The Tower Broken(86)

‘Pratnetun took him a few years ago.’ She ran a finger down the former high mage’s shoulder. ‘Moreth reminds me of him: slow to action, slow to thought, but steady. He missed very little.’

Farid studied Kobar’s face. He looked as if he might have been kind. ‘And Govnan?’

‘You are so solemn.’ She bowed her head. ‘Is he dead, then?’

‘No. I saw him at the north wall, trailing spirits of fire. You might have seen the smoke from one of the high windows.’

‘I did.’ Her eyes went past him to the door and it swung closed.

Farid raised his hand, intending to touch her shoulder, but then he thought better of it.

Mura turned for the stairs, saying, ‘He will give his life to stop the Storm.’

‘He is nearly there. He had reached the wall when I saw him.’

‘The Storm is further away than it appears.’ She took a breath. ‘It is so large that it becomes difficult to gauge its distance. But you must be tired. Your bed does not look slept in.’

‘I don’t want to sleep.’ He followed after her, taking the steps at a jog. ‘I want to look at the patterns Govnan was showing me.’

‘You have done too much,’ she said. ‘You’ve been out in the desert and the palace, and then into the city, and now, instead of sleeping you want to look at patterns.’

‘I forgot that I did so much,’ he admitted.

‘You will sleep first.’ She continued up the stairs and before long Farid’s legs were aching and he had to slow his pace. Mura was right: he did need to sleep. At last she opened the door to his high, stone-walled room with its narrow window overlooking the river. Days ago the river had been crowded with boats; now he could see only one raft, filled with desperate citizens fleeing south.

‘It is for the best,’ Mura said, peering past his elbow. ‘They will be safer in the southern province.’

He turned, blushing, for Mura stood between him and his bed and she had no chaperone. ‘You should go,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to think that you—’

She gave a brief smile. ‘In the Tower we are not men and women but comrades and fellow mages. As children, Hashi and I slept in the same room.’

He had not been raised that way, and he wondered whether he could live among women without noticing them. He looked again at Mura and that quick glance told him he could not. ‘Hashi?’ He had met only Moreth and Mura so far.

‘He’s not here any more.’ She walked out into the corridor, then turned back. ‘He went south too. Sleep well.’ With that she closed his door and was gone.

Farid sat on the edge of his bed. He could not help but admit he was tired, but the patterns called to him. Govnan had shown them to him so briefly but still he remembered them, their depth and their complexity. He lay on his back and watched the ceiling. A vision of Mura rose in his mind, teasing him, but he pushed it away. ‘Stupid,’ he told himself. They were meant to be comrades, like two soldiers on the wall – and soldiers they would be if Govnan died. The business of the Tower would be left to Mura, Moreth and himself. He could not even guess what Tower business might be besides what Govnan already endeavoured.

He dreamed of gleaming pattern-shapes and a road lit in bright lines. He walked over white stones, never tiring, as the sun blazed down over a hushed and sparkling world. He travelled as far as he could, never reaching the end, and when he woke, crumpled against a wall in Govnan’s library, he opened his eyes to an arcane geometry. Across the floor and upon every wall half-moons, circles and diamonds blinked and spun, each piece leading into the next, every one in its place. He stood and stumbled, catching himself on a chair and then wincing, because his fingers had been rubbed raw. He examined his hands in the light of the pattern and saw blood.

‘I made this,’ he said, looking around at the pattern. ‘I made you.’

A shimmer passed through the linked shapes of the pattern. He wondered what it might do if he pulled it.

‘Or was it Adam?’ he asked of the wall.

It did not answer.





37



Sarmin


Sarmin waited on his throne. The great doors had opened for Azeem and the duke, and they walked along the silk runner now, preparing for their obeisance, but he was impatient. Protections were not going into place swiftly enough, while Yrkmir seemed to be picking up speed. They had attacked the temple of Meksha, the patron goddess of Cerana. Mura and Moreth had already reported the results of their investigation to him, but there had been nothing to describe besides destruction. What could Tower mages, born into the elements, understand of pattern-work? What could a Cerani understand of a Yrkman’s mindless destruction? He watched the duke fall into his obeisance and wondered what kind of man persisted in his faith despite evidence of such evil. But then he remembered what Dinar had been doing in the temple of Herzu.