He sprang up on his bed, gazing out of the window-slit. His throat ached but he felt the music welling up inside him. He had to join the unseen singers, he had to add his voice to theirs.

‘“Freedom.”’ Khassian sang.

Torchlights flared in the courtyard below. The steady tread of the patrol broke up in confusion as more Guerriors came running out. A voice barked out orders – but still the singing swelled, voices issuing from all corners of the Sanctuary.

Khassian could hear the running steps coming nearer, he could hear the clank of keys. He took in a breath and sang louder; his voice split on the upper notes but he did not care.

The door crashed open and two Guerriors rushed in.

‘Silence him!’ shouted a voice from the corridor outside.

‘“Sweeter than a lover’s kiss, sweeter than –”’

They seized hold of him and flung him on to the floor. Even as he saw the booted foot lunging towards him, he tried to keep singing.

The foot caught him in the throat, cracking his chin upwards.

He tried to keep singing but only a rasping groan issued from his mouth. Another kick caught him in the diaphragm – and the last air wheezed out of him. Fire shot along his ribs as he tried to draw in a gasp of air.

‘“Free—”’ he managed before another kick silenced him.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

Khassian cowered into the corner, arms flung up over his head, anticipating more blows.

‘Move away from the prisoner. Do as I say!’

A rush of blood fouled Khassian’s mouth. When he tried to open his eyes, the cell blurred and he could not even tell how many Guerriors had come crowding in.

‘But he was singing. He was inciting the others –’

‘Stand to attention when you address your superiors!’

An officer, Khassian thought blearily. He coughed and retched up a mouthful of blood.

‘If there’s any punishment to be detailed to the Sanctuarees, I will give the orders. Now get out.’

There was a moment’s hesitation then Khassian’s assailants turned smartly, clicking their heels, and left.

A shadow loomed over Khassian. Someone gripped hold of him.

‘No, no,’ he whimpered. ‘No more –’

‘Easy, easy. I’m not going to hurt you.’

The voice, now that it had shed the harsh tones of command, was hushed, oddly gentle. Someone began to dab the blood from his split lip. Through the pain-haze, Khassian identified a blur of dark hair, grey as steel…

‘Korentan,’ he murmured. Blood and saliva came dribbling out down his chin. The first kick to the face must have driven his teeth into his tongue. ‘What –’

‘Don’t talk,’ Acir ordered. He propped Khassian up against the bed; Khassian slid drunkenly sideways. Firm hands caught him, propped him up again.

Acir Korentan’s fingers moved over his face, expertly testing, feeling.

‘Where does it hurt? No – don’t speak. Just point.’