CHAPTER TEN
“The peace envoy approaches,” Sarmin said, “Arigu remains in Fryth, hostage against his safety.” He felt wholly himself now, during the day when the Many were quiet. Safe.
Govnan nodded in his iron chair. The room lay bare, black with old char, with no seat other than the high mage’s. When Govnan had offered it Sarmin had refused, but now his legs ached and even the knobbed metal chair started to look inviting. An emperor does not change his mind though, or show weakness. Foolish requirements to be sure but even here, with no audience save the old mage and General Lurish, they must be observed.
“Discuss? They will be told!” The general snorted into his dark beard. “Arigu had them on the point of his sword, I hear.” Older, higher born, more traditional, Lurish demonstrated unexpected support for his fellow general, perhaps just a soldier’s respect for the genius with which Arigu prosecuted his campaigns. That or pride in the army of the White Hat, a weapon that had once been his to wield.
“A peace founded on being told will not last, general.” Sarmin turned to meet the man’s gaze, fierce under grey brows. Although stooped by years Lurish loomed above him. Having to look up like this reminded Sarmin of the benefits of a dais, and a throne. Still, an emperor who ruled only from his throne was an emperor who might be forgotten when the great doors closed. An emperor who walked where he willed, be it the Tower or the War Room of the White and Blue, could be less easily circumvented.
“What do we need with a lasting peace?” Lurish chewed as he spoke, as if trying to swallow an unpalatable truth. “Cerana has armies that could take the world for you, Magnificence. Perhaps this is not the time. Perhaps it would be better if these victories did not have Tuvani’s hand behind them, but if you would issue such orders yourself in the next season all Cerana would know the glory to be yours. I would take our legions and finish what Arigu-”
“Your orders are peace, general, must I pin them to your chest?” “Magnificence, our strength-”
“Your strength didn’t keep my brother on his throne. Your strength did not hold when Helmar walked into the palace, into the throne room. A stranger from the desert was all any knew of the man and yet he walked in alone.”
“His tricks, Magnificence, magic-”
“Who taught him that magic?” Sarmin gave the general no time to dig-in or regroup. “He learned his trade in Yrkmir, and he learned it there because our strength did not stand against the incursion. The Yrkmen soldiers marched through this palace burning as they went, their priests carrying the one god before them, chanting their prayers. In Nooria! In my palace!”
“Three hundred years ago!” Lurish protested.
“They were repelled in time.” Govnan said it from his iron chair. An observation with none of Lurish’s heat. He looked lost in the folds of his robe, thick cloth, not velvet but something tougher and dyed to a deep scarlet.
“And yet we have Mogyrk priests creeping back to Nooria, preaching in the shadows, hidden churches in the greatest of our cities,” Sarmin said. Azeem had spoken to him of these churches, filling the streets with spies and saboteurs. He had read to Sarmin from the histories; cities falling at the mere approach of Yrkmen armies, their rulers overthrown by the mob, storming their gates with torch and rope. “The Parigols poisoned wells, Govnan; the Yrkmen poison minds.”
“The Longing has left the people hungry for salvation; they want to belong.” Govnan said. “Some find more solace in the one god than in Mirra or Herzu or any of their children.” He shifted in his chair, eyes bright and dark, watching Sarmin.
“Yes,” said Sarmin. Grada had spoken of the Longing, of how freedom from the Many had left her hollow. “And that too flowed from Yrkmir.” And his dream? The emptiness in the desert?
“Find the churches, burn the priests, sack the cities of Yrkmir and our people would know this Mogyrk for a grinning idol and nothing more.” Lurish shook his fist as if held a sword, as if he imagined the blood even now. The copper disks, overlapping across his chest, rattled.
“Have you seen an austere write patterns, General Lurish?” Sarmin asked.
“Sand mages cannot stand against steel, magnificence.”
“There is no sand in Yrkmir,” Sarmin said. “And these are not sand mages with tricks of dust and light.”
Govnan raised himself from his chair with a suppressed groan. Since Sarmin parted him from his elemental the high-mage had grown ancient and frail. Still sharp though, sharper perhaps. “Have you seen an austere write patterns, my emperor?”
“I-” Sarmin frowned. An image came to him, a man in red, hair white, feet bare, hands empty. Mountains rose about him, mountains such as could never exist, huge beyond imagining. Surely between sky and ground no space sufficient for such enormity existed.
“Emperor Sarmin?” Govnan reached his side before Lurish, unexpected strength in the clawed hands offering support, a shiver in them too, as if he were cold despite the heat.
“I-” He could not speak of the Many he held within his flesh. The council would count it sickness, Helmar’s taint. Already he lacked information others thought he had, was forced to listen carefully for the answers to his missing time.
But he gained memories in recompense for those he did not have, unasked, uninvited: the vision rose again to cover his sight. On the slopes high above the red-robe something moved-a goat? Too large, but as quick, as sure-footed. A man with leather shield, leaping between rocks, diving for the shelter of a crag. With one finger the red-robe traced a symbol, part of a pattern, flicked out before him, quick as quick. Dry bones clattered across the rocks. Dry bones, rags, and a leather shield. Dust hung in the air. “I have heard that they can turn a man’s flesh to dust,” Sarmin said as they helped him into Govnan’s chair.
“Hearing and seeing are different things, my emperor,” Lurish said. “Tales grow in the telling. If the Yrkmen have such power why are they not here, ruling over us?”
A good question to which Sarmin had no good answer. At last he said, “It may be that they were waiting for an invitation. Our war on Fryth may be that invitation.”
Lurish snorted, then remembering himself, bowed low. He spoke facing the flagstones. “No Yrkman has stood with the men of Fryth. They have pulled back at every turn, or simply failed to come to their aid. I tell you that they are weak, Magnificence. An old nation senile before its time, rotten at the core.”
The Book of War directs that when pressed an army that must fall back must not only fall back. Locked in his high room Sarmin had studied that book longer than any general. He knew the work better than the men who wrote it. Always counter-attack.
“I came seeking the high-mage’s wisdom. Why are you here, General Lurish? What are the dry secrets of the Tower to a man of action?” Sarmin struck from a new direction.
Govnan coughed. “I sent word to request the general’s presence, Sarmin. I have something to show him and a request to make.”
“Show me,” Sarmin said.
Govnan bowed as if he had expected no other answer. “There will be steps. I could call on Moreth to help you?”
Sarmin nodded. Better to admit his frailty than to break his neck tumbling down the stairs. Govnan drew a small black stone from pockets on either side of his robe and clacked them together. Moreth entered the room seconds later, a dark and thick-limbed man in the greys of a rock-sworn acolyte. He looked strong enough to carry Sarmin and Govnan both. In the end though he walked the narrow stair a step behind Sarmin, supporting him by elbow and wrist.
They came to the end of the winding stair where Ta-Sann and the sword sons waited. “Perhaps you should wear this, Your Majesty,” Govnan said, offering a dark, hooded cloak that Sarmin pulled up to shadow his face. They left the tower compound and came by gate and plaza to a narrow street, where market-sellers packed their goods and guardsmen told their jokes under the darkening sky. Sarmin marvelled at their freedom and easy ways, but he knew each one had some hurt they nursed in the darkness, some secret they kept from the light. The Many had taught him that.
Hashi the wind-mage joined them on the street, his eyes on the roofs of buildings, watching for assassins and
