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“And it will be difficult.”

“I am aware.”

“I can help you,” says The Hare. “I will be sitting on the bench as Gelen the Green’s Officer of Letters.”

“And you can ensure it is accepted,” says Damon, feeling his guts churn at the thought.

“I can. If you wish it.”

“Very well,” says Damon. “I wish it.”

A bell rings to signify someone coming into the chamber through the main entrance. It is the guards who escorted Damon. Walking unarmed, holding their white stones behind them. “Master Damon Darekul,” says one. “Please come with us, you have been summoned. The Justice will commence in the Hall of Twelve.”

The Hall of Twelve is dressed for a formal ceremony. Damon is shown to a seat on one of the low tables. The two guards sit on either side of him. Selim and Rafus appear and take their places at the table on the dais. Rafus looks hollowed out, lost in grief. Atticul too. His thrill at Damon’s destruction, replaced by the reality of what happened. Even Atticul is human. He loved his brother.

It hits Damon then, only then, Endrew is dead.

Doroth Zain is seated at one end of the table with several other men of the faith, including the Hare, who arrived after Damon with a huge pile of books.

At the centre, beside Selim, sits Gelen the Green, the Enforcer of Zai. The Soul Protector, second only to Doroth Zain in the faith. Damon feels the dread in his gut churn.

He had hoped he would be able to spend his visit to the Rose Palace without seeing Gelen the Green.

Gelen the Green is a tiny man. Short and bald with a drawn, unshaven face. People say he eats only one small bowl of thin gruel a day, as he believes all sensory indulgence is a sin of the body.

Damon remembers the Hare with his veiled face. As a member of the Order of the Enforcer, perhaps he has to survive on gruel too.

As Damon looks at him, Gelen’s eyes meet his. Gelen smiles at him.

When Damon took his father’s punishment he had to perform penance under the observance of Gelen the Green.

Before he was allowed to begin his twenty years indentured service he was taken by Gelen to a dark room in the dungeons of the Rose Palace: the cell of penance.

Gelen had made him stand for an age with his arms outstretched as he beseeched Zai to forgive his father. The cell had been freezing cold and Damon had been made to do the penance in only a hip cloth. It had taken him days to recover.

Each of the following five days he had to attend the Immurite, kneel before that metal grill and confess his sins. Her soft voice had been something of a solace to him then. It had been then that he had told her of the desires that, even at that young age, lay heavy on his heart.

Damon murmurs to himself, “Sacred Immurite, most devoted creature in the service of Zai, help me. Give me the will to save him. I will not look on him with lust again if you help me now to do what I must.”

As Damon finishes his silent prayer, and as if in answer, Selim stands and makes a formal announcement, “Prince Endrew, the great hero of the royal line has been killed, murdered at a Pleasure Night within the Rose Palace.”

This is met with gasps from the throng in the hall, although Damon is certain most of them had heard this news and were here at so early an hour because of it.

Selim continues his pronouncement, saying that the perpetrator will be brought before them and interrogated by Gelen the Green the Soul Protector.

The hall is busy with courtiers. The same people who were here yesterday to celebrate him and Endrew.

Lyr is brought in. Small and scared, dressed only in a hip cloth, all the strange scars and marks on his body on show. With his decorated skin and strange features, he looks so eerie. Damon could almost believe he was a fae creature or some forest imp. He is chained at his wrists, ankles and neck. The chains look too big and heavy for his slender body.

He is made to sit on a small stool below the High Table. Two enforcers stand on either side of him. He looks so vulnerable. Damon’s heart aches so acutely he thinks he might cry out from the pain.

Gelen the Green says in a measured tone. “You are Lyr, a Juran whore, a slave of King Ramel. A sly whore. You were brought here to the great city of Attar as a spoil of victory by Damon Darekul, son of Crown Prince Rafus?”

Lyr nods. But then says, “I am not Juran, I am from Klish.”

Gelen the Green looks down. He makes a small mark on the parchment in front of him. “I see. Are you a Priam Revolter?”

“No, Sire,” says Lyr.