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