The Tower Broken(80)

‘When your husband hears that you were here, speaking with the traitor in secret words, holding his hand like a lover, he will have no choice but to cast you aside.’ Dinar spoke through a rigid smile. ‘Once they have heard the truth, the army will not have you. The priests will not have you. The Old Wives will not have you.’ He stepped forwards. ‘You, Mesema of the Grass Tribes, will be anathema.’

Sendhil held his sword at the ready. ‘Your Majesty?’

At that moment Mesema knew the best course would be to cut the man down – as a man and as a witness he was better gone. But she could not kill Assar, too – and how would she explain the death of the most influential priest in the city to the soldiers and the generals? She held more sway over Sarmin, and he held more sway over the military, making them roughly equal. For many years she had watched her father and she knew an equal enemy must be neutralised before he could be killed.

She stepped back. ‘You should watch your words, Dinar.’

The priest would not stop smiling: he knew she could not kill him. He gave a shallow bow. ‘Majesty.’ With a glance at Assar he was gone.

Banreh coughed and she held the water back to his lips. ‘You must find the slaves,’ he murmured. ‘You must.’ His head fell back against the slab.

But Mesema was not so certain that would be enough. While she and Dinar held equal power Arigu stood over them both, as the best strategist and the most well-liked general of the White Hat Army. Sarmin would forgive much from the man, especially with Yrkmir coming; this she knew. ‘I must go,’ she said, putting the flask of water beside him. ‘Assar, give him something for the pain.’ With that she turned and made her way from the temple, her men behind her, her thoughts running ahead, not even watching where she turned or climbed stairs. She did not even feel the pain of Banreh’s wounds returning until she had opened the door to her room.





34



Govnan


Govnan stood at the desk of the high Tower room and looked out over the god’s wound, stretching from the river as far west as he could see and looming over the northern walls. A spyglass was no longer required to check its progress; anybody in the city could see it now, rising to the north as grey and featureless as fog. The attack on the temple of Meksha had been all that was needed to draw it closer. The pale sickness would be upon them soon, and the djinn who rode the emptied.

Emperor Sarmin had given him a command to stop the Storm, and he would do everything in his power to obey. If he did nothing else during his tenure as high mage, he must find a way to protect the city. Over the last few months he and Moreth had tried all of the knowledge they possessed – and some they did not, delving into the ancient spells they did not know how to work – and had achieved nothing. One thing Lord Ashanagur had said offered hope: the Great Storm does not see me. The hope had stood like a crack of light through a door, but he had not known how to push the door open – not until he had seen the Blessing, running unharmed along the edge of the Storm.

He looked over the parchments on the table. They understood so little about the Yrkmen, even after centuries of rivalry. He saw no similarities between Tower magic and the pattern. The runes he used were secret words of control. He did not need to arrange them – he used the word and his will, which was strong. But the Tower’s strength was fading; even down to its cracked wall.

A copy of the binding-mark Sarmin had seen on Chief Banreh’s wrist lay discarded on the table. Farid had not been able to identify that one, but he had identified another as ‘fire’. Govnan examined them both. Could the magic of Yrkmir and Cerana together be his answer?

It was dangerous to fool with pattern-magic: the marketplace attacks had shown him that much. And yet he dipped his quill in the ink and made a bonding mark, replacing the original symbol with the one for fire. Nothing happened as he drew the last line – there was no flash of light or shaking of the earth – but Farid had warned him that no small part worked on its own. He lifted it, the ink still wet, and pressed it upon his skin, leaving a mirror image on his wrist. Night had fallen and the air around him turned cold. He shivered.

A loud crackle brought Govnan’s attention to Meksha’s fire in its black basin. It had grown brighter, louder, hotter, and he felt its heat from where he shivered by the window. With the night’s cold a longing stirred inside him and he found himself beside the blaze. He passed a hand through it but he felt no warmth. Though it responded to the pattern-mark, this sacrificial flame gave only a dim reflection of true fire. Govnan knew true fire, and he desired it more than anything.