The Tower Broken(108)

Sarmin led his Knife to the dungeon, past the tapestries and mosaics and golden doorknobs, all of them two things now – what he saw, and the pattern that defined them – all the way to the servants’ halls and the steps down to the dungeon. The steps were long and dark and cold, and he remembered waking to himself in one of the oubliettes, a skull in his hand.

The Blue Shield guard lifted two lanterns from the wall and guided him down a row of cells. ‘Same one as the last prisoner, Your Majesty,’ he said, hooking one lantern on the wall. It lit the inside of the small cell, and Sarmin recognised the dirty pallet and the slop-bucket against the wall. But Adam did not recline as Banreh had; he crouched against the floor like a cat, his eyes alert and wary.

Sarmin made no small talk. ‘Why did you let my brother go?’

‘Because I could not allow him to be raised by Yrkmir as had been planned. The first austere is a heretic. He has no wish to bring souls to paradise, only to destroy them. He wants everything to end – all souls to be destroyed. I thought it better to let your brother go home, and to bring all of you to Mogyrk.’

Sarmin gave no indication how he felt about that. ‘Tell me: how does the first austere send a pattern to take over a man’s will?’

Adam cocked his head. ‘Don’t you know how Helmar did it, Your Majesty?’

In fact, he did not. He had known only how to remove someone from the pattern, as he had done with Grada – and now he could not even do that. ‘But the first austere has no great pattern to work with, as Helmar did.’

‘No. He can take only one man at a time, and it requires all his concentration.’

‘So you do know.’

‘Only in theory. I have never seen it.’ Adam stood and brushed the dust from his red robes.

‘Is there a ward against it?’

‘Will you ward every man in the palace now a second time, with Yrkmir at the gate and the first austere sending his attacks?’ Adam smiled. ‘I do not think you have the time. Your only choice is to kill him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Somewhere in the city.’

That much Sarmin knew, and he hit the iron bars in frustration. ‘Where?’

‘That I do not know – but perhaps you could draw him out. The emperor would be a tempting target for him.’

‘That is why he came, Your Majesty,’ Grada hissed. ‘He wants to trick you into being killed or captured.’

‘Do I?’ Adam turned out his hands, palms up. ‘Or am I just seeing clearly? We will all die soon enough when the Scar takes us. The question is only how we will die. I would think an emperor of your quality would want to die well.’

‘There is no point to this, Your Majesty.’ Grada paced towards the iron bars, fingering the hilt of her twisted Knife.

‘Very well,’ said Adam, crouching again, ‘but if you want to know more about Mogyrk – about how your death can be transformed into everlasting life – I will be happy to talk with you again, Magnificence.’

Sarmin backed away. He thought the man sincere. That was what disturbed him.





47



Farid


A courier had delivered a scroll-case full of parchments from Duke Didryk, and Farid took them to the Tower library to examine them. The duke had drawn as many symbols as he could on the ten sheets – likely the ones most used by pattern mages – and Farid set to memorising them: Stone, Fire, Air, Blood, Water, Wood, Bone, and more – two hundred and forty in all – spread out under his fingertips. He judged that it would take him a few hours to get to know them, but once he’d done that, he could start to analyse the patterns Govnan had shown him, including the one he had drawn on the wall while dreaming. Those shapes surrounded him, intrigued him, teased him, but though his fingers itched, he refused to put the spell into action – not until he knew what it was he had built, for it might do anything, even destroy the Tower.

Mura was still at the wall. Moreth had returned and was now in the depths somewhere beneath Farid, meditating and practising self-control. Farid wanted nothing to do with the rock-sworn. He sat on a wooden chair and kept his feet from the floor. Never before had he been so aware that the city was built of stone, with barely any bricks or wood. The Tower was magically wrought stone: its floors were stone, its courtyard, stone. He remembered the two men Rorswan had killed, and he shivered.

The sun had set, but Govnan’s fire in the north gave Farid enough light to read by. He had only a short time before it was his turn at the wall, so he turned to the old parchments at last and began to translate them, using the duke’s notations as a guide, his attention entirely taken by patterns until the shapes and lines began to swim before his eyes.