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.

‘A fine sight, still, would you not agree? Yet my city is stricken with a mortal canker, slowly eating it away from within. And what is the reason? Pride, Amar. The pride that comes between man and his Maker. The pride that makes a man turn away from his god and set his own needs first.’

Ilsevir placed his hands on his shoulders. Khassian tensed, remembering the gesture of old. Once this had meant the prelude to a drawing closer, the touch of mouth on mouth… And maybe Ilsevir knew it too, maybe he had done it on purpose, evoking an intimacy long-since dead to serve his present intent.

‘You have it within your power to heal this canker.’

Khassian tried to move away but Ilsevir’s hands still held him, his eyes still held him.

‘Yes, you, Amar. You are still loved, respected amongst the artistic community. You have immense influence.’

‘I have nothing –’ began Khassian.

‘You underestimate yourself. If you were to make this one gesture of reconciliation, others would follow. There would be no need for a Sanctuary. No more hunger… no more suffering.’

Khassian felt his determination beginning to waver. His eyes could not help but stray to the great curtained bed, plumed with gilded feathers. To sleep in a soft bed again without fear of the interrogators coming in the night…

Don’t do this to me, Ilsevir.

‘There is to be a ceremony of consecration at the Fortress of Faith. I want you there, Amar. I want your music to enrich the ceremony. I want you to train the choir and musicians.’

It all seemed too golden a prospect to be possible. Khassian began to sense another’s voice speaking behind Ilsevir’s.

‘You want my music? Or the Grand Maistre wants it?’

Ilsevir pointed to a pile of drawings on a marble side table.

‘Have you seen the sketches for the Fortress? Look at this: the great rose window, blazing with coloured glass, the light falling on to the choir stalls. What a wonderful setting to enhance the spirituality of your music.’

Ilsevir’s hand rested on the drawing. Light splintered through the petal-facets of his rose-stone ring, a red glow staining the white paper. Khassian’s eye was drawn to it. Blood staining the walls of the Fortress, the blood of his fellow Sanctuarees, mixed into its cement.

‘I – can’t do it,’ he said, each word wrung from him.

Ilsevir sighed.

‘Why is it so difficult for you?’