Grada took his arm and pulled him up the street, further north, and he stumbled. Her callused hand was hard enough over his forearm to make a bruise. ‘I can’t fight all of them,’ she said, her voice urgent. ‘We’ll need to hide.’ They passed tall buildings, a shrine to Ghesh and a plaza with marble benches. As they approached the Worship Gate he stalled, the hair rising on his arms. ‘Over here,’ she said, and gestured to a small building designed for storing crates and barrels that came south on the Blessing – little used of late.
But they did not go inside. Instead, she hoisted herself up to the roof and held down a hand for him. It was only when he’d scrambled up on the roof next to her that he realised they were the only people on this street who had not been emptied of colour and mind. Everyone else had fled.
The pale folk came at the storage shed, their mouths wide, their eyes fierce with unwholesome pleasure. The first three riders Grada dispatched with throwing daggers, her aim as remarkable as it was deadly. That done, she patted herself as if looking for further weapons. ‘I don’t have my bow,’ she said. Her voice always held that same tone of regret, no matter the situation.
‘I can do nothing,’ he said, ashamed again, but his eyes caught smoke and he pointed. ‘Look.’
The fire had attracted the eyes of the pale folk too and now they lost interest in Grada and Farid. They turned from the building and headed towards the flames as if drawn by the warmth and colour.
‘What is it?’ asked Farid, but Grada only shook her head.
A ball of blue flame hit one of the pale women. She shrieked and flung open her arms as the blaze rose up to consume her.
Only now did Farid realise the fire was not an accidental one, a spill of flame from hearth or candle that shifted as the wind carried it. No, this fire was moving deliberately, with purpose. An emptied man was taken next, the outline of his body lost in a bolt of yellow shot with blue – and then another went, and the next, each figure dissolving in an impossible tide of heat.
And behind the wall of heat was a man. Fire roiled from him like water from a fountain; it licked against his skin and spread blue fingers beneath his feet. White-hot flame shot from his fingers and tendrils of light played over his gleaming scalp. Over each shoulder was spinning a ball of flame both terrible and lovely to behold; it was black cracked with crimson on his right and on his left, blue streaked with the brightest orange.
Behind him followed a woman made of liquid brass, her hair yellow fire, heat shimmering from her nakedness. Wherever they stepped the stones turned red-hot beneath their feet. On either side of the street buildings crackled and caught, then roared into white-hot infernos. The man kept on towards the wall and the Worship Gate, consuming one pale person after another, until at last he sent a wave of liquid flame sizzling over the stones and the road lay empty and char-black.
It was then the fire-mage turned their way, his coal-bright eyes searching, his hand raised to take them in a pillar of flame.
Grada pulled him back behind the peak of the roof, but Farid could not look away, for he recognised Govnan, taken by his magic, caught in a world of power and destruction. He had a sense of how sweet that might taste, and he wondered if the high mage would soon be consumed himself, just like those statues at the base of the Tower.
But after a moment the high mage lowered his hand and turned away to continue his march to the wall. So he had recognised them; somewhere inside the living flame, Govnan remained.
Govnan reached the Worship Gate and held out a hand to the chain. Red-hot metal ran down the iron bars, which warped and gave under the intense heat.
‘He is going to stop the Storm,’ said Farid.
‘Time to leave,’ said Grada, pulling him down on the far side of the structure, ‘before we burn too.’
Farid’s feet hit the street-stones, warm beneath his shoes, and he kicked at them, wondering at the heat. The Tower of Cerana was indeed powerful. A great honour had been bestowed on him along with these uncomfortable robes. He smiled and tightened his belt before letting Grada pull him along again. He would find a way to make himself useful. Those ancient patterns were the key.
36
Farid
Farid ran his fingers along the brass surface of the Tower door. Everything seemed malleable now, destructible – even the Tower. The thought both shocked and excited him. He rang the bell.
Mura opened the door and when she saw him, her mouth curled into a sad smile. ‘You came back.’ She waved him through into the statue-lined corridor.
This time he studied the rocky faces with more interest and respect. ‘Tell me about Kobar.’