Either way, it would not bring back Sarmin’s pattern-sight. Gritting his teeth, he motioned to his sword-sons.
As the men lifted Banreh to his feet, the chief’s gaze moved past Sarmin to where Mesema stood beside the throne and for the first time, his calm left him. Sarmin saw the emotion full on his face before the sword-sons turned and walked him from the room.
Sarmin stood on the shining tiles, watching the blue that reflected from his robes. He knew Mesema had been in love with Banreh; she had told him so. But that Banreh had loved Mesema – that had never occurred to him before. It should not matter, but it did, and now he was unsteadied by an unfamiliar sensation, as irrational as it was overwhelming. His hands curled into fists and he found he could not turn to look at his wife.
‘Arigu is alive,’ said Nessaket, behind him. ‘It is a miracle.’
‘The man cannot be trusted,’ said Mesema. ‘Have you considered this could be one of Arigu’s games?’
‘He would not play games,’ said Azeem, ‘not now. Not after so many of his men have died.’
‘Are you certain? He was very happy to play with lives when I knew him.’
‘And what would he gain from it?’ asked Nessaket.
‘Power. Land. A pattern mage in his pocket.’ He could hear Mesema’s dislike of Arigu in her voice. He knew well how deep it went.
‘You should not speak so,’ said Nessaket. ‘You did not know the general, not truly.’
They fell silent, but for the shuffling of Azeem’s parchments.
‘We are no closer to finding Daveed,’ said Nessaket with a long sigh.
Daveed. Sarmin’s heart, already heavy, dropped to the floor. The Mogyrks had taken his only living brother, and this man – this duke, this enemy of the White Hat Army – now offered his aid. It could only be a trick, a distraction from his search for Daveed. Sense and history dictated he could not allow a pattern mage so close to Nooria. He must push aside his own desire for pattern-sight and see the situation with clear eyes. The answer was obvious.
‘Chief Banreh will be put to the question,’ Sarmin said. ‘We will find this duke where he hides in the desert, kill him, and bring our General Arigu back to Nooria.’
10
Didryk
‘They will kill your pretty scribe. They will kill him, and come after you like the demons of Herzu’s hell.’
Didryk ignored General Arigu and poured himself another cup of water. Banreh had told him to keep drinking even when he did not feel thirsty, and keeping his hands busy prevented him from killing the man where he stood.
‘What do you think Cerana does with traitors and oath-breakers?’ Arigu took a step forwards, as close to Didryk as his ropes would allow. ‘They give them over to Priest Dinar. Your friend will be skinned alive.’
‘Is that what will happen to you? Aren’t you also a traitor?’
Arigu smiled. The conversation was not new, but he took pleasure in it. ‘They will forgive me when I bring them your head.’
The desert heat drove Didryk’s anger. ‘I have done nothing to Cerana except defend my country, while you have betrayed and deceived the Petal Throne.’
‘Is that what your pretty toy told you? Did he whisper it upon the pillows, in the deep of night?’
It was an old accusation that missed the mark but it had an edge, nevertheless. Didryk forced a smile. ‘I prefer Settu to these discussions of ours.’
‘Your mind is not quick enough to offer me any challenge in the game.’
Didryk replaced his empty cup and glanced at the general. Arigu had always seemed to him a bear, wide, strong and hairy, but his eyes were cunning. For hundreds of miles and under the threat of Yrkmir Didryk had kept him in chains, this great general of Cerana who had burned his city and slaughtered its austeres with such merciless focus. Now he needed to keep him alive, for just a while longer.
Banreh would have spoken with reason and patience. Didryk reminded himself the general never did or said anything without a reason either, and the constant needling was meant to shake him, to intimidate him and make him doubt – for if all went as planned, negotiations would soon be upon them and Arigu would do what he could to improve Cerana’s position.
But events gave Didryk the advantage: Mogyrk’s Scar in the eastern desert was growing. He stood closer now to the source of His power than ever before. He could feel His vitality in the sand and sky and in the very air that he breathed – but it was a temporary gift. The Scar consumed all it found, just like His wounds, and Yrkmir was coming to meet it.
Didryk had passed one of Mogyrk’s wounds in the desert, an area where dunes large as cities had been swallowed whole, leaving neither sound nor colour, and all was covered with a blankness that nevertheless felt hungry – a place from which he had instinctively looked away, and ordered his men to do the same. This was the coming of Mogyrk foretold, the Great Storm, when His wounds, laid in the earth itself, spread and rotted all they touched until every man joined Him in death.