Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken

by Mazarkis Williams

  Nessaket opened her mouth and from it poured a stream of lines and symbols – triangle, crescent, half-moon, line, triangle again – a bright ribbon of pattern-work that cut through General Merkel like a sword. She lifted both hands and patterns ran from them too, red and liquid, harm at the core of them, cutting through Hazran’s cheek before he dodged behind a pillar. The sword-sons ran forwards and she caught one through the neck, his blood and the sharp pattern running together. Boneless he fell to the floor with a clatter of steel. Didryk crept up behind her, his eyes intent, as the patterns flew across the room like blades, cutting gashes in the walls, ripping through cushions and skin with equal ease. Through it all Sarmin stood before the throne, unmoving, and her patterns did not touch him.

  Another sword-son neared Nessaket, with Grada close behind. He lifted his hachirah to strike. ‘No!’ Sarmin cried, and the sword-son dropped his weapon and grabbed her wrist instead. The pattern-thread cut his hand and shoulder and his blood rose in a crimson arc. Didryk wrapped an arm around her from behind, putting a hand over her mouth, and Grada and the sword-son managed to push her palms behind her. Blood rushed between Grada’s fingers – hers, or Nessaket’s?

  Sarmin made a quick assessment of the damage. Mesema had hidden behind the Petal Throne and was safe, but she had now lost two guards: Sendhil, and the man who lay across the steps with his throat cut open. General Merkel was dead. Others pressed hands over deep cuts.

  He ran to his mother, still struggling in Didryk’s arms, her eyes blank and wild. He could see the black pattern that controlled her, rising from the floor and wrapping itself into her mind and her skin. But he could not purge her of it.

  He hit his fist against a pillar. ‘Can you help her, Didryk?’

  Didryk frowned and pressed a hand against Nessaket’s forehead. ‘She has been with the first austere for some time,’ he said, ‘and the patterns run deep. Still …’ He drew his thumb across her skin, up, down, around and across, and waited. ‘No,’ he said with a frown, ‘my work is too simple.’

  Sarmin crouched down before his mother. Behind the web that trapped her, behind her skin, he searched for her, his mother, the woman he remembered from soft nights and song, from garden sunshine and laughter, and from hardship, loneliness, loss. He searched for her grief, for her love, for her anger – and found her at last, buried deep, a flame flickering against the storm that was the first austere’s lunacy. ‘Mother,’ he called, and she stirred, the flame growing brighter. He pressed his hand against her heart, and her arms thrashed; her head moved from side to side as she tried to free her mouth and loose the pattern upon him. But Didryk and Grada held her firm, and the mother who existed inside the body grew stronger, pushing back at the darkness.

  Mesema knelt beside him, adding her hand to his.

  ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I know you are there, because you took care not to kill me.’ In this world there were three people who could never be persuaded to harm him, no matter how powerful the magic: his mother was one, Grada and Mesema the others.

  Nessaket opened her brown eyes and looked at him. ‘Sarmin!’ she breathed, and Didryk let her go and stepped back. Sarmin watched the webs that had trapped her die away and shrivel into the floor.

  It was not over; the first austere was seeking more people to entrap. But Sarmin could see the path of the first austere’s intent, dark against the tiles, and he knew now that he could find him.

  ‘That is twice the first austere has tried to kill you, Your Majesty,’ said Azeem, his voice straining for his usual calm.

  Only twice? But he had failed. Sarmin could not deny feeling disappointment. The first austere was nowhere near as powerful as he had thought. Yes, he had some unusual tricks, but that was the whole of it. Of all the mages in the desert and the city there was nobody who came close to what Sarmin once had been. Only Mogyrk could match him, and Mogyrk lay in the Scar, caught between life and death. But, as weak as the first austere might be, Sarmin could not defeat him alone. He needed a working of many parts, pieces of a design, but not the Many. He needed allies.

  He looked over his shoulder for someone to command and found one, a guard standing wide-eyed over Dinar’s body. ‘You: get Austere Adam from the dungeon. We will need his help.’ No sooner had he spoken than he saw the pattern-ward flash blue on the guard’s forehead. When the guard turned, unharmed, to retrieve Adam, Sarmin breathed with relief. The court was protected from pattern-work, just as he had planned. But then the ward flashed red on the forehead of an old captain and he exploded in a spray of blood and bone, the buttons of his uniform falling against the floor like Settu tiles. With another flash, yellow, a palace slave fell upon the cushions, holding his neck, unable to breathe. The first austere was searching for a way past their wards and succeeding – but not completely. Not yet.

  Sarmin stood, helping his mother up with him. The first austere must not be allowed to pick off his courtiers one by one. He must be killed, and it would be Sarmin who killed him.

  51

  Didryk

  Didryk let go of the Empire Mother and stepped into the corridor. Now that she was recovered she would not want to find a Fryth man grasping at her. He did not know the spells the first austere had used – he had never used such things in Fryth; he had not needed to. The surprise, Yrkmir’s advantage, had been complete. The first austere did not care about killing his fellow Mogyrks, and he certainly would not hesitate to kill every Cerani if he could find more ways around their wards. Didryk found that he did not want that to happen.

  He heard a sound to his left, and turned to see three Blue Shields leading a host of men and women into the corridor, blond of hair and wearing woollen tunics. They must be the Felting slaves who had caused so much trouble. The emperor had found them at last. They were being led towards the throne room.

  But cold air rushed against his skin; the hair stood up on his arms and a ringing pierced his ears and sent his teeth to vibrating. He stumbled. This was the familiar power and dread that came from pattern-work, except this time greater than any he had felt before: the first austere was preparing a master working.

  In a panic Didryk looked around at the Felting slaves. Let me save at least one … at least one this time.

  And then he found the boy, all blond curls and green eyes, and Didryk knew who the child must be, knew what Banreh had not told him, understood at last what had driven his friend to Nooria. Quickly he crouched and drew a ward upon the boy’s forehead. No sooner had he finished than the pattern-work pushed over Didryk like a wave and he held the boy’s head against his jacket, hiding his eyes.

  All around him the Felt flew apart, blood and bone slicing through the skin, their bodies opening like flowers, showing organs and glistening muscle. His jacket was soaked with blood and he tasted something foul on his lips. He felt the same rage he had felt the day his city had been destroyed. Why? The first austere would die. Didryk would live long enough to ensure that.

  But the boy was safe. ‘Don’t look,’ he admonished, carrying the boy away, into the throne room. ‘Come, you will see your father soon.’

  52

  Mesema

  Mesema took Nessaket’s arm. ‘Come, Mother. I will take you to your room.’

  Sarmin watched them, a grave look on his face. He would send High Priest Assar to the women’s wing; she did not need to ask him. As she moved towards the corridor a guard caught her eye and shook his head: no, something bad waited for her there. Always something bad. And from behind him Duke Didryk pushed his way into the throne room, a boy in his arms, blood on his robes.

  Banreh’s boy: she could not mistake him. His grass-child, the one he said he had wished he had made with her. She paused, Nessaket leaning against her, and looked at him, so much like the man she had loved that she felt a tear in her eye. Had loved.

  She had been right about the slaves. She had been right about Lord Nessen’s manse, about Arigu, about everything. And in all that time she had doubted herself. Closed in by
the palace, closed in by the generals and priests as much as the ancient table at which they sat, she had doubted herself: she, who had found a way through Helmar’s pattern, who had freed Sarmin from the torment of his old room. Only Sarmin had ever listened to her. Sarmin had taught her to read, had listened to her words, had fought the Pattern-Master at her side. She turned towards the service door, but Arigu blocked her path.

  ‘The chief didn’t tell you, did he?’ Arigu inclined his head in the boy’s direction. ‘There is always something he’s not telling, something he wants you to do for him. You might have lost everything for that slave boy. The duke, too. Did your Chief Banreh care?’

  ‘But you knew.’ Mesema spoke with sudden understanding. ‘You knew the boy was Banreh’s son when you took him for a slave.’ She paused. ‘And it was you who put me at risk, not him.’

  Nessaket spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘That is how Arigu intended to control him – the same way I once sought to control Beyon through keeping Sarmin. But the horse chief is no Beyon, to wait and to hope and to despair.’

  Shocked, Mesema glanced at Nessaket’s face. Her eyes were focused far away. She was not well.

  Arigu’s hand gripped his sword-hilt, but he did not draw. It was only a dark memory that had moved his hand.

  Without another word Mesema pulled Nessaket through the side door. Everyone in the palace sought to control everyone else. And Banreh had sought to control her: he had brought her here and convinced her to accept Arigu’s treachery, only to try to persuade her to return with him once it all went sour. His friend Didryk had marked her arm to force her actions. But she was not important, not really; only the sons she might bear. Sons they would also try to control.

  Only Sarmin valued her for who she was.

  The stairs were difficult for Nessaket, but the guards offered their assistance, and at last Mesema steered the Empire Mother into her bedchamber and sat her down upon a bench.

  ‘It is over for me,’ Nessaket said.

  ‘All you need is sleep,’ Mesema said, plumping the cushions.

  ‘I did not mean that I would die,’ said Nessaket, sounding more like herself. ‘Only that I am finished with the palace. I am finished with its whispers and its daggers and its love of war. Once I wanted it all for myself, but I am done with that. It no longer has value for me. After I have rested I will sail south with Daveed.’

  Mesema straightened and looked out the window. There was no view of the Blessing from here; for that she would need to go back to the garden over the old women’s wing. ‘What was he like?’ she asked. ‘The first austere?’

  ‘Like every other man,’ Nessaket said. ‘Will you come with me?’

  Mesema turned the question over in her mind. To be with Pelar, to find safety in the forests of the south … but how long would that safety last? How long before the emptiness of Mogyrk sought them there?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘My place is with Sarmin.’ There would be no pika seeds for her. She would fight by his side as before.

  Nessaket nodded, leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Mesema passed High Priest Assar as she left the room. He gave her a curt nod as he hurried in to attend the Empire Mother. Mesema made her way back towards the throne room, then stopped at the Great Hall and turned towards the temple wing. If they were all to die here, then she would see Banreh one last time.

  No one stopped her as she walked through the curtain of vines. Behind it he lay as before, except that his wounds looked less severe, his breathing was less ragged. She crossed to him and ran a finger down his cheek. He was still so handsome; his face could still make a traitor of her. But when he opened his eyes she stepped away. ‘Your son is safe.’

  ‘Thank the Hidden God.’ He moved to sit upright, but thought better of it and settled back against his pillow. ‘Mesema – listen. Didryk will bring this place down. We have a plan. Afterwards he and I and you and the boy – we will go north. We will be free.’

  ‘You are already free: Sarmin has made it so. But Ykrmir stands outside the walls. How did you plan to escape them?’

  ‘Didryk,’ he said, as if remembering.

  She gave a sad laugh. ‘Only Sarmin thinks things through properly. You should thank him, when this is all over.’

  He looked at her then – truly looked at her. ‘So you will not come with me?’

  ‘No,’ she said, resisting the temptation to touch his face one last time, to feel his lips against hers. She had made her choice long ago, when Beyon still lived. ‘My place is not with you, not any more. Goodbye, Banreh.’

  The scent of roses followed her from the temple.

  53

  Farid

  Farid ran to the wall, all the way from the Tower courtyard, after finding himself on his back in the early morning light. Govnan’s fires in the north were gone. Moreth was no longer with him. Mura had never returned. He guessed the fighting must have begun, and as he drew closer to the Storm Gate he knew he was right. He heard no sword-work, no swinging of maces and chains as in the old stories, but archers moved along the wall, firing their bows, their officers behind them shouting orders. Catapults were loaded and fired and soldiers ran back and forth, relaying messages between their superiors. Farid slowed and watched the unusual activity; he had grown used to an empty city. The wounded sat with their backs against the western wall, cradling their injuries, and he saw Duke Didryk among the physicians.

  He did not speak to the duke – he no longer needed his lessons since Meksha had blessed him. Now he understood patterns the way he needed to, down to the heart of them, and he could turn them to his will. But he also recognised their uselessness in the face of what was truly important: his love for his father, loyalty, the trust of his fellow mages. He climbed the steps and found the mages crouched beside a barrel full of arrows. In front of the wall was the Yrkman army, a sea of men and sharp metal, all blond heads and red coats, each one of them bent on getting through the wall.

  Moreth held his hands to the stone, his eyes closed. Mura held her hands before her, sending a contrary wind against their archers – but only the ones before the Storm Gate. They did not have enough mages to cover the whole of the battlefield – surely Yrkmir could see that and would take advantage?

  The fire-spirits he had seen with Govnan in the north quarter were now gathered into a tight circle, struggling against invisible bonds, surrounded by the charred bodies they had managed to consume before the Yrkmen trapped them. Farid had an idea what to do about that, but first he had to ensure the safety of the Storm Gate.

  He ducked down before he became a target himself and Mura, sensing him, touched his arm.

  ‘Look,’ she said, and Farid raised his head again. An arc of Yrkmen soldiers approached with their shields out, protecting a group of austeres aiming for the wall. They raised their shields higher and higher again to protect the pattern-workers from the arrows and stones being thrown at them, and now Moreth joined in the effort, sweeping sand up into their faces and causing the ground to shift beneath their feet. The rock-sworn did not use as much force as he could have, fearful of losing control of his spirit. But if they made a hole in the stone, then Rorswan could repair it. Five Yrkmen soldiers fell and three austeres with them – but the remainder reached the thick wall. Farid did not try to see beyond the shields at the pattern-workers’ fingers. He knew what pattern they would shape.

  ‘Moreth,’ he said, crouching next to the rock-sworn who was still covered in dust.

  ‘I will make sure the wall remains whole.’ Moreth spoke in Rorswan’s voice.

  Farid laid his own hand on the stone. He could sense the shapes the austeres were drawing and he found that by concentrating, he could break their lines even as they were still being formed. He spread his senses out across the entire western wall and felt them all – a dozen patterns, two dozen of them – and lifted the shapes from their webs.

  He felt all of the patterns that were laid out in front of him: warding patterns, patterns to call w
ater and patterns intended for destruction should the Cerani army leave the city and attack them on the sands. Farid concentrated on the wards first, twisting their shapes and dragging lines out of their structures, stripping them of meaning.

  Though he focused on the wards, other things sparkled at the edge of his awareness, greater things, and in a breathless rush his sight expanded out to them. He saw the whole city: the life rising from its soldiers, the magic in the charms and prayer-beads they carried, and the power in Meksha’s river and well. The wall itself held ancient wards and spells that he could not fathom, even with the power that had been given to him. They twisted and pulsed around the very stones and he knew that Cerana was more powerful than he could ever have believed. Just as the first austere could not have destroyed the Tower without his help, so the Yrkmen could not break through the wall with a simple pattern designed to powder stone.

  Beyond the wall he felt the souls that pulsed in every Yrkman, their fears and doubts, their loyalties and brave impulses. Every one of them was as loved and connected to the world as the men who stood on the wall – and that was the evil of this war, of Yrkmir, and of Cerana too.

  His senses faded when he turned his mind north, as if a fog had cut them off, and when he turned he saw the Storm bearing down on them, a blank wall as high as the mountains, as if that part of the world had been erased. It had grown so large that he had failed to see it, like the sky. He reached out for the emptiness and tried to sense something in it that he could alter, but he found nothing. It was as if he were blind.

  A pattern moved towards him from inside the city – a line, a direction, a stream of dark shapes and letters meant to command – and he recognised the same spell that had been used against him in the Tower. He knew this mage and his madness, and knew his bent towards chaos. It diverged upon the wall, splitting into five, rising up through the stone and winding around the legs of White Hats, sinuous and malevolent. In the space of a moment the soldiers had turned and begun firing at their fellow Cerani. The struggles were short but deadly, and Farid felt the lives go out, five, six, seven. A solemn minute later, the White Hat bodies were thrown over the wall.