The Tower Broken(117)

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.