‘Oh, have you not heard of the Grand Maistre’s humane methods of reforming the morally corrupt? I would have thought the Commanderie would have trumpeted their good works all over the whole continent by now.’ Valentan’s usually mellifluous voice was jagged with anger.

‘We’ve heard nothing.’

‘But you’ve heard of the Stronghold, Girim’s Fortress of Faith? The place of worship to rival all others, centre of pilgrimage, erected to protect Mhir’s shrine? How do you think Girim’s building this mighty edifice, this hymn of praise in stone?’

Khassian shook his head.

‘When I tell you that I and the others were sentenced to moral correction in the Sanctuary, you may begin to make a connection.’

‘You have been building this Fortress?’ Cramoisy said. ‘But you’re an artiste!’

‘Not an artiste, Diva. A wretched sinner whose only chance of redemption has been to make a full public confession of my sins – and, like our patron Prince Ilsevir, to undergo conversion to the Thorny Path.’

‘Oh!’ Cramoisy said, shocked. ‘How humiliating.’

‘You must understand,’ Valentan went on, his dulled eyes flaring at the memory, ‘that I have been treated with the utmost compassion and mercy. In past times, we would have been burned at the stake or impaled for our refusal to be converted.’

‘But this Fortress – it’s being built by prisoners?‘

‘Forced labour. They call us the Sanctuarees. A Sanctuary… What image does that conjure up for you? A place of safety? A refuge? That’s the image that Girim presents to Allegonde. His humane centre for the reformation of wrongdoers. This is the reality.’ He tugged back his lank locks of hair, exposing his right ear. A thick metal tag perforated the lobe, bearing the number 329. ‘Not Celestion Valentan any more. Just number 329.’ The locks dropped back as he buried his face in his hands.

Khassian stared at him in redundant silence. Anger. Yes, he felt a kind of anger. But it was the anger of logic. The real fury was locked away deep inside him, a slow-burning fire frozen in a glacier. He could see the flame – but all he felt was cold, numbed by this recitation of suffering.

‘I know what you need.’ Cramoisy went to the stoppered crystal flask on the escritoire and poured a glass of the clear liqueur inside. ‘Drink this. They call it pommerie here. It’s an apple eau-de-vie.’

Valentan took a hesitant sip of the pommerie, grimaced, then nodded and took another.

‘How did you manage to escape?’

‘Me? Through the loyalty of the others. We made a pact. One of us should get away and somehow find help. We drew straws. I was the lucky one. They created a diversion… a stone unaccountably came loose from its straps as they were hauling it into place… I made a dive for the ditch and climbed up the boundary fence.’

‘La! And did the Guerriors come after you?’ Cramoisy cried.