‘I’ll hire a cart.’

‘You?’ Khassian looked up.

‘My dear young man, have you any idea how bored I’ve been? Fretting away the days, trying to get back down into the Undercity yet frustrated by those confounded Priests at every turn.’ Jolaine thumped her fist against the table, making the qaffë pot jump. ‘I’d welcome a little action to relieve the tedium. Besides, I can’t have you risking recapture. Orial would never forgive me if that were to happen.’

Orial.

A black, choking sense of despair welled up within Khassian. He was free – and yet his freedom had been achieved at too dear a price.

He buried his face in his ruined hands and sobbed aloud.

Cook peeked around the door. Orial was sound asleep.

Poor mite. She looked so wan, so wasted.

And there was still no word from her father. She had sent a message to his hostelry in Bel’Esstar, but even a swift post rider took at least half a day to travel to Allegonde.

Still, a long sleep would do her good. What troubled Cook was what she should do when the girl awoke.

She had seen that lost, unfocussed look before.

She had seen Iridial the day she drowned herself.

A sombre melody wove itself into Khassian’s dreams, the dark music of the slow-flowing river of oblivion, the lightless waters of the underworld.

Orial’s tune.

A pale figure stands on the far shore. The music wreaths about her, caging her in a shroud of woven songthreads.

He sees her mouth open in a silent scream, sees her throw herself forward into the black waters, sees the drowning waters swallow her –

He woke, soaked in sweat, to find himself lying cramped on Dame Tradescar’s couch. The sun had moved around and the long, low light of late-afternoon gilded the dusty bookshelves.

The melody still flowed on through his head – but now he heard possibilities, permutations, the beginnings of a complex contrapuntal structure.

If only he could get it down on paper.

It was late-afternoon when Jolaine Tradescar reached the border yet the sun’s heat had not penetrated the thick clouds. Chill mist swathed the tops of the pines, stifling sound and light.

‘Identify yourself!’ The border guard’s voice rang out through the trees; Jolaine thought she detected a nervous edge to the customary challenge.

‘A man died here late last night,’ she said.

A muscle in the guard’s face twitched; he looked around, as though fearing to be overheard.

‘I’ve come to collect the body,’ she insisted.

‘A relative, are you?’

‘No. A friend.’

‘You’re too late.’ The guard lowered his voice. ‘He’s been taken for burial already.’

‘Taken back to Allegonde?’ Jolaine asked.

‘To Sulien. A woman came for him. I told her to ask for Asper.’