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.
44
Mesema
Mesema sat in the rooftop garden in the lowering dark. In the west, she saw the river and the Holies, and beyond them, the western wall and the gathering of the Yrkmir army. Their campfires appeared, one by one, as pinpricks of light against the shadowed sands, like stars in the night sky. But stars were nothing compared to the conflagration in the north. There, arcane fires of blue and orange wove their threads across the front of the Great Storm, forming a tapestry that blazed against the horizon, five times higher than the walls and stretching far into the western sands. The wall, the water that ran through it and the northern dunes were lit as if by day – but the Yrkmen camped far enough to the south that darkness yet fell upon them.