The swiftest of the attackers died first, the hachirah decapitating him as he came within its arc. He fell in two pieces showering pale blood. Behind him another man, then two more, then a multitude. Ta-Sann turned with the scimitar’s momentum, his foot lashing out to strike the second man beneath the chin with force enough to separate vertebrae in his neck. That man fell boneless and the two followed tripped over the corpses before them.
Even for Sarmin, echoing with the threat of the nothing, the scene held a fascination that pinned him. Ta-Sann jerked the hilt of his scimitar into the face of the next man, the iron pommel making a ruin of the slave’s forehead, the cutting edge followed on a descending arc to sever a reaching arm. The sword-son mixed brutality with grace, each blow underwritten by rippling muscle, driven not only by corded arms but the thick power of his torso, the strength of his legs.
A storeroom slave, blooded from some other combat, slid along the wall to flank Ta-Sann, and found the end of Govnan’s staff rammed hard into the side of his head. The djinn-born cunning left his eyes and he toppled in confusion.
With a roar of effort Ta-Sann divided a hollow man, his hachirah given no pause by the decaying armour. Dulled by the corrupting nothingness lacing the hollow men’s blood the scimitar’s work became harder from each moment to the next-and such a battle is counted in moments.
Twenty men, more, thirty, ranked back along the corridor, slowed only by those before them. “Sarmin!” Govnan risked a glance back at him. “He can’t last!” Even as the high mage spoke a slave woman threw herself onto Ta-Sann’s shoulder in the moment his scimitar bedded itself in the body of a Herzu temple-guard. The sword-son launched himself into a wall, crushing the woman between his body and the stone. The abandoned hachirah fell with his last victim, tripping another man. Two glittering knives appeared in Ta-Sann’s hands and he bellowed at his foe with such a voice that even the hollowed paused for half a beat. “Sarmin!” Govnan cried again.
Turning his back on Ta-Sann’s last extravagant stand felt like all kinds of betrayal, but still Sarmin turned. He held the two halves of Helmar’s stone before his face, let his eyes wander the brilliance and intricacy of the pattern, then lowered both and looked once more upon the nothing.
The stonework about the empty doorframe crumbled now, falling into dust, swirling into memory. Sarmin felt the skin of his cheeks, his forehead, lips, start to respond, to unwind and flow towards the nothing.
This is the death of god. The one god of whom all others are shadows. The end of all things. Let it take you.
“No.” And Sarmin looked again. Looked for the edges rather than the centre. The nothing was a wound, a rip in the fabric of the being. Helmar had broken the butterfly then made it whole. And centuries later that same boy in his wrath had broken the world, pierced the stuff of eternity to anchor his grand pattern. The last of his anchor points he sank through Beyon’s tomb, through his death, through that moment, that day. Before that there had been Migido, before that three others. Five was ever the number of the Pattern. But before five comes one, and long before Helmar’s puncturing work Mogyrk died in the desert, a wound in creation that had made Helmar’s attacks seem pinpricks. And now Mogyrk’s death infected the wounds Helmar made, spreading the terror of the deep desert into the heart of Nooria. As a pebble can start an avalanche, Helmar’s self destruction had brought the dead god’s suicide crashing down upon them all.
Sarmin saw it, he looked with new eyes, even as those eyes were unwound from the business of seeing, and he beheld the nothing as a jagged hole punched through existence, a blankness in the complex, breathtaking, beautiful, dirty world. A world deeper and more real than any pattern, as far beyond description by mere language as the wings of a butterfly.
Surrender to it. Lay down the burden of your days, Sarmin Tahal-son. This is the end. Your life has been only lies, nothing but rumour that Mogyrk now unspeaks.
Sarmin walked in the dream, in the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, he held the butterfly broken in his hands. This was not his memory. A lie. And yet he could taste it.
“A lie can also be true.”
The memory of Helmar opened his hands and the butterfly stood remade. The pattern of the world might yet show creation how to be whole again. Show the nothing how to be something.
“You are my salvation.”
The Megra brought Helmar’s past with her, seasoned with the bitterness of experience. Sarmin reached for the edges of the nothing with unwritten fingers, with the memory of them, intention. To draw those edges together would tear him apart. Helmar gave him the magic, wrote it in stone, and with it he could heal this wound, and the act would be Helmar’s salvation. The boy who had shared his room, shared his fate, twisted by circumstance and years, twisted beyond recognition into the thing that was the Pattern Master. Was he born to craft the magic that might save the world? Yet Sarmin was afraid. He wished Beyon were at his side. “I don’t want to die.” Vanishing hands remembered the softness of his son, Pelar so warm and heavy in the cradle of his arms.
“Be brave.” The face of a boy, mountains behind him rising higher than Sarmin’s imagination would ever have painted them. Was this Pelar? The boy Pelar would become? White flowers in his hands glistening like stars, dark hair wind-swept across his brow, his grin so wide, no trace of fear in him. “Be brave.”
Sarmin took hold of the wound. Everywhere the pattern ran through the world, the story of things, the tale of each grain of sand, each breath of wind, the threads of being. “The pattern is not the thing, it is the story of the thing. Neither lie nor truth.” And as Helmar had once let the pattern of a wing guide the stuff of the world — the unseen vitality of shape and form that burns in each grain of that which is-as Helmar had let the necessary pattern of the butterfly lead the world back to the place where a butterfly sat perfect on his palm, the injury he did it now a lie, Sarmin let the deeper pattern of his city rewrite all that had been lost, filling in each stolen brick, each lost moment, even down to his brother’s bones and the hidden decay of his dead flesh. With all the strength that ran in him he strove to draw the edges of the wound together. And it hurt.
Crimson dots. Lines of crimson dots on white. Some large, some small, arcs of them, as if spattered on a canvas by the careless lash of an artist’s overladen brush. Crimson and white. He tried to make sense of it. A pattern here, but what pattern, what meaning.
Crimsons dots. He had a name once. Crimson and white. The “S’ hissed on his tongue, begging the remainder of his name. Arc crisscrossing arc. “Sarmin.”
He woke beneath bodies, an arm across his face, and pain — an ocean on which he floated beyond sight of land. Above him on the plastered ceiling of a corridor arcs of crimson spatter made abstract testimony to the violence wrought below.
Sarmin sat, the arm that was not his own slid away, other arms, a man’s leg lacking a body. The effort and agony of that movement ground his teeth together but he could give it no voice, it lay beyond words. Bodies lay everywhere, slaves, guards, an Old Mother, her face turned away. Four yards of the fallen lay before the doors to the courtyard, closed and solid. The gore and ruin pooled and ran, it stunk, of burning and a hot abattoir stink catching at Sarmin’s throat, but though the dead might lie broken, not one of them lay pale, not one of them hollowed.
And with a groan Sarmin lay back among the dead and let dreams take him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SARMIN
The guards closed the doors behind Sarmin as he entered the women’s wing. Soot coated the walls that had once been painted with images of Mirra and Pomegra. The carpet consisted of ashes mixed with long, bright threads. Doors twisted from their frames, scorched and broken. The stink of fire reminded him of the smell of his room, after Govnan raised the elemental and burned the stairs. Bitter and heavy. Women and guards had been found along this floor, red with the death that smoke bestows and black with the kind offered by fire. Traitor guards had barred the doors, trapping them a
ll inside.
He had declared the empty wing, the wing where Beyon had once hidden with Mesema and his Knife, the new house for the women. Nessaket was there now, side by side with her slave-girl, Rushes, both of them unconscious, struck down by blows to the head. Neither had woken since the night of the slave revolt. The same man had hit each of them: Mylo. Sarmin had never heard of him before, a delivery boy, purchased a year ago from a satrap’s estate. Murmurs and confessions allowed the story to be pieced together. The boy had been a follower of Mogyrk, and had colluded with Austere Adam through a network of priests and worshippers. Neither of them had been found, nor had Sarmin’s brother Daveed. He had been spirited away as had Helmar so many years ago, taken by followers of Mogyrk. Daveed. Flesh called to flesh and he ached for his brother, his round face, his curls. I will find you.
Azeem told him Mesema had gone to the ladies’ garden to find relief from the flames and then had never left it. Sarmin had forgotten the garden, where he had once played as a boy, Kashim’s mother Siri watering the blooms as the children pushed around her. How bright those days had been. He passed through Old Wife Farra’s room, charred and stinking, and climbed the stairs to the roof.
The garden had changed. Once, a riot of colour burst from roses, honeysuckle and clematis and green things grew in every bed. He remembered Mother Siri, holding her jug of water-but today it was Mesema he saw, and only a few weak seedlings pushed forth from the soil. His wife knelt beneath the statue of Mirra, Pelar’s silks laid out on the ground before her. As he approached she moved to pick up the boy, to protect the child from him, her sky-coloured eyes angry and cold. He stopped a man’s length from where she sat and held out a hand, his eyes drawn to Pelar, pink and squirming in his makeshift bed. Cured. Tears stung his eyes. “Azeem says you will not come downstairs.”
“There is nothing but death and lies downstairs,” she said, “give me a tent and let me live outside in the air.”
“You are Cerani now. Remember? You took my hand. You said, “We are Cerani. We carry on.” Did you not mean it?”
“How could I mean it when I didn’t know what it meant? When my own husband keeps the truth from me…if you had told me that you Carried Beyon I would not have let Pelar go.”
He knew that more than Beyon stood between them. There was Jenni, too. Sarmin looked again at the boy. He longed to hold him, to smell his skin. Daveed and Pelar both had a stubborn curl at their temples, just like Beyon’s, inherited from some ancestor they no longer remembered. Daveed! His heart split into two like Helmar’s stone. “You are the empress,” he reminded her. “There are duties, especially with my mother fallen. Your clan-”
“My clan has betrayed you. Have you not heard of it? I heard it from the concubines as we huddled up here, waiting out the fire. Concubines, Sarmin, told me that Banreh slit our soldiers’ throats in the night. What could drive Banreh to such treachery other than Cerani madness, the same madness that drove you to infect Pelar?”
“It is gone,” he said, risking a step closer. “And even so, you have duties.” A flash of blue caught his eye. Behind her, a butterfly searched for a blossom.
“You instruct me like a servant,” she said, pushing yellow curls from her eyes, “because you do not need me. Leave me to the garden and to my mothering. Once, we defeated the Pattern Master together, but now, you pursue your own fascinations, make your own assaults against the dark without me. This victory was yours, and I was there only to witness the destruction that came with it. I could have been at your side…”
“You could not have helped. I needed… protect…” The words left him. He remembered when Mesema had smashed the urn, just as he had smashed the stone. That, and the day he first saw Pelar, when she smiled at him across the room, were the last happy days that he could remember. Before Jenni, before the envoy. He had wanted to need her, to feel that closeness he felt with Grada, bone to bone, the intimacy he had pushed away when he handed Grada the Knife. But Mesema offered something else.
“Please,” he said, kneeling, looking into her eyes, “we are friends, are we not? From the first moment when you came to me in my room, you were my friend. My only friend, now.”
She met his gaze, lips trembling, with tears or a smile he could not tell. “I would like a friend too.”
It was a start.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
SARMIN
Sarmin had thought that sealing the pattern wound would kill him. He had thought the effort would sunder him and the dead god’s doom would consume them all. In the end all that had broken was his magic. The world no longer presented him with patterns-perhaps it never would again. The loss troubled him only when he thought of the other wounds where Mogyrk’s loss echoed out, consuming all around, and of the great wound centred in the desert, dwarfing the five made by Helmar’s work. But those threats lay far away, and Nooria would carry on.
Sarmin had also thought that somehow saving the city, saving the empire, would leave it a better place, a world with new priorities where petty concerns no longer drew men down into childish squabbles. And yet here he sat once more, lofted above his subjects in the Petal Throne, whilst lords squabbled on the dais steps, entreating for advantages so slight or obscure as to be ridiculous were in not for the fact that lives depended from such matters.
Now though talk turned to Mogyrk’s faith riddling Nooria like a disease, and to the rebellion that had seen slave turn against master in the very halls of the palace. Sarmin’s own mother had been struck down by a mere delivery boy-they spoke of it with alarm-and yet they did not know her son had been taken, hidden among Mogyrk traitors passing through the Ways, lost in the sea of people that was Nooria. His heart called out to his brother. I will find you.
“These slaves must be taught their place,” Lord Zell raised his voice and his hands, each to the barest fraction below the level at which the guards might strike him. With Ta-Sann gone that level lay lower than before, the surviving sword-sons on edge, haunted by their failure to be at his side that day.
“And how should such lessons be taught?” Satrap Honnecka from his seat on the third step.
“In blood!” Lord Zell jerked his hands down, and Ta-Marn flinched a hand towards his knife. “In blood. Hang them from their guts in the streets, boil them in the squares. Would we not break a knife that turned against us? Strangle a dog that bit its master? Can any Cerani tolerate defiance among his properties?” Spittle flew from Zell’s thin lips. Sarmin wondered how it felt to be such a man’s property.
Away, across the crowds of lesser nobles, Old Mothers come to court, concubines, entertainers lined and ready for their turn, the great doors of the throne room opened a crack to admit a single figure, clad in black. Sarmin let Zell’s ranting flow around him, robbed of meaning, as he watch his Knife draw closer. For the longest moment he thought Eyul approached, so grim and lined the face above that black collar. Dark circles surrounded Grada’s eyes, the whites red with broken veins. She walked with that brittle step that speaks of warrior’s tension, held herself taut, her whole body a simple threat to cut away any hand that might be set upon her. Where she walked people fell silent, stepped back. On the dais Zell held forth, facing Sarmin, head raised to stare at his emperor, his mouth wide and red and full of complaint.
“A slave is property, no more. I can use my property as I will, and do so. If I blind a girl for missing a discard garment on the floor, if I cut out a man’s tongue when I find it too sharp… what then remains for punishment of crimes like treason? I say horror. We must show them true horror and-”
Grada came up behind Zell and slit his throat, pushing him aside to sprawl down the dais steps. She held the Knife dripping before her and all held silent.
“I was wrong, Sarmin. You were wrong.”
Ta-Marn and his three brothers drew their blades. The lords leapt to their feet, clamouring, the spell of silence broken.
Grada barked a harsh laugh at them. “I stand Knife-Sworn, it is not given to you to int
erfere with my purpose.”
Sarmin stood from his throne. “Let her approach.” He waved the swordsons away.
Grada climbed the last two steps. “We were wrong. This Knife cuts just as all the others. I am just as damned.”
Sarmin blinked back tears. He took a step towards her. Reached out and set his hand to her shoulder. “I had hoped we could remake it, forge a new path…”
Grada lowered her head. “This Knife cuts.” She glanced back towards Zell in the spreading pool of his blood. “But it cuts both ways.” She pointed at the dying lord with the Knife, its ugly blade hung with his lifeblood.
Sarmin looked out at the sea of still faces, outrage on the high and the mighty, curiosity here, surprise there, each turned his way. He had laid the burden of the Knife on Grada, misused her as badly as Helmar before him, damned her. He sat lord of an empire so wide a year might turn before a man could walk from border to border, heir to an unbroken chain of emperors, blood of the Reclaimer… and even so, she stood before him, untouchable, blooded, and showed him truth, showed him the path.
“The Knife-Sworn protect the emperor from whatever threats may come,” he told his court, lifting a voice unused to speech and finding in it the same power of command that had run through Beyon’s. “The emperor is the empire. And as ever, even with the threats of Yrkmir and the desert, our greatest enemies lie within.” He let that settle with them and swept his gaze across the dais steps. “I wanted peace and Arigu gave me war. I wanted reconciliation and a traitor within murdered envoy Kavic. I wanted security and yet my own lords lead such poisonous lives that our people turn to a foreign god and our slaves turn traitor.
“I have tried to be Sarmin the Saviour, tried to be Sarmin the Kind, the Peacemaker, but Cerana doesn’t need such emperors. The weakness of this empire is born of the strength of my convictions, its cruelty of my kindness, its war of my peace.
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