Knife Sworn by Mazarkis Williams

marched in. The austere lines of the room contrasted the intricacy of the tomb itself, pierced screens of whitest alabaster surrounding the heavy marble box on all sides, set back two yards to allow a slow private circuit. The decoration tended to fish and fruit, strange choices which Sarmin felt would have found little favour with his brother. Beyon had planned the structure but died within it before its completion. In the confusion that followed, the artisans set to finish the work had let their own aesthetic guide them. Sarmin had been unconcerned. Beyon lived in him and in Pelar, not in cold stone. Azeem had even brought plans before him for his own tomb. Sarmin had waved them away. “Let the next emperor do with my remains as he sees fit. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to put before me, vizier?”
    A polite cough brought Sarmin from his recollections. His feet had led him to the arched entrance through the screens. Notheen waited there, the lean nomad towering above Govnan.
    “High mage?” Sarmin tilted his head in question.
    Govnan said nothing but looked away, through the arch. The sepulchre beyond, in which Mesema had once hidden for a night with Beyon, had almost gone. It looked as if it had melted away like a block of butter with a hot coal placed at its centre. The stonework towered at the four corners, eaten away elsewhere, and in the midst of it all a blankness, the colour of forever, blinding the eye. Sarmin couldn’t say if it were grey or white, perhaps black. The emptiness of it filled his mind and drowned out the screams of the Many as they hid behind his thoughts.
    “Do not look too long, my emperor.” Govnan’s words came from a distance.
    “It takes, my emperor.” Notheen, still further away. “It will hollow you.”
    Sarmin tore his gaze from the space within Beyon’s tomb. Hours seemed to pass as he shook its bonds, days.
    “My emperor?” And at last he looked away, meeting Govan’s eyes, dark with concern.
    “What is that?” Sarmin stepped away, not wanting to look, not wanting his back to it.
    “Nothing, my emperor.” Govnan bowed his head. “There is nothing there. That’s all my magic can tell me. Notheen’s people know more of this.”
    Sarmin took a step closer to the nomad, veiled, hung about with white as if he rode the desert rather than walked the corridors of a palace. “Tell me.”
    “This is of the desert.” Notheen waved towards the tomb. “This is the unwriting that grows in the dead heart of the sands, beyond even the djinn. It spreads from the secret.”
    “What secret?” Sarmin remembered his dream, the pale boy, the tent falling into dust. An emptiness that devours.
    Notheen bowed his head. Sarmin pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead, forcing back a growing terror. The two of them stood alike now, the high mage and the nomad headman, neither meeting his gaze. The faintest of sounds injected itself into the silence—the sound of trickling sand.
    “What secret,” Sarmin repeated. “You knew from the moment you spoke of it that I would require explanation.”
    “May we speak alone, my emperor?” Notheen let the words slip quietly to the floor.
    “We are alone!” Sarmin looked about, exasperated.
    “The two of us. This truth is dangerous. Many lives balance upon it.”
    “The two of us then.” Sarmin motioned the sword-sons away.
    Ta-Sann hesitated. “My emperor, the nomads—”
    “Away!” Sarmin waved him off with his objections and the island men retreated towards the main entrance, Lurish following, deep in thought.
    When his guard reached the far side of the chamber Sarmin spoke again. “You have me to yourself, Notheen, me and the old man. Will you enlighten me or stab me? Govnan could not stop your knife.”
    Again Notheen paused before answering, stretching the silence until Sarmin thought he would not speak. “We have among our people wise men, just as with all the tribes of man. They read the signs written among the