CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

SARMIN

They hurried through the dark, torches held high, the street-stones ragged and uneven under their feet. Grada kept an eye on those around them—any one of them could turn and become the tool of the first austere—and his sword-sons watched the roofs and high walls, wary of archers. They took too many risks in their breathless rush to the Tower, but Sarmin had insisted. He would see what the first austere had wrought.

Blue Shields waited for him at the entrance to the courtyard, more torches in hand. Between their flames and the fire in the north Sarmin could see very well. And there was another light, subtle but insistent, rising from where the Tower once had been.

Sarmin halted before a statue of Meksha. He saw no rubble or stone pieces; instead, piles of dust high as dunes, a domed roof big as a house and a great bell lay in the courtyard, surrounded by smaller debris—books, mirror-backs, cooking-pots. No longer did the gleaming roof pierce the sky. The great brass doors no longer warned of power within. The Tower no longer rose like a great pillar, commanding a view of the desert in every direction. Sarmin took a stumbling step forwards. News of this would travel the world swifter than a pigeon could fly, and soon every nation and people would know that Nooria’s mighty Tower had been struck low.

A dust-covered, hulking man approached and he recognised Moreth, the young rock-sworn.

“It is gone, Your Majesty,” he said. In one hand he held a child’s ragdoll, covered with powdered stone.

Sarmin pressed his lips together. “What happened?”

Moreth was slow to speak, like the rock he had bound to him. “Farid might know.”

“Farid is alive? Where is he?”

“He went down there, Magnificence.” Moreth gestured towards the ruin and scratched his head, looking miserable. “He jumped into the … Rorswan says that he still lives.”

“Jumped?” Sarmin looked at the hole where the Tower had been. “Show me.” Moreth led him on, and he marvelled at the destruction. The first austere must have divined the state of Cerana’s mages. Now there would be no avoiding open war, though he did not think the first austere had ever intended he could.

As he grew closer to the ruin a tingling lit upon his skin and his heart beat faster. There was magic here. Moreth stopped at the edge of the ragged pit and pointed. “He jumped into that old well.”

Sarmin followed the line of his finger and saw a pool of scintillating light casting colours against the ragged walls of the pit. Around it several Blue Shields were struggling with a length of rope, presumably in an attempt to rescue Farid. Sarmin reached out a hand towards the magic, but it was too far away, fully half the diameter of the ruined Tower. “I will climb down.”

“Your Majesty! Will you help with the rescue?”

He did not answer but took hold of the rope that was secured by the great bell and grasped it. He had never in his life slid down a rope, nor climbed up one, but he was the emperor and he must be assumed to be capable of everything. He lowered himself too quickly and the hemp burned the palms of his hands. His slippered feet hit the bottom too soon, shocking him, jarring his knees.

Grada slid down immediately after.

“Your Majesty!” A young soldier with green eyes made his obeisance; the others were still fussing with their rescue attempt.

“Rise,” Sarmin said with a gesture, passed the Blue Shield and forgot him. He stood on the edge of the pool, his slippers balanced on the copper rim, and held out a hand to the light. It was the brilliance of it that amazed, the brightness that flowed into him from his suspended fingers, warm and pillow-soft. And when he opened his eyes he saw each man in designs: Didryk’s ill-fitting ward laid over his surface, below that the person he presented to the world, and underneath that his true self, shown in a spectrum of colour. One of the soldiers was revealed to be twisted and malicious, but when Sarmin attempted to alter him, he found that nothing had changed in that way; he could not affect patterns, only see them for what they were. This was the wisdom Meksha had offered him.

Sarmin waved a hand at the soldiers. “Leave us.”

One by one they made their way up the rope as Sarmin settled in the dust and dirt next to the pool and watched the colours dance over its surface. This was what the Yrkmen had hidden: they had buried Meksha’s true blessing beneath the Tower. That explained the fading of their abilities, the dwindling number of mages: with less power there was less to send into every next generation. This was what had cracked the wall—the pool, paved over or blocked for many years, had finally pushed its way through the stone, causing the very earth to tremble.

But though they had gained, they had also lost: they no longer had the portals to the other realms. Those spells had been woven into the stone, and the stone was gone.

That was a worry for another time.

“Can you see the magic, Grada?” he asked.

“Only out of the corner of my eye,” she said, and that seemed to him a very good answer. When he turned to her he saw her in many different ways: assassin, daughter, worker, even lover. Her colours were violet and yellow, showing a loving spirit crossed by brutality, and that did not surprise him.

“Farid will be well,” he said. He stayed by the pool a while longer, absorbing its warmth. When it came time to rebuild the Tower he would put this pool in its centre, as Ghelen had before him in the days of the founding.

At last he stood and did his best to climb the rope, though in the end the soldiers had to haul him up. As he straightened, dusting the dirt from his robes, he said to Moreth, “You must descend and have a taste of Meksha’s blessing.”

Moreth looked at the pit with curiosity but said, “I dare not, for my control over Rorswan is weak, Your Majesty.”

“As you will.” The courtyard had fallen into darkness, even with the torches lining the walls, and with a start he looked to the north. Govnan’s great net had fallen, replaced by a featureless, blank space, emitting no light, taking no form. “The Storm,” he said, looking away from it, dread curdling in his stomach. Grada took her place beside him, but for the first time her presence offered no comfort.

The sound of running feet filled the silence, sandals slapping against the stone, and when he turned Azeem veered into view, his eyes wide, his robes in disarray. He reached Sarmin’s side, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths. “Your Majesty,” he said, puffing, “the fighting has begun.”