CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

DIDRYK

Back in the palace, Azeem directed Didryk down a different path, towards the temples he had visited when he had first arrived. “Where are we going, Lord High Vizier?” he asked. Sarmin had taken him to a new place and ruined his life—or else saved it. Now Azeem meant to take him somewhere new. He did not know if he could face it.

“The emperor bade me take you to your friend.” Azeem did not pause as he spoke.

They passed the dark temple of Herzu, the god of pain, famine, and fear— the patron god of the palace, he had been told. He felt eyes watching him from the darkness; as he passed he resisted the urge to stop, turn, and protect his retreat. Krys and Indri walked stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead.

The scents of blooming flowers met them at the entrance to Mirra’s temple. Her high priest kept a lush and green space. “This way,” said Azeem, breaking his silence, and led Didryk and his men down paths lined with tall decorative grasses and rose bushes. They passed a gurgling fountain and Didryk could not help but pause and watch his own wavering reflection in the surface. Water had been so rare in the last few months.

Azeem stopped before a curtain of flowering vines and remained there, gesturing for Didryk to step behind.

Banreh was lying on a stone slab, a pillow made of his own folded clothes resting beneath his head. He had been cleaned and bandaged, but otherwise Didryk could not see that his injuries had been treated. His breathing came shallow—that was thanks to the queenflower drug, most likely.

Krys breathed a sigh of relief. “He is alive!”

“Mogyrk be praised, my lord,” said Indri.

Didryk placed a hand on Banreh’s chest and tried to evaluate what had been broken in him. He had no physician’s skill, only what he had gleaned from the books in Adam’s library and the injuries he had seen when Arigu attacked his city. His ribs, he thought, and maybe one of his lungs, and there was slow bleeding, somewhere inside. Quickly he traced the patterns that would show his friend’s body how to heal. Such things did not work immediately. Sometimes they did not work at all, so Didryk was surprised to see the strength and power of his commands. Already bruises were fading, cuts changing from angry red to pink. He knew that Mogyrk’s Scar was near, but every time he was reminded, it surprised him.

He knew he might be healing his friend only to see him hanged—or worse. For his part, Banreh did not stir. Didryk had hoped to speak with him, but what could they say? Azeem would hear it all—and in any case, they had already said everything they needed to tell each other that day in the desert.

Banreh had insisted that Arigu would bring him to the palace. He had refused to try escaping, and he had refused the queenflower drug that would have eased his pain if they beat him. The man was too stubborn, and there had not been enough time. Didryk knew why: Banreh had only this one chance to save the enslaved Windreaders. But was this the only way—to turn himself over to be beaten and tortured? Who then would lead the freed slaves back to the Grass?

Didryk was certain a trip to the dungeons or that dark temple of Herzu was next for Banreh and he trembled with rage and helplessness. Yrkmir stood outside the gates of Nooria and the Storm grew near. Soon they would all die—and there would never be any reason to it. Once again nobody would be saved.

Low voices drifted over the humid air of the temple: They were no longer alone. Didryk clasped Banreh’s hand and let it go. He could not stay any longer.

Azeem led, sweeping past a group of priests without a word, and Didryk and his men followed once again. The temple wing showed beauty in every corner, from fountains and mosaics to tapestries and friezes. Didryk’s own home bore some simple decorations of polished wood and amber, but the emperor’s palace never seemed to tire of ingredients for its walls, ceilings, and floors—gems, gold, paint, tapestries, on and on, until his eyes saw nothing but a blur. So much richness. Why had they wanted Fryth as well?

But it had not been Sarmin who wanted Fryth, he reminded himself. It had been Emperor Tuvaini, who had sat on the Petal Throne for mere weeks.

And how long will Sarmin last? Who will take his place?

They passed into a plainer corridor and Didryk realised Azeem was taking a longer route—buying time? What was happening in the throne room? He knew he would never get anything out of the man, who was unflappable in his ability to give every kind of polite answer except for the one Didryk sought. He gritted his teeth.

A group of Blue Shields approached and he saw a prisoner in their midst, wrapped in the red robes of an austere.

Adam.

At last his rage found a focus. He had found it impossible to hate Sarmin in all his strange nobility, or Azeem and his calm diplomacy, the guards, with their firm commitment to duty—he had been unable to dislike even the earnest young mage, who remained so determined to defend his city, as Didryk himself once had been … but the second austere stood before him now—Adam, who had so calmly accepted the ravages of Yrkmir and its first austere; Adam who had stood by and let Kavic be slaughtered; Adam who had once been his teacher. Now he turned his face towards Didryk, perhaps sensing the fury rolling from him, and their eyes met.

“Didryk.” Adam spoke in rapid Frythian, “You were right about Yrkmir. They want to start it all again—” A Blue Shield hit him in the gut with the hilt of his sword. “The first austere is mad. I let the boy go—the emperor must believe me!” Another blow and he fell silent, drooping in the arms of the soldiers. They dragged him down a set of stairs that led to a heavy door. The dungeon.

Through it all Didryk said not a word, and his men stood still and silent behind him.

Adam was a zealot, blind to all but his own mission, never seeing the damage he did, and yet always ready to judge, to punish. But his instinct was to save souls, not destroy them.

After all your grand plans you will end up beneath the palace in a dark cell, my teacher. Didryk did not feel the satisfaction he had expected.

Azeem led him on without expression. “I will take you to your quarters.”

Didryk had no choice but to continue on the path he had begun, to help the emperor against Yrkmir. “If I may request parchments and ink—I could make the mage Farid a guide for Mogyrk’s symbols and their meanings.”

“Of course: parchment and ink will be delivered to your rooms shortly.” Azeem’s shoulders relaxed.

“Thank you, Lord High Vizier.”

As they moved through the door to the Great Hall, High Priest Dinar entered on the other side, coming from the throne room. Didryk’s feet slowed and stopped as he came under the focus of the priest’s snakelike eyes. They faced one another for some time, unmoving. Dinar meant to unnerve him, to frighten and intimidate, but Didryk did not flinch or look away; he poured all of his frustration into their unspoken battle, and at last Dinar laughed and turned away.

Didryk called it a small victory.

“Give us the word, my lord, and we will cut him down,” Indri said.

“There will be no cutting down of anyone.” That was why he had got in the habit of leaving his guards in the room. They were too prone to think of honour before sense.

They passed through the vestibule and made for a back stairway.

“Did you enjoy the visit with your friend, Duke Didryk?”

Surely the vizier only meant to be polite, but the question was out of tune and it hit Didryk where he was sore. “It was as I expected.” Then he asked in a cutting way, “Do you have friends, Lord High Vizier?”

Azeem paused. “In my position one does not have friends. Perhaps when I retire, I will play Settu with the other old men.”

“Perhaps.” Didryk took the steps two and three at a time.

Azeem, being shorter, had to hurry to keep up. When they reached the corridor Didryk continued to outpace him until he arrived at his room.

As Krys and Indri went inside he turned back and asked the grand vizier a question. “Who is your patron god, Azeem?”

Azeem froze and looked down the length of the corridor at him.

“Is it Herzu, god of war and famine? The patron god of this palace?” He expected the man to say yes; then he could tell him exactly what he thought of his so-called god.

“No.” Azeem held his hands out before him. “It is Mirra, goddess of fertility, who makes life in the desert possible.”

“Mirra,” Didryk repeated. He had not guessed that. With his line of attack stalled, he had nothing to do but retreat. “Thank you, Azeem.” He went inside and shut the door.