But though they had gained, they had also lost: they no longer had the portals to the other realms. Those spells had been woven into the stone, and the stone was gone.
That was a worry for another time.
‘Can you see the magic, Grada?’ he asked.
‘Only out of the corner of my eye,’ she said, and that seemed to him a very good answer. When he turned to her he saw her in many different ways: assassin, daughter, worker, even lover. Her colours were violet and yellow, showing a loving spirit crossed by brutality, and that did not surprise him.
‘Farid will be well,’ he said. He stayed by the pool a while longer, absorbing its warmth. When it came time to rebuild the Tower he would put this pool in its centre, as Ghelen had before him in the days of the founding.
At last he stood and did his best to climb the rope, though in the end the soldiers had to haul him up. As he straightened, dusting the dirt from his robes, he said to Moreth, ‘You must descend and have a taste of Meksha’s blessing.’
Moreth looked at the pit with curiosity but said, ‘I dare not, for my control over Rorswan is weak, Your Majesty.’
‘As you will.’ The courtyard had fallen into darkness, even with the torches lining the walls, and with a start he looked to the north. Govnan’s great net had fallen, replaced by a featureless, blank space, emitting no light, taking no form. ‘The Storm,’ he said, looking away from it, dread curdling in his stomach. Grada took her place beside him, but for the first time her presence offered no comfort.
The sound of running feet filled the silence, sandals slapping against the stone, and when he turned Azeem veered into view, his eyes wide, his robes in disarray. He reached Sarmin’s side, put his hands on his knees and took deep breaths. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, puffing, ‘the fighting has begun.’
50
Sarmin
‘It was Govnan’s fire, Your Majesty,’ said General Hazran, his bushy moustache drooping over his lips, his mind set on both duty and honour. ‘I believe it wrested control from him before it attacked the Yrkman army.’
Sarmin slowed in his path to the throne room. That Govnan was dead had not occurred to him. He pressed his hand to his stomach, as if to push down the rising grief. There was no time to think of the old man, his bright eyes, his wise counsel. Right now there was a battle to fight, and the Storm approached.
‘If I may, Your Majesty,’ said General Merkel, ‘the Yrkmen attacked first. I hear the first austere attempted to assassinate you with a pattern-spell – and let us not forget they have destroyed the Tower!’
‘If that is what happened,’ said Arigu, his voice hinting at some deception.
Sarmin gave him a sharp look.
‘They have been attacking us from the beginning,’ said Lurish, waving a hand. ‘The marketplaces, the temple of Meksha—’
‘In any case, Govnan’s fire made a great commotion among the ranks of the Yrkmen, killing many and sending others running in fear.’ Arigu smiled, his spirit flashing a spectrum of colours. ‘But then the austeres trapped them – and now they act as no more than lanterns, casting light over the battle.’
There was a sudden silence as everyone considered Govnan’s likely death. It was Lurish who braved the quiet. ‘High Mage Govnan is gone – but what of our other mages?’
‘The mages survived the destruction of the Tower,’ said Sarmin, finally moving to the dais. Grada took her place at his right. ‘They join the fight at the wall.’ He did not mention that Farid was still at the bottom of a well, leaving only two, but the paucity of the Tower mages would not be secret for long. The soldiers would remember that only two had ever come to fight with them. They would talk, and the talk would eventually spread throughout the empire: the Tower was gone, and Cerana’s mages with it.
Mesema came in through the side door, followed by her guards, and walked to the bottom step of the dais. In his sight the essence of her was undivided. Her pattern, herself and her soul were one and the same. There was no lie to her – and no lie to the love she gave him. He drew strength from that.
‘Arigu.’ He turned to the general. ‘I want to hear your plan should Yrkmir breach our walls.’
A hush fell over the gathered courtiers. Dinar took a step towards the throne, his eyes glinting in the lantern light, as the general gave a lengthy pause. After a moment Arigu leaned in, too close, almost rude in his proximity. Sarmin could feel the tension in the sword-sons behind him. ‘There is an issue to be addressed, Your Majesty.’
‘Then address it.’
Arigu cleared his throat. ‘The worship of Mogyrk has been made legal and its priests spread its poison throughout our city. A Mogyrk duke who killed several of my White Hats sleeps comfortably in the guest wing. The Felting chief rests in the temple of Mirra, secure in his friendship with the empress. Even the austere is safe from harm in the dungeon. Consorting with our enemies has led to weakness.’ Arigu turned towards the small, rapt audience, indulging his sense of theatre. ‘Now our own Tower has been destroyed. The Tower, a pillar of Nooria, key to our defences, is gone.’