‘You are here to defend a traitor, I understand?’ he said, his voice sibilant.
Banouin stood very still, and opened the pathway to his Talent. He could feel the emotions of the Knights on either side of him. Both were enjoying this scene, and waiting for the moment when they would drag him screaming to the cells. Reaching out he touched the mind of the Crimson Priest, and recoiled. His thoughts were of torture and vileness. Banouin was about to speak when he felt the presence of a fourth, unseen man. He focused the Talent. The man was observing the proceedings from behind a velvet curtain. Banouin sensed a cold, calculating mind, and a powerful, magnetic personality. The observer was also in pain, and struggling to deal with it.
‘Well, do you have a tongue?’ asked the priest at the table.
‘I do, sir, but I have to say that I am confused. My understanding was that, following arrest, a suspected man would then face a hearing to decide his guilt or innocence. Yet you, not knowing which arrested man I have come to speak for, have already decided his guilt. How is this so?’
The priest’s pale face reddened. ‘You dare to question me? Give me your name!’
‘I am Banouin the Healer, student to Sencra, who teaches history at the university.’
‘I do not like your attitude, Banouin. It lacks respect. To disrespect a priest of Stone is to disrespect Stone itself. That alone is treachery. As to your foul master . . . His hearing was held two hours ago. He was found guilty and will face the consequences.’
The velvet curtain flickered at the far end of the room, and a huge man, carrying a golden staff and wearing a voluminous red robe moved into sight. The Crimson Priest stood and bowed. Both the guards dipped their heads. Banouin also bowed, but then looked up into the man’s swollen face. It was impossibly large, and white hair framed it like a lion’s mane. The man moved with great difficulty, pain etched on his features. The Crimson Priest moved away from the chair, and the figure in the red robe eased his enormous weight down upon it.
‘You call yourself a healer,’ said the newcomer, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. ‘What do you heal?’
‘I can ease all pains, lord,’ Banouin told him, ‘and cure many ailments.’
‘All pains?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one, lord.’
‘Twenty-one,’ repeated the man. ‘Where did you learn these wondrous skills? At the university?’
‘No, lord. I was born among the Rigante tribe. My mother is a healer, and she taught me the mysteries of herbal lore. And also the gift of diagnosis.’
The huge man winced as he leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. ‘And how would you diagnose my condition, Banouin the Healer?’
‘You are suffering from anasarca, lord. Your body is swollen with water – a sign that either your heart, liver or kidneys are not functioning as they should. Do you sleep upright now?’
‘Yes. I choke if I lie down.’
‘Then your heart is weak, lord.’
‘Can your . . . herbs make it stronger?’
‘I can heal you within ten days,’ said Banouin.
‘Ten days? So confident?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘What if I were to tell you that, should you fail, I will have your eyes pierced by hot irons, your tongue ripped from your mouth, and your limbs sawn away? Would you still be so confident?’
The words were spoken with chilling relish, and Banouin gazed into the man’s cold eyes. ‘You have an illness, lord. I can cure it,’ he said softly. ‘I do not lie. As, indeed, I do not lie when I say that my tutor, Sencra, is no Cultist. Whoever named him as such is the liar. He has spoken to me often about what he regards as the stupidity of the Cultists. And of his admiration for the work you are doing, lord,’ lied Banouin smoothly.
‘Are you saying that you will heal me only if I release your friend?’
The words hung in the air, and Banouin knew his answer had to be the right one. ‘No, lord, I will heal you because I can. What I am saying is that Sencra is innocent.’