‘It is a sign. The prophet shows us the true Way.’ Girim’s eyes strayed to the distant horizon, ‘He calls me to convert the people of Sulien, to turn them from their pagan beliefs to His truth.’

‘And if they do not wish to be converted?’

‘You are full of doubts, Prince. A true believer must put his doubts aside and follow the path of his faith, wherever it leads him.’

‘But to an unmarked grave in a foreign city? Suppose it’s a hoax?’

‘If it makes you any easier in your mind, Altesse, then I suggest you ride ahead in the royal coach – with a small detachment of the Commanderie as escort. I shall follow with the rest of my Guerriors when you have made the necessary overtures to the people of Sulien.’

Ilsevir pulled on his riding gloves; elegant gauntlets of the finest pearlgrey leather.

To Sulien, then.’

Girim raised his arm and pointed towards the west. His eyes blazed in the sun’s fire.

‘To the ultimate truth of the Poet-Prophet.’

‘The Poet-Prophet!’ thundered back the assembled Guerriors of the Commanderie.

Amaru Khassian scoured the qaffë houses and taverns of Sulien to round up his musicians: Valentan, Azare, Astrel and Philamon.

Astrel he found busking in a shady colonnade. Valentan and Azare were entertaining fellow customers in a qaffë house with bawdy Allegondan catches. Philamon had to be dragged out of the taproom of the Moon and Sickle inn, rather the worse for Sulien cider.

By the time they reached the Temple forecourt, it was thronged with people, queuing to enter the Undercity. Widespread talk of miracles had excited the curiosity of Sulien’s citizens, all eager to see the drowned girl who had been brought back from the dead.

‘Why are we doing this?’ Valentan whispered to Khassian. ‘We’re Allegondans.’

‘Haven’t they got their own Temple choir?’ grumbled Azare. ‘I feel so… out out of place.’

‘They need us,’ Khassian said. ‘They need our expertise. Our aural skills. Our voices.’

‘Can’t we give ‘em one of your choruses, Amar?’

‘No.’ Khassian smiled at Azare. ‘Maybe another day.’

They passed through the echoing temple and made their way down into the Undercity, which was illuminated by the flames of many lotos candles.

Khassian caught sight of Orial, standing waiting, frail as a flickering lotos flame in the darkness.

‘You’ve come.’ She reached out her hands to them in greeting. ‘Thank you.’

She led the musicians to the Hall of Whispering Reeds where Jolaine Tradescar and Dr Philemot were still at work, carefully brushing back the dirt of centuries to expose the rest of the mosaic floor.