‘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.

Khassian?

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

‘A new batch, Captain Korentan!’

‘So I see.’

‘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!’