CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SARMIN

Sarmin laid a hand upon the carved rosewood of the Megra’s coffin. She had once called him Helmar’s heir—not heir to the Pattern Master, but to the mage Helmar had been in his younger days, one who aspired to fix and to build, to make whole. In the end it had broken him. The Megra had shown him that Helmar was his brother, not by blood but by talent and experience. He and Helmar had shared the same imprisonment, the same victories, linked across time and by the designs that Helmar had laid across it—but Sarmin was not broken. Helmar had inflicted too much suffering upon himself, left too much behind, including the woman he had loved. The Megra would not be alone here; she would rest in Mirra’s garden, its sweet scents a balm against the pains of her long life. “Goodbye, Megra,” he whispered.

Priest Assar offered Sarmin a slight bow before motioning for his novices to bear the Megra away. A hush had fallen over Mirra’s garden. The rosebuds and gardenia blossoms turned towards the sun in silent communion. Sahree sat upon a bench, out of tears, her eyes on the statue of Mirra.

Govnan stepped up to his side, staff clicking against the stones, and Sarmin willed him to honour the quiet. He did not. “There is something at the Tower you must see, Magnificence.” His voice had begun to lose the low rumble it had once contained, becoming high and thin, querulous.

Sarmin took his time before responding. He was not done mourning the Megra. “And what might that be?”

“I cannot speak of it here, Your Majesty.”

“Very well.” Sarmin gave a long bow to the statue of Mirra, closing his eyes and thinking of all the Megra had seen: Helmar, both young and old; Cerani soldiers ravaging her homeland; her young friend, Gallar, hanging from a tree. Somehow she had made sense of it all.

Straightening he laid a sympathetic hand upon Sahree’s shoulder. “I must go.”

He walked towards the exit, sword-sons trailing behind him, and found Dinar waiting in the doorway, a tower of muscle wrapped in elegant robes. It struck Sarmin that for all the gods in the pantheon, only two were worshipped in the palace. Women went to Mirra for comfort and men went to Herzu for power. Dinar stood straighter as Sarmin approached, holding a book against his chest, showing the tears tattooed on his hand.

“High Priest Dinar.”

“Magnificence.” Dinar barely dipped his head. “I had expected to perform the funeral myself. The old woman was not of our faith. By law”—he presented the book he held—“her soul belongs with Herzu.”

“She was not of the palace, Dinar. Her law is not our law.”

Dinar frowned, but he lowered the book. So bulky was he that it looked a toy in his hands. “I have another question, Your Majesty, if you would entertain it.”

“Make it quick. I am on my way to the Tower.”

“When should I expect the prisoner?” A smile of anticipation danced over the priest’s lips.

Sarmin realised the full nature of his command in the private audience chamber. In the palace, no question was merely asked. There would be blood first, the removal of flesh, exquisite pain designed for Herzu’s pleasure. He stepped away from the scent of Mirra’s flowers, ashamed for Her to hear. “You will have him when I send him to you.” If I send him.

Dinar’s dark eyes flickered. “At that time I will be pleased to give him over to Herzu. He is one our god will cherish, though imperfect.” With a slight bow he retreated.

Sharing the palace with Herzu’s high priest required constant balance. Sarmin must be careful not to appear weak, to give the man everything he wanted, but neither must he leave him with nothing. Dinar had influence over at least half the court and must be kept content. Sarmin was not ready for a confrontation, covert or otherwise. Yet giving over anything to Dinar—the Megra’s soul, Banreh’s body—felt unnatural. He glanced down at Govnan, shrunken and silent at his side.

“Such is the way of the empire,” said Govnan, as if Sarmin had spoken his thoughts aloud.

“We shall see.” They began their slow walk, neither of them blessed with easy movement. Here the walls bore not mosaics or tapestries, but subtle carvings best seen in shadow. Pomegra studied her books, Ghesh stood upon a star and Keleb’s finger pointed in judgement. Around them all spun the mass of the universe—planets, waters, and suns rendered in white marble, with no mind to scale. Beneath two clashing suns stood a bench for the comfort of worshippers journeying from temple to temple; there sat Nessaket, pale and gaunt. She should not look so; she should look well, and her child should be with her. His brother.

“Mother,” he said, stopping, “you should not be walking about.”

“We must speak.” Nessaket tapped the stone at her side. He noticed the veins that stood out upon her hand, the wrinkles at her wrist. When Sarmin settled beside her, she said, “You must not give the prisoner to Dinar.”

“Are you here to plead his case?”

“Not in the least. It is only that Dinar will take too long to kill him, and he must die.”

Sarmin watched and listened.

“Arigu is not here—not yet—and without him the White Hats grow restive. They long to have their honour restored. The longer you keep the chief alive, the harder it will be to assure their loyalty to you.”

“General Lurish—”

“General Lurish is a blustering old man. He cannot hold them to you. Only the public execution of the traitor will seal their faith.”

Sarmin watched Govnan pretending to study the marble. “Only Banreh knows where this duke might be hiding.”

“You are not afraid of the desert,” said Nessaket, leaning forwards, her dark hair falling over his arm. “The desert made Uthman into a conqueror. The desert made ours the strongest empire in the world—and you lead it. This duke is a northerner who knows nothing of the sand. You will find him.”

Sarmin laid a hand on her arm. It was true: all of this was his—the bench where they sat, the temple wing, the city, the whole empire, and all the history that came with it. And yet he was not so certain he commanded the desert as well. Mogyrk remained powerful there.

Nessaket pushed his hand away. “Now go.”

Sarmin stood and motioned to the high mage. “Come,” he said, “let us see what is so important at the Tower.”

Sarmin ran his fingers along the length of the crack. “What does it mean?” he asked, more of himself than the high mage. The rock-sworn had felt a pull on his elemental when he touched it, but this was not the emptiness of the Great Storm. The Storm took more than magic—it took colour and memories. It hollowed. He remembered the question Mesema had asked of him. “Govnan, how long do you think it will be before the Storm reaches the Blessing?”

Govnan laid a hand upon the wall and patted it, as if it were his child. “We don’t know that it will be altered by the storm, Magnificence. It was given us by Meksha Herself—a literal blessing. What is Mogyrk against Her?”

“I thought that fire was Her realm.”

“She gave us this Tower, Your Majesty, and the ability to command all four elements. She commands Her fiery mountain, it’s true—but there She might find not only rock and flame, but the winds upon its peaks and the water that runs down its surface.” Sarmin considered this. “We know that rock turns to dust in the emptiness. The wind stops, the fire dies. Why would water be different?”

“Earthly elements are nothing against the Storm—but what of elements from another plane?”

The young mage Moreth spoke. “To learn such things, High Mage, we would require an unbound elemental spirit.”

“Indeed,” said Govnan, “since the bound are corrupted by our earthly bodies.” He sighed. “In this world Meksha reigns over the elements. Over the years I spent with Ashanagur I felt a strong connection to Her. I felt Her power singing in the stones, beating in my heart, running in my fingers whenever I drew a rune upon the air.” Govnan leaned on his staff, tracing the crack with his gaze. “Do you think Her power remains with us now?”

“I cannot sense such things,” Sarmin said, disliking that it was true. “Can you no longer sense Her?” He was reminded that he had taken Ashanagur from the high mage, and for the first time wondered whether that had been the wisest course.

Govnan shook his head and directed them across the lowest floor of the Tower, a dark circular space, his staff tapping against the streaked marble beneath their feet. “Come. I have prepared a journey for us.” He lifted a hand and the tip of his index finger began to glow, faintly at first, then with a rosy redness that showed the shadow of his bones through his old flesh. Perhaps some ember remained of the elemental fire once trapped within him. The glow increased and finally it shone with an incandescence that made Sarmin look away and threw their shadows black upon the walls. He wondered then what fed the fire now Ashanagur had gone.

“This is the key,” Govnan said, and he started to trace runes into the air. His writing hung before them, as if he had cut through the fabric of the world into some bright place beyond. The archways changed in the moment Govnan set his last rune into the air. One opened now onto a white and endless sky. Opposite that entrance, natural bedrock replaced the tower’s stones, granite shot through with glistening black veins. The third archway opened into blue depths, dark and unrevealing, a wall of water undulating across the entrance in defiance of reason. And opposite that archway fire rimmed a gateway into the hottest of Herzu’s hells, an inferno landscape of molten lakes and trees of flame beneath a sun so large and close it left no room for sky.

“Doorways into the elemental realms,” said Govnan placing a hand on Moreth’s shoulder. No heat came from the flames, no sound or sensation from the other portals.

“Why are we here, High Mage?” Yet Sarmin stepped forwards.

Govnan pointed into the burning arch with a steady hand. “I need to go back, to revisit Lord Ashanagur in the City of Brass.” Something flickered past the archway, something fast and large and trailing strands of fire like burning hair. “He will tell us something of Meksha.”

Sarmin took another step. The place mesmerised him; every part of it was suffused with the fascination that burns in a dancing flame. “Will he?”

“Yes. Come.” Govnan entered the realm of fire, and Sarmin followed.

No heat burned him; no smoke filled his lungs. Those were the by-products of combustion in his own world. Here all was pure flame, and he walked on it and through it. It licked his skin, touched his hair, slid against his lips in seductive caress.

Govnan led on without pause, seeming to know his way through intersecting rivers of liquid fire, blue and orange. At last he stopped near a vast expanse of molten rock, golden in colour but reflecting the sun’s crimson across its rippling surface. Beyond it stood a great city, its walls shimmering with heat.

“The City of Brass,” said Sarmin.

“And the Lake of Fire, Lord Ashanagur’s home,” Govnan replied, swinging his cane in a circular motion towards the centre of the lake. In seconds a pillar of flame rose from the depths. From it rose a churning ball, streaked with black and green, fire dancing along a surface twice Sarmin’s height. It pulsed before the mammoth sun, spitting showers of sparks down into the liquid metal, before moving towards them, dragging behind it tendrils of white flame.

In Sarmin’s tower room it had taken the form of a fiery man. Now Sarmin understood Ashanagur was no man.

“Ashanagur,” said Govnan, his voice regaining some of the timbre Sarmin had thought lost to age.

The spirit’s voice hissed and crackled. “You have returned, High Mage, old Flesh-and-bone. And you, who gave me my freedom. And this.” It darted towards Moreth, who flinched. “Is this my payment for the crime of trespass?”

“No. I plan to offer you something greater than one man.”

“What could be greater than a life?”

“Freedom.”

Ashanagur rose up towards the great sun before swooping towards them again. “I have my freedom. Not one fire-sworn remains in your world.”

“I could bind you, right now.”

“You are frail. You diminish in the way of your kind, old Flesh-and-bone.”

“I am stronger than I ever was.” Govnan drew a rune upon the air and Ashanagur shrank away. “But I did not come to bind you. I came to ask a question.”

Ashanagur drifted, fire spitting from its form, until it had reached the centre of the lake. There it remained, pulsing black and green, its colours reflected in the molten rock. Sarmin thought it would return to the depths, but in time it spun back towards them, trailing orange fire, until at last it settled before Sarmin. Even the white flame that trailed away from it was longer than Sarmin was tall. “I owe this one a favour,” said Ashanagur. “I will answer the question for it.”

“Very well.” Govnan paused a moment, then asked, “It is about Meksha.”

“I rule this plane, not some god of flesh!”

“Indeed, She could not power the heat of Her mountain without help from one so great as you.”

Ashanagur gave a quick spin. “She does require my help.”

“As She always has, from the beginning?” Govnan inched towards the question of Meksha’s strength, but Ashanagur dismissed him with a bright shimmer.

“What is the beginning? She always has been in the Tower, as have I.”

“One more,” said Sarmin, stepping forwards, the toes of his slippers nearly in the rippling lake. “One more.”

Ashanagur darted at him, stopping only a hair’s width from his face. “For you,” it said.

“Have you seen the emptiness of the Great Storm?”

“I have. It does not see me, just as you do not see it—Mogyrk blinded the Tower.”

“How did Mogyrk blind the Tower?”

Ashanagur rose high above him and was silent. But at last it said, “Both of you creep around the same question.” It hovered over Moreth, its tendrils caressing his face and shoulders as the rock-sworn cringed in horror. “You may ask it, if I may have this one as payment.”

“No.” Sarmin pulled Moreth away from the flames. “I thank you, Lord Ashanagur.” He turned and walked a path of blue flame, his mind on Ashanagur’s words, his feet cutting a path from memory. It does not see me. The pattern lied, but perhaps it could also be lied to—or tricked. Without his ability to see patterns, Sarmin lacked the skill to try. But it all had something to do with Meksha and the crack in the wall. To his surprise he passed through the gate and found himself standing once more at the base of the Tower, Moreth and Govnan beside him. Compared to the plane of fire, this world was drab and grey. He blinked, unable for the moment to differentiate wall from stair. “Your sight will improve in time, Your Majesty,” said Govnan.

Sarmin barely acknowledged the high mage. “I must go,” he said, starting towards the stairs and the sword-sons at the top. “I have much to do.”