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.
Under instructions to leave as little evidence of their passing as possible, the three captives scrambled up a short slope of broken rock and passed between two tall pillars into a shadowed recess.
Sleep, the voice commanded.
Disheartened, Duon realised the voice’s power over them was increasing over time. He now had the power to—
Judging by the lengthening shadows, Duon regained consciousness perhaps two hours later. The girl and the priest slept on, weariness drawn roughly on their young faces. Duon kept his mind at rest, his thoughts slow, to defeat any trigger the voice might have set to alert him to his captives’ wakefulness. He can’t be observing us all the time, Duon reasoned, or he in turn would be little more than our captive. He must have other things to do; surely he must relax his control at some point.
What he intended to do was a risk. He moved slowly, wriggling his body and extending his arm so his left hand lay in the sunlight between the two tall limestone pillars. The lowering sun cast his shadow down towards the path; he tested it by moving his fingers. Barely visible, but if the man was as good as Duon thought he was, it might well be enough.
Soon he heard the rattle and rustle of someone coming up the path. Beside him Arathé and Conal stirred, then sat up.
Think of other things. How to give Arathé a warning not to speak, not to warn her father of the danger he is in, perhaps by shouting the word ambush.
The voice came alive, crushing his thought. You’ll not warn her of anything. You think she doesn’t know? I told her myself. She deserves to know it will be by her hand her father will die.
Up! the voice shouted, and his power impelled them to their feet. One after the other the three emerged from the crevice and together they rushed down the slope. Partway Arathé stumbled on a boulder and fell on her face.
Clever girl, Duon acknowledged. Her bravery—or desperation—was undeniable.
Noetos awaited them at the base of the slope. Duon’s warning had worked—to a point.
Fool fisherman! You ought to have fled!
Conal and Duon were on him in a moment, knocking him to the ground. Duon had no idea what the man had been expecting, but clearly it had not been an attack from his companions. It seemed he still did not truly appreciate the nature of their possession. In those first few moments of scratching, biting and rending, the two men taught him better.
With astonishing strength Noetos threw them off and staggered to his feet, bleeding from half a dozen places on calf, thigh, arm and face. “What are you doing?” he had time to cry before Arathé, screaming in terror and revulsion, was thrown into the battle.
You have a sword, fisherman. Use it! We beg you! But Duon could not shout the words: the voice still had hold of his throat.
He snatched up a lump of wood and began slamming it into the man’s back and side, each blow drawing a grunt. Fight back! he begged the fisherman. But the man merely countered their attack, slithering out of their grasp again and again.
A thought insinuated itself into Duon’s mind as his teeth found purchase in the soft area above the fisherman’s knee. Arathé has magic: why doesn’t the voice attack Noetos through his daughter’s magical ability? Could it be he cannot control it?
Examine it late
r, he decided.
Something thumped him a heavy blow on the forehead, sending him spinning away onto the rocks. Against his will he stood up, then spat something out. Flesh. He would have thrown up if he could.
As his vision cleared, Duon realised a second person had joined Noetos in the affray. The man’s face was familiar, but for a moment he couldn’t place it.
The swordmaster.
The Padouki warrior stood alongside Noetos. His sword remained sheathed, the man doubtless under instruction not to harm his assailants. Clearly some agreement had been struck, though who could know what Noetos might have been able to offer the Padouki to abandon his people. Duon’s muscles tensed, ready to resist his captor.
Stop fighting me, the voice commanded. Duon heard the compulsion in the words, though not their full force; they had not been meant for him. Clearly Arathé was giving him trouble. Duon would have cheered.
Because you’ll ruin everything, the voice responded in anger to an unheard thought. An answer to Arathé perhaps. Your struggles might reduce me, but you’ll never defeat me. Even when you came closest to death I survived. And I am stronger now than I was then, far stronger.
The voice is vulnerable, Duon realised.
No more time to speculate as they were thrown back into the wrestling match. A shriek from Arathé as the Padouki’s booted foot took her in the mouth. She tumbled away, blood streaming across her face. Duon found himself circling the fisherman, who stood favouring one leg, partly because of the bite Duon had taken from it. Conal lay a few paces away, moaning feebly.
“You should not be able to resist me,” the voice said through Duon’s mouth.
“Unless, of course, I have assistance from another such as you,” came Noetos’s reply, delivered through swollen lips.
“Another? One of the gods perhaps?”
“Implying that you are not,” Noetos said, and smiled. “Every contact we have with you makes you weaker. You reveal yourself without gaining anything in return. Soon we will discover who and where you are. You are not safe from us. When we find you we will kill you.”
Duon’s mouth hissed at the man.
“I know you are not doing this, Duon. We will take our leave now and trust you to work out a way to defeat your captor. Please try, for the sake of my daughter.” The fisherman glanced at where Arathé even now scrambled to her feet. “I undertake to stay away from you, Arathé, so you need not concern yourself with killing me. Between us we will work out a way to see your captor driven out. I am not abandoning you.”
Her reply was to throw herself at her father, hands outstretched, fingers spread like claws. He darted backwards, moving with astonishing speed for such a big man, and avoided her lunge. Within moments the pair of them had sprinted back down the path towards the forest and disappeared into the shadows.
The voice in Duon’s mind cried out in wordless rage, but behind the roar Duon fancied he could hear two thoughts joining his own in delight.
The travellers came to the end of the forest late on the third day down from the Canopy. There had been no serious pursuit; twice they had encountered lone forest-dwellers, but news of events must have circulated, as in both cases the men fled.
They emerged from the forest at the crest of a minor escarpment and into the teeth of a stiff breeze. Near the edge of sight, perhaps a morning’s journey distant, lay the ocean; above, horsetail clouds reared high into the sky. Between the forest and the sea lay a strip of farmland, already blanketed with twilight. Here and there the lights of houses twinkled amid the rumpled hills.
“Thank you, Lenares, on behalf of us all,” Stella said, as they breathed deeply of the crisp evening air. “We would likely have walked around in circles forever without your guidance.”
It wasn’t me, she wanted to say. Anomer led us and made it look like I was in charge. But she held her tongue as Anomer had counselled.
“They want to believe in you as a leader,” he had said earlier in the day, as they scrambled across a limestone ridge. “The more they trust you, the more likely they will listen to your advice. And, whether you think it or not, you are our hope. Only you seem to understand the hole in the world. We have found ourselves in trouble before after ignoring you. I do not want us to die because we wouldn’t listen.”
His words made sense, she wasn’t stupid, but the deception still went against everything in her nature. Lying to achieve a greater good. Well, not lying exactly, just failing to tell the whole truth. It all sounded like excuses, and this when a part of her so much wanted to be in charge, loved and adored by those following her. Better not to indulge that feeling, especially when the love and regard had not been earned.
She tried and failed to keep her glance from straying behind her to where Torve stumbled along at the rear of the group. What had she earned there? She’d not had the courage to find out; again, a new experience for her. Once nothing would have stopped her from asking the most awkward of questions of anyone at any time, but now… now she understood why some questions were awkward, and why someone might reply evasively if such questions were asked. How her quest for truth had sometimes kept truth from her.
Torve had spent much of the day in conversation with Heredrew. She’d burned with curiosity, but could not bring herself to ask what they discussed so earnestly. Afraid. Such a paralysing emotion, fear. There was no doubt she was becoming more human and less Lenares, and the change frightened her.
It frightened her, but not as much as the red-rimmed smear now edging its way into her consciousness. The hole in the world had returned—so soon, too soon after the Daughter had escaped and the Son had been banished from his earthly body. Lenares had hoped they would have weeks to think of ways to counter the depredations of the gods. But here was the hole, coming closer as though borne on the east wind…
She fell to her knees and vomited.
“Lenares, what is wrong?”
For a moment she thought the voice was Torve’s, but the hand on her shaking shoulder was pale like hers, not dark. She looked up into Anomer’s beautiful, concerned eyes.
“Get everyone together,” she whispered.
An hour later the sun had set and the remains of their meal were being buried, the better to dissuade scavengers from scouting their camp, and by then Lenares had no doubt.
She raised a weary arm and pointed to the east, to the inky darkness. “The hole in the world is coming,” she told them, and received groans and curses in reply. “It’s in the wind, somehow. One or both of the gods approach us, bringing some calamity with them.”
“Could be a plague,” Kilfor said. “We get plenty of plagues back home in the Central Plains. Sickness in the air.” Surprisingly, his father nodded his assent.
“Not a plague,” Heredrew said. “Not coming from the sea. Plagues come from the land.”
“A storm then,” Moralye said. “Dhauria once suffered a storm so severe the lightning set fires in the lower city. Over twenty people were killed.”
“It’s much larger than a storm,” Lenares said. “The gods want to break open the Wall of Time, and to do that they have to kill thousands and thousands of people. A storm wouldn’t do that.”
Another dishonesty: she had no real idea what a storm could do.
She sighed. “Actually, I don’t know how many people a storm could kill. It is hard to imagine wind and rain killing thousands of people.”
There: she felt much better for speaking the truth as she saw it. Even though it reduced her standing in the eyes of the others; at least as Anomer had explained it.
“The east coast sometimes suffers tremendous storms and the flooding can do great damage,” Heredrew said, his eyes narrowing. “I remember a savage storm sweeping up the Panulo River during the reign of the Red Duke and near destroying the city of Tochar. I was forced—”
His mouth snapped shut.
“Near everyone knows, Kannwar,” said Robal the guard, a strange smile playing on his face. “Those who don’t will soon
work it out. How long ago did the Red Duke reign?”
“He died seventy years ago,” said Heredrew, his eyebrows beetling at the guard. “I’ve explained that my sorcery has given me a long life.”
“It has,” said Anomer. “But it doesn’t explain why a sorcerer from Faltha remembers a storm that, according to the history I was taught, occurred over a century ago in Bhrudwo—and afterwards, says Abraxi the scholar, was hushed up by the Undying Man. If he were here today I’d ask him why.”
Lenares looked from Robal to Anomer, then took in the expression on Stella’s face. What her numbers had not told her, logic began to put together.
“You were never going to keep it secret forever,” Stella said on an exhaled breath.
“You all know?” Heredrew said resignedly.
“What do you care, great man?” Robal’s face had turned red with anger. “Nothing any of us can do about it.”
“What do I care? You fool, I care a great deal! Don’t you understand, you brainless bull, how much I need the help of everyone here to defeat the gods?” He leaned forward, intimidating without meaning to. “If any of you walk away, our chances of preventing the world’s end diminish to almost nothing. Because so many of you would be… threatened by what I am, I have dissembled. Not for my benefit, but for yours!” He sighed. “More of you apparently know than I believed.”
“Know what?” Moralye asked. “What is being said? Who are… you?” From the look of horror on her face, the revelation hit her between words. “Oh, oh no, it was you all the time—you allowed us to find Kannwar’s old scroll justifying his actions, you have manipulated us ever since.” Her face had turned deathly white. “Did Phemanderac know?”
“Yes,” Heredrew said simply. “He knew before we left Dhauria. And no, he didn’t approve, but he realised he had no choice. Matters had moved well past his understanding, as I will explain.”
Beyond the Wall of Time Page 12