

The whole site had stilled; even the incessant din of chisels and mallets fell silent. Everyone stared up at the Sanctuarees high above on the platform.

‘The rope,’ cried one of the Guerriors, picking up the still-dangling end. ‘It’s been cut.’

‘Show me.’ Acir took the rope from the Guerrior. The rope had not frayed with wear – the strands were evenly severed. A deliberate act of sabotage. They had meant to kill him. To crush him with the block which now lay before him, half-buried by the impact in the earth.

‘Bring those men down!’ The Guerriors made for the ladders and began to climb towards the huddle of Sanctuarees on the platform.

‘Wait!’ Acir detected a flicker of movement, the brief glint of light on an upraised blade.

High above, one of the Sanctuarees teetered on the edge of the platform – and suddenly came toppling down to land sprawled on the trampled grass at Acir’s feet. The sharpened chisel he had clutched speared into the earth a foot away.

Acir knelt and tried to raise the dying man in his arms. Blood glistened on the Sanctuaree’s face.

‘Gualtier Tomasin,’ whispered Acir, recognising him. ‘Why? Why this way?’

‘My blood be on… your conscience, Guerrior…’ The musician choked and a gush of crimson flooded from his mouth. The broken body convulsed as the eyes slid skywards.

Looking up, he saw the Guerriors had brought down number 137’s companions from the platform; he saw the fear and hostility in their eyes.

‘Don’t you worry, Captain. We’ll get confessions from all three. Attempted murder.’

‘The incident is over. I’ll be writing a report. There’ll be no further charges.’ Mechanically he began to straighten his jacket – and his hands came away sticky with 137’s blood.

‘“And I believe it was his intention to kill me – or die in the attempt. The attack on my person was unpremeditated, clumsy and spontaneous. Further investigation is therefore unnecessary.” ‘

Acir finished reading his report aloud to the Grand Maistre and stood waiting for his response.

‘I’m afraid I must disagree with you. I smell dissent. I want those men interrogated.’

Acir was still shaken after the morning’s events. He had spent all afternoon trying to find details of the whereabouts of the dead Sanctuaree’s family. No one seemed to know – or maybe to want to tell him. If his sources were correct, Gualtier Tomasin’s wife had fled the capital to her parents’ farm on the plain of Dniera. A messenger had been sent bearing the terse report of 137’s death. Acir had wanted to go himself but had been denied permission.

‘I can’t see that interrogation – torture – will be of any use. Under extreme duress men will say anything.’

‘I know you are saying this for the very best of reasons, Acir. But these unbelievers are subtle. Can’t you see what they are doing to you? Take a firm line with them. Force is the only thing they understand.’

‘But why can we not co-exist with those who wish to follow their own beliefs? Why must we use force?’

‘These liberal ideas are the flowers lining the way to the pit of despair. Exotically beautiful, alluring – but to breathe their scent is to breathe a deadly poison. Why else did Mhir call the path of righteousness the “Path of Thorns”? It was never an easy path.’

For years Acir had followed Mhir’s banner, followed the Thorny Path, strong in the belief that it led to the realisation of a dream: Girim’s dream, the dream he had shared.

In the blue twilight, lights glimmered in windows, street lights illuminated squares and boulevards. An inky lake filled with a myriad reflected star-shards.

‘We have carried Mhir’s banner back to his city. We have set up his standard so that all may know this is his Holy city. Now we must ensure all is in readiness for His coming.’

They had brought the banner back – but now it was tattered, battle-torn, soaked in the blood of innocents.

The Commanderie had lost its way. Led by Girim nel Ghislain, the Guerriors had taken the wrong road, they had followed the path of vanity and self-delusion. They were marching to damnation, dragging down the people they had sought to save, dragging them into the mire.

The city lights suddenly dimmed and blurred. Acir blinked – and felt wetness on his cheeks.

Yes, he thought. I was dazzled by your rhetoric. But my tears have washed away the dazzle and I see you as you truly are. A man drunk with his own powers, inflated with his own self-importance.

I worshipped you. Girim. You were my ideal. The man I most looked up to, the man with a dream. I would have followed you into the dark.

He saw his path only too clearly now. He was the standard bearer, he had to take up the tattered remnants of Mhir’s banner and lave away the stains that besmirched it. He must carry it through the last of the light – no matter what the cost.

CHAPTER 19