‘Heavens, no, carissa! A young girl out alone in Bel’Esstar? You must remember you are not in Sulien now. Men can go where women cannot. You must leave the negotiating to me.’

Time seemed to have lost its meaning. The sun set and the solitary cell grew dark. The sun rose again.

Khassian hunched in a corner.

He would not recant.

If only they would let him send a message to Prince Ilsevir. If the Prince knew they were holding him here like an animal in a cage, he would surely order Girim to release him? Even if Ilsevir no longer cherished him as his favourite, he still respected him as a musician.

Khassian let his eyes drift slowly shut, remembering…

There had always been a special understanding between the Prince and his young protégé. It had begun when Amaru and Fania had been brought to perform before the court and Ilsevir had smiled at the ‘charming moppets’ and given them each a bag of sugared almonds and a gold medal. A year or so later, the young chorister from the royal chapel had been singled out to sing and play for the Prince… and not long after Fania’s death, Khassian had found himself the royal favourite, showered with money and favours, his training paid for by the Prince himself.

At first, Khassian had felt desperately out of his depth. He was aware of his own beauty, yet not certain how to react to the Prince’s admiration. And then, as he grew more self-assured, he had begun to enjoy the attention, to manipulate it ruthlessly to his own advantage.

He had taken all that Ilsevir had to offer in gifts, honours – and commissions.

And in return, he’d granted the Prince… the occasional favour.

Khassian let his head drop back until it rested against the white-washed wall of the cell. White of lime-washed walls… Ilsevir had always favoured the pale, bleached colours of winter. Through half-closed lids Khassian glimpsed again Ilsevir’s bedchamber with its stucco walls: a winter landscape of white, grey and gold, Ilsevir, lingering in the ivory-draped bed, calling for him to come back to his side… whilst Khassian, all physical passion forgotten, sat at the desk scribbling away feverishly, his head filled with a glory of sound…

Ilsevir had always been seeking after the unattainable, Khassian saw it now so clearly. For years the Prince had pursued him, hoping perhaps that he might absorb a little of his beautiful boy’s genius by some mysterious, carnal alchemy…

Maybe if he could have shown more kindness to his benefactor, maybe if he had not been so absorbed in his own musical projects, Ilsevir would not have turned his back on earthly pleasures – or have been so easily swayed by the visionary sermons of Girim nel Ghislain.