Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  Oh. Her head hurt with this convoluted thinking. Everybody has an explanation for my behaviour. I don’t know who to believe.

  Consider, the voice said as they strode along a hallway with a series of tall arched windows high in the right-hand wall. She’d been along here before this evening, or a corridor like it. In the Hall of Fealty I told Leith he was but one of many I’d called to my service. Not the bravest or the best, just the first to arrive. It is the same with you, dear Stella. That was the lesson of the Hall of Fealty.

  You’re not Leith?

  No—and yes. It is not a simple thing, this issue of identity. I have told you I am a reluctant participant in these affairs. I created this… problem when, in attempting to help, I took away too much choice. Were I to continue to interfere, I would be solving one problem while creating another.

  Not sure I care, Stella said, now aware whom she was speaking to. At least our problem will have been solved. Interfere all you like.

  Fine for a mortal not to care for the next generation. But you’re no mortal, Stella. Of anyone alive, you ought to care most deeply about how this present crisis is resolved.

  Ahead, the Destroyer came to a halt in the middle of a large hall set up for a banquet. He put his finger to his lips. Stella shrugged: she couldn’t speak anyway.

  You are not the best, Stella, but you are here while better women and men turned aside from my calling. Are you willing to let me kindle what has been set within you?

  That didn’t take much thought. It’s yours, after all, she said, and nodded.

  Across the courtyard, down a passageway and through a truly enormous banqueting hall. Moralye caught her shin on a chair and sent it flying into a table; crystal goblets and porcelain plates crashed to the flagstone floor. After that they moved more slowly for a while, Mustar supporting Moralye under one arm. He’s sweet on her, Noetos realised. And I thought he was after my daughter.

  “Are we heading in the right direction?” he asked Duon.

  “Yes, though in a roundabout way. That there,” he pointed out a window to his left, where a slender tower rose into the mist, “is the Spindle. The Tower of Farsight is beyond it.”

  “Good,” Noetos said, even though it wasn’t. Something had begun scratching at his mind, as though an insect had been trapped in his head and was attempting to burrow its way out. Beside him, Arathé groaned, putting her hand to her head at regular intervals. Duon had turned pale and licked his lips when he thought no one was watching.

  When the attack came, Noetos realised, it was unlikely to require a swordsman to respond.

  The Fire of Life blazed within her, an oxygen-starved flame opened to the air. It burned through the string-like binding between herself and the Destroyer, but left the ends trailing. It burned higher and higher, searing the pain of her cursed blood. Removing it.

  Free of pain after seventy years.

  You… you… She shook with anger. All this time you could do this for me and you never spoke of it? Where are you? I’ll kill you with my bare hands!

  Never spoke to you? I spoke to you every day of your life. You never believed me.

  I could have… Leith and I could… Her words dissolved into an inarticulate groan born of the deepest recesses of her self.

  I am sorry. But to have done this uninvited would have broken your sovereign will.

  As opposed to breaking my heart? You are cruel, cruel; and I thought Kannwar cruel for his calculations and his fatal mercies. You are far worse.

  The Father spread his hands: she felt them pass over her. I acknowledge the point. Kannwar is right, you know. Hal once told Leith it is better to break the lamb’s leg to keep it still than to let it alone and watch it wilfully run off the edge of the cliff. Small hurts to bring great good.

  And that’s not a violation of the lamb’s sovereign will?

  Ah, the Most High said. You have me there. I am reluctant for a reason. It is time for me to turn my work over to someone more passionate, less disinterested, with better judgment.

  You don’t care about us?

  Just the opposite, Stella. I care far too much. I care so much it breaks me into a million points of light whenever you hurt. I need… I need someone with whom to share the burden.

  Not me!

  No, not you. Be thankful it is not you.

  What of Keppia and Umu? Could they not share it? They did, for a time. They became my son and daughter in truth, but they chose their fates under duress, as a sacrifice. No, I need someone who would embrace god-hood as his or her deepest desire.

  What am I to do? she asked him.

  Of that, Stella, I am not yet sure. But I know this: you will have to be brave.

  Across the grassed courtyard stood the Tower of Farsight, an enormous structure, looming over them. Sustained by magic, so the stories went.

  It didn’t matter what it was sustained with, thought Duon. It was unreachable. They would never cut through the hundreds of soldiers massed in front of the tower’s entrance.

  “Another way in?” he asked Noetos.

  “Cyclamere has already sent Seren and Moralye to scout.”

  Duon pursed his lips. “When I was last here, the guide told us this was the only way into the tower.”

  “Notorious for their truthfulness, the denizens of Andratan?”

  “Not in my experience,” Duon acknowledged, nodding. “But he had no reason to lie.”

  “Duon,” Anomer said, “Arathé has an idea.”

  Oh. I’m sorry, Arathé. I didn’t mean to shut you out.

  He noticed the frown on Noetos’s brow. Perhaps you ought to include your father in the conversation?

  I’m afraid to, she said. I would rather not remind Umu of all the options available to her.

  He raised his eyebrows. And I spoke to you unthinking.

  She shrugged, or as near to it as she could achieve mentally. She already knows about us, Duon.

  He smiled into her mind. One day, I hope, they will all know about us.

  The smile she returned was warm enough to compensate for all the nights she had lain with her family, beyond his reach.

  “This is Arathé’s idea,” he began, then nodded to Noetos. “She apologises for not speaking to you, our leader, but doesn’t want to draw Umu’s attention to you. She hopes she has done the right thing.”

  Her father nodded, one corner of his mouth crooking up. You have a talent for making people feel better about themselves, he told her.

  “She has been thinking about her ability to unite people’s essenzas to spread the affliction suffered by one amongst all, and wondering if it might work as an offensive weapon.”

  “What do you mean?” her father began, but beside him Cyclamere exclaimed out loud.

  “We must try it,” he said.

  Wait, dear Stella. You will only be able to surprise him once.

  She trailed along behind the Destroyer, dragging her feet as though at the end of her strength, hoping the deception would hold. The blood-binding between them was in tatters, severed by the reignited Fire of Life that had been given to her—and others of the Company—at the beginning of the War of Faltha. Yet the Destroyer had not noticed anything amiss. She would do well to ensure he did not notice.

  A small door led to a tunnel within the wall encircling the fortress.

  “None but myself knows of this route to my tower,” he said to her. “I’ve read of other rulers putting out the eyes of their architects and builders so such secret passages can be kept secret. Such matters are much easier—and far more pleasant—when one is immortal. One just has to wait until they are all dead.”

  Somehow she doubted he had waited.

  He led her to a grille in the floor of the tunnel, which was, it seemed, set in the ceiling of a library. A flick of his hand removed the grille, setting it aside.

  “You first,” he said.

  The floor was made of stone, at least twice her height below where they crouched either side of the manhole. She
would break both legs, at least, if she attempted the jump, but could not speak to argue with him, and did not want to cause him to try speaking in her mind. With the blood-bond broken, that might not be possible. Without comment she eased herself as far through the hole as possible, and jumped.

  She wafted to the ground like an autumn leaf, her red dress flaring out. I am a parachute bug, she told herself, almost laughing. A moment later, the Destroyer stood beside her. She’d landed softly, but had no idea whether by his power or by that of the fire within her. Her captor said nothing, though that was no real indication: he was perfectly capable of pretending not to know about her pretence.

  “Come along,” he said.

  Without warning all the books in the library burst into flame.

  The Destroyer swore.

  Stella couldn’t remember him ever swearing before. He must be deeply discomposed.

  “Damn her eyes,” he finished, having spat out enough invective to set fire to another library. “Anything but this. If I could have avoided this room, I would have.”

  He grunted at her lack of response and waved his hand.

  She had to guess. He’d likely freed her voice—what else could the gesture mean? It hadn’t, for example, dampened the ever more exuberant flames that were claiming his library.

  “At least it’s a cool evening,” she said.

  * * *

  Essenza, Arathé discovered, was an elusive thing, and hard to grasp if not offered you. Some soldiers were locked down so tight by fear or selfishness that she had nothing on which to pull. Others, however, unwittingly gave her a handhold: from there it was like unwinding a knitted garment. Or it would be, if she required more than the little needed to tie their essenzas together.

  “Hurry,” Duon whispered. “There are more coming.”

  Find somewhere to hide, she told him.

  “I’m not leaving you out here undefended!”

  I am not undefended, she said, smiling crookedly. Enough. I am ready.

  Noetos led a young soldier forward. The unlucky fellow had been snatched by the simple expedient of reaching through a window and pulling him into the corridor as he leaned against the frame. He’d made no noise, not with Noetos’s meaty paw fastened over his mouth, and with a sword at his back had decided to remain quiet.

  Now, she told herself. Hope you haven’t smothered your essenza—ah, no, good. She tied him to the lines she’d teased out from the soldiers and waited until she was sure they were properly bound. Then she nodded to her father.

  To his credit, he’d objected when her plan was explained to him. He’d been held in the Summer Palace and tortured for the entertainment of the Neherian nobility, who had not realised that Arathé, linked to her father, had distributed his wounds amongst five thousand refugees. “They were volunteers,” he said. “These boys are not.”

  “Would you rather we took swords to them all?” Duon had asked, reasonably enough.

  Noetos had grumbled some more, but had relented in the end. Relented, and insisted his would be the hand that would wield the blade.

  The boy’s face went white as Duon stretched out his shaking arm. Noetos raised his sword and struck it off. Or tried to. The blade skittered across the boy’s arm as though the flesh was made of tempered steel. At the same moment, a cry came from several hundred throats.

  It works, said Arathé to Duon, peering through the crack in the door.

  “Again,” said Duon.

  The boy shrieked, holding his arm as though it had been injured.

  “Not fast enough. Hack him to death.”

  Four swords fell upon the boy, who cowered under the assault. The look of terror on the lad’s face told Arathé he thought he was about to die—the look, and the sudden stain at the front of his breeches. But the repeated blows, though driving him to the floor, left no mark upon him.

  Outside, it was a different tale. Hundreds of soldiers lay on the ground, wounds bleeding freely. A few were still. Screams echoed everywhere, the sound as much one of confusion as of pain.

  Not good enough, Arathé thought. Don’t you have a leader? Of course, their leader might already have been cut down. No. Commands were barked and the soldiers who were able assembled in lines ten deep. Behind her the swordplay continued.

  “Company, dear heart,” Duon said, breathing heavily.

  A small squad of soldiers emerged into the corridor. Arathé snatched at their essenzas, grabbing all but one at the first attempt, and wove them into the knot. A moment and they too writhed on the floor, save one of their number who stared at his fellows in utmost confusion. With a cry of horror he flung his sword aside and ran.

  Arathé glanced out into the courtyard. The soldiers able to walk, most of them unbound, were double-timing across the open space towards a door in the distance, held open by their frantic commander. The rest lay twitching or still.

  Time to go, she said to Duon.

  A minute later the travellers had sprinted across the courtyard and were working at the latch to the Tower of Farsight. Arathé and her father helped Mustar carry Moralye, who still favoured her ankle.

  “She’s a lot older than you,” Arathé signalled to Mustar. She smiled to take the sting from her words.

  “Pretty, though,” Mustar replied incorrigibly.

  “And intelligent,” added the woman herself. “Not that my intelligence appears to have saved me from the clutches of Fisher-boy.”

  Arathé laughed at this, and her father snorted.

  “The latch is hot,” Cyclamere said, uncertainty in his voice.

  “Hot?” Noetos repeated, puzzled. Then his face clouded over. “For Alkuon’s sake, don’t open—”

  His advice came too late. The door swung open onto an incandescent scene from the netherworld. The fire inside the tower swelled hungrily, reached out fevered tendrils and dragged them in.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BROKEN MAN

  HUSK IS DEAD. AT LEAST it seems that way to him. Umu holds his essence tightly in one taloned hand. His beautiful, precious essence, the heart of who he is, carefully sculpted by years of risk, judicious choices and self-sacrifice. Not only Deorc paid the price in becoming what he is; many others died during his quest for lordship. How can such a tragedy be borne? As much as he hates it, Deorc can accept pain, for all pain does is stimulate the nerves of his body. Imprisonment reduces opportunity, but does not restrict the mature mind. This, however, is theft of his soul.

  He is violated beyond imagining.

  She has evicted Deorc from his own body, hollowed out his mind and made a place for herself there among the bleeding ruins. Even if he were somehow to defeat her and reclaim himself, he is destroyed far more completely than he had been by the Undying Man all those years ago. Memories trashed. Skills shredded. Ways of thinking lost. Enormous holes in his magical powers.

  Dead. Might as well be. But he still feels pain.

  Not physical pain. He is so tightly locked away by his possessor he cannot reach his nerve endings. Some pain would be welcome, actually, a sign that he still owns something of his body. He envies Umu her access to the world of sensation, and is embarrassed by his previous prayers, repeated during his long imprisonment, for his pain to end.

  No, the pain he feels is emotional.

  His revenge has been stolen from him!

  Truly, he would exchange his entire future for the simple consummation of his revenge on Stella and the Undying Man. Dreams of their humiliation have sustained him all those years, and now those dreams are spoiling like meat left in the sun.

  “You’re not much of a human, are you?” Umu says in his voice, using his mouth.

  How an essence without the aid of glands can feel anger is beyond Deorc’s understanding, but he is angry. Furious. Leave my voice alone!

  “Pathetic,” she carries on. “A minor manipulator of the weak-minded. You may have done something of note a century ago, but nothing since. Yes, you’ve been imprisoned for a little while, as a direct r
esult of your self-indulgent foolishness: what of it? Keppia and I were imprisoned on the far side of the Wall of Time for thousands of years, but unlike you we wasted no time organising things to suit ourselves. Shifted the stars, rearranged the constellations, reshaped the void to our will.”

  Boastful, this thief. Deorc has heard her like on many occasions, and in each and every case he discovered exaggeration or outright falsehood. Let your deeds talk for themselves, his father had said. Only the failure needs to advertise his success. Has heard talk like this, but never in his voice.

  “I don’t think much of this body you’ve tried to make,” she says. “I’m looking for a permanent home and I must have something better than this.”

  Then get out, Deorc wills.

  She cannot hear him, he realises. But at least she stops speaking. He has tired of the sound of his own voice.

  In its quest for air the roaring fire pulled the door right off its hinges, barely noticing the small figures it dragged screaming into its heart. It had all but consumed the library, drinking the dry parchment and preservative fluids as though they were the elixir of life itself, but there was still a great deal of flammable material for the flames to consider. As Arathé cracked her elbow on the door frame, inadvertently knocking loose her father’s desperate grip, she saw the fire creeping across the wooden floor. Her likely landing place was already aflame.

  She had one single moment in which to act. No time to consider the morality of what she intended to do, no time to ask for advice. This was something more than self-preservation: after all, she could protect herself with her magic. She knew in that moment she could not extend that protection to cover all her friends. Not enough time, not enough strength.

  She snatched the loose ends of her companions’ essenza and fastened it to the soldiers’ snarl she had already made.

  A moment later the travellers fell into the flames.