‘As I understand it, Captain, you are here in an advisory capacity. Never forget who is Governor of this Sanctuary.’ The fork jabbed at Acir, emphasising each word. ‘You do your job and leave me to do mine.’

Acir stayed gazing at nel Macy a moment longer. Then he turned on his heel and left him to his breakfast.

Slowly he climbed the rampart stair until he stood on the battlements, gazing out over the heath towards the city. The morning air was damp, touched with a brumy reek of mist and chimney smoke. The rose-stone shell of the half-built Fortress of Faith dominated the wasteland, encased in its cage of scaffolding and ladders.

Acir gripped the rampart rail.

Had he given away too much? Had nel Macy marked him out as a trouble-maker? There was no way he could have stayed silent – but now he knew himself to be alienated from his fellow Guerriors at the Sanctuary. And if he was to be of any help to Khassian and the other Sanctuarees, there must be no suspicion that his sympathies lay with them.

He had never felt so alone in his life before.

CHAPTER 23

The letter bore the official rose-seal of the Order of the Rosecoeur. But when Acir broke the seal, he found only the laconic instructions:

Attend on me at the Winter Palace tonight. Wistaria Apartments, West Wing, first floor.

Girim usually signed his correspondence – and there was no signature. But the seal was authentic.

Once he would have felt a genuine pleasure at being summoned to Girim’s presence. Now all he felt was a dull sense of dread. What new atrocity had the Grand Maistre planned in the name of the Commanderie? Another torchlight procession to welcome more new converts to the Faith? Would he be forced to watch another unfortunate prostrate himself on Mhir’s tomb and stammer out the words of contrition – words spoken in fear, not in true faith and humility?

But he had been summoned so he must go.

The night was close, sultry, and little shivers of wind stirred the trees in the Palace Gardens; Acir thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder far out on the Dniera plain.

The West Wing was not directly connected to the royal apartments and although candles burned in the crystal chandeliers, the corridors were deserted. No one challenged Acir as he climbed the elegant winding stair, his solitary footfall echoing hollowly in the marble stairwell. Shutters rattled in the fitful wind.

He wandered the upper floor until he came to a painted door decorated with a border of wistaria; he opened it and found himself not in a private office as he had expected but a candlelit bedroom hung with wistaria-painted silks: soft green, grey and mauve.

‘Good evening, Captain Korentan.’

A woman was sitting before a mirror, combing her hair with long, slow strokes; its marigold brightness glinted in the candlelight.

‘Fiammis?’ he said, confused.