‘What did you say, Illustre?’ The Mayor came pushing through the crowd to Khassian’s side. ‘The Prince of Allegonde himself? Why didn’t he send word ahead to us? We could have prepared a welcome ceremony.’

A liveried servitor jumped down from behind the carriage and held open the door; Ilsevir stepped out and gazed at the assembled crowds.

The Mayor came forward, bowing.

‘Altesse, if we had known you were to honour us with your presence, we would have –’

‘This is no state visit,’ Ilsevir said, ‘but a simple, personal journey of faith. A pilgrimage.’

‘To Sulien?’ said the Mayor, confused.

‘We have heard the news of the miracle. Where is the Rose?’ His voice was charged with excitement.

Khassian steeled himself; he came out of the crowd and bowed to Ilsevir.

‘Altesse.’

‘Amaru?’ Ilsevir had obviously not expected to encounter him in Sulien; his face clouded momentarily.

‘You wish to see the Rose?’ Khassian extended one hand in the direction of the cemetery. ‘Follow me, Altesse.’

The attendants started forward but Khassian shook his head.

‘The Prince alone.’

Ilsevir hesitated – but then signalled to his attendants to wait.

The Foreigners’ Cemetery drowsed in the morning sun as Khassian led the Prince past the neglected graves. Sun-silvered grasses grew knee-high. They waded through them, lulled by the drone of insects; bees and cicadas, a summer sound.

Orial rose from the grass where she had been sitting, waiting.

‘Is this what you have come to see, Altesse?’

The single green spray grew out of the raw earth of Acir’s grave. No fresh buds had appeared.

‘Is this some Sulien hoax?’ Ilsevir asked coldly. ‘I see no Rose!’

‘Why should we seek to deceive you?’ Khassian felt his face flame, angered by the Prince’s reaction. ‘Look at my hands, Altesse. See the scars left by the thorns where I picked the Rose. And this girl who stands before you… is the girl restored to life by the Blood of the Rose.’

Ilsevir looked from Khassian to Orial and back again; he seemed confused, unable to comprehend what Khassian was saying.

‘You… received the Blood of the Rose?’

‘I did, Altesse.’

‘But – but who lies buried here?’

‘A simple soldier of the Commanderie.’ Khassian swallowed. ‘His name was Acir Korentan.’

‘I don’t remember the name.’ Ilsevir clapped his hands. Two Guerriors appeared at the gate to the cemetery; they carried spades.

‘What are you doing!’ Khassian cried. ‘You’re not going to dig it up –’

‘It belongs in Bel’Esstar. In the shrine.’

‘You must not uproot it,’ Orial said. Her voice was calm and clear. ‘It belongs here.’

One of the Guerriors jabbed his spade deep into the earth

‘No!’ cried Khassian, starting forwards.

The Guerrior recoiled, yelping. His hand was torn and bleeding from the hooked thorns.

‘For Mhir’s sake! Give me the spade!’ The Prince seized the spade and moved towards the grave.