The Tower Broken(13)
The witnesses screamed and ran in confusion, smoke billowing in their wake, but Govnan stood firm. The runes he needed were simple enough to form, rough commands that had been Ashanagur’s. His fingers moved to the task, splitting the air with radiance, each stroke bringing more intensity until the runes shone lightning-white, stretching their thready fingers into the air. The fire shrank away from them, towards the edges of the courtyard.
Again he commanded with the language of the efreet. Trails of light reached out to embrace the flames and the fire withdrew, leaving an empty space where the silk covering had been. Govnan looked up to the rooftops.
Moreth was already kneeling, hand to the ground. ‘Three men running,’ he said, ‘jumping down … on the street now.’ He closed his eyes, concentrating. His fingers sank into the stone floor as if it were sand. Behind them, a woman exclaimed in horror. ‘Tripped them,’ he said, his voice growing deeper, becoming the stone-spirit’s. ‘I grow around them now.’
Govnan bent over the rock-sworn, holding tight to his staff, speaking low enough that the witnesses who remained could not hear. ‘Have you killed them?’
Moreth – Rorswan – shuddered with pleasure.
So they were dead.
‘Moreth!’
Moreth withdrew his hand from the stone and shook himself as if waking. ‘One got away,’ he said. ‘His feet stopped touching the stone just as Rorswan—’ He turned to the Blue Shields. ‘They are three streets down, by the statue of Keleb. One of them climbed onto a cart or a ladder … Hurry!’
The men ran without questions.
‘It is useless,’ Govnan muttered. ‘Two are dead, the other gone. Come. Let us see what Rorswan has wrought.’
By the time they reached the statue of Keleb, Govnan’s feet ached so that each step was an agony. He leaned on his staff, out of breath. Moreth glanced at him every few minutes, concern on his face. Govnan held back his impatience. The boy had only the barest control over his bound spirit, and yet he thought the high mage weak. He missed his children, Amalya and Mura, whom he had raised from childhood. Emperor Tahal had once told him that daughters were his greatest joy, and sending them away to be married his greatest sorrow. Though Govnan had no daughters of his own, the girls he had taken as children and trained in the Tower had indeed given him years of happiness. Now they were gone, and the grief rattled in his old bones.
The god of wisdom rose before them, carved from cold marble that looked every inch living flesh. His mouth was fierce, and one hand raised to the sky: Keleb’s passion was not for war or revenge; those He left for lesser gods. Keleb’s carved eyes were turned towards the palace, and He commanded those within it to adjudicate with balance and foresight. In His hands He held the books of law that even the emperor could not supersede. And at His feet, bloodstained stones told a story of death.
Govnan looked around the tiny square. ‘And so we do not even have the bodies.’
Moreth sat on the edge of Keleb’s pedestal and put his head in his hands. ‘It would appear that Rorswan has claimed them.’
‘It would appear? You do not remember?’
‘I do remember. It was just …’
Govnan knew: the ecstasy the spirits felt when they took a life was contagious. It could overwhelm a mage if he was not careful. ‘You must be in control at all times.’
‘I am.’ Anger covered for shame on the mage’s face. ‘If I were not, I would be stone.’
Govnan considered Moreth: the future of the Tower. At Moreth’s age Govnan had stood side by side with Kobar, Ansalom and others, wielding fire and earth against wildings from the west. He had stood at the heights of the Tower and summoned spirits of flame to do his bidding, and aided Kobar to build wonders of gem and stone. In those days the Tower had been filled with sworn mages, and bards had sung of their feats far beyond the mountains and the sea. But it was not Moreth’s fault their power was waning; that had begun long ago – and Moreth had come to them after the pattern-sickness, already a man grown. His training had been both rushed and darkened by Govnan’s grief. While most mages trained from childhood, Moreth had accomplished much in one year. It was the best that anybody could have done.
He put a comforting hand on the rock-sworn’s shoulder. ‘Come. It is time for me to report to the emperor.’
6
Sarmin
‘You are certain?’ said Sarmin, sitting down behind his desk in his new, soft room decorated with tassels and bright pillows. His old room held nothing for him now, not since the Megra had drawn the last of its patterns away, and not since he had lost the ability to see them. Govnan and Notheen stood side by side before his desk, one small and hunched, the other tall and straight. The desert headman stood so still one might think him a stone, while the high mage seemed to shimmer, like the flame he had once held within him.