A shout at the gate drew her attention.

No, please. Not him.

A soldier was holding Sajhe by the scruff of the neck. She could see him kicking, trying to get free. He was holding something in his hands. A small box.

Alais’s heart plummeted. She couldn’t risk going back up, so was powerless to do anything. Na Couza was arguing with the soldier, who struck her round the head, sending her sprawling back into the dirt. Sajhe took his chance. He wriggled out of the man’s grasp and scrambled down the slope. Senher Couza helped his wife to her feet.

Alais held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if it was going to be all right. The soldier had lost interest. But then Alais heard a woman shouting. Oriane was shouting and pointing at Sajhe, ordering the guards to stop him.

She’s recognised him.

Sajhe might not be Alais, but he was the next best thing.

There was an immediate outburst of activity. Two of the guards set off down the slopes after Sajhe, but he was a fast runner, sure-footed and confident. Weighted down by their weapons and armour, they were no match for an eleven-year-old boy. Silently, Alais urged him on, watching as he darted this way and that, jumping and leaping over the uneven patches of ground, until he reached the cover of the woods.

Realising she was about to lose him, Oriane sent Francois to follow.

His horse thundered down the track, slipping and skidding on the steep, dry earth, but he covered the ground quickly. Sajhe hurtled into the undergrowth, Francois hard on his heels.

Alais realised Sajhe was heading for the boggy marshland where the Aude split into several tributaries. The ground was green and looked like a meadow in spring, but it was lethal underneath. Local people stayed away.

Alais pulled herself up into a tree for a better view. Francois either didn’t realise where Sajhe was going or didn’t care, because he spurred his horse on. He’s gaining on him. Sajhe stumbled and nearly lost his footing, but he managed to keep running, zigzagging through the thicket, leading them through blackberry bushes and thistles.

Suddenly, Francois let out a howl of anger, which turned immediately to alarm. The sinking mud had wrapped itself around the hind legs of his horse. The terrified animal was baying, flailing its legs. Every desperate attempt only hastened its descent into the treacherous mud.

Francois threw himself from the saddle and tried to swim to the edges of the bog, but his body sank lower and lower, clawed down into the mud, until only the tips of his fingers could be seen.

Then, there was silence. It seemed to Alais as if even the birds had stopped singing. Terrified for Sajhe, she dropped down to the ground, just as he came back into view. He was ashen faced, his bottom lip trembling with exertion, and he was still clutching the wooden box.

“I led him into the marsh,” he said.

Alais put her hand on his shoulder. “I know. That was clever.”

“Was he a traitor too?”

She nodded. “I think that was what Esclarmonde was trying to tell us.” Alais pursed her lips together, glad her father had not lived to know it was Francois who had betrayed him. She shook the thought from her mind. “But what were you thinking, Sajhe? Why on earth were you carrying this box? It almost got you killed.”

“Menina told me to keep it safe.”

Sajhe“ stretched his fingers across the bottom of the box until he was able to press both sides at once. There was a sharp dick, then he turned the base, to reveal a flat, concealed drawer. He reached in and pulled out a piece of cloth.

“It’s a map. Menina said we would need it.”

Alais understood immediately. “She doesn’t mean to come with us,” she said heavily, fighting the tears welling up in her eyes.

Sajhe shook his head.

“But why didn’t she tell me?” she said, her voice shaking. “Could she not trust me?”

“You would not have let her go.”

Alais let her head fall back against the tree. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her task. Without Esclarmonde she didn’t know how she could find the strength to do what was required of her.

As if he could read her mind, Sajhe said: “I’ll look after you. And it won’t be for long. When we have given the Book of Words to Harif, we will come back and find her. Si es atal es atal.‘ Things will be as they will be.

“That we should all be as wise as you.”

Sajhe flushed. “This is where we have to go,” he said, pointing at the map. “It doesn’t appear on any map, but Menina calls the village Los Seres.”

Of course. Not just the name of the guardians, but also a place.

“You see?” he said. “In the Sabarthes Mountains.”

Alais nodded. “Yes, yes,” she said. “At last, I think I do.”

Sabarthes Mountains

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly-polished wood in his house in the shadow of the mountain.

The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes.

This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking time.

There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a glass tumbler, filled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine, unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered with a white linen cloth.

Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring, the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had lived for so long.

A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars. Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar history – Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts, monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks, incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.

He was prepared to wait.

Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.

And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final hours?

He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.