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 over 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.