By the middle of the night, they gave up waiting for the Primate to show himself, and went home.
At dawn, the desert warriors attacked.
55
FROM his vantage high in the Imperial Palace, Primate Melovar Aspen could see everything.
He liked being at a height. There was something about looking down on the people scurrying like ants below that lifted his spirits. He imagined a bird of prey must feel the same way, wheeling and spying out the land before seeing a victim and then hurtling down, flying through the air with claws extended to suddenly strike, before flying up into the air again to devour its prey.
Melovar often visited the Imperial Palace's highest room when he was feeling troubled. It reminded him of his workroom in Stonewater. The view from here wasn't quite so impressive, but it was high enough for Melovar to watch his doom unfold.
From his vantage he could see over the Wall, and his gaze was on the west as he watched the battle outside the gates of Seranthia. The Primate almost laughed; he had been deceived, or perhaps he had deceived himself. While he had been busy worrying about the Alturans and the Halrana, a greater enemy was rising in the south, closer to his borders, with only Petrya between them. He was going to be defeated by an enemy he knew almost nothing about. Zavros would smile and say something about the power of knowledge.
Melovar heard footsteps behind him but he didn't bother turning. He knew Moragon was out there, fighting to the last, and so was Dain Barden. The Primate held the Evermen's book in his hand; he carried it with him always, although why he still bothered to carry it around he didn't know. Did Dain Barden still think the Primate knew where the scratched relic was? The Primate knew he had been caught out in his lie, for if he knew where the powerful weapon of the Evermen was, surely he would have used it by now.
Behind him, a throat cleared, and Melovar turned irritably. "I left orders I was not to be disturbed."
"Your Grace," the templar said, "the harbour is still clear. The imperial fleet is at sea. We do not doubt High Lord Moragon's leadership, but it is safer if you take a boat now, while it's still easy to do so."
"Why?" the Primate said. "If they win they'll just follow me to Aynar. I prefer to stay here where I can watch it all unfold. Our enemy has proven to be quite resourceful. How do I know there isn't a surprise waiting in the harbour?"
"Your Grace, please, look for yourself," the templar said, pointing. "You can see the harbour from here. Those are our ships, keeping guard outside the Sentinel."
Melovar sighed, and then without warning spun and smashed the book in his hand into the man's face. He began to use his fists, punching again and again, pouring his rage on the templar until he was spent. Finally when the templar was on the ground, comatose, the Primate threw the book onto the templar's bloody face.
The pages of the book fell open to the oddly-formed diagram, and Melovar was once again looking at image of the pool of essence, and the circle above it. Such a strange shape.
Melovar looked up.
He looked at the diagram again.
"All this time," he muttered, but he felt the excitement course through his body as he knew the truth of his realisation. "All this time it was here, right in front of me."
The dimensions. The strange shapes of the rooms.
The most powerful magic the world had ever seen.
They said it was old, older even than Seranthia itself. They said it had been here when the city was just a small fishing town.
The features that made no sense. The angles and turns.
Melovar picked up the book and looked at the diagram, and then looked again at the harbour. If he completed the shape…
The Sentinel. Of course. The relic was inside the Sentinel! Perhaps the relic was the Sentinel.
The statue wasn't solid.
It was hollow.
56
DAIN Barden Mensk of the Akari rested the bloody head of his war hammer on the ground, panting as he watched the riders once again draw away to regroup on the hills surrounding the city.
"Tough fighters," he said, to no one in particular.
He looked down at his bleached leather armour, now splotched red with blood. He'd killed more of the desert men than he could count, but the scratched Hazara kept pulling away, harrying his flanks, protecting the fire-wielders before regrouping again out of range.