‘On the Dniera plain? Always. Sometimes there are thunderstorms – terrifying thunderstorms that sweep across the plain till it boils with water like a vast lake.’

Orial gazed out of the window, checking for clouds. There were none against the burning sheen of the sky – but there was a distant shadow on the horizon.

‘Is that Bel’Esstar?’

Cramoisy leaned across to take a look.

‘And not before time. If I have to spend much longer in this oven of a coach, I shall expire!’

‘City of a Million Lights,’ Orial said softly. The name conjured visions of candle-lit concerts, the royal chapel echoing to the sweet voices of the boys’ choir, the glittering stage of the great Opera House itself…

The visions faded into smoke, dispersing like charred fragments of a burning manuscript.

There was no Opera House. The Prince’s preferred music nowadays, Cramoisy had said with a sniff, was the Psalms of Mhir or the battle-hymns of the Commanderie.

A small, persistent voice kept whispering that she was on a fool’s errand. Who would pay attention to an insignificant doctor’s daughter? She was wasting her time.

Too late to turn back now. She must finish what she had begun.

She kept her gaze fixed on the shadow of the city as it slowly grew – until it filled the horizon.

‘Mind your head, Captain Korentan,’ called the Guerrior.

Acir ducked just in time to avoid grazing his forehead on the low arch. His feet slopped through muddy water that seemed perpetually to drip off the glistening walls. The old prison stank of mould; it would take more than a coat of whitewash to make it habitable. Demolition was the most appropriate solution, he thought wryly. Ironic that so many men and women should be imprisoned here in squalor – and forced to labour all their waking hours to build a house for a god.

‘This wing has still to be fully restored.’ said the Guerrior over his shoulder. He stopped and, selecting a key from the ring he wore at his belt, unlocked the door at the far end of the low-arched passageway.

The Sanctuaree was gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Shabby work overalls, powdered with stone dust, hung loosely on his emaciated frame. Acir noticed that he flinched whenever the Guerriors touched him. Only in his sunken eyes a dark spark of defiance still glimmered.

‘Sanctuaree number 137, Captain,’ announced the one of the Guerriors.

‘That will be all, confrères,’ he said. ‘You may go.’

The Guerriors glanced at each other.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Acir looked up at them.

‘Our orders are to stay, in case the prisoner –’

‘Then your orders are changed. You will stay outside until I call you.’

Acir waited until the door was closed and he was alone with number 137.

‘You have a name?’

‘What’s it to you?’ the Sanctuaree said.

Acir opened the folder containing the record of the man’s imprisonment.