And the forces of repression, they who proclaimed themselves to be the enlightened ones, had all but destroyed it and its creator together.

‘Better they had destroyed me,’ he whispered into the grey dawn. ‘Better oblivion than this dragging life-in-death…’

It was all still there, in his mind. The score, the instrumental parts, the libretto, had burned to ashes along with the sets and costumes. But the phenomenal memory, legacy of the rigorous training his father had subjected him to from early childhood, retained every nuance, every note. Girim nel Ghislain might be congratulating himself that all trace of the heretical opera had been eradicated.

Girim was wrong.

There was some irony in that, at least, Khassian thought, a bitter smile twisting his lips. Somehow he would find a way to write it all down again. And, once it was written down, he would gather musicians, singers, to him here in Sulien… and there would be nothing the Grand Maistre and his Commanderie could do to silence his voice this time.

Another, more pressing, need had been nagging him for some while. He had tried to resist it but the urge to void a painfully full bladder had become inescapable.

Shamed, Khassian tried to reach for the bell on the table. Impossible to pick it up, let alone ring it! If no one came soon, he would wet the bed. Helpless as a doddering old man. His face burned with embarrassment at the thought. He leaned over the table and, after a few redundant attempts, caught hold of the bell handle in his teeth, shaking it from side to side.

In the distance he heard the sound of footsteps coming nearer. The bell dropped with a jangle to the floor as he lay back, exhausted by the effort.

When the nurse had departed with the noisome bedpan discreetly covered by a cloth, Khassian lay back and tried to forget the humiliation.

In the space of a few days, his life had shrunk to the confines of this room, his needs to the basic human necessities. He could do nothing for himself. He must be washed, shaved, dressed, fed like a baby. He, who had been the idol of the court at Bel’Esstar, was now reduced to this halflife –

‘Illustre.’

Khassian looked around, startled. He had not heard the door open. And now a stranger stood in the room, a tall man, sombrely dressed.

‘Who in hell’s name are you?’ Khassian stared at him through narrowed eyes.

‘My name is Korentan,’ said the stranger quietly. ‘Captain Acir Korentan of the Commanderie.’

‘So you’ve come to arrest me? Where’s your warrant?’

‘No warrant,’ said Captain Korentan. He lifted his hands to show they were empty, as though yielding to an opponent in battle. ‘And I come unarmed, as you see.’

‘Get out.’

Captain Korentan stood his ground.

‘I have nothing to say to you – or to any member of the Commanderie. Understand me? Nothing.’