In the Enhirran desert Girim had never lost faith; when they were all parched for want of water, half-starved, weak with dysentery, he had urged them on. Girim’s vision had sustained them even when their own courage had faltered.

So why did he doubt him now?

‘But this is not the reason I called you back.’

Girim laid his hand on Acir’s arm and led him towards the shrine.

The workers had covered the little building with heavy oiled cloths to protect it. Girim pushed aside the cloths and held open the door to the tomb. Acir followed him.

A bitter breath of frankincense fumes stung his eyes; a thousand petals of flame burned in the niches, rose candles of crimson wax.

This was where the Blessed Mhir lay buried. Mhir who had dared to defy the dissolute Shultan of Bel’Esstar, and in defending the rights of the faithful, had died a martyr’s death. A stone slab, worn away by the kisses and caresses of the faithful, covered the holy place where the first miracle had taken place. Here the Rose had sprung from the buried Prophet’s breast, the perfect crimson Rose that wept drops of blood, heart’s blood. Here the miraculous roseblood had restored Beloved Elesstar to life – and she had led the people of Bel’Esstar to overthrow the Shultan. The story had never failed to move Acir; the selfless sacrifice of the Poet-Prophet whose love for Elesstar and his people had endured beyond death.

Girim prostrated himself, his forehead brushing the worn stone; Acir knelt beside him and remained several minutes lost in silent prayer.

‘Where is Amaru Khassian?’

Girim’s voice startled Acir out of his reverie.

‘He should be here, at Mhir’s tomb, making a public affirmation of faith. And where is he? Still in Sulien.’

‘You know me, Girim. I’m a soldier. I have no skill with words.’

‘My dear friend, you still don’t see how dangerous Amaru Khassian is.’

‘Dangerous?’ Acir shook his head. ‘Intelligent, yes. Proud. But he is no threat to the Commanderie –’

‘The Contesse Fiammis is right! He’s blinded you with his charm.’

‘Fiammis…’ Acir echoed.

‘The Contesse is a devour supporter of the cause. If she had succeeded, the situation would now be resolved. The blasphemer would be dead.’

‘And a new martyr created.’

‘Why did you ignore my instructions? You had my written authority to do whatever the situation merited.’

Girim’s eyes glittered in the darkness; Acir stared at him, not certain what he was witnessing. A dull, cold horror had begun to seep into his soul. He had been a long while in Enhirrë and maybe the change in Girim nel Ghislain had not been apparent when he was first summoned home to undertake this mission.