Beyond the Wall of Time Page 25

  “But the Canopy?” Noetos could imagine the devastation such a severe storm would bring to the treetop city.

  “Would have been abandoned at the first sign of high winds. There are caves in the sacred heart, at the base of the great plateau you call the House of the Gods. I have little doubt the Padouki sought them out.”

  “Would they have taken shelter in the House of the Gods?”

  “Never, not even if it had been their only hope of survival. The place is sacred to the gods, and for the Padouki to travel there would mean the loss of Keppia’s gift.”

  “Will you remain with us?” Anomer asked.

  “Aye,” Cyclamere said, an odd note in his voice, and nodded to the boy.

  Ah, Noetos thought. The fourth generation. Cyclamere may well become Anomer’s protector, not mine. Perhaps a glimpse of my son’s swordplay will encourage the swordmaster. It might be best for everyone if the old warrior does attach himself to Anomer. He wondered how he might promote such a liaison.

  “We need to eat,” Cy1ene commented. “Should we try to move Noetos to the village, or will some of us go to the village and bring food back here?”

  “I am well,” Noetos said, “just a little weak. My son and daughter healed me.” He could not keep the pride out of his voice.

  “As to that, I’m a little puzzled,” Anomer said. “I thought we’d need to rid you of the huanu stone in order to effect our healing. We searched your belt and then your clothing, but—”

  “But you couldn’t find it,” Noetos finished. “Have you forgotten that Captain Kidson relieved us of our possessions before tossing us off the Conch? The stone is my pack, somewhere on that wreck over there—assuming he didn’t just throw our effects overboard.” He wouldn’t have, surely; the Sword of Boudhos alone would be of immense value to him.

  “What are you talking about?” Cylene asked. “What stone?”

  Noetos jerked his head towards her; not only did her face once again carry Opuntia’s severe features, her voice was that of his dead wife. He turned away, struggling to keep his composure.

  Staring fixedly at the wreck a hundred paces or so to his left, he told Cylene of the huanu stone. He explained how he’d found the stone and had paid a sculptor those precious gold coins to shape it in Arathé’s likeness. Omiy the alchemist had explained its worth and something of its power, or, strictly speaking, lack of power—its ability to absorb magic. As Noetos told the tale, weaving it into the story she already knew, he wondered whether, if he turned, he’d see an avaricious light in her eyes, as he had in the eyes of others who had learned of the stone. Or whether he’d see his late wife’s face.

  He did not turn.

  “Show me the stone,” Opuntia’s voice said.

  Noetos shuddered: the voice scraped along his nerves like a shoal on the keel of a boat. The voice couldn’t be audible though, or his children would have commented on it. Opuntia was doing something inside his head, in the place between his senses and his brain.

  “Show me the stone,” she said, her voice peremptory, but Noetos had to believe it was Cylene’s soft voice asking him, not Opuntia’s voice commanding him.

  “Let me see if I can get to my feet,” he replied.

  “Send one of our children.”

  She said one of our children. No, I heard that, but she said ‘the,’ I’m sure of it.

  “I cannot. Both of my children are magical. Should they handle the stone directly, it would drain them of their power.”

  Cylene would know something was wrong, would be wondering why he did not face her, but as yet she’d not mentioned it.

  “I’ll go then. Where exactly is the stone?”

  The huanu stone was something he would never have allowed Opuntia to handle. Not because it would do her any harm—she was as magic as… well, as a stone—but because she would have seen it as a prize, something to be used to further her ambition. She’s in my head, not in Cylene, Noetos told himself, but it was so hard not to believe his wife had taken possession of his… his what? His girl? There were few terms not demeaning both to him and to her.

  Perhaps he was making a fool of himself.

  So be it.

  “When you enter the wreck through the large hole in the hull,” he said, “look up and to your right. You should see a hatch leading to the steerage class accommodation. That’s the place I last saw my pack. Of course, it might well be in Kidson’s cabin, but start in the bunkroom. And make sure you don’t touch the stone! I would hate to see you discover some hidden magical reservoir only when it was being burned out of you.”

  He turned then and looked full in her face and forced himself to smile. He was a poor actor, he knew; he hoped she could see the sincerity behind the act.

  “Look after him,” Cylene said to Arathé. “He’s still in pain.”

  It was only as she approached the wreck that Noetos considered the danger of entering the wreck alone.

  That there was something wrong with her father was beyond dispute; he’d been stabbed, after all, by a desperate man, and had suffered a forced healing by two amateur magicians. A wonder, Arathé acknowledged, he’d survived at all. But she’d noticed something adhering to his face, like a second layer of skin, and had pointed it out to Anomer as they effected his healing. The nearest she could come to a description of it was a caul of fog, a cloying layer of magic obscuring his face, interfering with his senses. There was a faint cord attached to it, stretching away into a nothingness that was less a matter of distance and more of “away-ness.” Arathé did not know what to make of it. The nearest she could come to a solution to the puzzle was the idea that perhaps the Most High had left this odd thing behind as a result of his use of Noetos’s body. But the explanation did not convince her.

  Anomer had not noticed the strange phenomenon, and could not see it even after Arathé endeavoured to show it to him. It was not easily discerned: whenever one focused directly on it, the caul seemed to vanish. But she was certain it was not a construct of her imagination. That Anomer had not been able to detect it was not surprising: he had ever been the more powerful one, but with far less finesse.

  No, Arathé considered as she watched Cylene walk across the beach, Anomer was not a real concern. Though tardy, he had been a willing participant, his ongoing anger at Noetos held in check as he gave her his strength. The most disturbing thing about her father’s healing had not been Anomer’s belated acquiescence, but the fact that the foggy caul seemed familiar.

  Moralye sat down where Cylene had been, interrupting Arathé’s thoughts. Arathé liked the scholar. She was a pretty young woman, her beauty barely marred by successive burnings from the sun and the inevitable cuts and abrasions incurred on such a journey, especially by someone unused to travel. She had never complained, even when it had been clear she wished to spend more time than could be afforded at Phemanderac’s impromptu graveside. Endlessly dependable, she had revealed something more than mere stolidity in her brave rescue of Cylene from Captain Kidson’s cabin. Arathé had wondered why Moralye had been drawn from her faraway home to be with the travellers—her encounter with the Most High had brought her around to the belief that forces were at work beyond those of Husk and his spikes—but the woman had fully justified her presence. Actually, Arathé had begun to warm to her reserved manner and hoped in time to make her a friend.

  If they ever had time for such things. So much had happened in the last few days that all normal life had simply evaporated. They ate rapidly whenever they halted; it had been a week, at least, since they had taken the time to partake of a proper meal together. Conversation lagged behind events, so much so that Arathé had yet to explain in detail the nature of their escape from Husk. She particularly wanted to speak with Lenares, as aspects of their dealings with the voice in their heads might, she felt, be pertinent to how they could deal with the gods. Lenares herself had been a hero, apparently, drawing the Daughter’s fire during the great storm—another story still untold except in summary.<
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  Some way along the beach, Cylene disappeared into the wreck of the Conch.

  “I don’t think—” Noetos began.

  He was interrupted by a strange howling in the air around them, as though something huge was cutting through the fabric of the sky. Accompanying the noise, which grew louder as it raced towards them from somewhere in the distance, was a series of crackling booms, the sound of someone flicking a giant bullwhip.

  “Cylene!” he shouted.

  The howling noise roared overhead, accompanied by a wind that tore at their hair, the few remaining trees and the debris around them, then dived, screaming, and detonated on the wrecked ship. With a crash the Conch shook, then dropped, settling far lower in the water on the near side. The hole through which Cylene had entered simply vanished. Large pieces of timber splashed into the sea and smaller splinters pattered on the sand.

  The howling ceased, but the crackling, hissing noise continued all around them for some moments, gradually falling into silence.

  Even as the noise faded Arathé had put a hand under her father’s armpit and, with Anomer, began dragging him towards the wreck.

  “Let me go,” he said. “Just lend me your strength.”

  Anomer opened his mouth, but Arathé shot her brother a glance. Don’t bother arguing with him.

  The connection was still there. Arathé doubted how much strength they could supply him, given she had lost the spike in her head. She’d not thought she would ever lament the loss of Husk! She gathered Anomer’s grudging contribution and fed it hurriedly through the connection to her father.

  There was so little. What they had, they’d expended on Noetos’s healing. As a result her father could barely stand up unaided. Nevertheless, he staggered across the sand towards the incoming tide and the settling wreck.

  Take mine, Duon said.

  We have no right to ask, Arathé replied.

  Take it anyway. Take as much as you can. Whatever the outcome, he needs to believe in you both.

  Yes, she said, acknowledging his point, and drew deeply from the southerner.

  As Duon crumpled to the ground, Noetos roared and sprinted forward into the surf.

  * * *

  No time to think, no room in his head for coherent thought. He’d suck the world dry to keep her safe, drain anyone and everyone to ensure she lived. He’d call on the Father, any of the gods, trap them somehow, make them help, get them involved, force them to take his side. Anything, anything.

  She hadn’t wanted him to protect her. Fine words, with the best of intentions, but he could have prevented this simply by not telling her about the stone. Just like he’d kept Opuntia safe by not telling her about Neherius.

  The wreck loomed in front of him. It had dropped a considerable amount, collapsing on itself having given way at the weak point, right where Cylene had entered the hull. There was no longer a hole, no longer a way in. Noetos kept sprinting, didn’t slow down, would not, and smashed into the thick planks of the hull at full speed.

  And broke through.

  His body had become a missile, a rock thrown from a catapult, a force unable to be resisted. Behind him, wood, caulking and tar splashed into the water. With considerable effort he pulled up, ankle-deep in water, and peered around in the relative darkness. The strength in his body faded.

  “Cylene!”

  No reply, of course there was no reply; if she had been in a position to reply she would surely have noticed his arrival. Injured then. Unconscious. He couldn’t penetrate the gloom, despite his frantic searching, and found her only because he stood on her outstretched arm.

  He took a backward step, horrified.

  She was pinned by the hull wall. At first sight it appeared to have cut her in half. Her upper body lay almost fully submerged in the water, face down, her hair spread out like pale coral around her head. His splashing made her body rock gently.

  Dead, undoubtedly dead.

  A moment passed and she did not move. Another moment. He refused to believe it. Hauled her up by the hair until her face emerged from the water, her unmarked face, its warmth already fleeing.

  The sight of her was unbearable.

  He drew a deep breath and, as he did so, pulled in every ounce of magic he could through the connection between himself and his children. A part of him knew it was dangerous, that he might empty them of magic—more, might drain them of life—but he literally could not stop himself. Couldn’t make himself care. He could sense power coming from places only distantly connected to his son and daughter; in particular, one remote, reluctant participant fought to keep from being tapped, but Noetos drew from him with fierce glee. He hoped it was the evil voice that had enslaved his daughter.

  He let his breath out with a roar.

  The noise he made was indescribable, something far greater than any beast of the field or forest, shriller than an animal in pain, more powerful than the collapse of a hill. Under the assault the hull shattered into uncountable pieces, the largest chunks flung away, the remainder little more than a cloud of splinters and dust. The sudden sun made him blink. There she was, still floating in the water, but now at least free of the hull. Not cut in half, but still crushed. Still drowned. Still dead.

  Noetos took her broken body in his arms and carried her through the waves, up and along the beach, in the sunshine, to the silent group awaiting him.

  Laid her on the sand, her face so beautiful and so empty.

  Waited in hope for the time-doubling effect to occur, was real, was final. Grasping at any chance, however unlikely.

  Waited.

  Waited until her body stiffened. Watched as the blood drained from her lovely face, leaving her features pinched and mean. It was clear no doubling of time would occur.

  Walked away into the ravaged forest and screamed every ounce of feeling at the uncaring trees.

  No one followed.

  CHAPTER 10

  SHAKY GROUND

  NOETOS STAYED AWAY FOR HOURS.

  “We must find the stone,” Anomer said.

  “I don’t care about the stone. Let it be lost forever. It cost us Cylene. No stone is worth that. Forget about it and think instead about what must be done. We must bury Cylene before the ants find her.”

  Anomer frowned at his sister. With one hand she signalled her replies, too distressed to mind-speak, while with the other she mopped Duon’s pallid face. The man was still unconscious from the morning’s terrible events, having been drained almost to the point of death first by Arathé and then by Noetos. His sister seemed to be developing some feeling for the southerner, not surprising given they seemed to share minds. Anomer wasn’t sure what he felt about that, but he certainly wasn’t comfortable with it. Arathé had been his special playmate and they had shared their lives; now someone else threatened to take his place.

  “It’s not a matter of what the stone is worth or what it did,” he said, snapping at her. “We might need it. It might well be instrumental in our defeat of the gods. Do you want to be the one to tell Lenares you left it lying on a beach?”

  Arathé waved her hand lazily, clearly weighed down by exhaustion. “It’s Father’s stone. If he wants it, he can go and get it. Neither you nor I can touch it, and I suspect even Duon would be hurt by it, given the degree to which he and I are linked.”

  “I could go and look for it,” Moralye said softly.

  She of all of them—barring Noetos, of course—had been most affected by Cylene’s death. She’d known the girl for an hour, no more. Anomer supposed it was a reaction to knowing her bravery had been wasted; that perhaps in conducting her rescue she had set their cause back rather than advancing it, despite her good intentions. Such things were unknowable, he thought. If a god refused to foretell the future, claiming it was as yet unformed, what chance did any of them have to make sensible decisions?

  “I don’t think Noetos would object,” the scholar added.

  Anomer grunted. “Who knows what he’d care about? He’s out of his mi
nd with grief. Anyway, he’s never been the most predictable of men even at his best. That’s what I hated most about our childhood. You never knew what he’d be like: one night he’d come home with presents, little wooden carvings for me or earrings for Arathé; the next he’d arrive half-drunk and haul us out of our beds to inspect our fingernails or the shine of our shoes, and he’d keep looking until he found something he could punish us for. It got so I could hear his footsteps coming up the rough Old Fossa Road long before anyone else, and I’d tidy up all my possessions so I might better please him. He was capricious, that’s the term for it.”

  Silence greeted his words.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” he said.

  “I never knew you felt like that,” Arathé signalled.

  “Didn’t he frighten you?”

  She shook her head. “I was older. He was gruff to me at times, but I never felt frightened, little brother. Not like you just described. I wish you had said something to me.”

  “I spoke to Mother,” he said. “She said there was nothing we could do, he was like that with everybody. She told me she hated it too, and that she must have done something bad to make him angry.”

  “Did she really?” Arathé signalled, her stiff movements betraying her feelings. “Did she really say that? I think it’s nonsense. She knew exactly why he was angry with her. The more I hear, the more I suspect our mother was trying to enlist us in her private war against Father.”

  “Excuse me,” Moralye said, her command of the Bhrudwan common tongue perfect as always. “As I do not wish to offend your father, I won’t retrieve the stone unless one of you gives me your blessing. It ought to be retrieved, don’t you think?”

  The late afternoon air remained warm, the stench of corruption from the nearby town had lessened, and birds had begun their tentative return to the coastal forest. The bay described a lazy arc from north to south; they were, Anomer judged, very near the southern end. Behind the wreckage of the Conch rose a line of low hills, jutting into the sea and forming a headland, no doubt protecting the bay from bad weather. Though not, of course, from the fury of a god-storm. In better times, Anomer supposed, this coast might be considered an idyllic place to visit. Certainly it would have provided a generous livelihood for those fishing here. Not now, though. Detritus from the storm formed a barrier between the golden sands of the beach and the eggshell blue of the sea. Branches, bodies, fixtures from the village, planks from the jetty, all rose and fell with the gentle waves of the incoming tide. As Moralye and Anomer walked towards the remains of the Conch, it became clear that it would be a long time before anyone enjoyed the vista from Long Pike Mouth.