Narrowing his eyes against the sunglare, he saw an extraordinary structure on the horizon, a monstrous unfinished building whose jagged walls were swarming with workers.

At first he had not recognised them. And then, as face after face had slowly turned towards him, he had seen the flicker of recognition in their eyes – and he had known them.

The unlucky ones. The ones who had not got away in time. His musicians. His singers, his orchestra. The cast of the ill-fated opera.

Clad only in filthy overalls, they laboured to move the huge blocks of stone. They were covered in stone-dust, their hair and faces powdered.

The air was thick with the choking dust; it dried Khassian’s throat, it settled on his lashes. He could see how their efforts to shift the stones had lacerated their hands; fingers which had once moved over strings and keys to produce sounds of delicacy and subtlety, were now bleeding, torn by the coarse stones.

They did not dare to acknowledge him. He saw how their eyes slid away, avoiding contact, how their shoulders drooped as they turned from him back to their work.

He wanted to cry out to them, ‘Don’t give up! Don’t let them break you!’ but the wagon moved on, taking the road into the city.

The twilit avenue was filled with a sea of bobbing torches; a procession of citizens was winding down towards the Winter Palace. They were singing, chanting the Psalms of Mhir.

‘What is this? Why are they singing?’

His guards still did not answer; the wagon followed the procession to the Winter Palace.

On the torchlit balcony of the Grand Maistre’s apartments, Khassian saw the figure of a man, clad in a simple white robe. Girim nel Ghislain stood beside him, attended upon by several of the Commanderie.

As the chanted psalm died away, Girim nel Ghislain lifted his arms to the crowd.

‘The unbeliever repents. Rejoice with me as yet another convert is born again into the Faith.’ He turned to the white-clad man beside him who dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of his robe. Girim nel Ghislain placed his hands upon his bowed head – and then raised the man to his feet again, embracing him.

A cheer rose from the crowd and the chanting began again.

‘The moment is drawing nearer,’ Girim cried. ‘The time is almost upon us. But not until all have bowed to the name of Mhir will He know that His city is ready to receive Him again.’

Khassian watched in growing fury.

‘Why insult my intelligence by forcing me to watch this charade? Who ordered me to be brought here?’

‘The Grand Maistre himself. He felt it would prove edifying.’

That night as Khassian lay sleepless in his cell, he saw nothing but the musicians’ eyes – empty of accusation, empty of hope, empty of everything except exhaustion.

So many fine musicians, sensitive, skilled performers, whose only crime had been to make music – his music – condemned to an endless misery of hard labour.