He looked down at the report. It was a fabrication, deliberately written to play for time. It spoke of a significant change in Khassian’s attitude to the concept of conversion. Acir prayed that by the time Girim nel Ghislain decided to investigate that change of attitude for himself, Khassian would have crossed the border in Orial Magelonne’s carriage.

As to what would become of himself when his part was discovered…

He put the thought from his mind. As long as Khassian was free, there was hope for the people of Bel’Esstar.

At night the unfinished walls of the Fortress of Faith towered like the sheer walls of a moonless gorge, gateway to a profound abyss.

The evening shift had worked until the end of the light. Acir passed them on the heath as they made their way back towards the Sanctuary, many stumbling with exhaustion.

The site was empty, eerily silent now that the day’s clamour had ceased.

Holding aloft a lantern, he picked his way through the piles of masonry, the arched window frames, the stacked roof joists and timbers, to the concealed entrance to Mhir’s shrine.

Girim knelt at prayer alone in the shrine. Alone – unguarded.

Incense smoke twirled slowly up into the gloom, spicing the air with dark and costly fumes. If he closed his eyes, Acir could think himself back in Enhirrë, standing guard at the birthplace shrine on a hot, airless night, breathing the dry and pungent scents of the desert: nard poppy, curcumine and cardamom…

But as his eyes closed, the cherished memories of the desert vanished and fire-streaked visions scored across his sight: the Winter Palace in flames, rebels fighting Guerriors hand-to-hand in the street, cobbles slippery with the blood of innocents –

Acir’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword.

Rid Bel’Esstar of the tyrant.

The Grand Maistre suddenly senses his stealthy footfall approaching – and turns. The smile of recognition freezes on his face as he sees the assassin’s steel. His hands flail wildly as he tries to fend off the frenzied blows, until he slumps forward, his blood defiling the tomb.

Acir pressed his hands to his eyes.

He could not do it. He could not kill Girim, even this changed Girim, this brutal distortion of the man he had once loved.

But neither could he stand by and let the atrocities continue.

He placed his report at the entrance to the shrine and went silently away.

Dragonflies dance over the riverwaters. They dart like arrows across the sun-warmed shallows.

Earth, air, fire and water.

Orial kneels on the bank. They flock to her, circling her head, a winged coronet.

They weave, in and out, each one threading a songline like a jewelled streamer until the air sparkles with sound.

Orial raises her hands, enchanted by the spinning singers.

The spinning circle widens. A whirlpool yawns, the cold, dark vortex opening to swallow her, to drag her down into oblivion –