‘Rise,’ he said at last, and a breath went through the crowd. ‘Duke Didryk, welcome to Nooria, and may the sand take only your sorrows.’
‘I thank you, Magnificence.’ Didryk bowed his head.
‘As I told your cousin Kavic many months ago, heaven and stars keep him now’ – he paused and allowed the duke to make his own devout gesture – ‘my cousin, Emperor Tuvaini, initiated an attack upon the Dukedom of Fryth in error, believing it to be the cause of a plague we had suffered. But the pattern-plague that appeared to have come from Mogyrk hands was in fact the work of Helmar, also my kin, and rooted in our long division. I feared the effects of our aggression would bring only further conflict through time. Now I know I was correct.
‘Yrkmir approaches, having already ravaged your lands. In the aftermath of Helmar’s work the wounds from your god fester within our empire. Our own great goddess Meksha threatens to release the fires of Her mountain, and we suffer strange attacks in our greatest city. But through all this you stretch out your hand in friendship, and we accept.’
Duke Didryk bowed and said, ‘We are pleased to offer our hand in friendship, and to begin to heal the wounds caused by our enmity.’ So far all had passed as if he and the duke had practised it together, and the smoothness of their meeting gave Sarmin real hope. He longed to ask Didryk about his brother, but he could not do it here, before all the men of court. He raised his voice so that it would reach the furthest corners of the room.
‘Ours will be the first alliance between Cerana and a Mogyrk ruler. To celebrate our new friendship I have prepared a proclamation.’ He motioned to Azeem, who produced a great scroll wound on mahogany rods. Amber glimmered from the rounded ends of the wood as he held it up before the eyes of the court.
As Azeem unrolled the parchment and formally announced the alliance, Sarmin and the duke regarded one another. Kavic had been determined, but also curious and hopeful. Didryk’s blue eyes, so much like the marke’s, held more shadows; they carried the grief of the past war, as well as other sorrows Sarmin could not begin to guess. But he held the emperor’s gaze and did not hide from it.
Sarmin was struck by a sudden inspiration, and when Azeem finished reading, he spoke. ‘On this day I dissolve the law making illegal the worship of Mogyrk. Mogyrk churches may now stand under the light of the sun, and its members will enjoy the protection of our guards and mages.’
This time there were no indrawn breaths from the room, no gasps, no murmurs. A silence fell beneath the dome, and everyone sat so still that for a moment Sarmin wondered if a spell had been cast. Azeem’s hands fell to his sides, the scroll forgotten, its furthest end touching the shining floor. General Merkel looked green, as if he might be sick. But it was Duke Didryk’s face that concerned Sarmin the most: instead of looking pleased, he looked devastated. What secrets and grief did he carry, that a gesture towards peace brought him such desolation?
A private talk might clear the air. Sarmin stood, his loose robes giving the appearance of smooth movement and not a series of painful unbendings. ‘Duke Didryk, I am sure you are tired from your journey. Azeem will see you to a set of comfortable rooms, and my own sword-sons will watch over your safety. Please, be easy, and we will speak before long.’ He turned, ignoring the wide eyes of court, and exited through the side door. In that small chamber stood one of the low viziers, Azeem’s functionary, who fell into an obeisance.
Sarmin washed his hands in the rose-petal water that had been prepared for him. His sword-sons crowded into the small space, careful not to step on the low vizier. No sooner had Sarmin thrown down the silk drying-cloth than the outer door opened and a burly man entered, turning sideways, for the doorframe was too narrow for his wide shoulders. He reeked of sweat and his leathers had long since worn out, but Sarmin knew him for an important man.
His sword-sons had rushed to stand in front of him, but he waved a dismissive hand. ‘The general, I believe?’
‘Your Majesty.’ One of the man’s arms had remained outside the door and now he entered the room fully, dragging Chief Banreh with him. The chief looked much the worse for wear. He had been beaten and was badly sunburned. His hands were tied behind his back and when Arigu kicked him, he landed against the wall, one knee buckling beneath him, the other leg held out to his side – the one Mesema had said could not bend.
Looking down at the wreck, Sarmin regretted ever wanting to hurt the man.
General Arigu knelt before his emperor. It irked, but a proper obeisance was impossible in the small space. ‘Your Majesty, I have brought you a gift.’