Beyond the Wall of Time (31 page)

So, perhaps he is safe here, yes indeed. And if he is safe, he just needs to find a lure large enough to make the gods snap
at it. Then he can befriend them if they are powerful or enslave them if they are not. Either way, they in turn could draw
or drive his enemies, the objects of his dark desires, north to Andratan.

As he thinks of this, Husk finds he needs to breathe, needs to pant. The hoarse sound fills the room, rattles the few wet
bones lying on the bed, slaps off the dripping walls.

His day of revenge may be postponed, but it is not cancelled. It cannot come soon enough.

FISHERMAN

NOETOS GLANCED UP WHEN
he heard someone emerge from the hatch—the woman Moralye. He returned his attention to the cabin. Kidson had shouted something
a moment earlier; the fisherman half-suspected it was a prelude to some foolish dash for freedom and eased his sword an inch
or so from its scabbard. Cyclamere took a step towards the cabin, his blade in his hand. But a flash of sunlight on honey-blonde
hair caught the corner of Noetos’s eye and his head snapped back even before his brain made sense of what he’d seen.

“Cylene!” he cried, and she smiled.

Her hair was bedraggled, her skin pale, cheeks hollow and eyes ringed with weariness, but none of that mattered to Noetos.
He saw only the golden halo surrounding her caring features and the bright intensity of her smile. A moment later she was
in his arms, repeating his name as he did hers, her tears beginning to flow. There were other noises, sudden movement around
them, but he was robbed of the capacity to notice them. His heart had returned to him.

“I didn’t realise I’d given myself to you when I told you my story,” she said to him. “But I have.”

He held her fiercely. “And I you,” he replied. “I have missed you.”

“I can see,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

“Was it terrible, the storm?” he asked. At her nod, he continued: “It was beyond description on the land. I can only imagine
how frightening it must have been on the sea. It was a god-storm, you know.”

She kissed him on his cheek. “I was a stone in a basket. Apparently we lost a mast at the beginning of the storm, and many
of the crew were dragged overboard in the rigging, but I never saw it. Kidson locked me in his cabin, said I was the only
cargo on the vessel worth saving.”

“The man got something right.”

“What, locking me in his cabin? How could that be right?”

For a moment he thought she was serious, that he’d offended her; but her merriment played around her eyes and on her lips.

“No, you foolish girl,” he growled, assuming a mock-ferocious grimace. “Saying you were the only cargo worth saving.”

He was rewarded with a smile, which changed into a frown.

“Kidson left the passengers to fend for themselves,” she said. “Those who stayed below decks were battered, many to death.
Others ventured topside during a lull in the storm, only to be swept away when the wind returned. Eventually even Kidson gave
up trying to sail the ship and joined me in his cabin.”

“Did he—”

She put a finger on his lips. “I am his property,” she said, an answer of sorts. “But his thought was to get as drunk as he
could so he would not be aware of his own passing. He barely spoke to me.”

“How did you survive?”

“Noetos, I will tell you all of my story, but not now. We are not safe here. Perhaps you could introduce me to your friends
and we could exchange stories later? That is, if you aren’t just going to leave me on this beach?”

“Leave you? Of course not!”

Something thudded into his back. Cylene gasped.

“After him!” someone cried.

Noetos turned his head. Anomer had dropped onto the cabin wall and he and Cyclamere were leaning over and staring down at
a broken section of the lower rail. Noetos could not make any sense of what had just happened.

Arathé was trying to say something, but she had forgotten to signal, so urgent were her words. She came towards Noetos as
quickly as she could.

“You have been hit,” Duon said, his eyes wide.

It took a moment for Noetos to realise the man was talking to him. He let go of Cylene. “Hit? What with?”

The coldness spreading across his lower back answered his question; he knew what he would find even before his hand touched
the knife handle.

“Sit down,” Duon said, his voice firm; but Noetos was already on his knees, breathing shallowly as the pain began. It was
far more intense than anything he’d received in his youth on the practice ground. His thoughts started to flutter, his mind
fogging.

“Do we take it out?”

“He’ll bleed to death!”

“It is the captain’s poison-tipped knife.” Cylene’s voice, edged with panic, fading into the mist.

More words, all incomprehensible.

“Noetos, can you hear me?”

The last speaker was Opuntia, apparently. She stood over him, her blonde hair obscuring her features but not the dreadful
wound in her stomach. It dripped blood onto his chest. What was this? Noetos didn’t want to dream, not now when Cylene had
returned to him. He tried to wake up.

“You can hear me; stop pretending otherwise. I’m barely cold in my grave and already you’ve found someone else to distract
you. You needn’t think I’ll let you forget how you treated me, fisherman. Do you think for a moment a new love will remove
all the bitter self-destructiveness at the heart of you?”

“No, ’puntia,” he croaked.

His dead wife bent over him, her hair touching his face, stinging his eyes.

“You imprisoned me in that fishing village,” she said. “I was destined to be the queen of Neherius and you were to be my king.
But for a little courage, we could have ruled them. Our every desire indulged! Fortune and fame! Knowledge, travel, consorting
with the best people! But you lied, you kept the truth from me; instead of a crown, you gave me the stink of fish and their
sandpapery scales in your clothes. When I desired your caresses, you gave me callouses on my hands and bruises on my face.
You gave me talk of the sea, of currents and shoals, when I wanted to hear of heroic deeds and faraway places. You drove me
to Bregor and Merle, yes, you did; it was your fault I slept with them. At least they did more than grunt! And you killed
me with your foolish rescue. You meant to kill me. You were more interested in revenge than in rescue. It suited you that
I died! Don’t deny it—I can read your thoughts, such as they are. And now I live beyond the veil, in this emptiness, where
you drove me!”

She spat in his face. It stung like acid.

“I hope you die,” she said, and he could see her face now, her beautiful features distorted by hatred: her mouth twisted,
her eyes bloodshot and staring, her cheeks flushed, her breath hot on his face.

“I hope the poison takes you. I am pouring my power into the poison to increase its potency. I want you here in the void with
me, where I can punish you forever for what you did to me.”

“No, my love, you do not understand,” he said, or thought he said. “I could not tell you of my family. The Neherians were
searching for us. Had they found us, they would have taken you and… and done to you what they did to my family. You would
have died screaming, as their men or their dogs; if you can see my thoughts, you know this. You know this! Ruling in Neherius
was just a fantasy. Old Roudhos is no more than a dream, Opuntia!”

He might as well have not spoken for all his argument swayed her. “You were pleased I died,” she said.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Yes. Relieved rather than pleased, but your death did take a great weight from my mind. I’m sorry for
what I did to you, but I didn’t make you into the mean-spirited seagull you became, picking over the bones of others’ lives
rather than finding food of your own. It is not where you live that makes you big or small, Opuntia. Mean people can live
in castles and great souls in fishing villages. What of the widow Nellas? She lost two husbands, yet remained as generous
with her heart as ever. She was greater than any of the Neherian nobility.”

“The widow Nellas? That ignorant fishwife? She was generous with far more than her heart, so all the talk went. I suppose
you desired even her, didn’t you?” Opuntia’s voice shrilled in his ear.

“No, dear; I just no longer desired you. Your beautiful body and your sword-edged tongue held no attraction for me. I couldn’t
bear to touch you. If I had not loved you so deeply I could have closed my ears and used your body, but it was precisely because
I once loved you dearly that I was so hurt by your constant tearing down of everything I did.”

He blinked a couple of times, but her face seemed oddly out of focus, as though turning to smoke.

“You had been dead for years,” he said to her. “You were a hook in our mouths, serving no purpose other than to irritate us
at best and leave us flopping in the boat at worst. When I saw you dying in Bregor’s arms I felt saddened for you, but glad
that your bitter spirit was about to find rest.”

“Rest?” Her voice was a mixture of outrage and terror. “What do you know about life after death? Rest is something I’ll never
have, thanks to you, not here in the void. And as repayment for a life of bitterness I will ensure you never have any peace.
Turn and turn about! Fisherman, I promise I will haunt you for the remainder of eternity. Do you hear me, Noetos? The remainder
of eternity!”

“Noetos?” another voice said, insistent. “Stay with us.”

“On the count of three,” said another. “One, two, three!”

“They’ll not save you,” Opuntia insisted, her face growing even harder. “You’re coming with me!”

Something like fishhooks tore at his back, pulling him out of his body. He hovered above the broken ship, gazing with interest
on his companions—his former companions, he supposed, now he was dead—as they bent over him. There was Cylene, her face above
his, tears in her eyes; alongside her stood Arathé and Anomer, hand in hand, eyes closed.

“Put it back, put it back,” a voice wailed. “He’s bleeding to death!”

“It’s not lack of blood we need to worry about,” Anomer said. “It’s the poison working towards his heart.”

“He’s gone,” Arathé signalled, though Noetos heard her voice in his head, that pure voice she’d possessed before Andratan
had started them all on this bitter path. It warmed his cold heart.

“No, he’s still close. Hold onto him!” Anomer’s lips turned pale with effort.

“Let him go!” Opuntia shrieked.

All three faces turned towards the place where Noetos hung in the air.

“Hold him, hold him!” Anomer commanded, and the hooks bit deeper into the fisherman’s skin. In moments his vision faded and
his world was reduced to those bright points of pain, the fishhooks tearing at his soul. He groaned, then gave in and let
go.

“His eyes are twitching,” Cylene said, her voice excited despite being laced with obvious weariness.

Anomer turned from his sewing and scrambled across the beach to his father’s side. “How are you?” he asked, placing a hand
on his father’s battered face.

“Is he going to be all right?” Cylene’s hand joined Anomer’s on Noetos’s forehead.

Noetos’s eyes sprang open and fixed on Cylene. “Get her away from me,” he whispered. “Why do you permit her to be here?”

“What?” Anomer supposed he must have misheard. He glanced at Cylene; her hand remained on Noetos’s brow, but her eyes had
opened wide in surprise.

“Get her away from me! Make her leave!” his father shouted. “She wants to kill me!” He took a feeble swipe at her, still enough
to connect with her shoulder and knock her to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Anomer cried. “This is Cylene! She helped save you from the poison. She does not want to kill you!”

Cylene had begun to shake, her lip quivering, her face suddenly bloodless, in the grip of shock.

“She does wish to kill me,” said Noetos, speaking with a disconcerting reasonableness. “She poisoned me. She intended for
me to die. I will not have her anywhere near me.” His hand felt around his belt. “Where is my sword? I’ll deal with her.”

The girl started sobbing. Arathé took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet and led her away.

“She’s gone now, Father,” Anomer said. “Lie still; you are gravely wounded. Arathé and I drew the poison out with our water
magic and attempted to heal the wound, but neither of us is trained and we may not have been entirely successful. Had it not
been for Cylene, we would have lost you. She has real strength, Father, and she never gave up hope. You should be proud of
her.”

He was babbling, he knew, but he could not understand what was happening. Why had his father turned on Cylene? Was it some
strange side effect of the poison, or was something else at play here?

Certainly the girl had done more for his father than he had done himself. He’d had a chance to let his father die, and for
a moment the anger within him had overruled his feelings and he’d been willing to let Noetos go.
Just like he let go of Mother.
But Arathé had connected to him, exhorting him to lend her his magical strength, and he could not refuse her. Together they
had immersed themselves into a battle for their father’s life, and all the while Anomer had wrestled with his rising guilt,
knowing he would not have intervened without his sister’s prompting, and knowing she knew this. After a few moments Cylene
had joined them, along with Captain Duon, and together the four of them had prised Noetos away from the force dragging him
into darkness. It was more complicated than that, of course, but Arathé had handled the complexity; Anomer had merely supplied
his strength. Boorish, so much like the man they had struggled to save.

Anomer would give anything not to turn out like his father, yet it seemed that exactly this fate lay in store for him.

Arathé signalled to him.

“I don’t know what is the matter with him,” he replied, “save being rescued from death. But something is definitely wrong.
Even Noetos would not behave like this.”