Jerame came awake with a start. The lotos candle had burned down to a faint glow within the cupped petals.

He raised his hands… and saw that where he had been holding her lock of hair, his hands were dusted with a powdery ash that drifted away between his fingers.

No lingering smell of burned hair tainted the room – only the faint scent of star-lilies.

CHAPTER 29

Girim nel Ghislain knelt at his private shrine in prayer. But though his lips moved, his mind had wandered far from the words of devotion.

Why had the Rose bloomed so far from Bel’Esstar? He had dedicated his life to creating a holy city fit for the Prophet, a city where sedition and blasphemy had been ruthlessly punished. He had striven to build a temple worthy of a god, the Stronghold, the Fortress of Faith. And now came the news of a miraculous rose that had blossomed not in Mhir’s shrine – but in an obscure graveyard in Sulien. The news rubbed salt into a wound still raw: the rank treachery of Acir Korentan, his sword-brother. Even bringing Acir’s name to mind stirred up such bitter rage that he could no longer remember the words of the prayer.

It did not matter now. Nothing mattered except the Rose. Today they would ride to Sulien and bring the Rose back to its rightful place in Mhir’s shrine.

There came a discreet tap and his secretary put his head around the door.

‘The Contesse Fiammis to see you, Grand Maistre.’

Girim rose from the shrine.

‘Show her in. And see we are not disturbed.’

Fiammis entered. She was in full court dress: an exquisite collier of diamonds and sapphires around her slender neck, panniered taffeta skirts over a brocade underskirt, tight-laced bodice, grey, ivory and blue, the colours of winter favoured by Prince Ilsevir. Yet above this perfection of costume, her painted face was an expressionless masquerade mask of white and she moved jerkily, like an automaton.

‘Contesse.’ Girim extended his hand; she took it and kissed his ring. The brush of her cold lips left a chill on his skin.

‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, Contesse. You took the life of a traitor. A traitor whom I had trusted as if he were my own brother.’

‘A traitor,’ she repeated, the words icily precise.

‘But you let Khassian get away. I’m afraid I must ask you to return to Sulien with us and complete your mission. Your new weapon,’ and he indicated the grey and ivory parasol which she held in one hand, ‘seems remarkably effective.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’

She raised the parasol until its tip was pointing at his head.

‘There is no antidote to the venom,’ she said, not moving. ‘Though the victim can take quite a while to die. It depends on the constitution. A strong, healthy man may last several hours. A weaker one… an hour at most. Which are you, Grand Maistre?’