The Tower Broken(79)

‘Not always, Your Majesty, but prisoners fall into his realm, and so—’ Assar gestured helplessly towards the jasmine. ‘The flowers are mine and prisoners are his. Please let me tend to you, my Empress.’

‘No, do not tend to me: tend to the prisoner, for that is what ails me – his pain.’ A sudden anger overtook her. ‘Why, Assar? Why would you not treat an injured person in your temple?’

‘Because the pain brings him closer to Herzu.’ Assar looked at his slippers and spoke in a low voice. ‘Herzu is the favoured god of this palace and always has been. He casts the illnesses and brings war to the men; I treat those who fall.’

‘But not all of them, I see.’ She stepped past him and continued, ‘Chief Banreh must at least have something for the pain. Dinar can speak to me personally if he does not like it.’ Assar and the guards followed behind her without speaking.

Banreh lay on a stone slab behind a wall of flowering vines – or at least her wrist told her it was him; his face was too swollen to recognise, mottled as it was with red and blue and too pale in the few places free of injury. He wore nothing but strips of white linen wrapped from his ribs to the tops of his blood-smeared thighs. Her gaze went to where the bones in his leg were out of place. She had never seen his injury before, the old scars criss-crossing his knee and the shin bending the wrong way, for he had never swum in the spring streams or trained bare-legged in the summer. Now she saw the duke might have healed his leg, but not enough.

‘Mesema.’ He raised his fingers. She had not thought him conscious, but now she hurried to the head of the slab. His curls were gone and his green eyes were nothing but narrow slits. His words were slurred when he spoke, and that bothered her more than his injuries. He had always been well-spoken, always the diplomat. ‘Do you remember what Great-Uncle said?’ He spoke in their own language, in the affectionate tone.

Without thinking she took his hand, feeling the weakness of his grip. ‘That I was to create a new leader, and with him, more glory than we have ever seen.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes, I had my son. Pelar.’

‘You think he meant your son? I have wondered.’ He licked his lips and she looked around for water. ‘Because he did not say “give birth”, only “create”. Is it not odd – I thought it could even be me.’

‘You? I did not create you.’ She realised that in his presence she was free of his pain: that must be the purpose of the mark, to monitor his health when he was not in sight. Banreh had said Didryk was a healer.

‘You had a hand in the man I became, just as you have had a hand in the man the emperor has become.’ He coughed, pink bubbles on his lips. ‘Or it could be you.’

‘Shush,’ she said, and looked to Assar. ‘I need water.’

‘Your Majesty,’ said Sendhil, his eyes on where her hands touched Banreh’s, his voice a warning. She ignored him and accepted the flask of water from the high priest. She held it to Banreh’s lips. ‘Assar will do what healing he can now.’

‘Your Majesty—’ Both Sendhil and Assar spoke in unison.

Banreh moved his head from side to side. It looked a painful movement. ‘Don’t worry about that. Mesema. Listen. Did you find the slaves?’

‘No, I—’

‘Empress.’ Dinar’s voice resonated over the plants and fountains. He stood near the flowering vines, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the path behind him. ‘What an unexpected joy, Your Majesty.’ His dark eyes gleamed with triumph. ‘Are you catching up on family business?’

He mocked her, and so she made herself haughty. ‘I do not care for your tone. I am speaking with the chief of my people.’

‘You are speaking with the traitor.’ He turned to Assar, who shrank from his glare. ‘You allowed this tryst to occur?’

‘I could not stop her,’ said Sendhil.

For a moment everyone stared at the guard who had spoken out of turn. Then Dinar continued as if Sendhil had said nothing, ‘She is touching that man. Assar. I trust you will testify to that.’

‘Testify?’ Mesema’s hand where she held the flask was sweaty, and she gripped it harder so as not to let it drop.

Dinar smiled. ‘Arigu could have chosen better, and at long last, he has.’

‘What are you—?’ Mesema put it together. ‘Arigu will not prevail. Sarmin knows what kind of man he is.’

‘But he will also know what kind of woman you are.’

At last her guards drew their swords, for the insults had become intolerable. Mesema met his smile. ‘What did you think would happen? My guards are sworn to protect my honour. I am the empress. When my husband hears—’