CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GOVNAN

Govnan stood at the desk of the high Tower room and looked out over the god’s wound, stretching from the river as far west as he could see and looming over the northern walls. A spyglass was no longer required to check its progress; anybody in the city could see it now, rising to the north as grey and featureless as fog. The attack on the temple of Meksha had been all that was needed to draw it closer. The pale sickness would be upon them soon, and with it the djinn who rode the emptied.

Emperor Sarmin had given him a command to stop the Storm, and he would do everything in his power to obey. If he did nothing else during his tenure as high mage, he must find a way to protect the city. Over the last few months he and Moreth had tried all of the knowledge they possessed—and some they did not, delving into the ancient spells they did not know how to work—and had achieved nothing. One thing Lord Ashanagur had said offered hope: the Great Storm does not see me. The hope had stood like a crack of light through a door, but he had not known how to push the door open—not until he had seen the Blessing, running unharmed along the edge of the Storm.

He looked over the parchments on the table. They understood so little about the Yrkmen, even after centuries of rivalry. He saw no similarities between Tower magic and the pattern. The runes he used were secret words of control. He did not need to arrange them—he used the word and his will, which was strong. But the Tower’s strength was fading; even down to its cracked wall.

A copy of the binding-mark Sarmin had seen on Chief Banreh’s wrist lay discarded on the table. Farid had not been able to identify that one, but he had identified another as “fire.” Govnan examined them both. Could the magic of Yrkmir and Cerana together be his answer?

It was dangerous to fool with pattern-magic: the marketplace attacks had shown him that much. And yet he dipped his quill in the ink and made a bonding mark, replacing the original symbol with the one for fire. Nothing happened as he drew the last line—there was no flash of light or shaking of the earth—but Farid had warned him that no small part worked on its own. He lifted it, the ink still wet, and pressed it upon his skin, leaving a mirror image on his wrist. Night had fallen and the air around him turned cold. He shivered.

A loud crackle brought Govnan’s attention to Meksha’s flame in its black basin. It had grown brighter, louder, hotter, and he felt its heat from where he shivered by the window. With the night’s cold a longing stirred inside him and he found himself beside the blaze. He passed a hand through it but he felt no warmth. Though it responded to the pattern-mark, this sacrificial flame gave only a dim reflection of true fire. Govnan knew true fire, and he desired it more than anything.

“Govnan,” Mura called from the doorway. He turned to look at the young mage he considered a daughter, her dark hair and flowing robes, and felt proud. Beside her hulked Moreth, his face sculpted by worry.

“Come, come my children,” he said, waving them in. “Where is Farid?”

Mura answered, “At the barracks, marking the soldiers.”

The mages entered and sat together at the table, looking like children at class, and he laughed. Moreth was big as two men, yet he watched the high mage like a wide-eyed pupil.

“But you are grown now,” he told them, “and the Tower will soon be yours. The two of you, and Hashi.”

“And Farid,” said Mura.

The cold still pressed around Govnan and he longed for the warmth an elemental would bring. “That will be for you to decide. I want to tell you both that I know you will succeed. Though our numbers are few, we have ever been wise and capable.”

Moreth leaned forwards. If stone could burn, then it burned in his eyes. “What are you telling us, High Mage?”

“That unusual things are about to happen, and I do not know how they will end. But whatever occurs, I know my children will succeed. You will address the crack in the Tower and you will address the Storm as the emperor, heaven bless him, requires.”

Mura blinked. “I just found my way home, Govnan—do not leave us.”

Moreth took her hand.

“A mage of the Tower takes an oath to serve the empire, no matter the cost. That oath lies ten times as heavily on the man in that iron chair.” He touched Mura’s cheek. “You and Amalya were joys to me. And you, Moreth, you have come so far, in less than a year. My accomplishments are small, but not in this. Not in this.”

Mura stood, a tear on her cheek, speechless.

“Where are you going?” Moreth’s voice scraped with sorrow.

“To the realm of fire.” Even speaking of it set a rush of desire rippling through his bones.

The rock-sworn stood. “Then I will go with you.”

“No—it may not go well and I will not have you harmed.” He put a hand on Moreth’s shoulder. “You may help me down the stairs, though.”

“Yes, High Mage.” Moreth took Govnan’s arm and together they stepped towards the door. Govnan stopped to put his hand on Mura’s cheek. “My girl,” he said. And then he left her.

He and the rock-sworn descended one storey after another, Moreth silent, Govnan brooding. He remembered Sarmin’s threat to tear down the Tower, and thought to himself that something a bit wider and shorter might well suffice in its place. He smiled.

“What amuses you, High Mage?” asked Moreth, his granite eyes on the stairs.

“Only that everything ends, and that is not always a bad thing. Listen to me, Moreth. I will go into the portal alone.”

Moreth’s hand clenched around Govnan’s elbow. “I have control of Rorswan, High Mage.”

“You do, but the power Meksha gave us may be weakening—thus the crack.” In truth, it had been weakening for centuries, since the time of Satreth the Reclaimer, who had defeated the Yrkmen and driven them from Nooria the first time. “I will not risk you. Once I open the portal you must stay away from it.”

Moreth was silent a long while, but at last agreed with a low grunt. They reached the lowest level and Moreth turned to him with a bow. “Thank you, High Mage, for all you have taught me. I will endeavour …”

“I know you will.” Govnan patted his shoulder. “Now, Moreth,” he said, beginning to draw his runes, “it is time for you to go.” To his relief the rock-sworn made no complaints, and he heard his feet, heavy on the stairs. He continued his work, the runes glowing at first, then bursting with light.

He made his last stroke and the four portals stood before him in all their wonder. To the realms of water, rock, and air, he gave only a passing glance; he was not familiar with them. Fire, he knew; fire he wanted. He stepped through into a world of streaming colour. The great red sun burned low in the sky and rivulets of flame danced around his feet.

He took a step forwards, but a figure of molten brass rose before him, blocking his way. It had chosen the shape of a woman, well-formed and tall, hair streaming yellow threads of fire. Govnan recognised Amalya’s form and knew the spirit mocked him, for it was the elemental that had consumed her. “I come to treat with Lord Ashanagur, Metrishet.”

The mouth opened, dripping metal, showing teeth and a tongue that glowed coal-hot. “You will not.”

“Step out of my way, fire-spirit, or I shall have you as my own.”

“Old flesh-and-bone!” It grabbed its stomach in the imitation of laughter. “You have not the strength.”

He drew a rune upon the air, the Cerani symbol of bonding. The spirit shuddered and gave a high scream, but Govnan did not end there. He added another, the same one inscribed on his own wrist, a symbol of the dead Mogyrk god. Molten brass shed from the spirit’s form, pooling in the flames at their feet, and it shrieked and cried as its legs dripped to nothing and its chest cracked and shattered. At last only its head remained, and then Govnan saw nothing but its open mouth, glowing red, sounding its agony. He reached out for it, saying the words, and they joined together. Metrishet.

Govnan at once remembered the feel of heat through his veins, the rush of power as he wrestled the spirit’s will. He had been a young man the first time, but age had not weakened his determination.

“Metrishet, you will obey me and serve the Cerani Empire.” Metrishet struggled and squirmed within him and he stumbled, falling to his knees. “You will obey me,” he said again, and pressed the mark on his wrist …

… and fell into an alien world. All was dark, and need, and hatred. I am stuck. I am stuck. He struggled to get free, a wild fear driving him to thrash and claw against that which held him. I will kill it. Govnan lifted his arm and a plume of fire rose high against the sun, dancing blue across the red sky. He longed to devour his captor, to burn away the flesh and turn its bone to ash, for the fire was part of him now, its workings no matter of command but of instinct.

He fell upon his hands in the realm of fire. “No—!” He controlled the seething anger, the terror. It is not mine, not mine. “You will obey me in all things. You will serve Cerana.”

Yes.

It was only one word, but the struggles ceased. It had been this way the first time with Ashanagur; once the fight was over, the elementals calmed and began their long wait for a sign of weakness, for the mage’s control to slip. But this time it was different; this time the spirit could not hide its thoughts from him. He checked his wrist. The pattern-mark was still there.

Govnan stood, feeling ten years younger, and continued towards the lake of fire. Mages of his era did not take more than one elemental. It was difficult enough to control a single spirit, and the risk of being overcome was several times greater for each one beyond the first. And yet it had been done—by Ghelen the Holy, and by many who came after him. Those men had lived only six years, six months, six weeks—not the extended lifetime enjoyed by Tower mages today. But that no longer mattered.

At the edge of the lake he held out his staff and Ashanagur responded, leaping from the depths like a dolphin from the sea, aimed straight at Govnan. “Deceitful—”

“I made no oath,” said Govnan, drawing the runes in the air, his staff adding power to the incantation. Ashanagur’s glory, the midnight-blue and ebony-black of its flame, its train of orange light and the essence of its heat, shrank to a bright nimbus around the tip of his staff. He marked it with the pattern, standing fast against Ashanagur’s complaints. The Lord of Fire knew Govnan well; it knew all the weaknesses that came upon him in the dead of night, and fought hard—but it could not overcome Cerana and Yrkmir together.

Blood running hot from his conquests, Govnan sought more: here, a lesser spirit, there a greater one, and joined all to his will, his mind, each one making him stronger against the next. He did not know how many hours he spent in Ashanagur’s realm, raiding the lake of the lord contained within him, but at five, he could hold no more. Fire crawled from his nose and wound about his tongue; when he moved his hands, his fingers left a trail of white flame. He returned to the portal. In the Tower it was dark, but he lit the basement room with orange.

We go to the wall.

It does not know what we are.

It cannot see us.

Govnan turned to the stairs and began the climb.