‘I have to go to the Temple,’ she said. ‘I know what has to be done.’

‘All in good time,’ said Papa, squeezing her hand. ‘When you’re well.’

‘You don’t understand. I have to go. It is not yet finished.’

‘You called me here to arrange a funeral, Jerame Magelonne, to minister to the dead. What does this mean?’

The Priestess stood in the doorway, swathed in her veils, dark as thunderclouds.

There was silence as the Magelonne household looked at each other in confusion. Then Cook found her voice.

‘A miracle,’ she said. ‘She was drowned. Dead. And the Rose brought her back to life. I never saw such a thing, not in all my born days.’

The Priestess came to Orial’s bedside and, to her astonishment, knelt beside her.

‘You stand between life and death. You are the one.’

‘I am?’ Orial’s eyes closed, letting her mind drift back towards the far bournes of consciousness.

‘You are the first since the fall of Sulien to come through the dark waters.’ The Priestess took hold of her hand, pressing it.

‘I hear them still,’ whispered Orial.

The sombre spirit-threnody still filled her mind. But now she understood, now she knew what she must do.

Once there had been other Lifhendil to spin the intricacies of the spirit-song that would summon the Eä-Endil. Now she was the only one of her kind. Only an exceptionally gifted musician could begin to match her Lifhendil skills…

Orial opened her eyes.

‘I can’t do it alone,’ she said. ‘I need Khassian.’

She saw him, pale and drawn with tiredness, amongst the watchers crowding in the doorway.

‘Amaru,’ she said, ‘we have to sing. We have to spin the song they taught me. It’s the key. It will make all right again. The music will set them free.’

CHAPTER 27

At the Hall of Justice in Bel’Esstar, the castrato Cramoisy Jordelayne had been brought before the Commanderie court. The public gallery was crowded with the citizens of Bel’Esstar, curious to see what had become of the singer who had once been the idol of the city. It was generally remarked that the Diva looked a mere shadow of his former self; pale, eyes squinting against the daylight, his face darkened with several ugly bruises. It was also rumoured that the shock of his imprisonment had caused him to lose his voice – and everyone knew what that meant for a castrato. Once the voice was gone, what remained? A dreary, humdrum existence eked out by coaching or composing…

The three judges – all wearing the insignia of the Rose, on crimson ribbons about their necks – entered and took their places at the bench. The most senior amongst them was the Grand Maistre of the Commanderie, Girim nel Ghislain.

‘Cramoisy Jordelayne – you stand accused of a capital crime; namely that you aided a convicted Sanctuaree to escape justice. How do you plead?’

The singer slowly raised his head.

‘Guilty.’