‘You are looking in the… the very best of health, Altesse.’

‘My physicians tell me my recovery is nothing short of a miracle. I feel young again, Amar. My sight is clear. I’ve been riding. I’ve even sailed the barque on the lake.’

‘We were all praying for your recovery.’

‘And your prayers were answered.’ Ilsevir placed his hands on Khassian’s shoulders and raised him to his feet. ‘I feel renewed, Amar. Reborn. To come so close to death… It made me reflect on what I had done with my life. But he opened my eyes. He made me see the meaninglessness, the emptiness, of my existence… That’s all behind me now.’

He. Girim nel Ghislain. The golden dream of the past, in which Khassian had been floating since he had entered the Royal Apartments, popped like a frail soap bubble.

‘Come, sit with me. Let’s talk.’ Ilsevir gestured to a couch of brocade, golden and black.

‘Talk?’ Khassian glanced around, wondering where the unseen listeners were concealed.

‘As we used to.’ The Prince leaned comfortably back, one arm over the corner of the couch; Khassian sat, as he was bidden – but on the edge.

What was there to say? Khassian remained silent.

‘My poor Amaru. You’ve suffered needlessly.’

Ilsevir’s fingers touched his bruised face; he winced.

‘Put it all behind you. The suffering. The pain. Come back to me. Resume your rightful place at court. Be my court composer again.’

Ilsevir still knew how to speak seductively, still knew how to charm.

‘And the charges against me?’

‘All dropped.’

‘On what conditions?’

Ilsevir flicked one hand dismissively. The glint of a rose-red jewel caught the candelight.

‘The details can be discussed later.’ The jewel was cut in the shape of a rose. Carnelian, with a blood-ruby at its heart. The thorn-pierced heart. Symbol of the inner circle of the Commanderie.

‘And my hands?’ Khassian slowly raised them to show the Prince. ‘How can a court composer perform his role with hands like these?’

For an instant he saw a expression of repugnance pass across Ilsevir’s calm countenance – a breeze glancing across limpid water. Then the Prince’s eyes fixed on his, ignoring the burned hands.

‘You are still that rare creature, an intuitive. You can direct, conduct, instruct others. Who else in Bel’Esstar has your sensitivity, your musicianship? Not even old Talfieri. Of course there’s Lissier… but his style is brash, unrefined.’

‘What if I refuse?’

Ilsevir looked at him a moment in astonishment – and then began to laugh.

‘My dear Amaru, refuse? I do not make such offers twice.’

Ilsevir rose to his feet and beckoned. Khassian followed him to the window. The Prince pulled a golden cord and as the heavy swagged brocades whispered aside, a vista of Bel’Esstar appeared, a shimmer of grey stone and glass, cupolas, balconies and weathervanes.

A civilised façade.