of the dune and lay down just behind the crest. The church rose high on the other side; if anyone was standing in that tall white point they would see her. No one shouted a warning or came after her, so she raised her head to take a better look.
All lay quiet, save for the wind blowing sand across the white stone. She could see nothing through the narrow windows, and the door was shut tight. “Grada.” Sarmin filled her mind. She could hear a woman singing. Strange.
“Should I go in, my Prince?”
I don’t want you to go in. Sarmin’s thought. “I think you should.” Grada took a deep breath and stood.
“His pattern has more than one centre, but this is an important one, a centre of his faith, of his vision. The tomb where my brother died—that’s another centre. When he joins them, when his bridge is complete, his power in the palace will be total.”
“How do I break it?” As Grada skittered down the dune, sand spilled under her sandals.
“I’m not sure. We need to look inside.”
The door was taller than it had looked from a distance. It rose to twice her height and came to a sharp point at the top. She smelled myrrh and candles. She’d been to a temple of Mirra once and it had been filled with the same scent. The hasp lifted without resistance, and she pushed the door open.
A long, vaulted hall lay before her, picked out in harsh relief of light and shadow. Everywhere lay the pieces of men and women, nomads from the look of their clothes. Here was a leg; there, a red-stained hand. She gagged, but the resin-smell of the incense helped her keep her stomach. A blood-writ pattern covered the floor and the walls, gleaming where the sun found it, and in the centre, an old man pulled himself up from a chair and straightened his legs beneath him, waiting to greet her. She crossed the hall, stepping over limbs, trying not to meet the glassy stares of the severed heads. Fear made her hands tremble, but no terrors seized her, only sorrow for the dead. She knew the Pattern Master, as he knew her: he had written his story across her and through her in his own hand.
The sweat ran cold between her breasts and the scar across her back ached as if Govnan had never worked his magic there. She stopped when she came close enough to speak.
The man’s white hair fell in greasy locks to his shoulders. A milky film clouded his eyes, and his head made little jerks, turning to the side every few seconds as if slapped. But his mouth curled in a snarl, and he spoke as a younger man would: “You are marked, but no longer one of mine.”
This can’t be, thought Sarmin. He’s supposed to be in the palace.
Grada answered the old man. “I’m not a Carrier any more.”
“Interesting. What are you doing here?”
“I’m curious about the pattern.”
“More interesting.” The old man snorted. “Lucky for you I don’t need another body for my church.” He reached for her, and in a flash of red she felt her pattern-marks writhe upon her skin, like fire ants crawling, attempting to rearrange themselves, to undo what Sarmin had done for her and more. Just as quickly she felt Sarmin changing them back, keeping her to herself, holding himself within her.
The old man gave a grunt of exasperation. “Who freed you?” Grada drew her knife and tried to slash at him, but her arm did not reach far enough. She stepped closer, but it was still the same: she could not reach him, no matter how close he appeared.
But whatever barrier had stood between them dissolved when he grabbed her knife-arm with icy fingers. He twisted and her hand went numb, the blade dropping to the stone floor. He ignored her cries and pressed a finger to one of her marks, a red triangle suspended over blue, and instantly she felt him inside her, rifling through her past as a thief would a drawer. She felt the gorge rising in her throat and could not stop it. She heaved, and vomit trickled down her lips and chin. She saw herself enter Sarmin’s chamber, his brief fight, and the dagger going into his chest. Then she saw him play with her marks, fixing her. The Master watched, and as he dug his fingernails into her arm his mouth was open and drooling.
“This is what