Beyond the Wall of Time (33 page)

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.

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.

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 mind 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.

Little of the
Conch
remained. Hard to believe this scattered wreckage had transported them north such a short time ago. Anomer wondered what
had happened to the passengers, what their last moments had been like. The woman who had been sailing north to visit her sick
mother, had she been battered to death below decks in her first-class compartment? Did the Fallows family, whose youngest
daughter had caught a fever and died on the voyage, end up being washed off the deck by a huge wave? Did they die in each
other’s arms, or alone amidst towering waves? From what Cylene had said, there was none alive bar she and Kidson by the time
the wreck fetched up on the coast. It would have been a terrifying last few hours, he had no doubt.