“Have you sent to the Islands for my personal guard?” Tuvaini asked. “I have, Your Majesty.”
Tuvaini would breathe easier with the unquestioned loyalty of slave-bred sword-sons around him. With the sword-sons you got what you paid for, and he could pay for a lot.
“Send for Nessaket. I would have her attend me.” He liked the sound of that. Let her wait on him and wonder when their marriage might be.
The grand doors opened a crack to admit the herald.
“Astronomer Kleggan has arrived. He seeks audience with Emperor Tuvaini, seventh son of the Reclaimer, Lord of Cerana, Master of the Islands and King across the Sea.” The last title represented his claim to Yrkmir.
Tuvaini raised his left hand, and the herald returned to escort the astronomer to the throne. He was both dark and fair in the way of the Westerners, and walked with a conqueror’s stride, proud.
“Majesty.” The astronomer prostrated himself.
Tuvaini sat back in the throne and opened his hands. “I have sent for you to read my future.” He closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Sarmin’s face, pale, mad, and at his shoulder, Beyon, honey-gold and fierce, with the look of eagles. Two of the lives he had paid for an uncomfortable throne and Arigu’s wars. Something was wrong-there was some piece forgotten, or unlooked-for.
Around the circumference of the throne room lanterns flickered as if a wind had circled the chamber. Tuvaini looked up and studied the room. Something was wrong. Something was coming.
A tremour ran through the palace, vibrating through Tuvaini’s soles, through the throne, rattling the jewelled statues in their niches.
The grand doors opened again, and again the herald stepped through. This time he was unsteady, his head bowed.
“A man from the desert seeks audience with Emperor Tuvaini… seventh son of-”
“A commoner from the desert?” Azeem turned in disbelief. “What insolence is this?”
Tuvaini kept his voice calm and low, though ice ran through his veins. “What manner of man?”
For the longest time the herald said nothing, then he started, “Lord-” The herald coughed, or wept, Tuvaini couldn’t tell. Then he raised his face, and across every inch the pattern blazed in blue and red. “Someone old, Majesty. Very old.”
The great doors of the throne room swung inwards. The carvings of the gods fell in splinters as if invisible knives pared them away, and in their place was the pattern. The herald fell to one side and a man entered, tall and vital but wrapped about with something ancient, unseen and powerful.
Tuvaini clutched at the armrests of his throne. His voice dried in his throat.
The man wore desert robes, and his long hair fell across it, whiter than the cloth. Where he walked, the weave of the rugs changed as the pattern followed in his wake.
Unchallenged, he reached the middle of the chamber, stopped, and smiled.
Tuvaini found his voice at last. “I know you: you are the hermit, theman-who-sees. Why have you come here?” His words broke the silence, and the royal guard drew their swords.
“I have come for what is mine,” the Pattern Master said.
A dozen threats hurried across Tuvaini’s mind, but in the end he asked simply, “And what is that?”
At the doorway more guards were massing, among them the priest of Herzu and the tall figure of General Lurish.
“Why, the throne, of course,” the Pattern Master said.
Tuvaini felt his lips twitch. He stood and took a step to the edge of the dais. “And by what right would you stake such a claim?” Better to gain some time, let more soldiers gather, and await the arrival of the Tower mages.
“By the right that you have established for me”-the Pattern Master raised his voice-“ Grandson. Great-grandson, I should say.”
A laugh broke from Tuvaini, but a cold hand rested on his chest. “Any fathers of my grandfathers are dust. My own father was seventy years old when he died.”
“Even so,” the Pattern Master said, “I am of the line: a second son put aside until the true faith of Mogyrk came and opened doors for everyone.”
The High Priests of Mirra and Herzu had shouldered through the guardsmen at the door now, and there were others, summoned from their temples by the commotion. Behind them Tuvaini could see the young wind-sworn mage who had slighted him at the tower.
“You lie!” And if he did not, Tuvaini would make it a lie; he felt no kinship with this desert man.
The Pattern Master spread his hands. “I would not expect my word to put me upon the empire’s throne. There are paths to the truth, paths known by the holy and the wise. I am prepared to accept the judgement of your priests and mages, sworn before their gods and their duty to the people of Cerana.”
Tuvaini took a step back and felt the hard edge of the throne pressing behind his knees. His plans ran like sand through his fingers. He knew then what Beyon had felt in that moment before he fled. Tuvaini saw his enemy’s plan as though it were laid upon a Settu board before him. The Pattern Master had made his Push, and the tiles were falling.
“Have you an objection to their judgement?” the Pattern Master asked. “Perhaps you wish to summon the council once more?”
Tuvaini shook his head. He reached out, touching the air before him, searching for anything, any straw to clutch.
“Your heir,” he said. “If it is true, then I am still your heir.”
“How fortunate, then, that you have no brothers.” The Pattern Master smiled and advanced on the throne.
Chapter Forty
Sarmin had known of the Pattern Master’s arrival before word came from Govnan. He knew it by the pricking of his thumbs, and by the ache in his bones. Govnan’s voice came on the wind, blowing into the tower room. The Tower had tested the Pattern Master’s blood and found his story to be true.
Sarmin shivered. This was a violation. Four lifetimes ago, the Pattern Master had paced this same room. He had been named Helmar then, second son of the Reclaimer’s heir, spared the Knife by the Tower because of his latent talents and secured- preserved -against an uncertain future.
Sarmin had wasted away for fifteen years; young Helmar had spent only his childhood here, for in Yrkmir’s final incursion the palace had been sacked and the boy prince taken. Records of his existence had been lost to all but the mages. Until now.
Sarmin wondered what had become of the men who took Helmar. He wondered what had passed from them to the stolen prince. What did they make of you, Helmar? What did you learn in the cold mountain lands to bring back to the desert? How are you not yet dead?
“He is like me.” Sarmin didn’t want to speak aloud, but the words needed space. He didn’t want to talk to an empty room, or to Eyul’s unconscious form. When you speak to no one, madness comes tapping at your door. “He is me-a me who was given a chance. A me who crossed the threshold and went outside once more.”
He reached under his pillow for the dacarba, the knife he’d taken from Tuvaini. It felt so long ago that he had set his hand upon the hilt and pulled it free. His fingers found only silk and for a panicked moment he scrabbled to find the knife, then he relaxed. Mesema had it. He had given it to her when she left him.
When she left him. She was Beyon’s now. And Grada was gone, too, picking her way along the edges of the desert. He had sent her away. Now he was alone. Not even the angels and demons spoke to him.
“When did you find the pattern, Helmar?” Sarmin lay back and rested his head on the coolness of a pillow. “When did you begin the Many? What number of lives have you sewn into your plans?”
Sarmin thought of the pattern, marked across his brother’s chest, spreading like a cancer, consuming him. He thought of the child who had spent so many empty days in this very room. Did you watch the Sayakarva window, and imagine what you would see if it ever opened?