Why was Girim in such a hurry? Two or three escaped musicians did not constitute a revolution. So far as Acir could tell, the castrato was only interested in furthering his own career, frittering away his meagre funds on wigs and cosmetics.

Never before had he had cause to question the Grand Maistre’s orders. Now it weighed heavily upon his conscience: disobedience to the one he had sworn on his life to obey in all matters, both temporal and spiritual.

‘Show me what I must do,’ he said aloud. ‘Send me a sign.’

A red haze of tiredness swam before his eyes; slowly his head slid forward until it was pillowed upon the open book and he slept.

Red haze. Heat haze.

He trudged on across the endless red sands. His throat was parched dry. Overhead the sun had burnished the cloudless sky to the patina of beaten copper.

Must keep going. Mustn’t stop.

Sun-scorch in his eyes, sun-scorch searing his back.

A swirl of darkness on the distant horizon. Sandstorm.

Copper sky darkening fast, dust-daemons, whirling and twirling towards him. Sands singing, strange, high whine of the wind.

Must reach the citadel. Girim’s message must get through.

He wrapped a scarf tightly about his face, head down to the oncoming storm.

Struck suddenly by the force of the dry wind – the storm spun him around – grit stung his skin, a fine rain of lacerating dust particles filled his eyes. Blinded, he dropped to his knees as the whirlwind of sand came eddying up about him.

Scarlet sand in his nose, his mouth, a dry, choking tide of it.

‘Help me, Blessed Mhir, don’t let your servant die –’

And then he heard a rushing – as if the convulsive beat of great wings was cleaving the swirling sand.

He was no longer alone. A presence hovered above him, dark as smoke.

Hands reached down to him, lifted him. He was rising slowly through the seething sandcloud, rising into the grey air.

Wingbeats throbbed in his ears, powerful wingbeats echoing the throbbing pulse of his own blood.

And then water, cool as spring rain, laved his sand-burned eyes, his cracked lips. Water flowed into his parched mouth.

Life-giving water. Now he had the strength to go on, to complete his mission.

‘The message –’

‘Look,’ commanded a voice, a voice which trembled through him with the terrible majesty of thunder.

Far below, as the swirling dustclouds parted, Acir saw a figure sprawled in the sand, face-down. In the distance a white mirage shimmered: the gleaming walls of the citadel and the safe haven of the Commanderie.

Cloaked in storm-grey feathers tipped with flame they swooped down out of the sandclouds. And as they hovered closer, Acir’s heart smote him. He recognised the prone figure.

Amaru Khassian. Alone and helpless in the red expanse of empty desert.

‘Choose, Guerrior. Save him – or deliver your message.’