She had chosen to undertake this rescue mission; she had to see it through. If it was her last conscious act before the Accidie robbed her of her reason, then at least she would have done something of merit in her brief life. She might not have been given time to compose the music she had dreamed of… but she would have saved Amaru Khassian to continue the fight against the tyranny of the Commanderie.

Let me just get him safely back to Sulien.

They joined other fiacres and phaetons clattering over the wide gravel avenue that led through the tree-lined Winter Gardens towards the river. Thunder growled in the distance as the sky grew darker and a few rain-spots spattered on to the plane leaves. Acir could smell the coming storm on the earthy wind; so could the mare who jittered her head nervously from side to side. But still the storm did not break and the sense of tension increased in the darkening air.

At least the new wide-arched bridge with its bronze basilisk lamps was in sight now. And traffic still seemed to be passing across.

As the fiacre slowed at the approach to the bridge, Acir rose in the saddle to try to scan the river. It was impossible to see clearly in the thunder-gloom if anyone was patrolling the opposite bank.

‘The river,’ Khassian said under his breath. ‘We’re crossing the river.’

Glancing out he could see the wide grey waters of the Dniera alive with thunderspots. For the first time he began to dare to believe that escape was possible.

‘Go back,’ he called out to Acir through the rain. ‘You’ve done more than enough to help us.’

‘It’s too late to –’

There was a sudden flash as lightning split the sky and thunder drowned the rest of Acir’s words.

Orial flinched.

‘It’s only a storm,’ Khassian said.

She appeared not to hear him. Perhaps she was rigid with fear. He had always relished a powerful thunderstorm, the feeling of release that came when the rain had washed the humid air clean again. The thought of imminent freedom only increased his exhilaration.

And then he felt the fiacre begin to slow.

‘What’s up?’ he called to Acir through the drumming rain.

‘They’re checking the carriage in front of us. Give me your papers. I’ll get you through.’

Khassian held out his hand to Orial for the papers.

Can we trust him?

‘We must trust him,’ she said aloud, as if she had heard his question. ‘There’s no one else.’

Rain streamed down on Acir’s head, drenching him, as he dismounted at the customs post.

‘Captain!’ One of the Guerriors manning the post hurried out into the rain and saluted him. ‘What brings you this way on such a filthy afternoon?’