Beyond the Wall of Time (32 page)

*   *   *

There is nothing wrong with me.
On the contrary, it seemed, he saw perfectly, perhaps for the first time. It had been Opuntia hovering over him, ready to
strike him dead, and he wondered why the others had not seen this. Perhaps it took an experience like the one he’d just endured,
a close encounter with death, to remove the scales from his eyes.

The fisherman eased himself onto one elbow, stared angrily at the woman who had tried to kill him—and saw Cylene. Saw the
hurt expression on her face, saw his children staring at him in puzzlement and anger. He blinked once, twice, but nothing
changed.

I have been deceived.

“What have I done?” he croaked.

He knew well what he had done. And what had been done to him.

“You struck Cylene,” Anomer said, speaking slowly as though to an imbecile. “You knocked her down.”

“Cylene, I’m sorry,” Noetos said, and licked his lips nervously. He had to say something or he would lose her forever. She
deserved nothing less than the truth, but the truth might prove difficult to speak, especially with his children present.

She nodded. “You were befuddled by the poison from Kidson’s knife,” she said. “You did not know it was me.”
But you still struck me
, her face said.

Her recent past would have involved much physical abuse, he reminded himself, including violence from patrons unhappy with
her performance.

“It is worse than that,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Opuntia, my dead wife and the mother of my children, visited me
in a fever-dream.”

He went on to tell as much as he could remember of his discussion with the dead woman. To their credit, none of his audience
doubted him. Noetos supposed it was as much a sign of their present lives as anything: given what had happened to them over
the last weeks and months, any story, no matter how far-fetched, might well be true. They heard him out without interruption.

“You suffer from guilt,” Anomer said, shaking his head. “Your mind has manufactured our mother and turned her into a monster
because you have been reunited with Cylene. Until you deal with your guilt, you will never be free to love again.”

Arathé shook her head violently. “No,” she signalled. “Opuntia may well have really been there as Father lay dying. Because
of the hole in the world, the boundary between life and death is breaking down: hence the Emperor coming back to life, and
more recently Conal. Remember, Lenares believes she can communicate with her dead foster mother. So Mother may well have discovered
the breach in the Wall of Time and found a way to trouble Father. She’s certainly determined enough to do so.”

“She said she will haunt me forever,” Noetos said, sickened.

Cylene stood and came over to where he lay. Her steps were tentative, the cautious approach of a wounded animal who must nevertheless
trust its torturer. He nodded, and placed his arms carefully by his sides.

“How old was your wife when you married her?” she asked.

“Just a little older than you,” Noetos said, and for a moment her features blurred and were replaced by Opuntia’s older, thinner
face. His breath caught in his throat.

“Did you love her with all your heart?”

“Yes,” he whispered. It had been the truth, but love hadn’t been enough to conquer the dark cliffs of Fossa.

“And did you really treat her as well as you intend to treat me?”

He swallowed. Truth, now. “No,” he said. “I tried, I really tried, Cylene. I intended to give her the world, but I was afraid.
Had we left Fossa in pursuit of the life she desired, the Neherians, in all likelihood, would have found me. I didn’t want
her to be hurt.”

Cylene’s face softened. “You tried to protect her, to keep her from being hurt, and in doing so hurt her nonetheless. Noetos,
do you intend to protect me?”

“No,” he whispered, not knowing what she wanted to hear, afraid that every word he spoke might be the word that drove her
away. “I cannot. You have already faced many things I am unable to protect you from, and we are all threatened by forces beyond
my power.”

“Even if you could keep me safe, you ought not,” she said. “Otherwise you will smother me as you smothered her.”

So different: gentle where Opuntia was abrasive; calm where Opuntia was excitable. Brave where she was fearful. Yet every
time Noetos looked at Cylene’s face he saw Opuntia’s features.

This is what she meant when she said she’d haunt me
, he realised with dread. His punishment was he would always see Opuntia in any woman he desired. The future stretched before
him and it appeared bleak. With one stroke his dead wife had stolen everything.

*   *   *

An hour or so later Cyclamere returned, his rough clothes slathered with mud and grass stains, frustration in his eyes. Noetos
managed to struggle from a lying to a seated position, though the effort cost him. One look at Cyclamere’s angered visage
ensured he did not have to ask his former tutor whether he’d been able to catch Kidson, which was fortunate, as he had insufficient
breath. He gulped a few deep lungfuls, the last of which set him coughing.

“Listen to the old man,” Cylene said, leaning into Arathé, who was sitting next to her. She raised her voice. “You’re not
going to peg out on us, are you?”

The two girls laughed, genuine mirth mixed with a deal of relief.

Noetos couldn’t help himself: he felt a surge of emotion for Cylene. He had never met anyone like her. Though she was the
same age as his daughter, the cheerful girl seemed a full generation older. Attributable to the life she had led, of course:
the appalling childhood, having been used by her father, suffering guilt over the loss of her twin sister and the deception
that followed; and more recently the prostitution she’d acceded to as a way of escaping her family. Noetos could barely credit
her survival, let alone the shining beauty of her personality.

He felt ludicrously happy that Cylene seemed to be making friends with Arathé. Anomer acted a little more standoffish, though
that was understandable. The boy continued in his unreasonable anger at his father, still blaming Noetos for his mother’s
death. Noetos was prepared to acknowledge there had been a degree of reconciliation, but Anomer still harboured a serious
grudge. The boy would not sanction anything that made his father happy, and of course refused to acknowledge Cylene as any
sort of replacement for Opuntia. Noetos wondered how long his patience with his son would last.

“No, I’ll draw breath for a while yet,” he answered, and waved his hand in their direction. “I can see a number of reasons
to keep breathing.”

Cylene smiled, but did not gush, and Noetos silently thanked her. He had seen old men fall for young women and had been of
the repeated public opinion that there was no more pathetic sight. Janne Lockleg, who ran the largest stall at Fossa market,
had made a fool of himself mooning after the long-limbed daughter of his business partner. Enela had exploited the man’s obsession,
leading him on, the inevitable result being a brawl on Lamplight Street and the subsequent acrimonious termination of the
business partnership. The girl had been sent away somewhere west. Noetos sighed. She was probably still alive—unlike Lockleg
and Petros, who were probably both dead, killed by the Neherians.

The only survivors are those who left Fossa
, Noetos realised.
A message in that perhaps: I should never have stayed. Opuntia
, he admitted,
was right. In fact, had Arathé not left for Andratan and later returned, drawing me out of that cursed village, I would likely
have died there.

Cyclamere nodded to him, having waited patiently for the exchange to end. “I pursued the sailor for some time,” he said, “but
I lost track of him in the rubble of Long Pike Mouth.”

Noetos groaned as he adjusted his position. “The town is destroyed?”

His old tutor nodded.

“They were good to us when Dagla died,” Noetos said sadly. It had only been… what, a week ago? A little more? He’d lost track
of the days. “They gave us food and treated the injuries Kidson and his men inflicted on us. They did not deserve such a fate.”

“No one deserves to be taken before their time by a storm like that one.”

“Did you see any supplies?”

“Aye, my friend; though much is broken and scattered across the town, the forest and the beach, there were plenty of supplies.
A town’s worth. Certainly there are no people left alive to consume them.” He frowned.

“You’re worried about the Padouki.”

Cyclamere nodded approvingly. “Something your grandfather might have noticed. Yes, I wonder how they fare in the wake of the
great storm. But my mind tells me that if anyone could survive, they could.”

“But the Canopy?” Noetos could imagine the devastation such a severe storm would bring to the treetop city.

“Would have been abandoned at the first sign of high winds. There are caves in the sacred heart, at the base of the great
plateau you call the House of the Gods. I have little doubt the Padouki sought them out.”

“Would they have taken shelter in the House of the Gods?”

“Never, not even if it had been their only hope of survival. The place is sacred to the gods, and for the Padouki to travel
there would mean the loss of Keppia’s gift.”

“Will you remain with us?” Anomer asked.

“Aye,” Cyclamere said, an odd note in his voice, and nodded to the boy.

Ah
, Noetos thought.
The fourth generation. Cyclamere may well become Anomer’s protector, not mine. Perhaps a glimpse of my son’s swordplay will
encourage the swordmaster. It might be best for everyone if the old warrior does attach himself to Anomer.
He wondered how he might promote such a liaison.

“We need to eat,” Cy1ene commented. “Should we try to move Noetos to the village, or will some of us go to the village and
bring food back here?”

“I am well,” Noetos said, “just a little weak. My son and daughter healed me.” He could not keep the pride out of his voice.

“As to that, I’m a little puzzled,” Anomer said. “I thought we’d need to rid you of the huanu stone in order to effect our
healing. We searched your belt and then your clothing, but—”

“But you couldn’t find it,” Noetos finished. “Have you forgotten that Captain Kidson relieved us of our possessions before
tossing us off the
Conch
? The stone is my pack, somewhere on that wreck over there—assuming he didn’t just throw our effects overboard.”
He wouldn’t have, surely; the Sword of Boudhos alone would be of immense value to him
.

“What are you talking about?” Cylene asked. “What stone?”

Noetos jerked his head towards her; not only did her face once again carry Opuntia’s severe features, her voice was that of
his dead wife. He turned away, struggling to keep his composure.

Staring fixedly at the wreck a hundred paces or so to his left, he told Cylene of the huanu stone. He explained how he’d found
the stone and had paid a sculptor those precious gold coins to shape it in Arathé’s likeness. Omiy the alchemist had explained
its worth and something of its power, or, strictly speaking, lack of power—its ability to absorb magic. As Noetos told the
tale, weaving it into the story she already knew, he wondered whether, if he turned, he’d see an avaricious light in her eyes,
as he had in the eyes of others who had learned of the stone. Or whether he’d see his late wife’s face.

He did not turn.

“Show me the stone,” Opuntia’s voice said.

Noetos shuddered: the voice scraped along his nerves like a shoal on the keel of a boat. The voice couldn’t be audible though,
or his children would have commented on it. Opuntia was doing something inside his head, in the place between his senses and
his brain.

“Show me the stone,” she said, her voice peremptory, but Noetos had to believe it was Cylene’s soft voice asking him, not
Opuntia’s voice commanding him.

“Let me see if I can get to my feet,” he replied.

“Send one of our children.”

She said one of our children. No, I
heard
that, but she said ‘the,’ I’m sure of it.

“I cannot. Both of my children are magical. Should they handle the stone directly, it would drain them of their power.”

Cylene would know something was wrong, would be wondering why he did not face her, but as yet she’d not mentioned it.

“I’ll go then. Where exactly is the stone?”

The huanu stone was something he would never have allowed Opuntia to handle. Not because it would do her any harm—she was
as magic as… well, as a stone—but because she would have seen it as a prize, something to be used to further her ambition.
She’s in my head, not in Cylene
, Noetos told himself, but it was so hard not to believe his wife had taken possession of his… his what? His girl? There were
few terms not demeaning both to him and to her.

Perhaps he
was
making a fool of himself.

So be it.

“When you enter the wreck through the large hole in the hull,” he said, “look up and to your right. You should see a hatch
leading to the steerage class accommodation. That’s the place I last saw my pack. Of course, it might well be in Kidson’s
cabin, but start in the bunkroom. And make sure you don’t touch the stone! I would hate to see you discover some hidden magical
reservoir only when it was being burned out of you.”

He turned then and looked full in her face and forced himself to smile. He was a poor actor, he knew; he hoped she could see
the sincerity behind the act.

“Look after him,” Cylene said to Arathé. “He’s still in pain.”

It was only as she approached the wreck that Noetos considered the danger of entering the wreck alone.

That there was something wrong with her father was beyond dispute; he’d been stabbed, after all, by a desperate man, and had
suffered a forced healing by two amateur magicians. A wonder, Arathé acknowledged, he’d survived at all. But she’d noticed
something adhering to his face, like a second layer of skin, and had pointed it out to Anomer as they effected his healing.
The nearest she could come to a description of it was a caul of fog, a cloying layer of magic obscuring his face, interfering
with his senses. There was a faint cord attached to it, stretching away into a nothingness that was less a matter of distance
and more of “away-ness.” Arathé did not know what to make of it. The nearest she could come to a solution to the puzzle was
the idea that perhaps the Most High had left this odd thing behind as a result of his use of Noetos’s body. But the explanation
did not convince her.