Govnan shuffled into the room without announcement or fanfare, as if he were bringing a meal or cleaning the slop bucket. But looking into his eyes one could not mistake him. He was high mage of the Tower, the third pillar of Cerana, and advisor to the Son of Heaven.
Sarmin tucked the note into his robe. “Govnan.”
Govnan sighed, eased into his seat and laid his walking-stick across his knees. “There is little to say. The tomb dissolves.”
“And the austere?””
“I cannot know for certain. I see no pattern. He has not approached.”
Sarmin waited. Normally the high mage had much to say, and more elegantly. After a silence he asked, “Can your rock-sworn not replace what has been lost? Replace the stone as it fades away?”
“They can.” Govnan paused, and the space between his words told the rest. “It only slows the nothing. Gives us a few more hours. My rock-sworn have not the strength. Had we more mages…” But there was no time to recruit and train mages, and nobody to do it.
And so it fell to Sarmin. There was nobody else.
But he did not know what to do.
After a moment he noticed Azeem in obeisance at the door. Sarmin was not certain how long the vizier had been waiting, but now he stood and said, “Rise, Azeem. How goes the empire?”
Azeem rose and smoothed his silks for a moment before speaking. “The empire is strong, Magnificence,” he said, though his voice sounded wary, “Only one small blemish on its proud face disturbs our peace today.” As he spoke Govnan shuffled out, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. Sarmin thought to stop him, to ask more questions, but he knew the old man was at the limit of his power and beyond. He could not solve this. Instead he turned to Azeem.
“What is that blemish, Azeem?”
“Nooria has received refugees from a town upriver, Migido. Also from the desert. These people say—”
“Migido?” Sarmin recalled the bodies in the marketplace, the blood making a sickening pattern beneath the sun. Helmar’s work. He looked down at the parchments on his desk and felt the world spinning. “Nobody lives there.”
“The town was abandoned during Helmar’s rule, it is true, but it is located along the river, where barges load pomegranates and olives for shipment to Nooria. Such a place attracts settlers. It was soon half-full with new residents.”
“And now?”
Azeem looked at the carpet, picking between unfamiliar words. “Some kind of natural disaster, Magnificence. I cannot tell whether it is a sandstorm or a blight. The way they talk about it is… odd.”
With dread Sarmin remembered his dream, the grey spot that grew in the desert, devouring the tent and the boy. Hollow. Beyon’s tomb. An emptiness that devours. Migido had been another anchor point for Helmar’s pattern. How many had there been, in the sands and in the cities? How many wounds had been opened to the world? They could not move from the palace if nowhere was safe. He thought of Pelar and his brother Daveed, both so small and helpless, both so loved. “Allow the refugees into the city, Azeem,” he said, his mouth feeling strange with fear, “It is my order they will be given bread, salt and water. Here they will be…”—safe teetered on the edge of his lips—“welcomed.”
Azeem nodded, his eyes still on the carpet, his mouth twitching with the need to say something more, something uncomfortable.
“What else have you come for, vizier?”
“Not I, Your Majesty,” he said, motioning towards the door, “It is the Marke Kavic. He wishes to speak with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SARMIN
Sarmin paced. Memories crowded his old room, and the story of his life ran across each wall. The Many clamoured at him with each step and in time one would seize him, speak new words to the world with his mouth, have him act out their desires and their rage, take him once more to the dungeons or into a stranger’s bed.
No. He would not allow it. He would speak with Marke Kavic, begin to put a shape to the peace.
Azeem cautioned against an informal meeting, especially here, in this ruined room, but Sarmin had always longed for visitors before the Pattern Master came, and he found he could not refuse one now.
The young marke entered, flanked by three of his tall, blue-clad guards. They were flanked in turn by Sarmin’s own sword-sons, hands on their hachirahs. In Sarmin’s memory the room had never been so full. Sweat dripped down his back as he watched the marke make his obeisance. Soon the small chamber would become intolerably hot.
“Rise,” he said, too quickly; he imagined Azeem, somewhere behind him, pursing his lips in disapproval, and even more so when he said, “Ta-Sann, your men can wait outside.”
“Magnificence—!” Ta-Sann looked with horror upon the Fryth and their swords. But the marke motioned to his men, and when they filed out to the landing Ta-Sann could not ignore the gesture. He allowed the sword-sons to leave, and at last only four men remained in the room—Kavic, Azeem, Ta-Sann, and himself. Sarmin eased into his chair with a sigh of relief.
“A fine evening to you,” said Marke Kavic, subtly rubbing the plaster dust from his cloak.
Sarmin was pleased by the man’s informal tone, but he must be careful. An emperor did not make friends. He remained silent until Kavic remembered himself. “…Magnificence.”
Thankfully he had not taken so long that Ta-Sann pulled his weapon. “A fine evening indeed,” Sarmin said. He looked at Kavic more closely than he had in the throne room. He had a strong, but narrow, face, and his eyes were a colour of blue Sarmin had seen once before—but where? He had thought the man young, but he was not so very young. Thirty, or thirty-five. The marke examined the broken walls and window with an air of appreciation, as if he found this room just as fine as any other in the palace, and Sarmin once again was charmed.
“Your Majesty, may I express my sympathy for the loss of your father-in-law. He was a great warrior. When he was hit with one of our arrows he was ahorse, urging on his fellows. I saw him fight and I was impressed with his bravery.”
Sarmin imagined the scene. His visions of The Megra allowed him to conjure the scents and colours of the Fryth mountains, the feel of the sun and the rain, the voices of the soldiers, the fear of death and the grief of loss. Only the sensation of riding a horse eluded him. “Thank you,” he said, wondering whether Kavic was moved to speak by affection for his own father-in-law. Did he have a wife? A child? Was he afraid for them—did he keep secrets from them? He could not ask, with Azeem hovering behind.
When Sarmin said nothing more, Marke Kavic continued, eyes focused in concentration as if he had memorized the words, practised them. “Your Majesty, since our negotiations begin in the morning, I thought we might speak outside the hearing of our advisors.” The marke himself had only one, the Mogyrk austere. That he had come here without the priest meant something—perhaps more than Sarmin realized. Sarmin watched the man with interest, delighting in his strange accent and exaggerated politeness. “Advisors have agendas of their own, Majesty. My grandfather is the duke, not I, but I am familiar with the back and forth that comes with rule.” He paused before finishing with blunt words. “I want you to know that I am committed to the peace.”
Sarmin smiled. “As am I.” He saw the other man’s relief in the relaxed set of his shoulders. He wished he could ask him things, about Fryth, and about his life there. He wondered if Kavic had brothers, if he rode horses, if he knew how to climb a tree. Once Beyon had come to this room and Sarmin had thought of him like a new book that he could not keep. He felt the same of Kavic.
“Do you know the story of how we became a colony of Yrkmir… Your Majesty?”
Sarmin had read all he could about Fryth, once he realised he was at war. “Fifty years ago your grandfather, the Iron Duke, held the Yrkmen off for over one year.”
“He did,” said Kavic, with a sad smile, “and that is how he earned his name. Iron for his will, and duke where he once had been king. Our city is against the mountains, and a river rushes th
rough it. My grandfather had everything he needed and would not come out from behind his great wall. It came down to fighting, and numbers. They had five times our men with more coming every day. Once they had my grandfather on his knees they made his people take down their wall, stone by stone. In its place they built one of wood, thin and useless. One that reminds my grandfather, every day, that we depend upon Yrkmir to protect us.”
But it had not protected Fryth from Arigu. Had the Yrkmen, too, been held up by snows, or had their First Austere decided to let the colony fall? Kavic had told him that story for a reason.
The marke said no more about Yrkmir, instead nodding towards Helmar’s writings, scattered across the desk. “Old papers,” he said, “Majesty.”
“Parchments—yes. I am studying a… different historical matter.”
“That is a Mogyrk symbol, Magnificence,” said Kavic, the honorific rolling from him now with no hesitation. He tilted his head towards a particular fragment and Sarmin looked at the symbol drawn there, a half-moon suspended over a concave triangle. Sarmin had put this and many others aside as a mystery but now excitement built inside of him. “Do you know this kind of magic?” he asked, leaning forwards, watching the marke’s eyes flicker over Helmar’s work. “Do you know what it means?”
—Put it away. Put it away now.
“It’s my cousin who follows the path of Mogyrk, Majesty,” Kavic said, “While my own meagre familiarity comes from attending rituals and feast days. These symbols of devotion are important at certain times of the year.”
“Devotion?” Sarmin remembered how the pattern had wrapped itself around his brother Beyon and stolen him, shape by shape, and yet this was Kavic’s religion. He must be more cautious; Austere Adam could be using Mogyrk’s signs to exploit the hole in Beyon’s tomb, hollowing out the great city of Nooria, even as the emperor sat and spoke with the marke.
Kavic waved a hand, as if pushing aside Sarmin’s concerns. “I have heard that only one pattern came here, Your Majesty. That is the same as one grain of sand finding its way to Fryth, for there are many patterns, and few of them do harm. Mogyrk Named everything and these are the Names.” Kavic motioned towards the symbol Sarmin still held in one hand. “With those Names we can call upon the essence of things to aid us.”
To replace that which was lost. To rebuild. If Mogyrk’s own death had made this wound then His own magic could heal it. If Sarmin could learn all of Helmar’s pattern-marks, gain mastery over them, he could fix Beyon’s tomb. Fix Migido. Fix himself. “Better than our Tower calling upon fire and stone,,” he breathed leafing through the parchments, excitement in his fingers.
Kavic frowned and backed off. “We do not subjugate anything to our will, Your Majesty, even the elements.”
He will speak to me of subjugation? Frustration and outrage together guided Sarmin’s tongue. “The Pattern Master enslaved his people, stole their memories—”
“The Pattern Master was Cerani, Majesty!” The marke blinked, as if surprised by his own words. Behind Sarmin Ta-Sann shifted; Azeem cleared his throat. Sarmin let the silence last. The conversation he had begun with such hope was now ruined. No matter how much he liked a man, he would never make a friend. He put down the parchment and waited two breaths before speaking.
“My wife is like you,” he said, “She speaks the truth without thinking. I find it a valuable trait, even if those close to me do not.”
“Thank you, Magnificence. Apologies.” Kavic’s eyes flicked to the vizier and away.
Sarmin imagined Azeem’s sour face.
“No need…”
—the mountains, so cold—never wanted to hurt her, oh please, I just had the knife—there he was, grinning like a rat on feast-day—kill him—please, where am I?—home, see my little girl—kill him!—
Sarmin stood, so suddenly that the desk rocked beneath his fingers. “You should go. We will continue this in the morning.”
—Kill him!
“You should go,” he said again, fingers digging into the wood. The Many nearly had him now.
Kavic made to kneel, but Sarmin waved a hand. “Go. All of you!”
It took too many seconds for all three of them to leave the room and Sarmin came close to pushing them. Once they had gone he bolted the door and made swiftly for the decoration that spoke to him in memories, that had shown him the horrors of the war in Kavic’s land. Gallar’s death, throttled on a rope beneath a tree, still haunted Sarmin’s quiet moments. He’d no desire to share more pain. But perhaps the voice would drown out the Many and keep them from turning his hands to other tasks.
With his fingers above the patterned wall he hesitated. Was the design the same? Had those dark lines made some subtle shift? There was a time when he would have known without a moment’s consideration. The Many howled at him, a shrill chorus of wants and fears. His hand wavered, pulled by divergent needs, few of them his own. “No.” And he set his palm to the wall.
The rain soaked through her shift quick enough, the goatskins underneath thick with mutton grease held out longer, but now she can get no wetter. The rain has reached her bones. There’s precious little over them but papery skin these days. The Megra crouches in her misery.
Behind these memories Sarmin sits wrapped in confusion. The Megra was never patterned, surely? She knew Helmar, knew enough of his tricks to escape? And yet her memories are served before him. And are they even memories or is this now? White Hats in the Fryth valleys, nervous of a Yrkman advance across the borders… all of it fits with the likely chaos of Arigu’s war.
The rain drips from her hair, tears for the boy. He hadn’t known he wasn’t coming back. There’s some bliss in ignorance, but not much. All that effort following her through the high pass only to end his journey fifteen miles from where it began a similar number of years ago in Getrin Hallartson’s round-hut, Getrin standing over his new wife as she struggled to push out a child she’d been too old to have. Gallar they’d called the baby. Megra had been there, exchanging her herb-craft and common sense for two chickens and a sapphire smaller than the nail on her little toe. She’d slapped his pink arse and made him say hello to the world, told his parents some empty nothing concerning the favourable alignment of stars. She hadn’t seen this end though, not seen it clear, but she knew it would be soon enough and not good, worse than the father’s end, and the father’s death was going to be a slow and lonely one.
“I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.” She whispers it to herself, beneath the fall of the rain. Even her voice doesn’t sound her own, the missing tooth changing it, putting a sharp edge on each “s.” Her mouth hurts too, a constant sick-making throb. There haven’t been many hurts this bad in her two hundred years, nor a pit of despair so deep. “I don’t care. I don’t care.” Two hundred years, few of those lived well, most of them spent as a wrinkled crone, and still she isn’t ready to let go. There’s a little bliss in ignorance. Megra would trade in another fifty years to be ignorant of what she is.
“Knowing what you are doesn’t mean you can change what you are.” That had been the first of the curses Helmar gave her, each wrapped like a gift, and she, being young and foolish and in love, had taken them all.
Megra hunches in the wet, touching the pain of her missing tooth with her tongue, quick investigations,wincing returns. She supposes the boy hung with the others. It fits the pattern. Helmar would have known, he would have been able to tell her before the child was born. It seemed he knew everything in those days. He saw the great design clearer then than when he came into his strength and they called him Pattern Master. He had been old when he first came to Hollow, a traveller bound for the pass, but a hundred years hadn’t touched him. The pattern stands outside time, and through it, penetrating days and minutes as completely as centuries.
“A man can’t truly see the pattern without being seen by it, without becoming it, and when a man truly sees what is written under each second, beneath each beat of a heart, then the days slide around h
im and no longer dare to take their toll.” That was how he put it. That was how he saw it back then. But even Helmar didn’t see all the design, maybe no man ever could, and so time touched him, albeit with the lightest kiss, and with time he changed, soured, saw less and less of what once had filled his vision, until the pattern shrunk to little more than a means to power.
Megra looks up at the two soldiers in the ring of thorns with her, boys both of them, nervous beneath their white helms and the scales of their armour, far from home, maybe a decade or two more than Gallar had to toughen them up. She finds it hard to tell these days. They all look like children, vicious stupid children dressing up in their fathers’ armour, holding their fathers’ swords.
“The day he left me Helmar held my face between his hands and said he would never see a woman more beautiful. He said I was his mountain flower.” She laughs, a harsh sound in her ancient throat. “Told me he loved me and I would never wilt or wither. Told me he would set a gift on me.”
The two men watch her with distaste. One raises the butt of his spear. Megra looks away. The Pattern Master’s gift had soured, keeping her beauty only long enough for it to become a curse, for it to brand her a witch, a thing apart from her kind. She had wilted and withered both. Dying though, that proved to be another matter. But perhaps that too would come soon enough. Her own knowledge of the pattern was ever a crude thing, a knowing more felt than seen, as if discovered through blind fingertips, one corner at a time, but it was clear enough that whatever end had stalked her through the years it was now catching up fast.
When the guards look away the Megra touches the wrap hidden beneath her shift. “Be brave,” the boy had said, had dared to instruct her, barely dry from the womb and… and now dead. She slips the ring out, hidden in her hand within the veil of her hair. Helmar taught her to see past darkness lifetimes ago. That trick she had not forgotten. The gold gleams, ageless and without stain. Helmar told her once that gold, all of it, was made in a single heartbeat in the dying scream of a star. She had watched him pour the metal from crucible to mould, brighter with heat than it would ever be again. They had passed the ring between them before it cooled enough, giggling and gasping, tossing it to the other before the metal burned their hands. She had clung to him, pestered, laughed, as he set the words there, stamping each line with a steel tool.
Knife Sworn Page 20
