The Tower Broken(92)

‘I will consider it.’ He climbed into his carriage and looked out at the general, who put on a diffident air.

‘And the other thing, Your Majesty. Have you considered my offer?’ Grada climbed into the carriage and sat next to Sarmin, but the general paid her no heed.

‘That was only yesterday, General. I have hardly had the time.’

‘But I—’

Impatience overcame him. ‘If you must have an answer now, then it is no.’

The general bowed with a grim expression. ‘Magnificence.’

Sarmin closed his carriage door and the horses began to move. He had never been in a carriage before, more of a hot box that swayed and made him ill. He should have been more politic with the general; he needed Arigu more now than ever before. But he had said he would never raise another woman to Mesema’s position. She was Pelar’s mother, his princess, the woman he loved. But he remembered that his mother had warned him of love, and the air inside the carriage stuck in his throat. Would he be an emperor tossed aside by his own emotions, left alone on the rocks like Satreth II or Kamrak, Uthman’s son? He had no choice but to wait and see.





39



Govnan


Govnan had been walking towards the Storm, not quickly, for his old legs did not allow that. With every step he had to consider Metrishet, Ashanagur and the others; he had to control them, watch their movements. He had estimated that he would reach the void in another half-day, but while the sun was high in the sky the emptiness rushed forwards as if answering the call of a great pattern-work. He froze, expecting to be consumed by the Storm and for his efreet be loosed upon the world, but it stopped several lengths away. He faced west, not looking at the vast Storm, which would fill his vision and empty his mind if he turned his eyes north – but he could feel it, against his skin and deep in his bones.

It wanted – it craved – it searched. The blankness begged for colour, form, vitality.

The elementals would survive as Meksha’s water did, unseen and unclaimed by the Storm. Metrishet, Ashanagur and the others would form a barrier between the god’s wound and Nooria, their flames spinning a net of heat and colour. Govnan presented the image to the fire-spirits and willed them to make it so. They would need to spread their fire both wide and high, standing between the Storm, the northern wall and the river road that led down to the Storm Gate. Govnan set his will against theirs, and reluctantly, the spirits complied, weaving threads of fire so bright against the dullness that Govnan was forced to keep his eyes closed. He did not know whether the work took an hour, a day or an entire week; his own senses, joined with the efreet’s, had become alien to him.

The wound met the first fiery web-piece and probed, searching for something to deconstruct, to undo – but it found nothing, as if it had reached the end of the world. In fact, it had only reached something the god did not recognise, so the fire worked only as a barrier. To heal the wound would require something more.

Govnan’s legs shook. It felt a year since he had bound Ashanagur for the second time, though he knew it could not be that long. The sun was so distant and yet its power so close, warming his shoulders, hot on the skin of his face, and he knew what he controlled now was only a small part of what fire promised and threatened; so small was man against the forces of earth and sky.

His mind had wandered, and already Ashanagur moved – only a finger-span, a test of Govnan’s will – but it had abandoned its work on the net and the emptiness flowed through the space like water through a broken dam.

We must not be distracted. The web must be unbroken. He spoke for all of them, his voice foremost, but not alone.

Metrishet answered, We are hungry. To the west there is flesh.

Govnan explored the sense of his bound spirits, not with sight, smell or hearing, but an inner one that rushed along the sands, picking up on love-charms buried deep within the dunes, pattern-marks and old wards. As he reached out, the city’s wall flared to life, its ancient spells gleaming with power. The efreet sensed magic above all else besides fuel: anything combustible they perceived with a yearning, and during his many years with Ashanagur he had developed the ability to sniff out the many forms of its food. Now Govnan sensed the meat Metrishet desired to the south and west: row upon row of soldiers, a thousand and a thousand more. Yrkmir. And beneath them were patterns, not one great design, but a thousand small marks and circles, lighting his mind with the full force of the One God. He gasped, at last realising why the Storm had shifted so rapidly.

It is not Cerani flesh, Metrishet continued. You will not mind if we eat it. Not a question.