CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

FARID

Govnan laid a fifth parchment before Farid. Each was covered with an inked pattern different to the last. “This was transcribed from a spell cast by Yrkmir invaders in the time of the great defeat,” the high mage said, “when Helmar was taken from the palace.”

“I told you, I don’t recognise any of these.” Farid slid back his chair and looked out of the window. They sat in an airy room near the top of the Tower, with a view spreading over the courtyard and the north quarter of Nooria. Between the Tower walls and the Worship Gate stretched long streets of houses and temples that crushed up against the Blessing, their dark alleys crisscrossing like the nets his sister once made with twine. The Blessing continued north, beyond the walls, towards the mountains. Farid had never been so high up. He felt like a bird soaring over the landscape and looking down—except that far in the distance, parts of the northlands were obscured from his sight; they were greyish, as if covered by mist. He squinted and tried to see what was there, but his gaze kept sliding away from it like oil from water.

When Emperor Beyon’s tomb had collapsed, he had heard strange rumours about what had been inside: a nothingness, an impenetrable noth ingness impossible to look at. And Govnan continued to glance out the window, his eyes returning again and again to the same spot.

With an uneasy feeling Farid turned back to the parchments. All of these patterns were much more complicated than those he had learned in Adam’s cramped house.

Govnan was sending him to the desert, to a Fryth pattern mage. Farid knew the mage had offered to train him, but if he was anything like Adam, he expected to learn very little. Why the lofty Tower was showing interest in these witch-marks eluded him. Perhaps the Tower was sending him only because he was already stained by Mogyrk’s hand. The thought sparked anger—it was not his fault he had seen the pattern that day in the marketplace.

The high mage pointed at one of the shapes with a claw-like hand. “What does this shape mean?”

Farid folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Marke Kavic suggested that each of these formations names something. Water, bird, wool—is it like that?” Govnan shifted the parchments. “If I could just learn the key to these patterns …”

Farid pointed at an elongated diamond near the centre. “That one I know: Hiss-nick,” he said. “Adam only gave me the Fryth words.”

Govnan wrote down the word and placed a smaller parchment before him. This one was not so aged, and the design on it was thickly inked.

“What about this?”

Farid turned it in his fingers. The shapes tickled his memory. “Where did this come from?” he asked.

“It was on our prisoner’s wrist.”

Farid turned it from left to right, but that was not the problem. He needed a mirror. “I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s only half of something.”

“You are correct. It is a binding. But what are its properties?”

Farid stared, then shook his head. “Maybe the Fryth mage will teach me.” He meant it sarcastically, but Govnan nodded in his patient way.

“How many symbols did Adam teach you?”

Farid could take no more of sitting. He stood and paced to the end of the table, feeling his new robes swirl around his feet. He felt naked in them, with the air brushing against his skin with every movement. He thought for a moment, then said, “Fifty-two, and I guess that wasn’t even a tenth of them.” When Govnan frowned, he said, “I never wanted to learn these evil things. I still don’t. But words are not the key.”

“What is the key?”

Farid turned it over in his mind. Finally he picked up one of the complicated designs drawn by the ancient Yrkmen. “It’s the way they work together,” he said, running a finger along a line of triangles. “No single part can hold the spell—they need to work together.”

“Words have no meaning, then?” asked Govnan, frustrated, but Farid kept his eyes on the parchment. He had been looking at it wrong. These symbols were not meant to rest on a flat plane. Instead they ordered themselves above and below, forwards and backwards, into the storied ages of Nooria itself. The parchment set his fingers tingling and a longing to imitate the pattern on the stones around him almost overcame him, the need to surround himself with gleaming lines and interlocking shapes.

Feeling disgusted with himself, he dropped it.

Govnan took it as resignation and sighed. “We do not have much time, but you may visit your father. My mages usually have no family contact, but since you have lived in Nooria …”

Farid sighed with relief. “So he knows I’m alive.” He picked up another parchment, and itched to draw its pattern.

“Of course he does,” said Govnan, “he has been enquiring every hour if he may see you. He is in the courtyard.”

Farid wanted to run towards his father, but he could not tear his eyes from the patterns. He touched one of the symbols with two fingers. “Fire, I think.” Shack-nuth. He could give the old man that much. Before leaving he walked to the black basin where Govnan had built a sacrificial fire to Meksha. “Shack-nuth,” he said, but the flames did not alter. Of course it would not be so simple.

Mage Mura opened the door behind him. A breeze followed her into the room, brushing against Farid’s cheeks, and he turned. She looked at him and the parchments with curiosity, and he looked back with no less. “Captain Ziggur is ready now,” she said, and Govnan sighed.

“We are out of time,” he said. “Hurry and say goodbye to your father.”

Farid leaned closer to the old man. “Can Mura—can she fly?”

Govnan put a hand on his shoulder and gave a nostalgic smile. “No, my son,” he said, “nobody can.”

“What if she held more than one spirit? Could they lift her then?”

“Well, that has been done,” said Govnan, “during the glorious past of our Tower. Controlling an elemental is a matter of will, and two are infinitely more difficult to control than one. In the time of Uthman and his descendants, we had many mages commanding two or more. But not today.”

“Oh,” said Farid with disappointment. “I thought one day I might fly, or swim in the ocean, like they do in the old tales.”

“So did I, Farid,” Govnan said. “So did I.” He gave Farid’s shoulder a pat and then pushed him on. “Hurry, now; they are waiting for you.”

In the courtyard Farid met Captain Ziggur, a gruff man in his later years of soldiery who believed him a mage and treated him with deference he had not earned. Dozens of people stood around the statues, mostly soldiers, too many to greet, and so he did not—but he soon heard his father’s voice.

“Farid!”

He turned and saw him, a plainly dressed man with rich brown eyes. “Farid,” his father said again, holding his big hands in front of him as if in prayer.

“Father.” He smiled. “I am so glad to see you.”

His father looked away humbly, as if he were in the presence of a noble or a wealthy merchant. “I’m overjoyed you’re alive. I know you have great things to do—Tower things—but perhaps we’ll see each other again when you return. Sir.”

“Father, you don’t have to—”

But his father had bowed and turned away, leaving him shaken. Why did his father treat him like a stranger? His mother had died of the pattern-sickness—had he now lost his father too, because of the pattern? He hoped his sister would not shrink from him as well—and he started to wonder who Adam had lost during his long years as an austere. Had he become so alone, so emptied of love, that Mogyrk had filled every part of him?

Captain Ziggur spoke to him and handed him the reins of a horse, but Farid barely heard his words. He had gone from fruit-seller to Tower mage in a matter of days and perhaps he would be dead in a few more—but he would die as Farid, not as some mage his father did not know.

“Father!” he called, and the older man turned, showing his eyes at last, hope registering in the dark depths of them.

“I will be back.”

Farid wobbled on his horse. The Blue Shields had given him an old mare, slow and gentle, but even so, staying seated took effort. The sun beat down on his unfamiliar mage’s robes and put a thirst in his throat. The soldiers had asked him what sort of mage he was—whether he commanded rock or water, fire or air—to position him in their force for the greatest advantage. He had looked at them in frustration, until he finally remembered the word he was seeking was “novice,” which meant he was useless to the soldiers, who put him in the centre like a child. That left him in a foul mood, and he found himself wishing he were back in the comfort of the Tower, examining old patterns.

The train did not move with speed, for the horse chief they were following had not been given a mount. The heat was taking its toll as he limped through the sand in his chains, and his fair skin burned red in the desert sun. From the soldiers’ talk Farid gathered this chief had been responsible for the White Hat defeat. Though the Whites and Blues had an ancient rivalry, they joined together in hatred of their enemies. At midday, when they ate and rested, sheltered from the sun, these soldiers of the Shield boasted how they would knife their captive before sunset—but afterwards, they mounted and continued as they had begun, with the yellow-haired man in front, stumbling westwards between the dunes.

The soldiers threw water at him from time to time, and likely some of it ended in his mouth, but they jeered and shouted insults, threatening to kill him—though if he died, they would not find the Fryth mage they were looking for. To Farid they were small men, and not very clever, but at least they were confident in their mission. He was not so certain in his.

His legs ached from being in the unfamiliar saddle and his head ached from the sun. Some found the desert beautiful, but Farid’s limited experience with the place was giving him a different opinion. He had heard stories of merchants who lost their way in the dunes and died of the heat within a day. He believed if the desert had to be dealt with, it should be done quickly, and he longed to return to the safety of Nooria and the cool relief of the Blessing. They had left the city through the Gate of Storms, the west-facing gate used by caravans and nomads, and he could not wait to see it again.

The long train slowed. In front, the captive had fallen to his knees, and thinking this the death of the horse chief Farid nudged his mare forwards. He might be the only man present who would look upon the event with any solemnity or pity. But the soldiers had not stopped for the chief’s death; they had reached their goal, a camp in the lee of a great dune. Farid counted several dozen horses but only half as many men, some of them taller than any he had ever seen, long scabbards at their sides glowing orange in the setting sun. Brightly coloured tents rose from the sand, surrounded by a confusion of barrels and crates. Though the company was small, Farid worried that any group of armed men had been able to camp so close to Nooria.

As the Cerani paused, the tall soldiers in the camp gathered to look, hands hovering by their sword hilts—but then one of their number stepped forwards. Like the rest, his hair was black and his skin pale, but he wore a different garment, darkest blue, with epaulettes and bright buttons. Farid had never owned anything with a button, but this man had twelve, ten down his front and one on each shoulder. He looked like a captain of soldiers, not a mage, and yet the way he held himself, the way his eyes did one thing while his hands did another, suggested an uncommon awareness.

“I am Didryk.” The mage spoke Cerani with a strong accent. He walked to where the chief had collapsed in the sand and helped him up before holding a waterskin to his lips. “Remove his chains,” he said to the Cerani captain.

Captain Ziggur refused with a motion of his hand. “He comes back with us.”

“But we have not even started our negotiations,” said Didryk. He lifted his head and his blue eyes instantly picked Farid from the crowd. Farid felt a shock of recognition—like for like—before the mage backed up, pulling the captive with him. It was then Farid noticed a glimmer in the sand, and then another, spreading in an arc away from the mage’s boots. “You are standing inside my pattern,” said Didryk, “so you really should do as I ask.”

“It’s true.” Shapes shone from the shifting ground, geometries of line and curve, all of it beyond Farid’s ken but quickly saved to memory. He pointed. “Can you not see it, Captain?”

The captain ignored Farid and spat into the sand. “Putting a knife to our necks is not a good way to start, Duke Didryk.” “I take few risks,” said Didryk.

Farid studied the mage with interest. He saw no pattern-marks, no totems or charms, no wind or fire behind his eyes, and neither was he muscled like Austere Adam. Even so, Farid did not intend to take him on.

The captain dismounted, pulled keys from his belt and leaned over the captive. All of the men watched in silence as he worked, until with a jangling the chains fell off to the side.

The duke said something in his own language then, and his tall soldiers took the blond man among them. “Now I will give you Arigu,” he said, “and that will be a good start to our dealings.”

“You are giving us no more than what’s owed, Northerner, and taking our prisoner besides.”

“We are trading, one man for one man.” And as Didryk spoke, his men brought forth a Cerani, burly and soft in the way of muscled men who have taken to their chairs for too long, but this one was not lazy; his sharp eyes took in and measured their company. He could be none other than the fabled General Arigu, who wasted no time taking command. “Where is the Windreader chief? Give him to me.”

“They took him.” The captain motioned to the tents coloured by the setting sun.

“Fool!” Arigu struggled against the Fryth who held him. “Archers, kill them all!”

These were Blue Shields and they did not take orders from White Hat generals—yet the archers reached for their bows. No sooner had their fingers touched wood than a great concussion sounded over the assembly and Farid fell from his horse, holding his ears in pain. Other soldiers landed around him, eyes wide with fear, hands pressed full against their heads as their horses bolted from the circle. After a moment Farid found his feet and took in the size of the pattern. The duke had made it large enough for all of them, and for half again as many.

“Back up!” said the captain, waving at his men. “Get away from the Mogyrk camp!”

“Don’t move!” the duke called out. “I will kill you before you take a step.” He took a breath and Farid could see that he was trembling. “I want only to make a fair trade.”

“All they have is that circle!” shouted Arigu. “Just some easy tricks! There are not so many of them—we can—” He stopped when a blade was put to his neck.

“See how brave he is when he stands outside my work,” said the duke. A push, and the general stumbled forwards, landing beside the captain. “There you are. It is good to be rid of him. I trade you a man for a man.”

Ziggur gave a respectful nod to the general before turning back to the Fryth leader. “And the help you offered, Duke?”

Didryk gestured at Farid. “You brought a mage with you. He will stay with me.”

Farid stared, anticipation and dread together rushing over his skin. Everyone watched him, waiting, and so he took a step forwards, but General Arigu held out an arm to stop him.

“Do you think we will leave our mage with you? No. You will come with us.”

To Farid’s surprise Duke Didryk barely considered the proposal before giving his assent. “Very well—but give me the night. In the morning we will go to the city. I will not harm you if you leave the circle now, but try no tricks, for I warn you, our camp is well-protected.”

Arigu turned upon the duke. Farid could see violence in the shape of the general’s shoulders, the tightness of his fists, and it struck Farid how little more than a knife-edge separated blood from comfortable discourse. “You negotiate with me now, Duke. And we leave tonight.”

The captain lowered his voice. “But General, my orders—”

Arigu took the man by the shoulders and dragged him aside, hissing, “You want to trust these men? You think to rest your bones by a comfortable fire, roast some meat, toast the emperor, heaven and stars protect him, and have a good night’s sleep?” Arigu pointed at the mage. “This man is your enemy. The other one, the one you let go, slit at least twelve of my best men’s throats while they slept—men better than you, Blue Shield. We leave tonight.” With that he pushed the captain aside.

Ziggur rubbed at his beard, the cheeks above them bright red. “We leave tonight, Duke Didryk,” he called out, but he was no longer in charge, and the duke was already bowing to Arigu, his former captive. “Allow me to gather my things, General.” His eyes were calculating all the new possibilities.

“Do not take too long, Duke,” said Arigu, “or I will come and find you.”

“You may try. There are wards.” The duke backed away. “Give me two hours.”

“You have nothing left to bargain with, remember,” said Arigu. “Be fast, now.”

Didryk disappeared behind his men.

Arigu motioned to a group of soldiers. “Go around to the back of the camp. Make sure he doesn’t leave us here holding our pricks.”

At Arigu’s command the Blue Shields galloped off through the sand. Ziggur stood rubbing his neck, looking a fool. Arigu ignored him and turned to Farid instead. They were of a height, but Arigu outweighed him; his shoulders were wider, his legs thicker. “What’s your magic? I mean to capture the horse chief. Earth or air would be helpful.”

“I have no magic.”

“They sent me a decrepit captain and a mage with no talent.” Arigu rubbed his beard and looked in the direction of Nooria. “I see. Our emperor, heaven bless him, has made a mistake.”

Farid looked wide-eyed at the man’s treasonous words, but Arigu had already turned away from him. “Where is the best horse?” he asked Ziggur. “I want the best horse you have.” Ziggur indicated his own, and Arigu took a moment to remove the captain’s things before mounting. “I will return to the palace when I have caught that lame bastard,” he snarled, and with that, he kicked the horse and was gone.

Farid glanced at Ziggur before moving off to examine the pattern-marks. The duke had laid three concentric patterns on the sand, reds and yellows and blues glimmering under the sun. He followed the lines of them, walking the perimeter three times, one for each pattern. The inner two he could not fathom, but he shivered to look at the third. He did not understand the marks and he could not get a sense of their arrangement—the area being so large—but he knew it was there to cause harm. At intervals he crouched down and memorised what he could.

“Let’s go!” shouted Ziggur, and Farid looked around to see the duke, dressed as before, except now with a satchel slung over one shoulder. He did not imagine mages required many possessions, their riches being of another kind, but this man was also a duke; he would have expected more in the way of baggage. Didryk whistled, and a fine grey horse, his coat gleaming, appeared, bearing a silver-trimmed saddle. Farid knew little of horses, but even so he could see this one spoke eloquently of the duke’s station. His sense of social order satisfied, he found his own horse around the curve of a nearby dune. It took a few minutes to coax her into letting him mount, as awkward a rider as he was, and he guided her back to the column. With a shock, he found the duke was waiting for him, flanked by two guardsmen.

In the growing dark Didryk’s eyes took on the colour of night and his pale skin stood out against the dunes. “You were with Second Austere Adam,” he said.

Farid swallowed. He hated the thought of anyone overhearing that. “Yes,” he muttered, and flinched when the duke raised a hand, but he meant only to touch a finger against Farid’s forehead.

“Can you feel it?” he asked.

Farid grabbed at his reins. “Your finger? Of course I can.”

“No; what Adam did.” Didryk tilted his head in question. After a moment he said, “You do not know.”

Farid remembered Adam’s words: You will help me. His stomach twisted. “No. What is it?”

“I cannot tell.” Didryk frowned. “Adam is good at disguising his marks. I think the word in your language is sneaky. He is neither a good teacher nor a good man.”

“He taught you.”

“No,” said the duke, with a shake of his head, “I taught myself. I read the old books I found hidden away in the library. He whipped me for it, but I kept on.”

“Because you needed to know,” said Farid. He understood that desire.

“Yes.” They rode on in silence for a time until at last the duke added, “But the pattern is not everything it promises. Its offerings are weak—it’s all shadows in the mirror. And it lies.”

“In the marketplace its offerings were not weak. It was not a lie that those people died.”

Didryk turned to him, his face stern. “I will not be teaching you how to do that. Such things were never meant to be.” With that his horse began to pull ahead.

“Why?” Farid awkwardly kicked his mare, struggling to keep up. “Adam taught me only two patterns. Will you teach me more?”

“What did he teach you?”

“How to call water, and how to destroy wood.”

Didryk slowed his horse and looked back at Farid. “You learned them both? Already?”

“I did.”

“Those are the only patterns most austeres need. They take most students years to master.”

“Water and wood is all that I need?”

“Student,” said Didryk, and Farid realised he had not introduced himself. “Student, you now have the ability to call and to destroy. That is all that is taught, besides warding, which anybody could do and I will teach you soon. All you need is to learn the correct symbols.”

Those are the only two patterns most austeres need. It could not be that easy. It was not that easy. Farid lost control over the mare again and fell behind, and the nearby soldiers laughed at him. His cheeks red, he slowed even more and let them all pass. The duke had underestimated him. He was no scribe, to copy the same patterns over and over, replacing only the symbols inside. The patterns Govnan had shown him delved deep into time and history. The pattern could do more than call and destroy—the pattern could create, destroy, rearrange—and he would learn it. If the duke would not help him, he needed to go back to the Tower and teach himself.