Never let your feelings interfere with your work.

It was as well that she had taken the precaution of having a second parasol adapted in Bel’Esstar. A skilled agent anticipates every eventuality.

She checked her reflection in the mirror.

A tiny blemish marked her red-rouged mouth where she had bitten her lip in vexation. A fleck of a darker red – blood – marred the delicate shade the perfumier had made up to her instructions.

She seized her rouge pot and brush and began to repair the damage, dabbing with tiny, precise strokes until the imperfection was concealed.

He loved her still, she was sure of that. She had seen it in his eyes, a darkness shadowing their clear blue. But he would not betray his calling. He would rather abjure her, rather endure a lifetime of self-denial, than break his vows. His honour meant more to him than she did.

But now she had snared him. Snared him with a promise on his honour. He must grant her that one favour she most desired.

And as for Khassian… she would now put her second scheme into operation.

A skilled agent anticipates every eventuality.

CHAPTER 14

Bel’Esstar. City of a Million Lights. The glittering star illuminating all Allegonde.

Acir Korentan crossed the wide, windswept boulevards, passing elegant town houses, mansions in grey stone. Each boulevard radiated outwards, rays of a star, from the Winter Palace, seat of the Princes of Allegonde.

A city of light: pale stone and glass. And yet a city steeped in blood. Here the Poet-Prophet Mhir, Mhir the well-beloved, had died a martyr’s death defending the faith against a despotic and cruel Shultan.

Acir shivered. At this time of year a dry, cold wind blew from the mountains, delaying the arrival of the summer’s heat. It stung the eyes, left a taste of dust on the lips and tongue.

The grand buildings did not impress him, nor did the glimpses of crystal chandeliers and gilded splendour. The grey stone façades seemed austere, forbidding, after the warm, rose-tinged sandstone terraces of Sulien.

Bel’Esstar had lost its soul. It was a city of mirrors and reflections – but all it reflected was a chill heart.

Acir shaded his eyes against the midday sun, gazing up at the scaffolding towers and pulleys, the fast-growing walls of the Fortress of Faith.

Already the little shrine where the Poet-Prophet Mhir was buried was dwarfed by the foundation trenches being dug around it, the marker posts, the scaffolding. Acir looked at it sadly, remembering how only a few weeks ago he had stood in its candlelit silence and had felt a sense of peace such as he had not experienced since the day he was called; a warmth, golden as amber, intense as candleflame. Now that stillness was broken by the sound of shovels and pickaxes, the tapping of chisels on blocks of stone, the rough shouts of the overseers.

He hoped that its tranquillity had not been destroyed forever.