Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  During one rest break Arathé drifted closer, watching with concern as Moralye tended to the old scholar. The woman dabbed at his mouth with a cloth, whether to wipe away fluid or to try to make him take water, Arathé could not tell. She did, however, hear the old man say distinctly: “You should have left me up there, dear. The House of the Gods would have been a pleasant place to sleep.” Then he noticed Arathé standing there and nothing else was said.

  Dusk had begun to reduce vistas to silhouettes by the time they reached their destination. In a grove of trees indistinguishable from hundreds and thousands they had passed during the long day—except perhaps for an extra patina of age, an extra breadth of trunk—the Padouki leader called a halt. He jerked at a liana that looked exactly like all the others, and then waited.

  “We should have been here hours ago,” he said. “The elders will not be happy.”

  “Some of us are old and infirm,” Heredrew said. “We have injured and maimed among us. How could we keep to your schedule?”

  The man did not answer him, instead indicating that he should stand aside. “Clear a space. The ladders are extremely heavy.”

  At his word a pile of hempen rope thudded to the ground. The man tugged the liana again, and a rope ladder arose from the pile and stretched upwards into the trees.

  “Your infirm will wait here,” the man said. “They will be guarded. If they give any offence they will be cut down with no more concern than a Malayuan woodsman has for a blackwood tree.”

  Phemanderac remained behind, with Moralye as his guardian, as did Torve, of course, and the two injured porters: the others who Arathé had thought might struggle to make the climb—Mustar with his leg, Sauxa and his age, Conal with his lost eye, and, most disadvantaged, Stella and her missing arm—all elected to make the ascent.

  “Be certain,” said their captor. “There is no going back. We will neither wait for you nor render any assistance.”

  “How do your own old and sick make the journey?” Noetos asked as he set his foot to the lowest rung.

  “They do not. At some point in the life of every Padouki he or she elects to remain in the Canopy, never to return to the ground.”

  Arathé struggled to make the ascent. The trees were enormous, and there was no indication of how far she had to travel, just a barely perceptible lessening of the tree’s girth as they rose, hand over hand, into the green world. She could think of nothing further removed from the bleak sterility of Fossa’s cliffs, the black and grey fences that had once been her too-close limits; then again, she wondered how long a Padouki child could live in a tree before conceiving a desire to escape, just as she had.

  She was amazed—shocked—at how quickly she tired. She could still see the ground rocking back and forth beneath her feet, hadn’t even reached the first great branch before she began to shake, her muscles cramping. Above her, Noetos slowly drew away; beneath her, Anomer began to make worried comments. Arathé was worried herself. How far had she walked in the past months? Halfway across a continent? So why did one rope ladder exhaust her?

  You’ve not used these muscles in earnest for years, said the voice in her head in a tone of bored instruction. You should have stayed below with the old man. Except, of course, I would not have let you.

  She tried to ignore him. Offer him nothing, perhaps he would discard her. Up and up, her knees struggling to lock so she could raise herself to the next rung.

  In the increasingly long pauses between rungs she caught swirling glimpses of the forest around her. Oddly, its closeness obscured her view, making it difficult to get any real sense of what the forest looked like. Extravagant was the word that seemed to suit. A profusion of broad leaves was visible in every direction, on the trees themselves, on the parasitic plants growing on the trees, and on the plants that grew on them. As she climbed higher the occasional shaft of sunlight picked out a ridiculously colourful plant or a flitting bird—the outrageous spike-crested bird, the spear-billed bird and the blurwing bird, or so she thought of them. A tiny blurwing darted between a crimson pitcher-shaped plant and a bush as large as a tree—though it grew from the trunk of the tree they climbed—covered in yellow flowers that looked like bells. It was a magical place, or it would have been a magical place if people weren’t forcing her to climb ever higher.

  At least a hundred feet above the ground, the rope ladder steadied. She glanced upwards and saw the underside of a broad platform. At last. From somewhere she found a surge of strength and, panting heavily, hauled herself onto the platform.

  From somewhere? She knew where.

  See how we need each other?

  She refused to reply. He would think she was too tired to think straight. Unless, of course, he could read these quiet under-thoughts. Desperately she hoped not.

  Look around you, little swan. Look up.

  With a sinking feeling, she realised this platform was not their destination. Already many warriors, tired of waiting, were ascending another ladder, their captives interspersed between them. More came up behind her.

  I can’t. She collapsed on the platform and began to sob. I can’t.

  With a rush of heat the back of her head seemed to burst into flame. Her hands went to her head—at least she thought they did, but in reality they jerked out and clasped the platform. Her legs splayed wide and she found herself on her feet.

  “Aaaaa!” she screamed.

  “Arathé!” her father and brother both cried.

  She could do nothing, not even acknowledge them. She had become a prisoner in her own body.

  Now you learn, said the voice, the sound wreathed in the crackle of flame.

  One hand grasped the ladder, one foot found a rung. The other foot swung up, struck for and missed the next rung—she slipped forward, a rung catching her under the chin. That, and her foothold, kept her from falling.

  Stupid bitch, stop fighting me!

  The ladder spun left and right and Arathé felt she would spit up everything she had ever eaten. But even then, in danger of falling and with fire in her head and stomach, she had enough spirit to reply: What happened to ‘little swan’? You need some help overcoming a girl?

  His answer was to seize her again and send her scurrying up the ladder. Within moments she had caught the rearmost of the warriors; heedless, the voice sent her climbing right over him. The Padouki cried a warning and his fellows began to duck out of her way by clinging to the underside of the ladder. It jerked and twirled crazily as she passed man after man and even members of her own party. She saw Kilfor’s pale face with eyes wide open, and Stella gamely clinging on with her one hand. Mustar called out to her, but she could not hear him for the sound of burning in her head.

  In this fashion Arathé was driven up another two hundred feet or more to the Canopy, where the people of Patina Padouk made their homes. She collapsed on the high platform, body shaking, limbs jerking like the legs of a frog. The burning sound faded and her head cooled. Tentatively she raised a hand to her head, expecting fried skin, scorching at the least, but found her scalp and hair intact.

  I never want to experience that again.

  She lay on her stomach, head hanging over the edge of the platform. Her eyes came into focus: she was staring into darkness, which resolved into forest twilight. She thought she could see the ground far, far below.

  This time she could not control her stomach.

  The captives were given a few minutes to recover. These Noetos spent with Arathé, trying to find out why she had behaved so strangely. His daughter would not even look at him, let alone engage in conversation.

  “Please,” he begged. “Tell me what is wrong.”

  She turned away, obviously distressed.

  “The madwoman is to go first,” their chief captor said. “We nearly lost a man when she rushed up the ladder like a sow in heat.”

  He’ll pay for that remark. “She will need my help to climb,” Noetos answered, careful to keep his voice respectful. “Is this permitted?”
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  “You may assist her,” said the man grudgingly. “However, if she knocks anyone from any of the walks, you will both pay with your lives.”

  As they set off along a swinging bridge suspended between trees, Noetos began to notice signs of a city in the Canopy. Everywhere he looked trees sprouted huts of various descriptions: large, small, squat, tall, peak-roofed, slope-roofed, open-walled or closed-walled. Roofs and floors were made of wood, while hides generally served for walls. Each hut was aligned the same way and open at both ends, presumably to allow for better airflow. Given the sticky heat of the forest, he’d certainly want it that way.

  The dwellings were by no means marvels of engineering: this was not the fabled City of the Clouds, subject of nursery tales. Ramshackle and lightweight, they looked as though they would be blown away in any sort of wind. There was no beauty to them. No carving above the doors, no added colours or patterns on the hide. Perfunctory. The same could be said for the swaying bridges between platforms. Certainly there were far too many signs of recent mending for the fisherman’s peace of mind.

  What peace of mind? He had a daughter who had begun acting as though touched by madness, and she would not speak to him about it. His son, as usual, blamed him for all their problems. And there was the matter of their capture and imminent interrogation—though, given the calibre of the magicians in their party, he rated this one of his lesser worries. Of more concern was a dead emperor wandering around somewhere. It would doubtless be a very long time before Noetos again experienced any peace of mind. He would not waste time worrying about creaking and dilapidated walkways a few hundred feet above the ground.

  Within minutes he was lost. Were they to escape their captors, he doubted he could find the ladder. Unless they were lucky and found it by chance, or there was more than one ladder, the guards assigned them were superfluous. At least for me: how I miss my sword! Perhaps one or two of my magic-kissed fellows could do something. He wondered what Heredrew might be planning; the tall Falthan magician was surely not a man to be held against his will. He would be going along with this for his own purposes.

  The hut they were taken to was possibly in the poorest condition of all the buildings Noetos had seen. Strangely, it was by no means the largest: the fisherman had expected a gathering like this to be held in some temple or civic building. If they had such things. Patina Padouk was the northern neighbour of Old Roudhos, but very little was known about its inhabitants. Did they worship gods apart from Keppia? How was their society organised? He tried to remember if any of his tutors had spoken of the forest lands as part of his education. Surely this small hovel could not be a temple or gathering place.

  Across the open end of the hut had been placed a rough crisscross grid of sticks, with a door-sized opening allowing entrance. Noetos had wondered how inhabitants prevented themselves falling from the huts during a high wind, and the sticks offered an explanation. Inside, all was smoke, gloom and sweat. Every available space had been taken by a near-naked body. Dozens of eyes peered at him as he walked across the rough timber floor and found a place to stand against the wall to the left, close to a recessed place in the floor filled with dirt, on which was set a small fire. In this heat? What for? The bitter smoke curled lazily in the close air; more than one of the captives succumbed to coughing fits.

  The muttering petered out into silence. Now the sounds included the crackle of the fire, a steady, rhythmical creaking as the hut moved back and forth, much coughing and snuffling, and repeated sniffling coming from a gap-toothed old woman with a vacant look in her eyes.

  Noetos looked about him, but could not tell which of these people would turn out to be their inquisitors. Noone wore clothes distinguishing them from the rest, and there was no one group of faces more keenly focused on them than any other. The warrior captain stood nearest the door, but even watching his eyes gave no indication of what was to happen or who was in charge.

  It soon became clear the silence was a test—perhaps the heart of the interrogation. As a technique it had served his father well, often drawing the guilty to speak more openly than they might while defending themselves against specific questions. Few of the others would know what was happening here. Noetos wished he could alert them somehow, but he was certain it would count against him. Please be patient, he thought, wishing he could communicate with his eyes.

  Inevitably it was Conal the Falthan priest who broke the silence.

  “What’s going on here? Why have you captured us? What right do you have to hold me? I am a priest of the Koinobia, a representative of the Most High. You ought not hinder His plans. I’ve already seen Him strike a man dead.”

  There’s a guilty man, Noetos judged, even as the priest opened his mouth. And a fool.

  The silence seemed even emptier after the priest finished speaking. There had been no noticeable reaction to his outburst. Nothing gained, plenty lost. Though it might be that Noetos simply failed to see the clues these Padouki provided; their ways seemed so different as to be impenetrable.

  Seren nodded off first. This did not alarm the fisherman. The miner had borne more than his share during the journey. The man wanted answers as much as anybody, but day after day of hoisting a heavy pack had taken it out of his broad shoulders. However, when other captives struggled to keep their eyes open, Noetos began to grow nervous. His eyes swung to the fire.

  “Put it out,” he said thickly. When no one moved, he screamed: “PUT IT OUT!”

  He lurched forward and snatched up a gourd, upending it over the flames. An acrid stench filled the hut.

  “Now that wasn’t the cleverest thing I’ve ever seen,” Heredrew observed, seemingly unaffected by the smoke. “Let us hope the patient can provide another specimen without too much trouble.”

  “We are in a physic’s room?” Noetos asked, confused.

  “I have no doubt. The wood used on the fire is coated with a mild narcotic, designed to calm nervous patients. Our people are tired, and those with no magical insight or experience at regulating their bodily responses have been taken into sleep.”

  “So why am I awake?”

  “I would have thought,” Heredrew said, “the answer to that was obvious.”

  He’s wrong, the fool Falthan is wrong. I could not touch the huanu stone if I had magical ability.

  The warrior leader moved a pace towards them. “The elders will see you now,” he said. “Leave the sleeping ones here. They would not have survived the questioning.”

  “I will not leave my friends unless you guarantee their safety,” Noetos said gruffly.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Many hosts would construe such fear as an insult. But since you are completely in our power, I understand your concern. Your friends will be well looked after.”

  Noetos wanted to give this man nothing, but what could he do?

  Eight of the captives were taken to another hut: Heredrew, Stella and Conal were the three Falthans though Noetos was certain Phemanderac and Moralye, born and raised in legendary Dhauria—so intimately bound in the story of the Undying Man—would also have remained awake had they been here. Captain Duon led a bewildered Lenares. The cosmographer seemed half-asleep and responded feebly as Duon explained to her what was happening. Anomer and Arathé had remained awake and followed their father. It worried Noetos to leave Seren, Tumar and his two fishermen, Sautea and Mustar, back in the physic hut, but the warrior leader was right. They were completely in the power of the Padouki.

  The Hut of the Elders was some distance away across the Canopy. A rising wind set the bridges swaying and Noetos found his attention taken by keeping his balance. A man of open spaces, of sea and shore, he could not make sense of direction and distance in the tops of the great trees. This was further compounded when they were forced up narrow ladders consisting of nothing more than notched branches. Their guards climbed with nonchalance, some with bows in hand or bags of weapons and stores, while the captives wrapped themselves around the ladders and inched their way upwa
rds.

  Finally the captives stood before the door of a hut almost identical to the one they had left.

  “Come in,” said a woman’s pleasant contralto.

  Lost, confused and almost completely off balance, Noetos ducked to enter the building, a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. He was made to line up with the others along the side wall of the hut.

  This time there was no doubt as to whom they would be speaking.

  “Siy tell me you taken on the plateau at door of Godhouse,” said a broad-faced woman of middle years. Her voice was like golden syrup poured into his ears and he found it easing his troubled mind. A trick, of course, he told himself. Four older women flanked her, two on each side.

  He nodded to the woman, as did Heredrew. How will these elders cope with two spokesmen? At least he and the tall Falthan seemed to be of similar mind. They refused to speak to us, so we should be slow to answer their questions.

  “That plateau our heartland. Outsiders not allowed in our heartland. Unless you supply best reason for this, you will be ended in traditional manner.” Such a beautiful voice.

  Heredrew laughed. “I haven’t heard the Wordweave used so clumsily in some time,” he said. To the others he added: “It’s a form of basic magic. The speaker weaves a surreptitious meaning between her words. I believe we are supposed to feel safe, among friends, and therefore willing to answer their enquiries. You realise she just promised to kill us all?”

  Yes. Noetos had heard the words, had even known what they implied, but it simply had not disturbed him, so sweet had been her voice. Magic. How he hated it.

  “The Bhrudwan Recruiters use it,” he said, remembering that night in Fossa. He was about to explain about the Recruiters, but Heredrew nodded.

  “They are trained in all the arts of the Voice.”

  How does he know?

  Now he understood what the woman was doing, her voice didn’t sound quite so compelling.

  “Do I explain traditional way enemies of Padouk are ended? They are taken to tallest tree in Canopy and cast to ground. Is noble death for Padouki. Not so noble for guests. So unless you wish to descend more quicker than you came up, please tell. Tell now.”