Beyond the Wall of Time (15 page)

This was both right and wrong, Lenares realised, as she found herself caught between two conflicting thoughts. Right, because
the woman was desperate to hide something, and deception should always be uncovered. Wrong, because Anomer had helped Lenares
hide something only a few hours ago.

The woman put her hands to her face, obscuring any view Lenares might get of her numbers.

“I… I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I think I may have given him his medicine twice yesterday. I was tired, so tired,
and I became confused.” Moralye cleared her throat, then raised her voice a little. “As well as being one of the greatest
scholars in this age of the world, he had become my friend. I would not willingly do anything to hurt him. But I… I couldn’t
remember if I had dosed him at midday, so I gave him a dose mid-afternoon. He was coughing so, and there was blood in his
sputum. I couldn’t remember!”

Stella reached up and pulled the woman down beside her. Both faces were streaked with tears. Lenares realised the light was
growing: dawn was coming belatedly to the Padouk forest.

“I doubt your actions killed him,” the queen said to the young scholar, her own voice rasping with hurt. “But you should have
told us he was so badly ill. There is at least one among us who has demonstrated a past facility with healing. Heredrew might
have been able to save him. He has on at least one occasion previously.”

“I’m so sorry,” Moralye said, her voice relapsing into a wail. “I thought he knew his own condition. I trusted him to tell
me if… He said nothing, made no complaint, so I thought… I’m sorry!”

So Heredrew is a healer!
Lenares had not seen that in the man’s numbers; but then, he wore his face like a mask. What might a healer be able to do
with Torve? Ease his passing? Keep him alive? Make him whole again?

“Phemanderac was the most beautiful person I ever met,” Stella said simply, standing and wiping her eyes. “But for his intervention,
Faltha would have been lost to the Destroyer a generation ago. He is a hero whose true tale has never been told.”

Moralye groaned like a woman in pain as she got to her feet. “He was the most important man in Dhauria. The young scholars
worshipped him.”

“I wish Leith was here to say something,” said the queen, “but as he is not, I will say it for him. Phemanderac loved Leith
like a brother, and more; but never once behaved in anything other than an appropriate manner. For that, and for many other
things, he earned our undying respect.”

A deep voice came from somewhere in the shadows. “The man had a sharp mind. He taught me a great deal about how to think.”

Sometimes Lenares could decipher a lot from what someone said, even if she couldn’t see them.
Heredrew knows something about this death.

This time she would keep quiet; this time she would not embarrass someone who, in all likelihood, had an innocent explanation
for the way his numbers added up. Instead, she would seek him out later and ask him to explain himself.

The prospect made her instantly nervous, even a little frightened, though she could see no reason for her fear. She had faced
the Emperor himself, a much more ruthless man than this kind if somewhat austere Falthan, and had bested him with nothing
more than the truth.

“To come so far,” Stella said, “only to fall in an unfamiliar land. It is an injustice.” She choked back tears. “I’m sorry,
old friend, that we dragged you into this.”

Those gathered around the cold body of the Dhaurian scholar continued to share their observations on his life; sombre words
interspersed with lengthy silences as a watery sun rose to send slivers of light shining through the trees. The morning dawned
cloudy but dry, with the promise of real heat later: already the bushes and trees had begun steaming. Around them the forest
lay quiet save for the muted chatter of birds; the animals no doubt keeping their distance. It seemed, though, that the trees
held their breath in honour of the dead man. Fanciful—no doubt the cessation of the storm led to the feeling of peace—but
even Lenares felt it.

She remained some distance apart, listening to the expressions of grief with one ear while worrying at how she would approach
Heredrew, this man who frightened her; how she would convince him to help Torve, and what, if anything, she should say about
his involvement in the death of the scholar.

Torve eased himself to his feet. For the first time since the events in the House of the Gods he experienced no pain, just
a general tiredness little different from the soreness one feels after a long day’s walk. He spent a moment stretching his
muscles, then picked his way over to where the travellers stood in a circle. His Lenares stood a little way from the others
and so she saw him first.

She shrieked out his name. Every head turned in her direction, then to him as she raised her arm, pointed and ran towards
him, her face open and hungry.

Torve held his breath. Perhaps twenty paces separated them. Twenty paces and the loss of his manhood. Not a distance that
could ever be spanned. Yet Lenares seemed to have forgotten his loss; her naked hunger burned itself on his mind, frightening
in its intensity. Lips parted, nostrils flared, eyes wide open. A pace short of him she froze, her face suddenly stricken,
and reached out a hand hesitantly; it was as though the life had gone out of her. Everything he had feared.

“Torve, are you… I don’t want to—please, Torve, don’t go!”

But he turned away anyway, unable to face her intensity, and he strode off towards the forest, head down as though flinching
from a blow.

“
HE’S STILL TRACKING US
.” There was anger and not a little admiration in Duon’s voice.

“Just our luck,” Conal growled. “That
canone
will never give up.”

“Foul language for a priest,” Duon said, and felt a little hypocritical, having taught him the word in the first place. Duon
had used it frequently in the last two days.

“Not a priest, not any longer. Just a hunk of meat. I can’t do anything he doesn’t want me to.”

For the third time that afternoon the man took the sharpened stick and thrust it towards his own stomach; as with the first
two attempts, his hand stopped abruptly just short of piercing the skin. Duon was sure it was no act.

Arathé mouthed her words and waved her hands desultorily, saying something like, “He won’t let us die.” It was hard to tell
exactly; she was so tired her hands didn’t form the words properly.

Captain Duon would never have believed he would be wishing for his own death. Even after the horror of the Valley of the Damned,
when as leader of the Emperor’s army he’d lost thirty thousand men, he had not sought to end his life. He’d thought then that
he’d known despair, but what he had felt then was akin to joy compared to this. This complete loss of self. Slavehood without
a moment’s respite. Of course he wanted to live, but he’d take death over a continued existence as the puppet of a cruel magician.

“Your father will keep tracking us,” the priest said. “
Canone.
”

He seemed to enjoy the flavour of the word, the smuttiness of it. Small rebellions, all they were capable of.

Duon sighed. “Noetos wanted us to go our own way, but now he comes after us. The faster he comes, the harder the voice drives
us.”
I just want to lie down.

Never. You’re mine until you burn out.

Physically sick at the sound of the voice, Duon responded with anger.
May the hour come soon, especially if it inconveniences you.

His words had as much effect as a gnat biting a horse, he had to acknowledge. Certainly not worth the voice answering him.

Noetos had trailed them ever since the voice had led them down from the Canopy. They hadn’t been difficult to track, Duon
surmised: one by one each of them had tested themselves against the hold on them. The resultant struggles gave the fisherman
noise, broken foliage and, in Arathé’s case, blood to follow. All the efforts proved futile, as Duon guessed they would, but
each of them would keep trying, he was sure.

To escape the hold the voice had on him was now the sole desire in Duon’s heart. Arathé had told them of the indignities the
voice had forced her to commit, and he had seen for himself the way her body had been possessed. The voice had done similar
things to him, he knew, though at the time they had seemed praiseworthy. The inhuman speed and strength in the Summer Palace;
the ability to swim even with a broken leg; surely they had been sign enough. But because their effect had been laudable,
he’d not questioned the voice closely.

Not that it would have mattered. The voice had demonstrated his absolute mastery of his charges, and their fate was clear.
He would continue to reside in their minds, his presence making Duon sick to his stomach, and whisper his mocking words while
scheming new atrocities for them to commit. Then he would take possession of their bodies, compelling them to do his will.
And so it would go until they died, discarded, hands and hearts blackened by all they had been forced to do.

There must be some way out of this dilemma
, he thought—knowing he was likely overheard, but safe in the knowledge that the voice would expect such thoughts. And this
was their first and greatest problem: they needed to find some way of communicating with each other without being overheard
by the voice. Duon never knew when he was under observation. Lately it seemed the voice hovered constantly in his mind. So
there was no way even of telling the others to think of ways to outwit the voice. He assumed Arathé might have an idea or
two, but held little hope that Conal would add anything. The man had been pitifully self-absorbed since the three of them
had been thrown together.

Duon had a few ideas of his own, so tenuous he had barely thought about them—which was exactly how they had to stay, given
his enemy could pluck the thoughts from his mind. Maybe he already had, and even now sat back laughing at Duon’s futile efforts.
This was his greatest fear.

Arathé’s method of communication, part vocal, part physical, was a code of sorts. There was a good possibility the voice hadn’t
learned her code; why should he, given he could discern the thoughts behind it? Perhaps Duon could slip a few oblique coded
phrases into their conversation, sideways as it were, so as not to attract the voice’s attention. Worryingly, it might be
that Arathé was already trying to pass him messages in her hand signals, which could explain why they appeared different.
Not exhaustion at all.

Only one way to find out.

The voice drove them through another copse, uncaring of the prickles and barbs plucking and cutting at them, seemingly uninterested
as to whether Noetos could use the disturbance to track them. Duon held Arathé’s gaze for a moment longer than usual, then
made a tiny gesture with one hand. One. First the numbers from one to nine, then progress to simple words. Surely she would
catch on.

By late that day Arathé had more than caught on. The trick, Duon realised, was to consider neither what he was doing nor why
he did it; that way the voice was less likely to tumble to their plan. He would form a “natural’ thought—how
tall
those
six
trees were; how
quickly
the
sky
grew
dark
—and make Arathé’s word-gesture as he thought the word. Before the middle of the day the young woman had taken the lead; now
he echoed her gestures, learning them, but being careful not to repeat them until sufficient time had passed.
Progress
was frustratingly
slow
—he fumbled the complex gestures for frustration—but within a
day
or two they would be able to
hold
a
conversation
in private.

You are up to something
, the voice said, cutting across his thoughts. Pain speared through Duon’s temples as though his head had been placed in a
vice.
Conspiring against me?

Hardly.
Icy fear materialised in his stomach, spreading quickly to his limbs.
Just bored.

You’re not talking to each other.
A sigh of mock exasperation.
Given up already? That would be disappointing.

What remains to be talked about? You have us, heart and soul. We breathe only because you allow it. Each of us has tried to
commit suicide and you have prevented us. At least you have separated us from our companions, so their lives are not endangered
by our presence. You heard our speculation as to what your plan for us might be.

All the time he signalled, tiny gestures with his hands, hoping Arathé could interpret them. Learning, learning all the time.

I do have a task for you
, the voice said in tones infused with unholy satisfaction.
In fact
, it continued, amplified now so it rang throughout his head, obliterating all extraneous thought and sensation—Duon knew
this meant all three of them were hearing the words—
I want you to take cover behind those limestone bluffs to your left.

A pause, and a sigh, and the pressure relented for a moment. Duon glanced ahead: the trees thinned out, exposing an old man’s
ragged mouthful of rotten teeth-like rock jutting up from green gums. Perfect cover, backlit by the sun, making it impossible
for one coming upon them to tell if an ambush had been laid. A dreadful suspicion began to form in Duon’s mind.

Fool priest, those pale stones that look like columns. Listen carefully, all of you. Hide from the path and make yourselves
comfortable. No noise at all—no talking, no whispering. You think you know how bad I can make things for you? You don’t know
a fraction of what I am capable.

Arathé must have guessed the voice’s intention also, for she began struggling with a desperate intensity. Duon felt the response
as pain in his mind, and could only wonder how terribly the girl suffered. She threw herself to the ground—or was thrown—snatched
at a rock and tried to dash it against her own temple, but instead threw it away with a despairing cry. After a few moments’
juddering and shaking she rose stiffly to her feet and continued forward as though nothing had happened, the only evidence
of the battle of wills an almost inaudible wail issuing from between her bloodless lips.