CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

DIDRYK

Didryk sat on the bottom step of the dais, blinking away his fatigue. His first day marking the palace workers was halfway done, and his second night in a high palace bed awaited him at the end of it, though he dreaded closing his eyes. His first night among those scented silks had brought him no sleep. Visions of his own burned city alongside a ruined Nooria kept him awake. In the dreams it was his own hand that sent the innocents screaming, his own hand that pulled down the stones of every building, and he could not blame Yrkmir or Cerana for the horror. He awakened with his heart pounding, unable to breathe.

In the cold light of the morning he did not know if he could follow through with his plan, but it was proceeding, whether he wanted it or not.

He had been prepared to manipulate the emperor, to nudge him towards his own goals—he had been raised in the court of the Iron Duke, taught from an early age that it was always better to let a man believe an idea his own. But it had not been necessary here: the emperor had taken all the clues and put them together in a fortunate way. The austeres responsible for the market attacks had helped his cause by showing the emperor how useful the pattern could be when it came to Yrkmir.

So now they were proceeding with the emperor’s plan of marking every person in the palace. He had taught the Cerani mage Farid how to do a simple ward against harm—but each time Didryk formed one himself he added a tiny hook, a trick the newer pattern-worker was too inexperienced to recognise, that connected each person to himself. The power in each connection was so bright it surprised him. Nooria, so close to the Scar, brimmed with Mogyrk’s power—and yet the Cerani were unbelievers.

With the god’s strength in his fingers it would be a simple thing to turn these men and women to his will—but once again he wondered if he could bring himself to do it, to cause harm to the palace that had offered such an unexpected welcome. He did not need to remind himself that Banreh had not received the same generosity. The chief’s pain ground against his mind at all times, flowing through the mark on his wrist. He had almost grown accustomed to it.

Farid had been sent to the Tower, not far from the palace, to mark the mages there; but Azeem had politely insisted Didryk remain in the throne room to do his work. Though he had spoken the words of alliance, he was not trusted away from the view of the emperor and his sword-sons; he had not been given the freedom to draw patterns throughout the palace. Considering his true motives, Didryk thought the grand vizier wise—though not wise enough. Not one of the men other than Farid could even identify a pattern-symbol, and Farid had been able to say only that the mark was a ward. Sarmin had examined it—though Didryk had been able to tell it meant nothing to him—and ordered the marking of his own Blue Shield soldiers.

The throne room held only a few courtiers, standing in small groups and whispering. Azeem had told him that on a normal day there would be a few dozen men sitting beneath the emperor, or positioned on the cushions under the dome, but the current unrest had them hiding in their manses or even fleeing the city. Those who remained were either battle-hardened, foolish, or too close to death to worry about the timing of its arrival, and it was these men who huddled in small groups and talked in low voices, often sending dark looks his way. Didryk sat on a cushion on the lowest step of the dais, and anyone who came to be marked sat on another cushion, directly opposite and slightly lower. It made it easy to reach foreheads, that was certain, but for much of the time he had his back to the emperor and his sword-sons and it made his neck itch.

Not that he would have been able to read the man’s face. His grandfather, Malast Anteydies Griffon, the Iron Duke, had kept his face still as stone when sitting at court, and Emperor Sarmin was the same. In his private apartments Didryk had seen flashes of concern or curiosity in him, but here in public, sitting on the great Petal Throne, he neither moved nor spoke.

The grand vizier remained standing, his parchments before him, ticking off the names of every person marked by Didryk’s design. He spoke for the emperor, each greeting as crisp and clear as the last, commanding the workers to rise, to move forwards, to accept the marks. From time to time he reassured the hesitant. The work of the Pattern Master Helmar was their chief concern; they remembered the Many and wanted no part of it. Didryk had explained to Azeem that such a thing was impossible for him to achieve; the kind of pattern built by Helmar was far beyond his ability, and that was true. He would be using a simpler, rougher force against them.

A young girl approached them now, and with surprise he noticed her red hair and deep blue eyes. She was Fryth—and as she drew closer, her feet hesitating over the runner, Didryk realised she was also blind.

At that same moment the emperor spoke for the first time, his voice kind, almost fatherly. “Just a few more steps, Rushes, and you will feel a cushion with your toes.”

For this girl there would be no obeisance, Didryk realised. He watched her with interest.

Rushes smiled, stepped forwards and explored the floor in front of her with one small slippered foot.

“Just one step more.” Azeem left his parchments to take the girl’s elbow and helped her to sit. Didryk wondered who this young woman was, that she was treated with such consideration. Surely she could not be one of the Fryth slaves Adam had mentioned?

“Thank you,” he said to the vizier once the girl was settled, and their eyes met over her bowed head.

“Of course,” said Azeem, straightening. He walked back to his parchments and picked up his quill. “Rushes, also Rufynkarojna, nurse to the emperor’s own brother,” he intoned. There was a pause, during which Didryk could hear the emperor’s robes rustling. “This man is of Fryth,” Azeem said to her. “You need not fear him. It will not hurt when he marks you, and you will not become one of the Many. This is done for your protection.”

“I am not afraid,” she said to Azeem in Cerani, and then to him, in heavily accented Frythian, she repeated, “I am not afraid.”

Hearing his own language brought tears to his eyes. He knew so very few Fryth still alive. “Very good,” he said. “Lift your head, child.”

As she did so he laid a finger upon her forehead—then pulled it back with a hiss as he recognised the hand that had blinded her. “You were with Adam,” he said, still speaking Frythian.

Tears welled in Rushes’ sightless eyes as she nodded.

“It is best if you speak so that we all can understand, Duke,” Azeem said, fingering his quill the way another man might finger the hilt of a sword.

“My apologies,” he said quickly. “I told her that I could feel an evil hand in her blindness.”

He heard the emperor’s robes rustling again, and then Sarmin spoke for the second time that day. “Cure her, if it is within your ability.”

Didryk took a deep breath and laid his palm flat against her brow. His ability had always leaned towards fixing broken bones and torn flesh, while Adam’s went in the direction of harm. Now he delved into Adam’s work and discovered a simple, malicious twisting of what lay behind the girl’s eyes. Her sight was not ruined, but Adam had drawn a veil there, like pulling a curtain across a bright window. He knew Adam had also done something to the mage Farid, but that was something different, more of a compulsion—but for what, he could not tell. He had left it there, to his shame.

“Does anyone have a cloth to wind around her eyes?” he asked, speaking against a sudden swell of pain—not his, but Banreh’s.

“I do.” The empress, Mesema of the Windreaders, stood at the edge of the silk runner. Her voice lacked the harsh consonants and guttural sounds that marked Cerani speech. The men of the court watched her, whispering among themselves, disapproval on their faces, but the empress had her back to them and so was unaware. She wore an orange scarf around her neck and now she unwound it and presented it to Didryk. He had seen her before, standing above him in the Great Hall on the day he arrived, her eyes alert, her cheeks flushed. Today she looked more an empress: her face was careful, her movements measured. He believed Banreh loved the first Mesema more than the second, and wondered whether either version of her loved Banreh. She had obviously not arranged for a doctor for him—if she had, he would not be sensing so much pain now.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, trying not to sound gruff. She might not even know Banreh was in the palace—and in any case, her personal guard, six men with wide, heavy weapons, stood behind her, so it would not do to be rude. He looked away from them and wound the scarf around Rushes’ eyes. “When she first starts to see again, the light will cause her pain. As time goes on, you may allow her more and more light.” And then he drew away the pattern Adam had laid there.

Rushes gasped and clapped her hands together. “I can see shapes, even through the silk!” she said.

Didryk dipped his finger in the greasepaint that had been provided for him and drew a quick pattern-mark on her forehead. Though he could have done it with his fingers, the emperor liked to see what he was doing. Once finished, the shape faded into her skin, but Didryk could still see it, lit in shades of blue and yellow.

“I wish the Empire Mother was here,” said Rushes. “She would be very happy that I can see now.”

“She will be,” the empress murmured with a guarded glance at Didryk. “Now, let’s get you back to your work.” She helped the girl to stand.

“A moment, Your Majesty,” said Didryk, knowing this was his chance, before she left, to find a way to gain her aid. He might not get another opportunity. “May I ask if you were patterned?”

“I was,” she said, turning her wrist his way. “It started with a half-moon, there.”

“A half-moon?” He saw a faint mark, lighter than the fair skin around it, and to that he pressed his thumb. The men standing behind the empress drew their swords; he must be quick. With the slightest movement he drew a fingernail across her mark and imbued it with his will. At least let him die without pain. At least that. Right away he dropped her wrist and raised his hands. “I apologise—I have made offence by touching the empress.”

“I took no offence,” said Mesema, rubbing her wrist where he had scratched her. She would begin to feel Banreh’s pain soon.

“One does not touch the empress.” Azeem spoke without moving. The empress’ men stood frozen too, and all their eyes were fixed on the emperor. Didryk stared at his pale, pinched reflection in the curved blade held by the nearest guard. Mesema held her wrist and watched her husband, and Didryk saw in her expression that he was safe. The outrage, the long pause: it was all a game of power the emperor had already won. He was reminded of Azeem, stacking his tiles. The silence stretched, a long wait meant to terrify, but Didryk relaxed and the tension in his reflected face smoothed away. If Sarmin meant to kill him, he would be dead already.

At last the emperor spoke. “Duke Didryk is a stranger to our lands. He can be forgiven this transgression. He must, after all, touch everyone if he is to ensure they are marked. Is that not so, Duke?”

“It is so. I was ensuring the empress’ safety in the face of the Yrkmen threat, Magnificence.”

The men behind the empress put away their swords. Their faces betrayed neither relief nor disappointment.

Mesema dropped her arms to her sides and curtseyed. “With your permission, Magnificence, I will return Rushes to her charge.”

“You are dismissed.” The emperor might as well have been talking to a floor-scrubber for all the love in his voice. He had shown more affection to the Fryth girl—but maybe that too was part of the act. Mesema took Rushes by the elbow and together they retreated from the room.

“That is enough work for the morning,” said the emperor, and Didryk rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Maybe he would sleep until it was time to return.

The men of court had been conversing all the while, in low tones and whispers, but now their voices gained energy as they discussed the pattern attacks in the city, the Mogyrk rebels, and Didryk himself. He shifted on his cushion, unsure whether protocol allowed him any movement, and watched the courtiers circle one another like sharks. One of them, a man in modest green robes, made signals to the throne with his fingers. The movements were so subtle that he doubted most people would notice— but Didryk’s upbringing left him watching men’s hands as much as their mouths. The man was obviously a spy.

After a moment Sarmin said to Azeem in a low voice, “Find out what Benna wants.”

Azeem took his time organising his parchments, then he left the dais to speak with first one man, then another, taking an age to work his way round to the man in green as Didryk rolled his head to either side, trying to loosen the muscles. His spine hurt from holding the same position for so many hours and he needed a chamber-pot—but he wanted to see Azeem and the emperor at work.

“You must be tired, Duke,” said Sarmin behind him.

Didryk turned to face the throne. Behind it stood the sword-sons, a wall of rippling muscle and biting steel. “It is not difficult work, Magnificence.”

Sarmin’s gaze followed his vizier’s movements. “Pattern-work has been described to me as drawing from rote, like a child learning his letters. Is that so?”

“We draw upon the Names Mogyrk gave to us, which is very much like an alphabet.”

“Do you have a symbol for every thing?”

Didryk frowned. “Mogyrk Named all things, but no one thing has meaning without all the others. Mogyrk pulled Himself apart to find His own essence, but even His Name by itself has no power.”

“But Azeem told me that Mogyrk did not die.”

“He both died and did not die.” Didryk squirmed. He disliked speaking of Mogyrk. For him there were two gods: the one who helped him heal and the one who had destroyed his city.

Sarmin considered this a while. “And so you use His power and His Names to form commands?”

Something in the emperor’s voice made Didryk shift again, his long legs in the way yet again as he attempted to settle on the step of the dais. His shoes were not suited to Cerani palace life either; they were stiff and hard, and did not allow for relaxing on cushions. “That is how most austeres imagine it, yes.”

“But not you?” Sarmin leaned forwards, his eyes filling with a strange desire. “You imagine more?”

Didryk had said too much. He looked away, towards Azeem, who had already left the spy and was now circling back, pausing here and there to exchange more greetings. “I am no great talent.” Sarmin’s gaze had not left him, though. He could feel it against his back.

“I do have one question, Duke.”

“I will answer whatever I am able.”

“Why do your patterns disappear when you finish them? Helmar Pattern Master’s never disappeared.”

“Because Helmar did not finish his,” said Didryk, turning to look at the emperor. “As I understand it, the pattern itself was his end: it had no other purpose—not to call or destroy, not to heal or to ward. He made no command, as you put it—not to the pattern.”

Sarmin frowned, and leaned back in his throne. At last Azeem returned and spent a while shuffling his papers. Then he glanced up at Didryk, his eyes hard, before picking up his quill, leaning over to the emperor, and whispering. Didryk got the message that he was not to listen—and indeed, it was impossible to hear.

Sarmin was not so good at keeping quiet. “Arigu?” he said in a tone of disbelief.

Azeem said something else, and then Sarmin leaned towards him, saying, “Whatever rumours he is spreading …” Didryk heard no more, for the rest of the emperor’s words had disappeared under the clash of a gong.

“What now?” said one of the courtiers, a gaunt man Sarmin had identified as General Merkel from the Jalan Hills, next to Fryth. Didryk had met him long ago, when he was just a child, but the general had not recognised him. Merkel’s question was soon answered: a squad of Blue Shields entered, dust on their uniforms, their faces fatigued. They approached the dais and Didryk moved his feet out of the way as they prostrated themselves before their emperor.

“Rise and report to me,” said Sarmin.

The soldiers stood and looked at one another, their eyes sad.

“Your Majesty, it is the temple of Meksha in the East Quarter,” said their leader, marked out by a golden crest on the tall hat he clutched under one arm. “It has been reduced to dust.”

“Dust!” General Merkel took a few steps forwards and halted, his eyes on the throne.

The emperor did not move. “Tell me.”

Didryk looked at the gleaming floor. He knew it had been an austere—he knew exactly what spell had been used. He also knew it could not have been Adam. He was now certain the first austere and his men were in the city, but he did not understand why they played at petty destruction. They had given Fryth no warning, but here in Nooria they were teasing the emperor, giving him plenty of time to counter any major attack. Was it so they could play with the fragile alliances at court? He looked from one man to the other, wondering who supported the emperor and who did not.

The side door opened to allow a new courtier through. His robes left his muscled arms and calves bare, and tear-shaped tattoos marked his hands and the skin below his eyes, which flicked towards the throne with contempt. Here was one who could cause trouble for the emperor. He stalked towards the dais, and the men who had been listening to the soldiers turned to him instead.

With a start Didryk remembered that he had come here to destroy Sarmin, not to watch enemies on his behalf, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. He need only wait until enough people had been marked and Yrkmir defeated, then he would make his own move.

As the soldier and emperor continued to talk, Didryk shook off his thoughts enough to listen; he might yet learn something useful.

“—the people inside?” From time to time Didryk noted a childish, hopeful note in the emperor’s voice.

“Suffocated, Magnificence.” The soldier bit his lip. “We dug them out as quickly as we could, but we were not fast enough.”

“Thank you. As usual, keep the area clear until the Tower can investigate.”

“Magnificence.” The soldiers bowed, backed away, and were gone.

The tattooed man had made his way to the dais and now he bowed. Clearly he held high status if he did not prostrate himself—or was this a power play?

“High Priest Dinar,” said Sarmin, sounding bored.

“Magnificence—I heard the news about the temple of Meksha.

Our patron goddess is under attack—no wonder She brews fire in Her holy mountain.” The priest looked over his shoulder at the courtiers, who were watching with rapt attention, and gestured towards Didryk. “Mogyrk worship is now legal and so we resort to Yrkmir’s ways, instead of traditions long established in Her Tower?”

“My decisions in this matter are not your concern.”

“In this matter, perhaps not, Your Majesty. But I have been awaiting another decision concerning the prisoner. When may I expect him?”

With a jolt Didryk realised the priest was talking of Banreh.

“When I deem it time.” The emperor’s voice was cold.

The priest bowed and spoke in a low but urgent voice. “Your Majesty, destruction is nearly upon us. We cannot risk angering the gods further.”

“I am the Light of Heaven, Dinar. The gods speak to and through me. You are dismissed.”

Dinar straightened, turned, and walked out through the great doors, passing the small groups of courtiers. Their gazes followed him, their mouths stilled.

General Merkel turned back to the emperor, his eyes narrowed in accusation, before he bowed and followed the priest. His action created quite a murmur among those who remained. Even Azeem was not happy, jerking his quill and causing spots of black ink to fly across his parchments. He placed it in its box and pulled out a rag to wipe the splattered ink, his lips pinched together.

Emperor Sarmin spoke. “We will return to business this afternoon. You are all dismissed.”

His cue at last. Didryk stood and bowed to the throne. “With your permission, Emperor.” He could see Krys and Indri, standing behind the dais in the shadows between tapestries. In their heavy armour they must have been even more uncomfortable than he. They stepped forwards, relief on their faces.

“Of course, Duke.” Sarmin waved an idle hand. “Azeem will see you to your chambers.”

Azeem folded his rag and put it aside. “Of course. This way, Duke.” He led him past the murmuring courtiers and through the great doors. Didryk had noticed the carvings when he had arrived, but closer attention now revealed the gods in the wood, and the way their faces turned towards the emperor. Following their gazes he saw the sunlight falling from the dome, bringing a bright glow to the Petal Throne and illuminating Sarmin’s face. Surely most petitioners who approached him believed he was the Light of Heaven, as he had claimed. “It is quite a sight,” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Azeem, leading him on down a great corridor, “may the gods preserve it.”

Didryk followed, an echo of Banreh’s pain making him shiver though the palace was hot. The gods can do what they like, but I will not preserve it.