Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (11 page)

But this was something new.

Once it might have felt like a challenge, but today it served only to remind him of the failings of his tenure. The Tower had long been in decline: each generation produced fewer mages with less talent, and yet there had always been moments of greatness, of creation and brilliance. Govnan was beginning to fear he would be noted in the history of the Tower only for presiding over its end. And yet he could take joy in the time remaining him, for Mura had been returned.

He could still remember bringing her up the Blessing. She had been a tiny southern girl then, barely past his knee, clinging to a ragdoll. Her eyes, a deep brown before she was bound to Yomawa, had taken in everything – the crates and barrels tied to the boat, the mast and its sails, the poles tied carefully to the deck – and she had made him explain all of it. At every trade-town he bought her something new, here a pomegranate, there a tiny ring made of copper and agate. He always doted on the young recruits, for their lives would be utterly changed once they reached Nooria, where childish things would be put aside for ever. But Mura never outgrew her ragdoll; it rested on a shelf above her bed, guarding over her while she slept. She had left it behind when Sarmin sent her to Fryth, and Govnan
had picked it up many times since and held it against his chest. He had never imagined giving it back to her as he had done the other day. A tear pricked his eye.

He wiped it away when he heard Moreth above him.

‘You called for me, High Mage?’ The rock-sworn took the stairs heavily, but with the ease of the young.

‘Yes. I want you to see this. Bring the light closer.’

Moreth held the lantern high as he approached. Govnan might have done the same, except that his shoulder would have complained. ‘You came down the stairs without calling me,’ Moreth scolded.

‘I am your high mage,’ Govnan reminded him. ‘Now, look.’

Moreth leaned so close to the wall that his nose nearly touched it. He closed his eyes and put a hand to the stone. After a moment he hissed and pulled back. ‘Rorswan cannot fix this,’ he said. ‘This crack does not come up from the earth, or by way of water, or through a flaw in the design.’

‘I did not think so. Did he say anything else?’

‘No, but he does not always speak when there is a thing to say.’

Govnan knew it well. Whether fire, water, rock or wind, the claimed spirits rebelled. They did exactly what was mandatory as part of their binding and no more. A favour might sometimes be granted, but always at an extra cost – sometimes one a mage did not wish to pay. ‘Why did you jump away?’

Moreth hesitated, then looked to his feet in shame. ‘It was because of Rorswan.’

‘You are newly bound. Such problems arise. Do not be ashamed – tell me what happened.’

‘When I touched the crack,’ said Moreth, ‘I felt as if Rorswan was about to become free and turn me to stone, as happens with all rock-sworn.’

‘You lost control of him.’

‘No,’ said Moreth, meeting his eye. ‘I felt more that the crack tore us apart.’

Govnan looked into the depths of the jagged tear. The power that went into the mages’ elemental bindings was the same power that had built the Tower. When Uthman the Conqueror had come to this intersection of rock, sand and stone and named it after Meksha’s daughter, Nooria, the goddess granted his descendants the power to wield her magic. Meksha’s gift was laid by rune and incantation into every stone by Gehlan the Holy, and by her blessing the Tower had raised itself towards heaven. The mages today would never be able to recreate the spells that had been used – or even understand them. He had studied the fragments describing the building of the Tower and had touched only the edges of it, just enough to know how much he could not comprehend. His long years weighed on him, but his accomplishments were light in comparison.

‘Has Meksha withdrawn her grace from us?’ he asked, more of the stone than of Moreth.

‘Sometimes I—’ Moreth frowned.

‘What? Tell me, Moreth.’

‘Sometimes I wish I could go back to the time of Satreth.’

‘If you wish to fight Yrkmir, you need not go into the past.’ The slaughter of mages in those times had devastated the Tower.
Let it not happen again
.

A rustling came to the top of the stairs. Mura, his returned child, stood looking down at them, and Govnan’s heart lifted. ‘What is it, my child?’

She did not return his smile. ‘You must come.’

What has happened?’ he asked, looking at all the steps he would need to climb if he obeyed her.

‘The old woman Sahree sent me,’ she said. ‘The Megra has died.’

Sarmin laid a hand upon the carved rosewood of the Megra’s coffin. She had once called him Helmar’s heir – not heir to the Pattern Master, but to the mage Helmar had been in his younger days, one who aspired to fix and to build, to make whole. In the end it had broken him. The Megra had shown him that Helmar was his brother, not by blood but by talent and experience. He and Helmar had shared the same imprisonment, the same victories, linked across time and by the designs that Helmar had laid across it – but Sarmin was not broken. Helmar had inflicted too much suffering upon himself, left too much behind, including the woman he had loved. The Megra would not be alone here; she would rest in Mirra’s garden, its sweet scents a balm against the pains of her long life. ‘Goodbye, Megra,’ he whispered.

Priest Assar offered Sarmin a slight bow before motioning for his novices to bear the Megra away. A hush had fallen over Mirra’s garden. The rosebuds and gardenia blossoms turned towards the sun in silent communion. Sahree sat upon a bench, out of tears, her eyes on the statue of Mirra.

Govnan stepped up to his side, staff clicking against the stones, and Sarmin willed him to honour the quiet. He did not. ‘There is something at the Tower you must see,
Magnificence.’ His voice had begun to lose the low rumble it had once contained, becoming high and thin, querulous.

Sarmin took his time before responding. He was not done mourning the Megra. ‘And what might that be?’

‘I cannot speak of it here, Your Majesty.’

‘Very well.’ Sarmin gave a long bow to the statue of Mirra, closing his eyes and thinking of all the Megra had seen: Helmar, both young and old; Cerani soldiers ravaging her homeland; her young friend, Gallar, hanging from a tree. Somehow she had made sense of it all.

Straightening he laid a sympathetic hand upon Sahree’s shoulder. ‘I must go.’

He walked towards the exit, sword-sons trailing behind him, and found Dinar waiting in the doorway, a tower of muscle wrapped in elegant robes. It struck Sarmin that for all the gods in the pantheon, only two were worshipped in the palace. Women went to Mirra for comfort and men went to Herzu for power. Dinar stood straighter as Sarmin approached, holding a book against his chest, showing the tears tattooed on his hand.

‘High Priest Dinar.’

‘Magnificence.’ Dinar barely dipped his head. ‘I had expected to perform the funeral myself. The old woman was not of our faith. By law’ – he presented the book he held – ‘her soul belongs with Herzu.’

‘She was not of the palace, Dinar. Her law is not our law.’

Dinar frowned, but he lowered the book. So bulky was he that it looked a toy in his hands. ‘I have another question, Your Majesty, if you would entertain it.’

‘Make it quick. I am on my way to the Tower.’

‘When should I expect the prisoner?’ A smile of anticipation danced over the priest’s lips.

Sarmin realised the full nature of his command in the private audience chamber. In the palace, no question was merely asked. There would be blood first, the removal of flesh, exquisite pain designed for Herzu’s pleasure. He stepped away from the scent of Mirra’s flowers, ashamed for Her to hear. ‘You will have him when I send him to you.’
If I send him
.

Dinar’s dark eyes flickered. ‘At that time I will be pleased to give him over to Herzu. He is one our god will cherish, though imperfect.’ With a slight bow he retreated.

Sharing the palace with Herzu’s high priest required constant balance. Sarmin must be careful not to appear weak, to give the man everything he wanted, but neither must he leave him with nothing. Dinar had influence over at least half the court and must be kept content. Sarmin was not ready for a confrontation, covert or otherwise. Yet giving over
anything
to Dinar – the Megra’s soul, Banreh’s body – felt unnatural. He glanced down at Govnan, shrunken and silent at his side.

‘Such is the way of the empire,’ said Govnan, as if Sarmin had spoken his thoughts aloud.

‘We shall see.’ They began their slow walk, neither of them blessed with easy movement. Here the walls bore not mosaics or tapestries, but subtle carvings best seen in shadow. Pomegra studied her books, Ghesh stood upon a star and Keleb’s finger pointed in judgement. Around them all spun the mass of the universe – planets, waters and suns rendered in white marble, with no mind to scale. Beneath two clashing suns stood a bench for the comfort of worshippers journeying from temple to temple; there sat Nessaket, pale and gaunt. She should not look so; she should look well, and her child should be with her. His brother.

‘Mother,’ he said, stopping, ‘you should not be walking about.’

‘We must speak.’ Nessaket tapped the stone at her side. He noticed the veins that stood out upon her hand, the wrinkles at her wrist. When Sarmin settled beside her, she said, ‘You must not give the prisoner to Dinar.’

‘Are you here to plead his case?’

‘Not in the least. It is only that Dinar will take too long to kill him, and he must die.’

Sarmin watched and listened.

‘Arigu is not here – not yet – and without him the White Hats grow restive. They long to have their honour restored. The longer you keep the chief alive, the harder it will be to assure their loyalty to you.’

‘General Lurish—’

‘General Lurish is a blustering old man. He cannot hold them to you. Only the public execution of the traitor will seal their faith.’

Sarmin watched Govnan pretending to study the marble. ‘Only Banreh knows where this duke might be hiding.’

‘
You
are not afraid of the desert,’ said Nessaket, leaning forwards, her dark hair falling over his arm. ‘The desert made Uthman into a conqueror. The desert made ours the strongest empire in the world – and you lead it. This duke is a northerner who knows nothing of the sand. You will find him.’

Sarmin laid a hand on her arm. It was true: all of this was his – the bench where they sat, the temple wing, the city, the whole empire, and all the history that came with it. And yet he was not so certain he commanded the desert as well. Mogyrk remained powerful there.

Nessaket pushed his hand away. ‘Now go.’

Sarmin stood and motioned to the high mage. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us see what is so important at the Tower.’

*

Sarmin ran his fingers along the length of the crack. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked, more of himself than the high mage. The rock-sworn had felt a pull on his elemental when he touched it, but this was not the emptiness of the Great Storm. The Storm took more than magic – it took colour and memories. It
hollowed
. He remembered the question Mesema had asked of him. ‘Govnan, how long do you think it will be before the Storm reaches the Blessing?’

Govnan laid a hand upon the wall and patted it, as if it were his child. ‘We don’t know that it will be altered by the storm, Magnificence. It was given us by Meksha Herself – a literal blessing. What is Mogyrk against Her?’

‘I thought that fire was Her realm.’

‘She gave us this Tower, Your Majesty, and the ability to command all four elements. She commands Her fiery mountain, it’s true – but there She might find not only rock and flame, but the winds upon its peaks and the water that runs down its surface.’

Sarmin considered this. ‘We know that rock turns to dust in the emptiness. The wind stops, the fire dies. Why would water be different?’

‘Earthly elements are nothing against the Storm – but what of elements from another plane?’

The young mage Moreth spoke. ‘To learn such things, High Mage, we would require an unbound elemental spirit.’

‘Indeed,’ said Govnan, ‘since the bound are corrupted by our earthly bodies.’ He sighed. ‘In this world Meksha reigns over the elements. Over the years I spent with Ashanagur I felt a strong connection to Her. I felt Her power singing in the stones,
beating in my heart, running in my fingers whenever I drew a rune upon the air.’ Govnan leaned on his staff, tracing the crack with his gaze. ‘Do you think Her power remains with us now?’

‘I cannot sense such things,’ Sarmin said, disliking that it was true. ‘Can you no longer sense Her?’ He was reminded that he had taken Ashanagur from the high mage, and for the first time wondered whether that had been the wisest course.

Govnan shook his head and directed them across the lowest floor of the Tower, a dark circular space, his staff tapping against the streaked marble beneath their feet. ‘Come. I have prepared a journey for us.’ He lifted a hand and the tip of his index finger began to glow, faintly at first, then with a rosy redness that showed the shadow of his bones through his old flesh. Perhaps some ember remained of the elemental fire once trapped within him. The glow increased and finally it shone with an incandescence that made Sarmin look away and threw their shadows black upon the walls. He wondered then what fed the fire now Ashanagur had gone.

‘This is the key,’ Govnan said, and he started to trace runes into the air. His writing hung before them, as if he had cut through the fabric of the world into some bright place beyond. The archways changed in the moment Govnan set his last rune into the air. One opened now onto a white and endless sky. Opposite that entrance, natural bedrock replaced the tower’s stones, granite shot through with glistening black veins. The third archway opened into blue depths, dark and unrevealing, a wall of water undulating across the entrance in defiance of reason. And opposite that archway fire rimmed a gateway into the hottest of Herzu’s hells, an inferno landscape of molten lakes and trees of flame beneath a sun so large and close it left no room for sky.