They told me I would die in this room. And when I tried to leave, tried to get to you, I… couldn’t.”
She stood back and squinted at the wall, her hands on her hips. “There is a pattern here.”
“Yes. Can you see them? It is easier as the sun sets, when—”
Mesema picked up a chair, the one Tuvaini had sat in during his last visit. It was a narrow piece, with roses carved into the back and along the legs. Sarmin had never found it comfortable, which was why he’d made Tuvaini sit in it. She raised it over her head and crashed it against the wall. Paper split and plaster crumbled. Zanasta! Half his face vanished into a puff of white powder. Mesema stumbled back and picked up the chair again, hitting Aherim. The room filled with a fog of plaster dust. Again.
Sarmin started coughing.
Mesema could barely lift the chair now; she gripped it firmly and took runs at the wall instead. And she killed them all, angels and demons alike, and the dust settled over Eyul like a shroud.
Sarmin looked at the devastation. The faces were gone, their patterns, gone—not because of a magical working, not because of bloodshed, but because of a chair.
“Let’s go,” Mesema said, throwing the chair aside.
“They told me I would die here.” Sarmin shook his head, dust falling from it.
Mesema shrugged. “Maybe you will. But nobody said you had to wait here to find out.” She held up Eyul’s Knife. “How is evil destroyed? With the emperor’s Knife.”
This was what Eyul had tried to tell him. He took the twisted hilt in his hand. This was his gift from Eyul and from his father. This was all he had, now. This, Grada, and Mesema. As he followed her he thought he heard his brothers cheering.
“I am very disappointed,” said the Pattern Master.
Tuvaini held his sigh and fingered his empty dacarba-sheath. He still wore it, to remind himself of everything he had given up. “What has disappointed you, Your Majesty?”
The Pattern Master appeared to have gained something in the last few minutes; he looked stronger and younger. He had about him what Tuvaini’s mother called “the glow of children.” He leaned forwards now in his throne, glaring. “Prince Sarmin is alive.”
“Impossible!” On the other side of the throne, Nessaket nearly jumped.
“I was assured of his death before I arrived here—and yet it appears you failed.”
“Govnan said—” Too late, Tuvaini realised his mistake. Govnan. Of course. The old man had protected his precious mage-born. Tuvaini spoke with bitterness. “He is most likely taking refuge at the Tower with the High Mage.”
“I think not.” The Pattern Master stood and paced to the edge of the dais. He was so like Beyon that Tuvaini caught his breath. “There is enough in the prince’s old room to keep him there.”
Tuvaini found that ridiculous. He had spoken to the prince—he knew that the prince wanted nothing more than to leave that soft prison. But he remained silent.
Five Carriers entered the room and silently approached the throne. They always came in groups of five. They stood near Helmar, still saying nothing. It unnerved Tuvaini that they did not require speech to communicate. It made it difficult to spy; he felt crippled, robbed of a sense.
One of the Carriers handed Helmar a bundle the size of a loaf of bread. Helmar held it to his forehead in concentration. Then he threw it down and cursed in his Yrkman way, “Devil’s hells! That’s not the one.” Tuvaini felt a thrill of pleasure at the Master’s frustration.
The Master kicked the bundle over to Tuvaini. “The assassin is dead. They say this belongs to you. You didn’t happen to kill Eyul and take his Knife?”
“No.” Tuvaini unwrapped his gift. Inside the dirty linen lay his own dacarba, its bejewelled settings now crusted with blood. Eyul. He had been Tuvaini’s faithful companion for many years, and despite his betrayal he still missed the man, his direct way of talking, his quiet observations. Now he would never see him again. “Where did you find this?” he asked.
“In Sarmin’s room.” Helmar tapped his chin absently.
“Sarmin is dead.” And nothing has changed.
“No.”
Tuvaini sheathed his dacarba, feeling a burst of excitement. His weapon felt good on his hip. Sarmin might be alive, and the Knife was missing; he didn’t know why that made Helmar angry, but it was enough that it did. He glanced at Nessaket, who stared ahead, shaking. Helmar had not objected to her presence, but her