‘Thank you.’
‘It is not the custom,’ said Herran, and Farid could not help but hear the accusation in his voice. Before I came, there was no need to guard the Tower. And Herran did not even know the whole of it. The assassin turned away and followed the vizier. At the gate the Blue Shields had already taken up their stations.
Farid settled on the stone of the Tower steps. He was still not able to open the door.
43
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 Didryck 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 queen-flower 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.