The servitor’s hands were already deftly removing the stained Sanctuary tunic from Khassian’s shoulders. He stood and let the servitor strip away the rest of the filthy garments and help him into the bath. A long sigh of contentment escaped him as the water rose around him and he lay back, closing his eyes.

He would not think of anything but the bliss of the hot water and the astringent sting of the wash-herbs. The servitor soaped his matted hair, fingers expertly scrubbing the engrained dirt from his skin.

Later, wrapped in soft towels, Khassian sat before a mirror whilst the servitor shaved away the ragged beard and trimmed the tangles from his hair.

A soft tap at the door announced the arrival of a second servitor bearing a tray of breakfast: Khassian’s starved stomach contracted painfully at the warm aroma of fresh-baked butter-rolls and quince marmalade, and hot, fragrant mocha. His favourite breakfast – Ilsevir must have remembered.

‘Shall I pour the mocha for you, Illustre?’

Khassian nodded avidly. He watched the fragrant liquid as it filled the bowl. His mouth was watering painfully at the mere smell of it. Yet as he tried to chew into a roll, his throat seemed to contract. After so many days’ near-starvation, he could hardly swallow down the delicious food.

‘Would the Illustre care to dress now for the morning levee?’

The servitor brought out a suit of clothes; subtly tailored, elegantly understated. The Prince had also remembered his preference for dark yew-green, though the sombre shade was alleviated by delicate embroidery in bronzed thread at revers and cuffs. Even the silky cream chemise was embroidered.

Khassian stood looking at himself critically in the cheval mirror. The shaving had revealed a dark bruise marring the left side of his face; the elegant court costume concealed the other marks of Commanderie brutality. A stranger gazed back at him. The dark, curling hair of the slim young courtier was like his own – but the eyes, the haunted, mistrustful eyes in that bruised face…

A distant bell sounded, sweet-toned yet penetrating. The servitor cleared his throat.

‘His Altesse will see you now, Illustre.’

Khassian’s earliest memory of the Royal Apartments in the Winter Palace was of the sheen of gold-veined marble columns, of gilded mirrors that reflected vista upon candlelit vista, receding into infinity…

All the mirrors had been removed.

A man knelt, head bowed upon a prayer book, before a candle-lit shrine on which glowed the blood-red image of the thorn-pierced Rose.

The stab of pain that Khassian felt on seeing Ilsevir was as vivid as if one of the holy thorns had pierced his breast.

The Prince rose to his feet and turned around, hands outstretched in welcome.

‘Amaru.’

Khassian dropped to his knees.

He could not look on the Prince’s face. Not yet. For fear the crowding emotions would betray him and he would cry out, ‘Why? Why did you abandon me?’