The Tower Broken(82)

He drew a rune upon the air, the Cerani symbol of bonding. The spirit shuddered and gave a high scream, but Govnan did not end there. He added another, the same one inscribed on his own wrist, a symbol of the dead Mogyrk god. Molten brass shed from the spirit’s form, pooling in the flames at their feet, and it shrieked and cried as its legs dripped to nothing and its chest cracked and shattered. At last only its head remained, and then Govnan saw nothing but its open mouth, glowing red, sounding its agony.

He reached out for it, saying the words, and they joined together.

Metrishet.

Govnan at once remembered the feel of heat through his veins, the rush of power as he wrestled the spirit’s will. He had been a young man the first time, but age had not weakened his determination.

‘Metrishet, you will obey me and serve the Cerani Empire.’ Metrishet struggled and squirmed within him and he stumbled, falling to his knees. ‘You will obey me,’ he said again, and pressed the mark on his wrist …

… and fell into an alien world. All was dark, and need, and hatred. I am stuck. I am stuck. He struggled to get free, a wild fear driving him to thrash and claw against that which held him. I will kill it. Govnan lifted his arm and a plume of fire rose high against the sun, dancing blue across the red sky. He longed to devour his captor, to burn away the flesh and turn its bone to ash, for the fire was part of him now, its workings no matter of command but of instinct.

He fell upon his hands in the realm of fire. ‘No—!’ He controlled the seething anger, the terror. It is not mine, not mine. ‘You will obey me in all things. You will serve Cerana.’

Yes.

It was only one word, but the struggles ceased. It had been this way the first time with Ashanagur; once the fight was over, the elementals calmed and began their long wait for a sign of weakness, for the mage’s control to slip. But this time it was different; this time the spirit could not hide its thoughts from him. He checked his wrist. The pattern-mark was still there.

Govnan stood, feeling ten years younger, and continued towards the lake of fire. Mages of his era did not take more than one elemental. It was difficult enough to control a single spirit, and the risk of being overcome was several times greater for each one beyond the first. And yet it had been done – by Ghelen the Holy, and by many who came after him. Those men had lived only six years, six months, six weeks – not the extended lifetime enjoyed by Tower mages today. But that no longer mattered.

At the edge of the lake he held out his staff and Ashanagur responded, leaping from the depths like a dolphin from the sea, aimed straight at Govnan. ‘Deceitful—’

‘I made no oath,’ said Govnan, drawing the runes in the air, his staff adding power to the incantation. Ashanagur’s glory, the midnight-blue and ebony-black of its flame, its train of orange light and the essence of its heat, shrank to a bright nimbus around the tip of his staff. He marked it with the pattern, standing fast against Ashanagur’s complaints. The Lord of Fire knew Govnan well; it knew all the weaknesses that came upon him in the dead of night, and fought hard – but it could not overcome Cerana and Yrkmir together.

Blood running hot from his conquests, Govnan sought more: here, a lesser spirit, there a greater one, and joined all to his will, his mind, each one making him stronger against the next. He did not know how many hours he spent in Ashanagur’s realm, raiding the lake of the lord contained within him, but at five, he could hold no more. Fire crawled from his nose and wound about his tongue; when he moved his hands, his fingers left a trail of white flame. He returned to the portal. In the Tower it was dark, but he lit the basement room with orange.

We go to the wall.

It does not know what we are.

It cannot see us.

Govnan turned to the stairs and began the climb.





35



Farid


‘There’s nothing here.’ Farid looked around the abandoned marketplace that still carried the old smells of fish and vinegar. He felt more comfortable in the city, where he had never worried about his speech or his manners, than the Tower, but that also made him sad. He did not think he would ever return to his tiny apartment over the fruit-market. He tightened the belt over his robes – he was constantly worrying that they would fall open and reveal his nakedness, and he spent a lot of time arranging them carefully so they would not get tangled or caught in his sandals.

‘Are you certain? Look more closely at the stones.’ Grada leaned against the wall, her eyes flicking over the few brave hold-outs who were still buying and selling in the tiny clearing between the buildings. Farid was not sure whether she was his guard or his boss, or something else entirely. She was clearly an Untouchable, but she had equally clearly been elevated by the emperor into a position of high prestige – her comfort in moving through the palace and the barracks told him that much. She had interrupted his work marking the soldiers to tell him about the destruction of Meksha’s temple, and to pass on the emperor’s order: that he look for patterns that might warn of another attack.