The sword-son handed Didryk his tools and he probed the wound, checking to make sure nothing vital had been damaged. ‘Our main concern here is keeping the wound from turning foul. I will lay what patterns I can—’
‘I could have done it before I lost my ability. I need you to try.’ Sarmin took a stone from his pocket and pressed it into Didryk’s hand.
Didryk turned it in his palm. Set into the stone in tiny crystals was a butterfly, rendered in a rainbow of colours, the patterns of its wings in perfect, patterned detail. Someone had spent months, perhaps years, making this. ‘What—?’
‘It’s the key – the key to healing the wound. All wounds. Show her how to be whole.’
Show her how to be whole. That was what Didryk did whenever he healed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know how to hold an injury on one side and the healed image on the other.’
‘The truth of destruction and the lie of being healed.’
‘Yes.’ All of this Didryk had learned years ago from his stolen books, though not in those words. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. It dripped down his back and chest and filled his palm where he held the butterfly-stone. The Great Storm had not stopped the heat of the sun, though it obscured the northern sky.
Sarmin tapped the stone again. ‘Try.’ And then, in a lower voice, ‘Please.’ His men looked up and down the street and at one another, hands on the hilts of their weapons, eyes sharp and wary.
Didryk closed his eyes and sent his pattern-sense into the wound, a neat-edged cut across the flesh. If it had been any deeper she would be dead already. He clasped the stone in his hand and imagined her stomach healed – no, smooth and undamaged, as if she had never met the first austere. He looked at the skin around the wound and imagined it whole, imagined how she had looked to him in the throne room, athletic and full of health. But he felt nothing, only the street-stones beneath his feet, leading into those now gone, lost in another, greater wound, their constituent parts of rock and gem and iron unwound and fading into the Storm.
It was all wrong, the coming apart of things. Mogyrk offered on one hand the power to transform and heal, and on the other, destruction and rot. Didryk held them together, the emptiness before him and the street-stones that should exist in its place, and he envisioned the lost houses, the lost carts and boats, the window-screens and bed-ropes, everything he sensed within the void, the scattered pattern-pieces without the lines to anchor them, drifting away towards the Scar. And in the Scar was Mogyrk, caught in the moment of death, His power deep and whole, not described by any pattern but giving life to every one, and every one lashing Him to the earth. In Him lay a riot of colours and thoughts, frayed but alive, sorrow sharp enough to cut. Madness. Shaken Didryk withdrew from the Scar and stilled his thoughts.
Sarmin gripped his arm. ‘It is done.’
Didryk opened his eyes. Grada lay before him, her skin unmarked, undamaged. And he looked north, beyond a long street lined with houses, ovens, carts, and temples, to the horizon, where mountains rose up into the heavens. The Storm had cleared. He saw the distant peaks and his heart lurched. He had missed looking north towards his home. Home. Mogyrk had no home besides the Scar.
‘With the Storm gone the Yrkmen will regroup,’ said Sarmin, standing. ‘We must hurry.’
Didryk blinked. He tried to stand. Then darkness took him.
57
Farid
‘Now that the wound in the north is healed, Yrkmir will attack again,’ said Adam. ‘They are bent on destruction and not so easily discouraged as this.’
Emperor Sarmin agreed. ‘There are other wounds they might call near; they seek to encourage the Storm. They left one in their own lands to fester there – the Megra told me so. They want it to be the end of everything … only their soldiers might disagree.’
Farid leaned forwards. ‘And so what do we do, Your Majesty?’ The carriage began moving with a jerk, the horses’ hooves clattering along the street-stones. Farid could not help but cling to the edge of the window. This was only his third time in a carriage.
‘Our task is to face the first austere,’ said the emperor, his face grim. ‘We go to the Scar.’
Austere Adam rubbed his chin as he considered it. ‘Of course he has gone there. He would want to be close to Mogyrk.’ Farid watched him warily. His hands had been tied before; now he was free. He was not sure whether the man was a prisoner or a trusted ally.
‘We know that it is possible to walk through the Storm,’ said the emperor. ‘We need only to trick Mogyrk’s eye.’
‘You cannot walk through the Scar as through the Storm,’ said Duke Didryk, slumped against the wall and speaking with care, ‘for the two are very different. It is the difference between the river that feeds the ocean and the ocean itself. Everything the Storm takes ends up there – streets, trees, thoughts, emotions. I felt them flowing into the Scar when I healed Grada. But we must find a way. Mogyrk must be killed.’
The austere sat up on his bench. ‘He cannot be killed, neither can He be brought to life.’
‘It is He who is causing this,’ the duke said. ‘We tie Him to the earth with our spells, bringing His death to all of us. You have felt it, Adam: His vitality that lends power to our spells. Whenever we draw away His life, He searches after it.’
‘But it is foretold!’
Silence fell in the carriage as it twisted and turned. ‘The battle …’ Mura began. Tears for Moreth still wet her cheeks. Grada, next to her, shifted on the bench seat.
‘It is in Arigu’s hands now. We have strong protections – and killing the first austere will advance our cause. We bring Blue Shields with us.’
The carriage slowed. ‘A quick stop at the palace,’ said the emperor, opening the door and climbing out. ‘I need all of you working together if we are to prevail, and here is our path through the patterns.’
Farid looked past him to the courtyard beyond and saw Rushes, standing with a dark-haired older woman. He smiled, and she caught sight of him and smiled and waved, and he wondered if she knew who he was without hearing his voice: she was well – she could see. His heart felt lighter. He may have made too many mistakes in the last few days, but at least he had helped Rushes. He waved back at her. He would do what he could to keep her safe. That was what it meant, to be of the Tower.
The dark-haired woman stepped forwards and took Emperor Sarmin’s hands. ‘Remember, my son: you are the emperor. The desert is yours. Nobody can defeat Cerana on the sands.’ The emperor squeezed her hands and let them fall. The fair-haired woman Farid had met before climbed into the carriage together with the emperor. With a jerk they set off again.
‘Empress,’ said the duke, bowing as best he could in the close space.
Farid concealed his surprise. The empress! A week ago he might have questioned the wisdom of bringing a woman on such a dangerous mission, but he knew Grada and he knew Mura – he knew much more about women now. He would not want to fight without them.
‘The Scar is close,’ said Duke Didryk. ‘I can feel it.’
They rode southwards in silence and passed through the Low Gate. The roads east were unused and often covered by sand, slowing the carriage. They waited, rocking in the darkness. Farid could feel a buzzing against his skin. After a time, against all expectations, he fell asleep.
*
He woke to Austere Adam’s voice. ‘Here – here. I can feel him.’ Someone hit the roof of the carriage and they stopped moving. Farid sat up, trying to get his bearings. The inside of the box was as hot as an oven, but the air outside promised no relief. Everyone moved sluggishly, stretching arms and legs; somehow the urgency of their mission had left them during the long journey.
The door was opened by the coachman and Grada climbed out first, her eyes scouring the sands for enemies. Mura followed her, then the duke, until all of them were standing under the heat of the sun. The sweat evaporated from Farid’s skin in seconds. He turned and looked all around. Behind them flowed a train of carriages, one for the
sword-sons and Azeem, the rest full of Blue Shields.
He looked east and saw it: the Scar rose before them, a wall of scintillating colour and motion. While the wound at the northern wall had been blank and featureless, the Scar showed energy and light. It was so large that he could not determine its distance. It took up the whole of his vision, and yet he could see the dunes in front of it, far enough away to make it a day’s travel. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing, feeling the magic prickle against his skin.
‘Here!’ A strangled cry from Adam.
The first austere rose before them, sand still sliding away from his form. Farid had seen Adam’s ward in the southern courtyard; he could easily remake it. As he worked, a wind flowed from Mura, brushing against his cheek. Duke Didryk scuffed at the sand and knelt, undoing a pattern hidden there. Emperor Sarmin stood in the midst of them all, not moving, and neither did the empress at his side, though her golden hair wafted in Yomawa’s wind.
Behind him Farid could hear sand scattering from running feet: likely Blue Shields running from their carriages. ‘Stay back!’ he shouted over his shoulder, not knowing whether his words would have any effect.
Mura held out one arm, her palm flexed outwards, as she moved in front and set the full force of Yomawa against the austere. Sand rushed from the ground with a loud hiss, flying against her enemy, each grain carrying the force of a dagger, but warding symbols flared and the sand fell harmlessly to either side.
The first austere lifted his own hands, palms facing out, and from one came a ribbon of indigo shapes and lines, hastily constructed but deadly nevertheless, cutting through Adam’s cheek like the edge of a sword. The man had learned how to bypass the shapes Farid had put together. Blood splattered over his robes as confirmation, and a line of bright yellow, looking sickly beneath the sun, came from the first austere’s other hand.
Farid raised no hand. No movement was required, no drawing of circles. It was his mind – his will – that unravelled that thread before it could cut again.
Mura raised her hands against the first austere a second time and sand swirled around Farid, obscuring his vision, ending his work. He could not protect himself. The austere’s pattern came across the fingers of his outstretched hand and snapped them. He screamed as bones punctured skin and he fell back. The sand blowing against his wound was an agony of tiny blades, and the knowledge that he was about to die settled inside of him – but the austere could not see either, and the stream of pattern-shapes flowed over Farid’s head and beyond him into the desert.
‘Concentrate!’ Adam snarled at him. ‘Forget the pain.’ Farid got to his knees and saw the duke caught in a whirlwind, his dark hair blowing like a cloud around his face. He looked uninjured, but his hands were pinned to his side and his eyes and mouth were squeezed shut against the sand.
‘Kill him,’ said Didryk, his voice tight with concentration, though what he was doing, Farid could not tell.
‘Hurry!’ Mura said. ‘I can’t hold him long.’ The whirlwind faltered and the austere began to smile.
Grada started to move towards the first austere, but the emperor stopped her.
‘No, Grada,’ he said, taking the Knife from her hand. ‘This is our work now.’ With his left hand he took his wife the empress’ arm and together they stepped into the biting sand.
‘Magnificence!’ Grada fell to her knees. ‘No—!’
The austere fought to lift one arm and pointed at Mura, a river of molten silver shapes flowing from his fingers, its course unaffected by wind or sand.
Farid caught the pattern in his mind and struggled to undo it, but it felt sticky, as if strung together by honey. Adam joined with him, and the shapes rippled under the force of both their efforts, but still Mura screamed and clutched her throat, falling to her knees, choking.
The first austere lifted his other arm and pointed at the emperor.
58
Mesema clutched Sarmin’s hand and with their eyes closed, they pushed through the wind and sand. She remembered the path through Helmar’s pattern as well as her own corridors, and this pattern was a simpler, rougher one: half-moon, line, circle, dot, square. Her path lay clear. She stepped around the shapes and Sarmin moved with her. A second later the sand that had been scouring her cheeks and neck fell away. Mura is hurt, or dead. She could not stop and look. She paused, searching for more patterns to come against them and saw the first, red against her eyelids. Circle, square, half-moon again. She sidestepped, pulling Sarmin along with her.
*
Sarmin let Mesema lead him. He felt Mura’s attack fall away and wondered whether his wind-sworn mage had died. His hand sweated around the twisted hilt of Grada’s Knife. The last time he had used it, his brothers had spoken to him, guiding his hand; but today the Knife was silent. Heat seared his cheek – an attack from the first austere, barely avoided by Mesema’s sidestep. He knew he was drawing closer to his enemy; he could smell the man’s sweat and the stink of his wool, fabric for the mountains, not for Cerana. The man did not belong here. The conviction strengthened him and he gripped the Knife harder.
Mesema took two more steps and sidestepped again. ‘Pass through the diamond,’ she said, pulling him to his left. Then she stopped. He listened to her breathing. ‘We are there,’ she said at last.
*
Didryk knelt beside the wind-sworn mage while Farid and Adam focused on protecting them. Mura’s neck swelled and her face began to turn blue. She had stopped struggling. He touched her clammy skin. The pattern had polluted her with disease and infection. He moved his fingers, beginning to undo what had been done.
‘Save her!’ shouted Farid, his emotion clear in his voice.
Yes, I know. I will try. Didryk remembered the slaves in the corridor, remembered lifting Banreh’s son from the carpet of their dead flesh. But not everyone can be saved.
Mura’s back arched; her body convulsed. Not yet – not yet. He began another pattern, one that would open up her airway so that she could breathe. He had done it only once before, and he did not have Farid’s memory – but the mage took a gasping breath, and then another, and he wiped his eyes. ‘Thank Mogyrk,’ he whispered, lifting his head for the first time, and saw the emperor and his wife.
Sarmin and Mesema walked towards the first austere, hand in hand, and the grey-haired Yrkman held out his palms to them. From his left spiralled a stream of shapes and lines glowing in reds and blues, and from his right came the same silver pattern that had nearly killed Mura. But the emperor and empress walked unharmed through the attacks. The empress was leading, sometimes stepping to the side, sometimes walking straight ahead, but never hesitating. They drew closer to their enemy, until at last the austere’s eyes grew wide.
*
‘We are there,’ said Mesema.
She dropped his hand and Sarmin opened his eyes to look into the pale gaze of the first austere.
‘You cannot stop this,’ said the first austere, gesturing at the Scar. ‘It is foretold: all of the world will be dust.’
‘That is your desire?’ said Sarmin, raising Grada’s Knife.
‘My desire is irrelevant,’ said the austere. ‘It is Mogyrk’s will that all who are part of His design will go into the light and the rest will be destroyed.’
Sarmin pressed the blade against the austere’s chest. To his credit, the austere did not flinch away. Curiosity made him ask, ‘Was it foretold that I would kill you?’
‘I am ready to join Mogyrk in paradise,’ said the austere. ‘But you will die after me, and go to dust.’
‘So be it,’ said Sarmin, and drove the blade home. The Knife vibrated against one of the man’s ribs, and blood flowed out over his hand. The austere’s mouth opened as if to say one more thing, but instead he crumpled. Sarmin knelt over him and grasped the hilt of the Knife to pull it free. The wind blew soft against his cheek and he heard a whisper: Well done, my brother. Pelar spoke through the Knife that had killed him.
My brother! Sarmin knelt ov
er the dead austere, tears filling his eyes, but he heard nothing more. He had another brother now, Daveed, all soft flesh and curls and smiles. A brother to fight for. After a moment he pulled Grada’s Knife free, stood up and turned back to the mages.
Didryk knelt by Mura, who sat up, coughing and clutching at her neck. Adam’s cheek had been sliced open and blood streamed down his face and robes, but he did not appear to have noticed; his blue gaze was blank as it met with Sarmin’s. Farid clutched broken fingers. And Grada – Grada watched him, relief in her eyes. He resisted the impulse to go to her and instead took Mesema’s hand.
‘Didryk, can you heal Adam and Farid as much as possible?’ he asked. ‘We are not yet done: the pattern-work he used will have the Scar upon us shortly.’ He turned to Grada. ‘You must guard Azeem and the others. Do not approach the Scar again – if things go wrong, you must follow Pelar south and guard him, for he will be the emperor after me.’ Grada opened her mouth as if to protest, but then she bowed and turned away.
Sarmin crouched in the sand and took a breath. They could be afforded only the shortest of breaks before the real work began: the work of healing the Scar.
59
‘We’re ready.’ Sarmin took Mesema’s hand and squeezed it. He motioned to the mages and they gathered into a group. Each one of them knew their task. Each one of them was to apply their own talent: Didryk, to make things whole, and Farid, to keep them from unravelling; Mura with her wind-spirit to hide them, and Adam to lend his strength. The Scar had reached towards them and its wall was now just a few yards away, as if in welcome.
Farid took Mura’s arm and marked it with a binding symbol for air. ‘If this works, Yomawa is no longer bound, just chained. I think this is what Govnan did in the other plane. Then it can surround us.’ In response to his words the wind whipped up around them, hurling sand into Farid’s face. He lifted a hand to protect his eyes.
Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken Page 33