But Khassian had already opened the door; the darkening city invited him. He had spent weeks confined in a cell; now he wanted to escape, to walk the long hours of night away…

‘Orial…’

Who was calling her name?

‘Orial, Orial…’

Many voices now, calling to her from afar, a multitude of voices, dead voices, soul-voices,

‘Set us free, Orial…’

And she could hear them all. All at once. All jumbled, all incoherent, all in despair.

Orial slid down on to the floor, her hands clutched to her temples.

‘Who are you? How can I set you free?’

The mingled voices became jagged colour, scarlet and blinding white, setting nerve endings jangling. Each collision sent sound-shards shivering into her aching head.

‘Stop,’ she whispered. ‘Please stop.’

She curled up on the floor, arms tight-crossed, knees drawn up to her chest.

‘Let me alone. Please. Please.’

An archaic strain seeped into the chaos, a dark trickle at first, slow-flowing.

Watermusic.

Waters of forgetfulness, waters of oblivion…

She stands beside Iridial in the Temple, gazing up at the statue of Elesstar. Indiai scoops some of the green spring water from the stone shell and touches her forehead and cheeks with it.

‘Goddess protect you, child.’

Orial blinks as the sunlight filters on to Iridial’s hair. The Goddess opens her painted eyes – and smiles at her.

Sacred springs. Healing springs.

‘Springs. Must get to the springs…’

Down the stairs Orial went. Her feet were bare, she was clad only in the thin muslin nightgown.

A group of late-night revellers were coming along the dark street towards her. She could see their lanterns bobbing in the breeze, she could hear their drunken singing collide with the music dinning in her head.

She shrank into a doorway, hoping they would not see her. But as they drew closer, they began to point, to call and whistle, waving her to join them. She could see their mouths moving yet their voices seemed blurred, distant, voices from another dimension.

Masked faces leered at her, hands reached out for her, trying to pull her into their midst.

‘Let me be!’ Orial twisted free of the groping, grabbing hands. Breaking through the chain, she went running away down the street.

Cook added a dash of eau-de-vie to the hot milk and cinnamon, taking a surreptitious swig herself, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A nice hot posset should help restore Orial’s strength.

She had left her to sleep round the clock undisturbed, hoping the rest would do her good. The Goddess only knew what the girl had been through, she had looked more like a ghost when she arrived back –

The ghost of her mother.

Cook shivered and took another swig of the eau-de-vie to stop the shivers.

‘Here I come, Orial my pet.’

She walked the long corridor slowly, a little unsteadily, and climbed the stairs, trying not to spill the posset in the saucer.