Free The Emperors Knife by Mazarkis Williams Page A

away.
    Fire spilled from Govnan’s hands and ran wild over the stone floor; bright rivers encircled Tuvaini.
    â€œGovnan!” Tuvaini fought down hysteria and put command into his voice.
    For a moment the heat built, and then it broke. The flames died, and Govnan slumped in his chair, smoke wafting from his lips. “My apologies.” The high mage spoke in little more than a whisper. “Ashanagur has grown strong. Sometimes he takes offence and slips my bonds to voice his will.”
    â€œIt—It has a name?” Tuvaini said.
    â€œHe has a name.” Govnan inclined his head. “And he will have a life beyond me. But you didn’t come here to discuss the mysteries of the Tower. What would you have us do about Prince Sarmin?”
    â€œWhy did you insist Sarmin be spared the Knife?” Tuvaini asked.
    â€œIt was High Mage Kobar who—”
    â€œKobar is a rock. I passed him in the hall below. You tell me,” Tuvaini said.
    â€œHe has about him that quality we seek for the Tower.” Govnan gripped the arms of his chair and pulled himself straight.
    â€œThe Tower cannot recruit among the emperor’s family.” Tuvaini recoiled from the very idea.
    â€œOnce upon a time we did—it was a royal prince who founded this Tower, and Alakal himself was the grandson of an emperor. The royal family now consider it beneath them to serve, but if Sarmin were trained, he might make such a mage as has not been seen in three generations. Such a resource cannot be thrown away lightly. A time may come when the emperor has need of such talents. A similar provision was made in the time of the emperor’s grandfather, though that child was lost in the chaos of the Yrkman War.”
    â€œWhy did Kobar not say this when he demanded Sarmin’s survival?”
    Govnan shrugged. “I cannot know Kobar’s mind, but it is clear that the more potential a weapon is felt to have, the more hands will turn to lift it.”
    â€œWell, this particular weapon of yours is mad,” Tuvaini said. “He cannot be trusted to act in anybody’s interest, not even his own. He sees treachery in every corner, and twists honest words into conspiracy.”
    Govnan fixed him with knowing eyes—too knowing. “If he twists your words, then speak none to him. You’ve wished him dead, buried him alive, so leave him be. If all is well with the empire he will die in that room of his, unknown and unmourned.”
    â€œAll is not well, and yet there he remains.” Sarmin is of no more use to the Tower than he is to me.
    â€œNo.” Govnan stood with care. “All is not well.”
    â€œYour servant—” Tuvaini realised the young mage had never supplied her name. “She said the Tower protects the emperor from harm that doors cannot keep out. I know differently.”
    â€œMura speaks with the certainty of youth.” Govnan stepped towards Tuvaini, walking with an old man’s shuffle.
    Tuvaini backed away, his skin still hot with the memory of elemental rage. “We do not speak of a common plague. There is an enemy behind this—I sense his hand. The Carriers are his tools.” Tuvaini heard the tremble in his own words; he feared the truth he had come to seek.
    â€œAn enemy? Yes, and we of the Tower fight him every day. We work to stay his hand; we work to keep him from claiming pieces for his game. A wall has been built around Beyon since the day of his father’s death, a wall of enchantment like no other we have ever fashioned, but these are strange magics we fight. They are subtle and insidious, and in such a game the might of elementals may be circumvented. We stand at an edge now, a precipice, perhaps. Our wall is crumbling.”
    It will bury them all, Beyon, Govnan and Arigu. “I must return to the palace,” said Tuvaini. “Meanwhile I expect you to focus on your work. I hope the empire will not crumble through your