‘Poison? You’ve taken poison?’ He slapped her face. ‘Answer me, woman!’

‘Too – late –’ she whispered. She began to laugh again – low, husky laughter – and then the laughter turned to a retching rattle as her head jerked upwards and her body writhed in the death-spasm.

They lowered her to the floor, stepping hastily away. The doll-like face contorted – and a froth of dark liquid appeared on the lips.

‘Acir…’ She gave a soft little sigh… and finally lay still.

‘The Grand Maistre is dead.’

At first it was only a whispered rumour passed from guard to guard, servitor to servitor, in the gilded corridors of the Winter Palace. But soon the tocsin began to clang out over the city of Bel’Esstar.

Girim nel Ghislain was dead. Assassinated.

Cramoisy Jordelayne, labouring with the other Sanctuarees at the Fortress of Faith, heard the tocsin and looked up.

‘Get back to work!’ shouted the foreman, cracking his whip. ‘Back to work!’

A Guerrior came riding at the gallop towards the Fortress. Several of the guards left their posts to meet him.

‘Ghislain is dead!’ he cried. ‘Assassinated!’

A look passed between the Sanctuarees. A long look.

Cramoisy cleared his throat and started to sing.

‘“Freedom”.’ It began as a croaked whisper – but slowly gathered tone and power as the Diva found his lost voice again.

As his brilliant tone carried upwards into the shell of the unfinished building, one by one the Sanctuarees stopped their work to listen. The voice that once had ravished the hearts and souls of his listeners, soared into the air.

‘“Freedom”.’ Other voices joined in Khassian’s chorus until the walls reverberated with the fervour of their singing.

‘Be silent!’ cried the foreman. ‘Show some respect for the dead!’

The Sanctuarees only sang louder.

‘Get those men down here at once. Have them beaten for insubordination.’

The Guerriors moved towards the ladders – and stones and tiles began to hail down on them from the high platforms.

One Guerrior was hit and fell to his knees, blood streaming from his gashed head.

A ragged cheer went up from the Sanctuarees working on the ground.

The Guerriors turned on them, blades drawn. But the unsupervised Sanctuarees had been busy with their chisels and had worked off their shackles. Now they came running forward to meet their oppressors, wielding axes, tools, mallets, anything they could lay their hands on.

‘Riot! Riot!’ screamed the foreman, retreating before the hail of stones from above.

Guerriors went running to seize their arquebuses, positioning themselves behind stone-wagons. Metal bolts showered into the Fortress, glancing off the soft rose-red stones, pitting them with holes.

‘Go to nel Macy. Get reinforcements,’ the foreman ordered the rider. ‘Hurry!’

Captain nel Macy had called the Enhirran detachment into the Sanctuary courtyard. Tobyn glanced uneasily around at his confrères; there had been no sign – or word – of Acir Korentan for several days. He suspected something had gone badly amiss.