The Emperors Knife - By Mazarkis Williams Page 0,144

became a drum, a pounding on the walls of her chest.

“Oh Helmar!” She backed away from the square, a snarl on her lips. “Oh Helmar.”

This cannot stand. Her thought, and Sarmin’s.

“How can it be stopped?”

“A magic of many parts.”

“Tell me,” Grada said, as she turned and fled from the square. She reached the road and began her trek through the encroaching sands,

circling around the dead town. “Tell me, Sarmin.”

“A magic of many parts,” he repeated, and his thoughts filled her, golden and complex. “Blood against blood. I’ve been gathering the pieces, and you’ve shown me nearly everything I need.”

“How can—? It isn’t possible.”

“I will try—and you, Grada, you must find the Mogyrk church.” He sent images, vague directions based on what others had told him. “That is the source of his power. I need to see it.”

“Then I shall go.” A new determination rose within her and she returned to the town. She made her way to the camel. The memories she carried would show her how to ride it.

Sarmin listened: there it was again, a scraping on the other side of the secret door. He remembered when he heard the noise for the first time, so many weeks ago, when Tuvaini came through, bringing with him the promise and horror of the outside world. Then Beyon came. He felt Beyon’s loss as a physical pain. He squeezed shut his eyes and gritted his teeth.

And then Mesema. And what happened to Mesema? The idea that she might be somewhere in the palace, afraid and alone, drove him close to madness. He was stuck here, and she…

He stood and passed Eyul’s crumpled form on the bed. He’d put some wine into the man’s mouth a little while ago, but he wasn’t sure if it had been swallowed. He crossed the soft carpet to the hidden door and tapped, as a servant might.

“Hello? Is someone there?” He thought it safe to speak; an assassin wouldn’t be fumbling with the switch.

Someone whispered, and he put his ear against the stone.

“Sarmin! It’s me!”

Joy bloomed in him. “Mesema!” My bride! “There’s a catch—Tuvaini told me once. You have to put a dagger in it, or a dacarba, right up to the hilt.”

“I have your knife.” After a minute something clicked and the wall swung wide. It amazed Sarmin, every time. Mesema ran in, looking wild as a legend, with a silken sheet wrapped around her, her hair hanging in tangles, and blood streaked across her cheeks. She held his dacarba in her right hand.

“Beyon’s dead.”

“I know.”

“He took his own life to keep from joining the pattern.”

Sarmin sat on his bed. He hadn’t expected that—an assassin, he’d thought, or maybe some Carriers—but to take his own life, as a final act of bravery… He felt the tears come once again and wiped them away. “But it can’t be. After he died, the pattern was stronger.”

“Yes.” The way Mesema thrust out her chin told him that she hadn’t changed her mind about fighting. “His blood raised a pattern all around him. The Pattern Master—” Her bravery was short-lived. She looked past him to the assassin and gave a little cry.

Sarmin watched her face, how the lines grew longer when she was worried. “I’ve been giving him wine,” he told her. “Do you have any healing?”

“A little.” She crossed to the bed, and as she pulled up Eyul’s shirt Sarmin’s gaze fell with shock upon her arms. Red and blue pattern-marks spiralled from her wrist to her elbow, each shape part of the Master’s plan, each line drawing them closer to the endgame. She raised a hand over the assassin’s wound, but hesitated to touch it. “This will kill him.”

“I think so.”

“You were hurt—who healed you?”

“Govnan, but I have no way to call him.” He felt it a lack in himself that he could not call on the mages, that he must wait and hope that they called to him upon the wind. And he felt a lack in himself that he could not reassure her.

Mesema took a breath and leaned over the assassin, reaching out to stroke his hair. “Poor man. Lucky he’s not conscious, he can’t feel the pain.”

Sarmin wasn’t so sure of that, but he didn’t say so. Her marks drew his eye and he wanted to touch them, study them, even now. “He killed my brothers.”

“Yes.” She looked away, her face troubled. “I know.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” She fell against him then, and he felt her tears against his skin. “It’s good