CHAPTER FIFTY

SARMIN

“It was Govnan’s fire, Your Majesty,” said General Hazran, his bushy moustache drooping over his lips, his mind set on both duty and honour. “I believe it wrested control from him before it attacked the Yrkman army.”

Sarmin slowed in his path to the throne room. That Govnan was dead had not occurred to him. He pressed his hand to his stomach, as if to push down the rising grief. There was no time to think of the old man, his bright eyes, his wise counsel. Right now there was a battle to fight, and the Storm approached.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” said General Merkel, “the Yrkmen attacked first. I hear the first austere attempted to assassinate you with a pattern-spell— and let us not forget they have destroyed the Tower!”

“If that is what happened,” said Arigu, his voice hinting at some deception.

Sarmin gave him a sharp look.

“They have been attacking us from the beginning,” said Lurish, waving a hand. “The marketplaces, the temple of Meksha—”

“In any case, Govnan’s fire made a great commotion among the ranks of the Yrkmen, killing many and sending others running in fear.” Arigu smiled, his spirit flashing a spectrum of colours. “But then the austeres trapped them—and now they act as no more than lanterns, casting light over the battle.”

There was a sudden silence as everyone considered Govnan’s likely death. It was Lurish who braved the quiet. “High Mage Govnan is gone—but what of our other mages?”

“The mages survived the destruction of the Tower,” said Sarmin, finally moving to the dais. Grada took her place at his right. “They join the fight at the wall.” He did not mention that Farid was still at the bottom of a well, leaving only two, but the paucity of the Tower mages would not be secret for long. The soldiers would remember that only two had ever come to fight with them. They would talk, and the talk would eventually spread throughout the empire: the Tower was gone, and Cerana’s mages with it.

Mesema came in through the side door, followed by her guards, and walked to the bottom step of the dais. In his sight the essence of her was undivided. Her pattern, herself, and her soul were one and the same. There was no lie to her—and no lie to the love she gave him. He drew strength from that.

“Arigu.” He turned to the general. “I want to hear your plan should Yrkmir breach our walls.”

A hush fell over the gathered courtiers. Dinar took a step towards the throne, his eyes glinting in the lantern light, as the general gave a lengthy pause. After a moment Arigu leaned in, too close, almost rude in his proximity. Sarmin could feel the tension in the sword-sons behind him. “There is an issue to be addressed, Your Majesty.”

“Then address it.”

Arigu cleared his throat. “The worship of Mogyrk has been made legal and its priests spread its poison throughout our city. A Mogyrk duke who killed several of my White Hats sleeps comfortably in the guest wing. The Felting chief rests in the temple of Mirra, secure in his friendship with the empress. Even the austere is safe from harm in the dungeon. Consorting with our enemies has led to weakness.” Arigu turned towards the small, rapt audience, indulging his sense of theatre. “Now our own Tower has been destroyed. The Tower, a pillar of Nooria, key to our defences, is gone.”

Sarmin watched the face of each man in the room. Dinar and Arigu would have planned ahead; they would have spoken to every one of his courtiers, convinced them of the rightness of their complaint. “The duke has protected all of you from pattern-attacks.” He did not mention Banreh. He realised Arigu had tricked him into keeping Banreh safe just for this display, and it was not something he wished to admit. “And my wife has proven her loyalty time and again. Did she not help me execute Helmar?” At the foot of the dais Mesema stood very still, like a mouse in the sight of a cat, her men nearly as still behind her.

Dinar gave a chilling smile. “Before that she helped Beyon, heaven and stars with him now.”

Beyon had been buried with all honours and no citizen knew he had been marked; but the palace knew. They had deposed him for it. Now Dinar was skirting the issue of Pelar’s parentage, so Sarmin spoke carefully. “My brother was never one of the Many.” Azeem and Grada flanked him now, both silent, one out of consternation and the other out of rage.

Arigu raised his hands, palms up, to show his honesty. “When I brought her from the Grass, I saw the empress—then the princess—caught in a furtive embrace with the traitor. Long before today she plotted with the chief.”

“And I caught her with him in the temple of Mirra, in an intimate tryst,” said Dinar. “Assar will attest to it. She is led by this chief and has sympathy for the Mogyrk cause.”

Assar backed away, his eyes shadowed. Arigu gestured at one of Mesema’s guardsmen. “Sendhil, tell him.”

“Your Majesty,” said the guard, presenting a sorrowful face, “the empress disappears for long periods of time, out of our sight, and I fear her secrets will lead us to the traitor and his Mogyrk allies.”

“You see,” said Arigu.

“That is proof of nothing,” said Grada. “I was with her—I am not Mogyrk.”

“No. You are worse,” said Dinar.

She took a half-step, gripping the hilt of her Knife, but Sarmin cut her off with a movement of his hand. “What is this about? The Yrkmen wait at the gate. The Tower has fallen. The Great Storm approaches and yet you are here, spreading rumours and division.” A buzzing came to his ears and his skin tingled with the Scar’s magic; he shook it off and focused on Arigu.

“My men won’t give their lives for a corrupted empire. The city is rotting for the indulgences you give to traitors and Mogyrks, Magnificence!”

A shocked silence fell over the room.

“Give us the chief,” Dinar said in a voice like smooth steel, “and put aside your wife. Then the men will fight. Your Majesty.” To punctuate his demand Sendhil took Mesema’s arm as if he meant to take her to the dungeon, or worse.

The sight filled Sarmin with cold rage and he snarled, “You would bring Nooria to ruin over this?” They knew he would never give up his wife— they would never allow them to take her—but they also knew that he could never abandon his city’s defences. It was a trap, designed so he would fail, but what then? Would they install Daveed on the Petal Throne, with Arigu as his advisor? Or would they find Pelar and groom him to their purpose? Trying not to look at the rough hand clenching Mesema’s skin he did a calculation: he had Grada and the four sword-sons. They had double that number—if no one switched sides.

Beyond Dinar’s dark robes he saw Duke Didryk, standing at the great doors, waiting to be announced. He carried no sword and his guards were not with him.

Sarmin wondered if things might have gone better had he just killed Banreh when his mother told him to—or if he had allowed Dinar to carve the man to pieces. It had never felt like the right time, the right action. Was it Mirra’s mercy, or Meksha’s restraint—had he held Her gift even before he went to the pool?

He understood Arigu’s fears: as a general, he depended on the strength of the emperor. Arigu saw no power in mercy; winning was all-important. Winning palace games, winning battles, winning wars: winning kept Nooria safe. And yet it was for Sarmin to shape the empire, for Sarmin to decide what things were worth killing for, what wars were worth fighting. What kind of man am I? What kind of man do I want to be?

Sarmin approached the high priest. “Dinar has been making his sacrifices regularly: a prisoner here, an innocent victim there, sand-cats, birds, jackals—has it helped our city? Has it helped our palace?”

“Herzu is displeased with you and with your love of Mogyrk. Sacrifices do little in such a circumstance.”

Sarmin walked a slow circle around Dinar. He saw that the traitor guard still held Mesema in a tight grip and he clenched his fists. “You mean my curiosity, my wisdom, my love for Cerana. These are things you cannot understand. They disgust you.” Grada moved closer, her hand ready on the hilt of her Knife.

Arigu waved a hand, uncertainty in his face. “What we are asking for is punishment for the transgressors, no more.”

“And tearing the skin from a man is fair punishment?”

Dinar sneered and spat, “Herzu cares nothing for what is fair. Herzu is about power, and what can be done with it. Taking lives, taking thrones. If you are strong enough to do it, then it is yours to do. There is no fair.”

“Thank you,” said Sarmin, and plunged Tuvaini’s dagger between the high priest’s ribs as his brothers had shown him, as he had killed the Pattern Master. Behind him steel rang as all the sword-sons drew their hachirahs. Grada already held her twisted Knife and was scanning the men before her.

Dinar fell to the ground, his eyes dark and lifeless, and Sendhil after him, stabbed from behind by one of his own men. Mesema stumbled and sat down on the steps of the dais, her face pale.

Sarmin faced the assembled courtiers. He had decided who he wanted to be, and who should die and who should live. “I claim this palace for Mirra.” Not one of them could look away. What do they see? he wondered. He turned to Arigu. To his credit the general did not even flinch. “I made an interesting discovery at Lord Nessen’s manse,” he said, “but you already know about it. You took the slaves from the Grass, violating our ancient agreement with the horse tribes. Banreh learned of it and rightly fought against you.

“Selling slaves who look like the empress and her family would bring you a great deal of money among certain nobles—but your man ran into trouble. He chose the wrong estate to shelter in. There was an altercation and Lord Nessen lost his life. Finally your captain brought the slaves here, only to find that the buying and selling of slaves is barred until my Code is finished. He knew Lord Nessen would not come to town, being dead, so he hid them in his manse in the Holies.”

Arigu swallowed. “They are Mogyrk—rebels—”

Grada held her Knife to his throat, and he fell silent.

“Duke Didryk treated you well.” Sarmin motioned to the tall man standing motionless at the door. “How have the Felting slaves been treated, I wonder? I will find out shortly.” Sarmin backed away. “You are guilty of prosecuting a war against my wishes, of making slaves of our allies, and telling untruths before the throne. But you may still go free if you pledge your loyalty to me.”

Azeem made a strangled noise in his throat; Grada glanced at Sarmin in amazement.

Sarmin held his breath. The war, the throne, the very survival of Nooria depended on Arigu’s decision.

Arigu stood motionless for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to his knees beside Dinar’s body, laying his sword crosswise before him. He laid his forehead upon it and spoke. “I pledge all of my loyalty, my breath, my vitality, and all of my words to you, my Emperor.”

Sarmin let him wait. He met the eye of every man in the room until, satisfied they were cowed, at last he said, “Rise, Arigu.” He climbed the steps to the dais and sat on the Petal Throne. “Lord High Vizier, let it be known that Chief Banreh is to be freed of all constraints and punishments. The Felting people will be given shelter in the guest wing, and he may join them there.” He looked at the shaken general. “Now we may speak of the war.”

The men looked at one another and at the dead bodies on the floor. Nobody spoke, not even Azeem, though he was clearly struggling to find the right words.

The gong sounded, breaking the moment; the herald rushed forwards, unusually flustered. “The Empire Mother, Your Majesty,” he said.

Ice washed over Sarmin’s skin. Something is wrong. The timing of her return, the fact that she would make her first appearance here, in the throne room, where all the generals had gathered … it was the first austere who had decided these things, not his mother.

His fears were quickly confirmed. When she came to the door, passing Didryk without a glance, he saw her black eyes, her expressionless face, and beneath it, the hatred and malice of Yrkmir. “Mesema,” he said over his shoulder, “hide!”

Nessaket opened her mouth and from it poured a stream of lines and symbols—triangle, crescent, half-moon, line, triangle again—a bright ribbon of pattern-work that cut through General Merkel like a sword. She lifted both hands and patterns ran from them too, red and liquid, harm at the core of them, cutting through Hazran’s cheek before he dodged behind a pillar. The sword-sons ran forwards and she caught one through the neck, his blood and the sharp pattern running together. Boneless he fell to the floor with a clatter of steel. Didryk crept up behind her, his eyes intent, as the patterns flew across the room like blades, cutting gashes in the walls, ripping through cushions and skin with equal ease. Through it all Sarmin stood before the throne, unmoving, and her patterns did not touch him.

Another sword-son neared Nessaket, with Grada close behind. He lifted his hachirah to strike. “No!” Sarmin cried, and the sword-son dropped his weapon and grabbed her wrist instead. The pattern-thread cut his hand and shoulder and his blood rose in a crimson arc. Didryk wrapped an arm around her from behind, putting a hand over her mouth, and Grada and the sword-son managed to push her palms behind her. Blood rushed between Grada’s fingers—hers, or Nessaket’s?

Sarmin made a quick assessment of the damage. Mesema had hidden behind the Petal Throne and was safe, but she had now lost two guards: Sendhil, and the man who lay across the steps with his throat cut open. General Merkel was dead. Others pressed hands over deep cuts.

He ran to his mother, still struggling in Didryk’s arms, her eyes blank and wild. He could see the black pattern that controlled her, rising from the floor and wrapping itself into her mind and her skin. But he could not purge her of it.

He hit his fist against a pillar. “Can you help her, Didryk?”

Didryk frowned and pressed a hand against Nessaket’s forehead. “She has been with the first austere for some time,” he said, “and the patterns run deep. Still …” He drew his thumb across her skin, up, down, around and across, and waited. “No,” he said with a frown, “my work is too simple.”

Sarmin crouched down before his mother. Behind the web that trapped her, behind her skin, he searched for her, his mother, the woman he remembered from soft nights and song, from garden sunshine and laughter, and from hardship, loneliness, loss. He searched for her grief, for her love, for her anger—and found her at last, buried deep, a flame flickering against the storm that was the first austere’s lunacy. “Mother,” he called, and she stirred, the flame growing brighter. He pressed his hand against her heart, and her arms thrashed; her head moved from side to side as she tried to free her mouth and loose the pattern upon him. But Didryk and Grada held her firm, and the mother who existed inside the body grew stronger, pushing back at the darkness.

Mesema knelt beside him, adding her hand to his. “Mother,” he said, “I know you are there, because you took care not to kill me.” In this world there were three people who could never be persuaded to harm him, no matter how powerful the magic: his mother was one, Grada and Mesema the others.

Nessaket opened her brown eyes and looked at him. “Sarmin!” she breathed, and Didryk let her go and stepped back. Sarmin watched the webs that had trapped her die away and shrivel into the floor.

It was not over; the first austere was seeking more people to entrap. But Sarmin could see the path of the first austere’s intent, dark against the tiles, and he knew now that he could find him.

“That is twice the first austere has tried to kill you, Your Majesty,” said Azeem, his voice straining for his usual calm.

Only twice? But he had failed. Sarmin could not deny feeling disappointment. The first austere was nowhere near as powerful as he had thought. Yes, he had some unusual tricks, but that was the whole of it. Of all the mages in the desert and the city there was nobody who came close to what Sarmin once had been. Only Mogyrk could match him, and Mogyrk lay in the Scar, caught between life and death. But, as weak as the first austere might be, Sarmin could not defeat him alone. He needed a working of many parts, pieces of a design, but not the Many. He needed allies.

He looked over his shoulder for someone to command and found one, a guard standing wide-eyed over Dinar’s body. “You: get Austere Adam from the dungeon. We will need his help.” No sooner had he spoken than he saw the pattern-ward flash blue on the guard’s forehead. When the guard turned, unharmed, to retrieve Adam, Sarmin breathed with relief. The court was protected from pattern-work, just as he had planned. But then the ward flashed red on the forehead of an old captain and he exploded in a spray of blood and bone, the buttons of his uniform falling against the floor like Settu tiles. With another flash, yellow, a palace slave fell upon the cushions, holding his neck, unable to breathe. The first austere was searching for a way past their wards and succeeding—but not completely. Not yet.

Sarmin stood, helping his mother up with him. The first austere must not be allowed to pick off his courtiers one by one. He must be killed, and it would be Sarmin who killed him.