‘The realisation of a dream, Acir.’

He turned around and saw Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie and Leader of the Order of the Rosecoeur, watching him intently.

Acir crossed the churned turf and, sinking to his knees, pressed the Grand Maistre’s hands to his lips, kissing the rose-stone ring.

‘Have you seen the plans?’

The Grand Maistre unrolled some architect’s drawings. An imposing edifice was revealed, its massive walls more a fortified citadel than a place of worship.

‘Mhir’s tomb enshrined, preserved forever, a jewel in a precious casket. The finest sculptors and masons working with painters, mosaicists, glaziers, to create a building without parallel in all Allegonde.’

‘It’s – it’s vast. I had no idea –’

‘You are looking at the future of the Commanderie. This will be our headquarters. The heart of the Rose. Close your eyes and imagine the day of dedication. The rose-strewn aisles thronged with the faithful, countless more crowding outside…’

For a moment Acir’s head was filled with Girim’s vision of echoing chapels reverberant with the murmured prayers of pilgrims, swimming with a misty light, cloud and distant sunlight, vaulted arches high as heaven…

‘A great lantern tower will be constructed over the tomb.’ Girim stopped at the entrance, his gesture encompassing a structure of immense proportions. ‘An architect’s psalm of praise realised in stone and glass. Carven vines tendrilling up the columns… thorns of stone…’

‘But the funds.’ The vision vanished. ‘How can the Commanderie possibly afford to pay for this?’

‘Prince Ilsevir has decreed that the assets confiscated from convicted dissenters be added to our building funds. And those convicted are providing us with our workforce.’

Acir looked at him, puzzled. ‘Convicts?’

‘Our brothers have already established a second Sanctuary in the mountains to quarry stone. See those men over there –’

A band of workers were struggling to unload massive blocks of rose-red stone from a wagon, watched over by several of the Commanderie.

‘Sulien stone?’ The stone that had weathered to a warm rose in the rain-washed light of Sulien, looked harsh and red under the unforgiving glare of the Bel’Esstar sun.

‘The mountains are not owned solely by Tourmalise. If we wish to quarry stone, it is our right to do so.’

Acir had been watching the Sanctuarees labouring as Girim spoke. ‘Why are they shackled like slaves?’ he asked.

‘Don’t forget they are convicted criminals,’ Girim said sharply. ‘What would you have us do, Acir? Leave them chained up, forgotten in some foul-smelling oubliette?’

‘But to build the holy Stronghold with forced labour –’

‘Not so long ago these dissenters would have been hung, burned, crucified for spreading their heresies,’ The light in Girim’s pale eyes pierced Acir like a spear. ‘But we are giving them the chance to work to redeem themselves.’