CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

“We’re ready.” Sarmin took Mesema’s hand and squeezed it. He motioned to the mages and they gathered into a group. Each one of them knew their task. Each one of them was to apply their own talent: Didryk, to make things whole, and Farid, to keep them from unravelling; Mura with her wind-spirit to hide them, and Adam to lend his strength. The Scar had reached towards them and its wall was now just a few yards away, as if in welcome.

Farid took Mura’s arm and marked it with a binding symbol for air. “If this works, Yomawa is no longer bound, just chained. I think this is what Govnan did in the other plane. Then it can surround us.” In response to his words the wind whipped up around them, hurling sand into Farid’s face. He lifted a hand to protect his eyes. The sand did not blow at Mura. She looked into the sky. “Yes. I feel it.” Sarmin did not ask Mesema whether she was ready. She clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. “It is time,” he said, “Let us begin.”

Duke Didryk walked behind Mage Mura. As he approached the Scar he felt a shedding, a falling-away of things he no longer required—grief, despair, fear—and the emptiness tingled along his skin. He could let it all go; he could fall into pieces, let Mogyrk pull him apart looking for Names and meanings and misunderstand it all. It would be a relief. But then he remembered himself and what he was here to accomplish. He shook off the temptation offered by the void and kept on, Yomawa’s wind blowing wildly through his hair.

A flower trembled into view, shaking into existence, its Names and parts winding together for the briefest moment, holding onto the lie that was the pattern—but the lie could not sustain it and it began to crumble. The truth and the lie together, Sarmin had told him when he handed him the butterfly-stone. Didryk held it together, let it see itself as a whole flower, reflecting his own vision of it, before he moved on, catching an entire tree in its instant of wholeness. His steps were slow and he held on to Mura’s robe to keep her from going too quickly. His fingers began to snap apart, flesh from bone, but he felt Farid’s hand on his shoulder, repairing the pattern that was Didryk. Mogyrk could not see him for the whole person he was; Mogyrk saw only skin, flesh, blood, bone; without the idea to bind them the separated symbols would drift into the chaos that was the Great Storm.

They walked in a line, Yomawa first, then Mura, then Didryk, followed by Farid and Adam, and the emperor and his wife. Time and distance warped and curved so that the duke did not know how far they walked or how long they had been there. He caught and made whole whatever he could—grass, leaves, birds, toads—though he was never sure if he made them what they had been or only what he could summon from broken shapes and twisted lines. It mattered only that they left the chaos and made themselves solid and real. He did not know how long he walked, with tiny steps pushing against Yomawa’s fierce wind, fixing all that he saw, but he did know the exhaustion that rose within him. Had it been a day? Two? Longer? Time had no meaning in the Storm.

When Didryk did not think he could take another step Mura said, “We are there.” They had reached the centre of the Scar, where Mogyrk both died and did not die. Didryk stumbled to his knees at the foot of a large rock, one that before the death of Mogyrk and before the Scar would have offered shade and comfort to a traveller. It had always existed there, at the centre, unaffected by the flickering of the pattern. It was said only the most blessed and holy were allowed to approach the place of his god’s death; he, apostate though he was, now reached out and touched the rough surface. Here at the centre the Storm did not exist, and yet the stone was crumbling. Dust came away on his fingers.

Sarmin touched the grey stone. Here was the god’s true wound, the focus of the confusion in the Storm. He had no plan for this moment; he had planned only to reach the centre, and once there he had hoped the solution would be obvious. But now he hesitated.

He did not think the others had noticed they were standing in a meadow. The mages’ concentration had been so hard and their exhaustion was now so complete that the great rock at the centre commanded all their senses. But green grass sprinkled with wide-topped flowers surrounded them. He had never seen anything green except for gardens grown in pots, such as Assar and his mother kept. Sarmin looked with amazement at each blade of grass and each flower; they numbered in the thousands. Didryk had put together every one from the spinning chaos. Now the duke knelt, his face grey, and Adam prayed beside him. Farid and Mura stood together, both pale and shaken. But they were alive—everyone was alive. So far.

The grass tossed under Yomawa’s hand and Mesema turned her face to the meadow. “The wind will show me what to do,” she said quietly. She pressed his palm against the stone and he felt it, squirming and spinning within the flesh: the god. The man.

Mesema watched the images form in the grass. She saw Him, the Mogyrk god, in the lashing wind. He had torn the world apart to learn what it was made of, given everything a name, and then tried to build it up again. But as Sarmin had told her, the pattern was a lie; it could not reproduce life in full. It had failed with Beyon, and likewise the god had failed, for he had created an approximation of life, not real water, not real fire, not real people. Finding himself alone, he tore it all apart again, looking for the missing essence, trying to learn what he had done wrong, but in his growing madness he could no longer distinguish one thing from another, not even himself.

The desert grew and though the pattern had become a chaotic blur to him, still he reached for it. When Helmar used it, when Sarmin used it, when Yrkmir used it, he reached for it and tried to understand it again, but he could not. He was unable to see life, but he could not see death either, and so he waited.

Now she felt him beneath her hands, writhing in pain and loneliness. For a thousand years the pattern had been his only company: the pattern of lies and misdirection. If his body truly made a bridge to another world, it was sustained only through his agony.

Sarmin took her other hand, and together they embraced the great rock. “We have brought back your meadow,” he said, “and your birds and butterflies.” He had to shout to be heard above the wind.

“Remember yourself,” Mesema said. “You are a man of great power. You created the pattern, and then you broke it. We fixed it for you—come and see.”

The god stilled, listening, but she knew their words danced around him like fireflies, detached from their meaning. She stroked the hard stone and imagined a man of Yrkmir, tall, blond, wrapped in woollen robes. “Remember yourself,” she repeated. She tried to show him what the wind had shown her. A scream rent the rock in two; a great crack sounded and Adam and Didryk dived out of the way as the two pieces of stone fell apart. Inside stood a sculpture of a tree, each part from the roots to the leaves above rendered with lifelike movement. A tree could not live without each of its parts: the leaves to draw in sunlight, the branches to carry water, the roots to drink. Mesema touched the bark, cold from its time inside the stone. “We must become part of him.”

Sarmin did not question her. “What is the symbol for Mogyrk?” he demanded of Adam.

Adam stood and frowned at the rich soil that clung to his robes. Though he was the priest of the god who lived here, he seemed the most confused by the Scar. He drew a symbol in the air. “Draw it on the tree,” said Sarmin, and Mesema watched the austere’s fingers as the symbol was constructed. All this time the god was quiet, though Mesema reached out with all her senses trying to find him. And then he reached back, his mental fingers exploring, and she felt her skin pulling away like wet clothes. It did not hurt; it felt as if she became two things—Mesema’s blood and bone, and Mesema’s skin. But then she felt Farid’s hand on her and she became just Mesema once more.

“Thank you,” she murmured. You see? She directed her thought at the tree. I am human like you. Farid,” she said, shouting over the wind, “bind me to the tree. Use the Mogyrk symbol and bind me.”

The mage looked to Sarmin first, but she grabbed his arm. “Bind me.”

“Bind her,” Sarmin said. “Bind us.”

Farid drew on their wrists with his finger and Mesema felt Sarmin flow into her, felt his love and his determination. Then Farid drew the same mark on the tree and together they plunged into the mind of the god, clasping hands to keep hold of themselves in the presence of such power. And madness.

All alone. Leaf wing wine sand song hair. What petal thorn am oil berry taste. I. Twist string wind warmth drink failure. Cannot tree six. See. Alone. The god shrieked and writhed like a baby.

This Mesema understood. This she knew. Shhh now. You are safe. We have you.

One two petal me. What—what am I?

You are a man. You are a mage. A god. In her mind she wrapped him in her arms, cradled him as she would cradle Pelar. We have come to help you. A pause. I remember.

Sarmin joined them, his voice resonant and soothing along the bond-marks. Do you remember the pattern?

I remember I cannot die.

You can die now. We have you. You are safe. Your meadow—can you see it?

Yes. I see it. I see you. Both. I see … Mogyrk’s mind faded. Love.

When the god died there was no fire, no trembling of the earth, no parting of the heavens. The wind blew over the meadow, and the flowers scattered their petals.

Mesema leaned back from the stony tree.

Adam fell down on his knees and wept, and Didryk stood to his side, looking lost. Farid and Mura embraced one another; he ran a finger along her wrist and the wind died down. Through all of it Sarmin held Mesema’s hand and used their bond to stay with her. She liked that. She had been linked to Beyon and then to Banreh, but never before to her husband.

She stepped closer and laid her cheek against his robes and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Is it over?” she asked.

“It is.” Sarmin raised his voice so the others could hear. “It is over.” His gaze swept back towards his city. “And it is just beginning.”

Grada found Sarmin a while later and asked for her Knife. He gave it to her with no argument and they stood together, watching the grass bend in the wind. “Do my brothers ever talk to you from the Knife?” he asked.

“No.”

“How long were we in the Scar?”

“Days.” She smiled. “Arigu was here with news of Cerana. We have won the battle. They did not wish to fight once the austeres sensed their leader was gone.”

He had won this war, if one could call it that; but there would be other enemies, other battles, and his empire had much work to do before that. Sarmin watched the grass, enjoying Grada’s quiet company, not wishing to end it just yet.

She stretched and looked to the south. “I should make my way downriver to find Pelar and the other wind-sworn, Hashi,” she said, “and bring them back to Nooria.”

“Yes,” he said, his heart heavy. But Grada would return, and she would bring him his son. He had said too many goodbyes, but this would not be one of them.

“You were brave,” she said, and he inclined his head in thanks. They fell silent again, and he wondered that the two of them, who had once been so close, had so little to say—but perhaps that came through knowing one another well enough that words were unnecessary.

At last she moved off, towards the Blue Shields and their conical tents, the banners flying in the breeze.

That night Mesema found him standing in the grass, staring out towards Nooria. He felt her approach and turned, reaching out his hand. She clasped it and stood by his side. The sun had already set, but in the dark the city remained visible, a massive beast of light-coloured stone rising from the sands and cutting across their view of the mountains.

“It is not so destroyed that we cannot rebuild it,” he said.

Along their bond she felt hope and determination.

“No.” She shivered, and he wrapped an arm around her. “The question is, will the desert take over the meadow, or the meadow the desert?”

“We will find out,” he replied. “My plan for the city will not change either way. Between the Tower courtyard and the ruined temple of Meksha I will create something new, a place for learned men to gather and share their inventions. The temple scholars will be the first to establish their workshops there, but we will invite curious men from all over the world.”

“And the Tower?”

“We have yet to explore the magic that Meksha left for Uthman. We don’t know all the things it can do, or its dangers. When we know more we will know what to build.”

Mesema squeezed his hand and looked back towards the others. Azeem, Didryk, and Adam sat around the fire, talking. Adam kept his head bowed and his words short.

“You didn’t ask about the palace.” Sarmin wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “The palace will be rebuilt too, with apartments for the empress close to mine. And there will be no temple of Herzu, and no slaves.”

She said nothing, only listened. He continued, “Since we are rebuilding, why not rebuild the very ways of the empire? I can start with the palace, as it belongs to me. The palace will establish the ideal for everyone. In all my years living in the palace its ways have never suited me.”

“Nor mine,” she agreed.

“We shall make it more Windreader.”

Smiling she tugged him away from the fire, further into the dark.

“Where are you taking me?”

“On nights like this, the young Windreader women may choose a man to take into the grass with them. And here is grass. And I choose you.”

He followed her until the men’s voices grew faint and the darkness covered their movements. Mesema dropped into the grass and he sat down next to her. Singing drifted from the campfire and he leaned forwards, listening, surprise on his face. “Can Azeem sing?”

She caught the distant melody and laughed. “You know, I think he can.”

“And I can hear it.” Sarmin smiled and put a hand against her cheek. “It is a good tune. There is so much more for me to learn: how music works, how to make machines, how to build a dome—and all about you.”

“You know all about me.”

“But I don’t.” He lay back and looked up at the stars. “I have never been so far from the palace, and yet I feel that I am home.”

“You are home. All of this is yours.” Mesema leaned back on her hands and watched the moon. His fingers curled around her shoulder and she turned back to him.

“Ours,” he said. “Ours.”