‘Orial!’ he shouted. ‘Orial!‘

She appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, gold-brown hair escaping its ribbons.

‘Let’s get started.’

‘But, Illustre, I –’ The glittering rainbows were unfocussed, as though half-veiled in distant mists.

‘Now. I want to complete the aria today.’

One slender hand rose tremblingly to touch her forehead as though it ached.

‘My own music. I can’t –’

‘Your composition?’ Khassian’s temper flared. ‘You dare to put your inconsequential ramblings before my work?’

‘You don’t understand.’ A stifled sob escaped from behind the hand that had risen to cover her mouth. The other fumbled for the pen, dipping it into the ink.

‘Listen to the first phrase.’

He saw her hand begin to move over the sheet. The first flight of string fanfares, as he had thought them to her, note for note. Then the pen faltered. Another blot.

‘Again,’ she whispered.

He re-rehearsed the opening bars and watched, frowning. Her hand seemed to be arguing with itself. Notes appeared – were scratched out – reappeared again. The clean sheet was criss-crossed and cross-hatched with a fretwork of fine lines. She was transcribing nonsense.

‘Orial!’

‘One more time…’ There was a soft pleading tone to her voice which might have mollified him, had he not been so aware of the pressure he was under to complete the work.

She suddenly flung down the pen. Ink seeped all over the manuscript. When he looked at her, her hands were clutched to her head, fingers slowly clawing her pale cheeks.

‘I – I – can’t. Your music – my music – all jumbled –’

A thunderous knocking at the front door drowned her words.

‘Where is my daughter? I demand to see my daughter!’

Mistress Permay’s cry of protest went unheeded as someone came running up the stairs.

‘Orial! Orial!’ Dr Magelonne flung open the doors. ‘What have you done to her? What have you done to my child?’

Bewildered, Khassian turned back to Orial.

‘Orial. Oh, no, no…’

Where her nails had dragged down her cheeks, crimson scoremarks had appeared.

It looked as if she was weeping blood.

CHAPTER 16

Bel’Esstar was swarming with patrols, Guerriors of the Commanderie policing the streets. Everywhere Acir went, he passed marching columns of grey-uniformed soldiers, heard the tread of their booted feet echoing along the wide boulevards of Bel’Esstar.

But where were the ordinary people?

Those Acir glimpsed were subdued, creeping along in the shadows, moving warily as though fearful of being stopped and questioned. When they saw him coming in his Commanderie uniform, they shrank into doorways or turned swiftly aside.

Was this the vision of Mhir’s heavenly city made manifest on earth that had first inspired him to follow Girim?

Acir stopped on a street corner, transfixed by a sudden vivid memory.

He had been on night-watch, warming his hands at a smoking brazier – the nights were bitter-cold in the desert – when Girim nel Ghislain had appeared.