The Tower Broken(81)

‘Govnan,’ Mura called from the doorway. He turned to look at the young mage he considered a daughter, her dark hair and flowing robes, and felt proud. Beside her hulked Moreth, his face sculpted by worry.

‘Come, come my children,’ he said, waving them in. ‘Where is Farid?’

Mura answered, ‘At the barracks, marking the soldiers.’

The mages entered and sat together at the table, looking like children at class, and he laughed. Moreth was big as two men, yet he watched the high mage like a wide-eyed pupil.

‘But you are grown now,’ he told them, ‘and the Tower will soon be yours. The two of you, and Hashi.’

‘And Farid,’ said Mura.

The cold still pressed around Govnan and he longed for the warmth an elemental would bring. ‘That will be for you to decide. I want to tell you both that I know you will succeed. Though our numbers are few, we have ever been wise and capable.’

Moreth leaned forwards. If stone could burn, then it burned in his eyes. ‘What are you telling us, High Mage?’

‘That unusual things are about to happen, and I do not know how they will end. But whatever occurs, I know my children will succeed. You will address the crack in the Tower and you will address the Storm as the emperor, heaven bless him, requires.’

Mura blinked. ‘I just found my way home, Govnan – do not leave us.’

Moreth took her hand.

‘A mage of the Tower takes an oath to serve the empire, no matter the cost. That oath lies ten times as heavily on the man in that iron chair.’ He touched Mura’s cheek. ‘You and Amalya were joys to me. And you, Moreth, you have come so far, in less than a year. My accomplishments are small, but not in this. Not in this.’

Mura stood, a tear on her cheek, speechless.

‘Where are you going?’ Moreth’s voice scraped with sorrow.

‘To the realm of fire.’ Even speaking of it set a rush of desire rippling through his bones.

The rock-sworn stood. ‘Then I will go with you.’

‘No – it may not go well and I will not have you harmed.’ He put a hand on Moreth’s shoulder. ‘You may help me down the stairs, though.’

‘Yes, High Mage.’ Moreth took Govnan’s arm and together they stepped towards the door. Govnan stopped to put his hand on Mura’s cheek. ‘My girl,’ he said. And then he left her.

He and the rock-sworn descended one storey after another, Moreth silent, Govnan brooding. He remembered Sarmin’s threat to tear down the Tower, and thought to himself that something a bit wider and shorter might well suffice in its place. He smiled.

‘What amuses you, High Mage?’ asked Moreth, his granite eyes on the stairs.

‘Only that everything ends, and that is not always a bad thing. Listen to me, Moreth. I will go into the portal alone.’

Moreth’s hand clenched around Govnan’s elbow. ‘I have control of Rorswan, High Mage.’

‘You do, but the power Meksha gave us may be weakening – thus the crack.’ In truth, it had been weakening for centuries, since the time of Satreth the Reclaimer, who had defeated the Yrkmen and driven them from Nooria the first time. ‘I will not risk you. Once I open the portal you must stay away from it.’

Moreth was silent a long while, but at last agreed with a low grunt. They reached the lowest level and Moreth turned to him with a bow. ‘Thank you, High Mage, for all you have taught me. I will endeavour …’

‘I know you will.’ Govnan patted his shoulder. ‘Now, Moreth,’ he said, beginning to draw his runes, ‘it is time for you to go.’ To his relief the rock-sworn made no complaints, and he heard his feet, heavy on the stairs. He continued his work, the runes glowing at first, then bursting with light.

He made his last stroke and the four portals stood before him in all their wonder. To the realms of water, rock and air, he gave only a passing glance; he was not familiar with them. Fire, he knew; fire he wanted. He stepped through into a world of streaming colour. The great red sun burned low in the sky and rivulets of flame danced around his feet.

He took a step forwards, but a figure of molten brass rose before him, blocking his way. It had chosen the shape of a woman, well-formed and tall, hair streaming yellow threads of fire. Govnan recognised Amalya’s form and knew the spirit mocked him, for it was the elemental that had consumed her. ‘I come to treat with Lord Ashanagur, Metrishet.’

The mouth opened, dripping metal, showing teeth and a tongue that glowed coal-hot. ‘You will not.’

‘Step out of my way, fire-spirit, or I shall have you as my own.’

‘Old flesh-and-bone!’ It grabbed its stomach in the imitation of laughter. ‘You have not the strength.’