Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  The words stilled her. She felt Torve’s hand, grasping hers under the table, stiffen.

  “Lenares of Sayonae and Torve of Queda, the Most High wishes to announce his retirement. His time, he says, is over: he has a surfeit of knowledge and wishes to find somewhere peaceful to think about what he has learned.”

  “But I already feel that way!” Lenares blurted.

  Those around the table laughed. Even this laughter, aimed at her, did not have a hard edge. They did not think her full of herself or conceited. She could feel her heart beginning to tear in two with joy.

  “Further, the Most High wishes you to know that there are three empty thrones in the House of the Gods. He is confident that the world will make progress without him, but invites you both to fill two of the thrones, knowing that you will fulfil the potential he put within you when first he selected your ancestors.”

  Her heart seemed to stop.

  “Take a breath, sister,” Cylene said, her eyes dancing.

  Three empty thrones. One for her, one for Torve. A chance to go to all the places on the bronze map, to learn all the secrets of the world, to bridge the void and maybe see Mahudia again. Even speak to her.

  But…

  “Will I be cut off from my friends?”

  The Undying Man paused for a moment, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. “No,” he said eventually. “The Most High has made that mistake once already. He says to tell you that the secret of the thrones is that they will make you into your true self. Keppia and Umu, he says, wished to play the lord over the rest of the world and so separated themselves, only realising too late what they had done. Neither you nor Torve has any such desire. You know only too well what it is like to be lorded over.”

  “The power is in the thrones then?” Torve said.

  “It is,” said the Undying Man. “Those who sit in those seats are forever changed: the longer the sojourn, the greater the change.”

  Cylene gave a little squeak. “I don’t want to be a god!”

  Lenares thought a moment. “You won’t be,” she said, certain of her words even though she could see no numerical evidence to support her claim. “Mahudia, the woman who guarded your connection to the void, has gone to be part of the weaving keeping the hole in the world closed. I suspect she was able to leave because once you sat on the throne, you no longer needed a magical conduit to keep you alive.”

  “Oh,” Cylene said. “Will I be immortal?”

  “No,” said the Undying Man. “That curse is for others to bear.”

  Others? Plural? Lenares stored the question away in her head.

  “That’s a relief,” Cylene said, and smiled at the big man sitting next to her.

  “All the Most High has done, Lenares and Torve, is shape the circumstances to bring you to this choice. What you do next is up to you.”

  She turned and looked into Torve’s eyes, to find a question there and, behind the question, desire. A vision of the open desert, of a people lost and abandoned, bred like cattle, a people who could benefit from having a god on their side.

  Cylene broke into their shared thoughts. “I was thinking,” she said, her face a prim mask. “You might want to consider some of the… er… advantages of godhood. In the area of equipment, that is.”

  It took a moment for Lenares to solve this puzzle; then she felt her neck redden. Torve’s grip on her hand strengthened, telling its own story.

  “Who will occupy the third throne?” she asked, staring at the Undying Man.

  “Ah, well, the Most High wonders if you would, ah, consider taking on an apprentice. Someone who has much to unlearn, but who has promised to do his best to—eventually—fulfil his calling.”

  “But, but you are evil,” Lenares cried. “The Most High can’t let you on one of the thrones!”

  The Undying Man pulled at his collar. “The Most High anticipated this objection,” he said. “He wishes to remind you that the people he is inviting to occupy the other two thrones are good. And he will, he says, give all three keys to the House of the Gods into your hands, Lenares. His offer of the thrones is not conditional on you taking the apprentice. And even if you accept him, you may end his apprenticeship at any time.

  “I ought to add that I am by no means a reformed character,” the Undying Man said. “I do not go back on anything I have said or done. Or perhaps only a very little. This offer is the Most High’s way of neutralising me. He thinks I don’t know this, but he is wrong. But he believes that between the three of us we will provide exactly the balance that the House of the Gods requires.”

  “How can we take on an apprentice?” Torve said. “Especially one such as you? We need to serve an apprenticeship ourselves.”

  “Ah. As to that, he has organised a tutor for you. Her identity is a secret, but he assures me she is someone with great experience in the art of leadership. She knows all about self-sacrifice in the service of others. There is no one more qualified, he says.”

  Lenares had run out of questions.

  “Can you make up your mind, please?” Sauxa drawled. “The food’s getting cold.”

  General laughter followed.

  Torve nodded to her, his eyes alight. Your decision, he seemed to be saying.

  She smiled. “Tell the Most High that Torve and I will make a home together in the House of the Gods,” she said.

  EPILOGUE

  THE BANNERS HAVE BEEN raised, the flags ripple and crack in the breeze and the Summer Flame has been lit. Revellers from the Fisher Coast and all of Old Roudhos pour out of the taverns and down the wide streets towards the Summer Palace, where the (hopefully brief) ceremony is to take place. Adults and children alike know that this is an event like no other in their city’s proud history: the elevation of a new Duke of Roudhos is momentous enough on its own, but to coincide with the announcement of Raceme as the capital of the restored dukedom is unprecedented.

  The largesse distributed far and wide from the cellars of the Summer Palace has helped considerably in ensuring the festive atmosphere. There are unfortunate incidents, to be sure: petty thieves are caught and spend the day locked up in temporary cells built for the expected extra numbers; others make away with their booty and the injured parties lose the will to celebrate. Arguments and fights do not cease just because of a public holiday. And there are those who must work irrespective of the day—some, indeed, for whom a holiday provides extra employment opportunities. Some of these latter people line the streets, calling their entreaties to the young lads making their way down towards the harbour, and the wares they display are in some cases very tempting indeed. But few are buying this afternoon.

  Sautea of Fossa makes his way slowly through the Oligarchs District, so called because it was once the preserve of the city’s elite. Not now though; at the height of the Neherian War it was razed to the ground, the old timber buildings housing their expensive imported furniture and artwork ending up as ash in the wind, along with their owners. The district now houses the poorer citizens of Raceme, many of whom once lived in the Shambles.

  “Must you grumble every time you stretch your legs?” Sautea’s wife asks him.

  The words are gruff but the mischievous gleam in her eye belies her voice. Sautea knows this, having been married to her for nearly twenty years.

  “Legs like mine, who wouldn’t grumble?” he says. “At least I don’t grumble in my sleep, Nellas.”

  The old woman smiles at her husband. “You think the youngster will make a good fist of things?”

  “Aye, well,” Sautea says, scratching his whiskers. “He’s not been seen much around here. Can’t do a worse job than his father.”

  The two old people wait at Broad Way for a parade to pass by. Floats feature such exotic stories as the Sword of Cyclamere—someone has fashioned a passable likeness out of one of the local softwood trees—and the Tower of Farsight.

  “Now that,” Sautea says to his wife, “is nothing like the real thing.”

  A fe
w of those following the parade stare at the bent old man for a moment, then speak to each other behind their hands.

  “D’you think many of your friends will show up?” Nellas asks Sautea.

  “Some,” comes the reply after due consideration. “The obvious ones, definitely. Mebbe one or two of the out-of-towners.”

  “Would be nice to meet some of these people at last.”

  “Aye, though there’s a couple I’ll make sure I keep away from you. I know what you’re like when you see a pretty face. Won’t have you wandering after some young thing.”

  She laughs, and they stroll across the road, their boots clacking pleasantly on the cobbles. Summer Way leads directly to the palace, and they find themselves arriving too late for any of the prime viewing positions.

  “Wish I was taller,” the old man sighs.

  “So do I,” Nellas says. “You, I mean.”

  “Ah, you old hag, I’m tall enough to climb your steps whenever the door’s open.”

  They both laugh, and resign themselves to staring at the backs of the crowd in front.

  “He wasn’t that bad,” she says, after a companionable silence. In front of them the crowd is becoming restless.

  “Some hold-up in the proceedings,” Sautea comments. “Who wasn’t that bad?”

  “Duke Noetos. He wasn’t that bad.”

  “He did some foolish things. What about the extra tax on fishermen?”

  “How can you complain at that? He handed over the best boats in the Neherian fleet for you to manage, and gave you your own ship outright. You can hardly protest if he raised taxes a little.”

  “Aye, I can,” Sautea says, “especially when that young brat gets away with breaking every dockside and customs rule in the book.”

  Nellas has no need to ask who that young brat is. He comes to tea at Sautea’s modest home in the Artisans District at least once a week. Charming, devastatingly handsome and irrevocably single, Mustar is the very definition of a lovable rogue.

  Her husband hasn’t finished on the subject. Won’t finish for some time, most likely.

  “Did you hear the latest? Noetos gave Mustar exclusive rights to rock lobster from Fossa north to Makyra Bay!”

  Nellas turns to Sautea. “Didn’t you bid for that?”

  “Young brat outbid me,” he says, then his craggy face splits in a grin. “What he doesn’t know is that stocks are well down. He’s overbid, in my opinion.”

  The crowd has quietened somewhat. “Something’s happening,” some of them say. Children are lifted on their fathers’ shoulders. “Guards in full livery, coming this way. Looking for someone.”

  In front of the couple, the crowd suddenly melts away and they are confronted by six guards in ceremonial getup, spears held to attention. Wouldn’t be no good in a real fight, Sautea observes to himself, but thinks it prudent not to mention this.

  “Sautea of Raceme?” one of the guards says, peering at him as though he’s just crawled out from behind a barnacle.

  “Paid my taxes,” Sautea replies, frowning.

  The crowd has gathered closer, trying to make sense of the sudden entertainment.

  “Nevertheless, you must come with us, order of the Duke himself. And you,” he adds, dipping his spear in Nellas’s direction. “If you’re his wife, that is.”

  “Who do you think I am, his paramour?” she retorts, raising a small cheer from the crowd.

  “This had better be about getting us good seats,” Sautea grumbles. “I’ll not be best pleased if we have to spend a day in the cells.”

  The ceremonial guards slice a very effective path through the crowd. Past the Summer Flame they march, Nellas and Sautea in their midst. “Slow down!” Nellas begs them. “We’re your combined ages together!”

  The guards moderate their speed, but only a little. Sautea is exhausted when they arrive at an open space, in the middle of which is set a low platform. He rubs his chest worriedly: it has been giving him a few twinges lately.

  “Ah, no,” Nellas says. “We told him we didn’t want none of this!”

  They are marched across the open space and, in front of the whole city, forced to climb the platform. There they are shown to velvet-clad chairs and asked to be seated. The guardsmen melt into the shadows.

  “I tol’ you, I wanted no fuss,” Sautea says to the man who comes over to greet him.

  “Don’t tell me your troubles,” the man replies. “My neck’s killing me. Do you know how many times they starch the collars of these uniforms?”

  “Not enough, fisherman,” Sautea says, eyeing Noetos dubiously. “This was you, wasn’t it? You got us brung up here.”

  “Anomer, actually. If it had been up to me, you old fool, you could have spent the day in the shadows while others received their due recognition. What’s so wrong with a little ceremony? The people enjoy it, and your friends wish to show you their appreciation.”

  “What for? I did nothing, apart from traipse up and down endless roads and try to save us from the worst of your temper.”

  Noetos laughs. “Aye, by Alkuon, that you did. That you did.” He turns and brings his head closer to the old fisherman’s face. “You saved Arathé’s life, Sautea, and I will never forget it. We’re all in your debt.”

  “Enough of a debt to lighten the taxes on his take?” Nellas asks.

  “We shall talk of this later—ah, the music’s about to start.” Noetos nips adroitly back to his seat.

  The band plays a series of military numbers, all stirring if you like the thought of blood and death. Sautea saw enough of it in this city twenty years ago, and in parts further north during their adventure. Many of the memories have dimmed, but he isn’t going to forget the charred bodies of soldiers in Andratan, or villages north of Patina Padouk ruined by wind and quake. A darkness falls over his eyes as he remembers, veiling the crowd that is spread over every vantage point along the waterfront.

  The music continues and Sautea takes the opportunity to look around him. His friends are there, more of them than he expected. Bregor and Consina, of course, sitting on the other side of Noetos, right and fitting for the Factors of Raceme. It is largely to their credit that the city has recovered from the terrible devastation wrought by the Fingers of God and the subsequent Neherian retaliation, but recover it has. Thrice the population than at the height of its former glory, the propagandists claim, but they’d say anything to attract new immigrants. Certainly the place is far busier than Sautea finds comfortable these days.

  Consina bore Bregor two boys, now sent to Makyra Bay where they work the boats in the traditional manner. Must ask him how they’re getting on, Sautea thinks, then promptly forgets.

  On Nellas’s far side, sitting like a king on his throne, is that young brat himself. To think Sautea taught him everything he knows about fishing. Mustar grins at Nellas, and she smiles back, unable to help herself. Oh yes, this boy charms the girls into his hands all right. Not a mark on him and nearly forty years of age. He pursued Moralye at the end of their adventure, pressing his suit on her all the long way south, and for a while she’d shown interest; but eventually she’d spurned him, to everyone’s surprise. There were so many relationships in the aftermath of the events of twenty years ago, it is a puzzle that Mustar was left out.

  Isn’t left out much these days though, Sautea reflects ruefully. Never a cold bed, that lad; a different girl every week. The lad seems to enjoy it tolerably well, though there’s nothing like a familiar face in Sautea’s experience. He pats Nellas’s hand fondly.

  Moralye made her choice a few years later, after a visit to Dhauria by one of her former companions. Anomer had decided on a life of scholarship and made the long journey across the wilds of western Bhrudwo to seek out the greatest minds in three continents. Chief among them, he discovered, was Moralye, revered even by the eldest and wisest in Dhauria. They had elected her dominie, the first woman in five hundred years to be so raised. Anomer had fallen for her. He’d spent years in Dhauria wooing Moraly
e, seemingly without success; the dominie was, after all, almost twice his age, though to the long-lived Dhaurians she was a woman in full bloom. He had devoted himself to book-learning, but at the end of five lovelorn years had readied himself to return home. As Noetos told it—often and loud—she came to him the night before he was to leave and begged him to stay. The coin she used was left unmentioned.

  They lived together in Dhauria another twelve years, raising a family of three girls and enduring the endless gossip of the narrow-minded and insular Dhaurians. The relationship was never officially sanctioned by marriage, apparently. Such liaisons were forbidden, but it seemed that a dominie was allowed a certain latitude.

  And here she comes, as though Sautea’s thoughts have called her into being, on the arm of her husband, walking down the steps from their residence in the Summer Palace, making a handsome couple, she in a white dress and he in a crimson coat and dark green leggings. They mount the platform to cheers from the crowd and seat themselves on the far side.

  Following them is the Duchess of Roudhos. Cylene of Sayonae was pretty when she was younger, but has developed into a celebrated beauty. Her face is solemn, seldom laughing; it is said among the populace that she suffered some great sorrow during the northern affair all those years ago. Sautea knows different, of course; but the loss of her newly discovered sister indeed robbed her of much of her joy. For a time, anyway. She is not tall, but her carriage suggests so. Her face is not perfect, sun-kissed as it is, but such imperfections merely serve to emphasise her beauty. And she is utterly devoted to her great bear of a husband, more fool her. Sautea loves her for it.

  Noetos rises from his seat and goes to her. Taking her hand, he leads her to the far side of the platform, among the many dignitaries events like this attract.

  All is in readiness for the ceremony. The chief alderman stands and clears his throat.

  Away to the right of the crowd a disturbance is taking place. A fight of some kind perhaps. The guards will deal severely with the perpetrators, Sautea knows. Raceme is a good place to live, her laws are in the main sensible and their application is relaxed, but this is an important occasion.