The Tower Broken(33)

‘What could be greater than a life?’

‘Freedom.’

Ashanagur rose up towards the great sun before swooping towards them again. ‘I have my freedom. Not one fire-sworn remains in your world.’

‘I could bind you, right now.’

‘You are frail. You diminish in the way of your kind, old Flesh-and-bone.’

‘I am stronger than I ever was.’ Govnan drew a rune upon the air and Ashanagur shrank away. ‘But I did not come to bind you. I came to ask a question.’

Ashanagur drifted, fire spitting from its form, until it had reached the centre of the lake. There it remained, pulsing black and green, its colours reflected in the molten rock. Sarmin thought it would return to the depths, but in time it spun back towards them, trailing orange fire, until at last it settled before Sarmin. Even the white flame that trailed away from it was longer than Sarmin was tall. ‘I owe this one a favour,’ said Ashanagur. ‘I will answer the question for it.’

‘Very well.’ Govnan paused a moment, then asked, ‘It is about Meksha.’

‘I rule this plane, not some god of flesh!’

‘Indeed, She could not power the heat of Her mountain without help from one so great as you.’

Ashanagur gave a quick spin. ‘She does require my help.’

‘As She always has, from the beginning?’ Govnan inched towards the question of Meksha’s strength, but Ashanagur dismissed him with a bright shimmer.

‘What is the beginning? She always has been in the Tower, as have I.’

‘One more,’ said Sarmin, stepping forwards, the toes of his slippers nearly in the rippling lake. ‘One more.’

Ashanagur darted at him, stopping only a hair’s width from his face. ‘For you,’ it said.

‘Have you seen the emptiness of the Great Storm?’

‘I have. It does not see me, just as you do not see it – Mogyrk blinded the Tower.’

‘How did Mogyrk blind the Tower?’

Ashanagur rose high above him and was silent. But at last it said, ‘Both of you creep around the same question.’ It hovered over Moreth, its tendrils caressing his face and shoulders as the rock-sworn cringed in horror. ‘You may ask it, if I may have this one as payment.’

‘No.’ Sarmin pulled Moreth away from the flames. ‘I thank you, Lord Ashanagur.’ He turned and walked a path of blue flame, his mind on Ashanagur’s words, his feet cutting a path from memory. It does not see me. The pattern lied, but perhaps it could also be lied to – or tricked. Without his ability to see patterns, Sarmin lacked the skill to try. But it all had something to do with Meksha and the crack in the wall. To his surprise he passed through the gate and found himself standing once more at the base of the Tower, Moreth and Govnan beside him. Compared to the plane of fire, this world was drab and grey. He blinked, unable for the moment to differentiate wall from stair.

‘Your sight will improve in time, Your Majesty,’ said Govnan.

Sarmin barely acknowledged the high mage. ‘I must go,’ he said, starting towards the stairs and the sword-sons at the top. ‘I have much to do.’





16



Farid


Farid woke from a dream. In it Adam stood over him, carving a pattern-shape into his cheeks, so when he opened his eyes he rubbed at his face and looked about the room until he was sure he was alone. Unable to return to sleep he stood and walked to the wall. He trailed his fingers over the design engraved there, following the lines with his eyes, trying to sense which felt unfinished or broken. He still had no sense of what the design might achieve when it was finished; the outlines of the shapes gave him no sense of their purpose. And yet, as with a cart half-empty, he longed to fill in the rest of it.

The baby began to wail in the house next door and he hissed with impatience. The noise made it difficult to concentrate.

You can leave any time you wish. That was what Adam had said to him, and since then he had been given no more food. He had come to believe – to hope – that the unfinished pattern was his escape route.

Whatever Adam thought, he was not going to help the man once he was free.

He was going at this all wrong. He was looking too closely. He stood away from it, the candle clutched in one hand. It was a question of balance, of full and empty spaces together. He looked until his eyes unfocused, shutting out the noise, the heat, the pain of his empty stomach. Just see.

He approached the wall again and placed the candle on the floor. He made a line with his fingernail in the soft wood, then another. Yes. Then, quicker, a circle here, a half-moon, line, two mirrored crescents, until he was working feverishly, using both hands. Sweat dripped down his back and thirst dried his tongue, but he did not pause. Hours passed, or minutes. Splinters tore at the flesh of his fingertips, marking the wall with blood. He knew what this design would do. It would reach into the grains and whorls of the wood, snake into the very fibres of the tree-flesh, and rip them asunder. The wall would cease to be. He made the last stroke and the scored lines disappeared, replaced by curves and angles of soft blue light. The design floated before his eyes, and behind it was the wall, whole, unscarred. He pulled—