‘Guilty…’ The hushed murmur echoed around the gallery.

‘Are you aware of the severity of the crime you have committed? By admitting your guilt you oblige us to impose the death sentence. Perhaps you would care to reflect before your plea is set down?’

‘What else can you take from me? You took my manhood to preserve the beauty of my voice.’

The court stilled. Cramoisy was still a consummate performer; he knew how to move his audience. Everything he said appeared spontaneous, yet the nuances of inflection were perfectly timed.

He knew they were listening to every word.

‘I submitted to the castrating knife willingly, knowing my sacrifice was for my art. But now that my voice has gone, there’s little reason for living. So take my life. I’ll die happy – knowing I gave my life for the cause of freedom.’

‘Treasonable talk!’ cried one of the judges, rising from the bench. ‘Silence him!’

‘I will not be silenced!’ cried Cramoisy. ‘I speak on behalf of the musicians and artists you have persecuted. I speak for the people of Bel’—’

One of the Guerriors struck the singer across the face; Cramoisy staggered and fell sideways, one hand clasped to his mouth. Blood seeped between his clenched fingers.

A messenger entered the court, covered in dust.

‘Not now!’ cried one of the judges, waving him away.

‘It’s urgent, sieur.’ He came forward to the Grand Maistre and handed him a folded paper.

Girim opened and scanned it swiftly. Everyone was silent now, watching him keenly.

His face flushed and then went pale.

‘A miracle,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The Rose has bloomed again.’

‘What do you mean, Grand Maistre?’ asked one of the judges.

Girim got to his feet, still clutching the paper.

‘This court is adjourned. Take the castrato back to work at the Fortress. Inform the Prince at once. We ride to Sulien!’

Prince Ilsevir gazed out over the massed forces of the Commanderie: row upon row of mounted Guerriors lined up in the formal gardens of the Winter Palace awaiting his signal to start for Sulien.

He turned to Girim nel Ghislain who stood at his side.

‘I’m still uneasy about this, Girim.’

‘I’m leaving a whole detachment behind to guard the Sanctuary. You need have no fears about Bel’Esstar, Altesse.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Ilsevir. ‘This is a delicate matter. It requires diplomacy. We have no official invitation to cross into Tourmalise. It could provoke a… situation.’

Girim smiled. ‘War?’

‘An army crossing the mountains. It could be misinterpreted. It could be seen as an invasion. I wish you would wait until my ministers have communicated with the President of Tourmalise.’

‘This is not a matter of diplomacy! This is a spiritual matter, Altesse. We are Mhir’s chosen people. This is the sign we have been awaiting so long.’

‘And have you not asked yourself why the Poet-Prophet has not chosen to manifest Himself here? In Bel’Esstar, His city?’