Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken by Mazarkis Williams Page B
Authors: Mazarkis Williams
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the crack tore us apart.’
Govnan looked into the depths of the jagged tear. The power that went into the mages’ elemental bindings was the same power that had built the Tower. When Uthman the Conqueror had come to this intersection of rock, sand and stone and named it after Meksha’s daughter, Nooria, the goddess granted his descendants the power to wield her magic. Meksha’s gift was laid by rune and incantation into every stone by Gehlan the Holy, and by her blessing the Tower had raised itself towards heaven. The mages today would never be able to recreate the spells that had been used – or even understand them. He had studied the fragments describing the building of the Tower and had touched only the edges of it, just enough to know how much he could not comprehend. His long years weighed on him, but his accomplishments were light in comparison.
‘Has Meksha withdrawn her grace from us?’ he asked, more of the stone than of Moreth.
‘Sometimes I—’ Moreth frowned.
‘What? Tell me, Moreth.’
‘Sometimes I wish I could go back to the time of Satreth.’
‘If you wish to fight Yrkmir, you need not go into the past.’ The slaughter of mages in those times had devastated the Tower.
Let it not happen again
.
A rustling came to the top of the stairs. Mura, his returned child, stood looking down at them, and Govnan’s heart lifted. ‘What is it, my child?’
She did not return his smile. ‘You must come.’
What has happened?’ he asked, looking at all the steps he would need to climb if he obeyed her.
‘The old woman Sahree sent me,’ she said. ‘The Megra has died.’
15
Sarmin
Sarmin laid a hand upon the carved rosewood of the Megra’s coffin. She had once called him Helmar’s heir – not heir to the Pattern Master, but to the mage Helmar had been in his younger days, one who aspired to fix and to build, to make whole. In the end it had broken him. The Megra had shown him that Helmar was his brother, not by blood but by talent and experience. He and Helmar had shared the same imprisonment, the same victories, linked across time and by the designs that Helmar had laid across it – but Sarmin was not broken. Helmar had inflicted too much suffering upon himself, left too much behind, including the woman he had loved. The Megra would not be alone here; she would rest in Mirra’s garden, its sweet scents a balm against the pains of her long life. ‘Goodbye, Megra,’ he whispered.
Priest Assar offered Sarmin a slight bow before motioning for his novices to bear the Megra away. A hush had fallen over Mirra’s garden. The rosebuds and gardenia blossoms turned towards the sun in silent communion. Sahree sat upon a bench, out of tears, her eyes on the statue of Mirra.
Govnan stepped up to his side, staff clicking against the stones, and Sarmin willed him to honour the quiet. He did not. ‘There is something at the Tower you must see,Magnificence.’ His voice had begun to lose the low rumble it had once contained, becoming high and thin, querulous.
Sarmin took his time before responding. He was not done mourning the Megra. ‘And what might that be?’
‘I cannot speak of it here, Your Majesty.’
‘Very well.’ Sarmin gave a long bow to the statue of Mirra, closing his eyes and thinking of all the Megra had seen: Helmar, both young and old; Cerani soldiers ravaging her homeland; her young friend, Gallar, hanging from a tree. Somehow she had made sense of it all.
Straightening he laid a sympathetic hand upon Sahree’s shoulder. ‘I must go.’
He walked towards the exit, sword-sons trailing behind him, and found Dinar waiting in the doorway, a tower of muscle wrapped in elegant robes. It struck Sarmin that for all the gods in the pantheon, only two were worshipped in the palace. Women went to Mirra for comfort and men went to Herzu for power. Dinar stood straighter as Sarmin approached, holding a book against his chest, showing the tears tattooed on his hand.
‘High Priest
Govnan looked into the depths of the jagged tear. The power that went into the mages’ elemental bindings was the same power that had built the Tower. When Uthman the Conqueror had come to this intersection of rock, sand and stone and named it after Meksha’s daughter, Nooria, the goddess granted his descendants the power to wield her magic. Meksha’s gift was laid by rune and incantation into every stone by Gehlan the Holy, and by her blessing the Tower had raised itself towards heaven. The mages today would never be able to recreate the spells that had been used – or even understand them. He had studied the fragments describing the building of the Tower and had touched only the edges of it, just enough to know how much he could not comprehend. His long years weighed on him, but his accomplishments were light in comparison.
‘Has Meksha withdrawn her grace from us?’ he asked, more of the stone than of Moreth.
‘Sometimes I—’ Moreth frowned.
‘What? Tell me, Moreth.’
‘Sometimes I wish I could go back to the time of Satreth.’
‘If you wish to fight Yrkmir, you need not go into the past.’ The slaughter of mages in those times had devastated the Tower.
Let it not happen again
.
A rustling came to the top of the stairs. Mura, his returned child, stood looking down at them, and Govnan’s heart lifted. ‘What is it, my child?’
She did not return his smile. ‘You must come.’
What has happened?’ he asked, looking at all the steps he would need to climb if he obeyed her.
‘The old woman Sahree sent me,’ she said. ‘The Megra has died.’
15
Sarmin
Sarmin laid a hand upon the carved rosewood of the Megra’s coffin. She had once called him Helmar’s heir – not heir to the Pattern Master, but to the mage Helmar had been in his younger days, one who aspired to fix and to build, to make whole. In the end it had broken him. The Megra had shown him that Helmar was his brother, not by blood but by talent and experience. He and Helmar had shared the same imprisonment, the same victories, linked across time and by the designs that Helmar had laid across it – but Sarmin was not broken. Helmar had inflicted too much suffering upon himself, left too much behind, including the woman he had loved. The Megra would not be alone here; she would rest in Mirra’s garden, its sweet scents a balm against the pains of her long life. ‘Goodbye, Megra,’ he whispered.
Priest Assar offered Sarmin a slight bow before motioning for his novices to bear the Megra away. A hush had fallen over Mirra’s garden. The rosebuds and gardenia blossoms turned towards the sun in silent communion. Sahree sat upon a bench, out of tears, her eyes on the statue of Mirra.
Govnan stepped up to his side, staff clicking against the stones, and Sarmin willed him to honour the quiet. He did not. ‘There is something at the Tower you must see,Magnificence.’ His voice had begun to lose the low rumble it had once contained, becoming high and thin, querulous.
Sarmin took his time before responding. He was not done mourning the Megra. ‘And what might that be?’
‘I cannot speak of it here, Your Majesty.’
‘Very well.’ Sarmin gave a long bow to the statue of Mirra, closing his eyes and thinking of all the Megra had seen: Helmar, both young and old; Cerani soldiers ravaging her homeland; her young friend, Gallar, hanging from a tree. Somehow she had made sense of it all.
Straightening he laid a sympathetic hand upon Sahree’s shoulder. ‘I must go.’
He walked towards the exit, sword-sons trailing behind him, and found Dinar waiting in the doorway, a tower of muscle wrapped in elegant robes. It struck Sarmin that for all the gods in the pantheon, only two were worshipped in the palace. Women went to Mirra for comfort and men went to Herzu for power. Dinar stood straighter as Sarmin approached, holding a book against his chest, showing the tears tattooed on his hand.
‘High Priest
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