Far above the heat of the plain, the air was cloudily cool. The red-barked trunks of the cinder pines made the winding mountain road dark, haunted by shadows. A faint scent of cinder-pine sap, aromatic yet tinged with its peculiar odour of burning, wafted into the Grand Maistre’s coach. If Girim shut his eyes, he saw flames: burning timbers crashing in on the ruined Opera House, sparks of charred music flying high into the sky…

The coach slowed as the road levelled out. His secretary opened the window flap and looked out.

‘We’re here, Maistre. The border.’

‘Hola!’ The Tourmalise border guard emerged from his hut as they passed across the border line, and upraised. ‘Your papers!’

‘Don’t you know who this is?’ said the secretary, shocked. ‘Girim nel Ghislain, spiritual adviser to His Altesse Prince Ils—’

‘I need to see papers,’ said the guard doggedly.

‘Everything’s in order.’ The secretary thrust the papers in his face. ‘I drew them up myself. Where’s the corpse?’

Girim nel Ghislain dismounted from his coach and stood looking down at the body of Acir Korentan. Acir, the best hope of the Commanderie. Acir, his brother-in-arms.

What had become of this bright and shining star that it should have fallen so far and so fast?

Girim went down on one knee to draw back the cloak from the face. The pale skin had already taken on a blueish tinge, the lips were mauve.

He had died an agonising death.

Yet death had smoothed away any hint of that agony; the expression was remote and calm… almost serene.

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why did you betray me, Acir?’

Someone gave a polite cough. He turned around and saw his secretary hovering behind.

‘Shall we prepare the body to take back for burial, Maistre?’ asked the secretary respectfully.

‘No.’

‘But I had thought – given Captain Korentan’s distinguished record of service – at the very least a military funeral with honours?’

‘I said no, did you not hear me? The man was a traitor. No Commanderie funeral. No honours. Strip the body of the uniform and leave it here to rot. And strike his name from the records. Let all the Commanderie see how I deal with traitors.’

The Tourmalise border guard stood scratching his head, perplexed, as the coach with its fine trappings of crimson leather disappeared into Allegonde.

What was he to do with the body? The dead man must have been someone of importance for the Grand Maistre to come so far up into the mountains…

‘Is there a cemetery in Sulien?’

The guard started. He had thought he was alone. And there the woman stood, watching him from the brown shadows of the cinder pines, pale and gaunt as a revenant.

‘Wh-where did you –’

She came closer, her skirts catching on the brambles. Her white face was stained, her hair dishevelled. Reddened eyes stared at him… through him.

‘I asked if there is a cemetery in Sulien?’