“I know you could have, Diago. But you were fourteen. The foreknowledge of the end of the world was not a burden you needed to carry.”
The answer I knew he would give, I suppose. “How did they take it?”
“Their strength was what got me through to the end.”
Neither of us speak, for a while.
“I wish I could have borne it with you. I wish we could have borne it together.” I say it softly. Not a remonstrance. Just wistful observation.
He nods slowly. “Part of me does too, Diago. Part of me would take any moment that would have given us more time together. But I am also glad I did not. I am glad that I was able to allow you three more months of happiness and security and childhood. Even if you deserved more.” He smiles. Grips my shoulder. My heart aches at the familiar, long-forgotten gesture.
“But I suppose that time is over. So let me tell you everything I know.”
LX
I SPEND THE NEXT HOUR LARGELY LISTENING TO THE MIraculous sound of my father’s voice. Laughing at his familiar straight-faced humour and shedding tears at shared memories. Revelling in his sheer closeness, and through it all, through the haze of joy, doing my best to comprehend what he is telling me.
In the end it is simple in explanation, if not in believability. There was a war against something our long-past ancestors created, though the records found were unclear on its exact nature. The winning of that war not only necessitated both the Aurora Columnae and the Cataclysms, but also split the world into three separate ones: called Res, Obiteum, and Luceum.
And that by activating the ancient device beyond the Labyrinth, I, too, have been split. Copied.
Of everything my father has told me tonight, this is by far the hardest to countenance, even as it fits the pieces I already know. I make him repeat it. Argue it, despite recognising the name “Luceum” from those branded moments leaving the Labyrinth when I lost my arm. But eventually it sinks in. The people here have never heard of Caten because Caten does not exist here. Another version of me is still there, in Res. Still with Emissa and Callidus and Eidhin, or maybe left for Jatiere, if I—he—somehow won the Iudicium. My father, I think, knows more than he says about that. But he does not speak of it, and I do not press. There is too much else I want to know. And, perhaps, some I would prefer not to.
Eventually, my father’s knowledge runs dry. Anyone else, and I do not think I would credit a word of it.
Which brings me to my next question.
“How are you here?” The more he’s explained, the more I’ve wondered at his presence. “Did you get away from Military and then follow me through the Labyrinth? Were you … copied, too?”
“No.” He grimaces. “When Dimidius Quiscil woke me, I told him what I knew. The Cataclysms. The weapon. Solivagus. Everything.” Shame in the admission, even as he adds, “They have a way of controlling the dead. Ensuringthat you answer truthfully. It’s impossible to resist. So they were satisfied, and returned me to the dark. And then one day, a stranger woke me. A man calling himself Ostius. He’s tall. Thin. Has a scar along here.” He traces a line down his face.
I nod slowly. “I’ve seen him. Last year, back in Caten. He’s working with the Anguis.”
“He is using the Anguis, I think,” my father corrects me quietly. “He wanted to know what I had told Military, and then he wanted to know about you. Your personality, your weaknesses. Ways you might be manipulated. It was the first time I realised you must be alive.” He smiles at that.
I hesitate. “What did you tell him?”
“About your weaknesses? Where did I start. Your temper, obviously. Mule-like stubbornness. Rashness. Inability to believe you could be wrong about something. Hmm. What else? The fact you’re terrible when it comes to anything even approaching artistic. Oh, and the way you used to go red and stuttery every time a pretty girl tried to talk to you—remember that? And you were very slow to pick up—”
“Gods. Alright.” My amused glower relents to a grin in the face of his. “Maybe I’ve changed?”
His smile wavers and he tousles my hair. Nods. “So much, Diago. So much, and not at all.” He sighs. “Ostius left me there for … I don’t know how long after that. But when he woke me again, it was to ask for my help. You’d made it through the Labyrinth and he would free me, so long as I agreed to keep watch over you here.”
I frown. Shake my head. “Why you? Andhowdid you get here?”
“How? He has the ability to jump between Res and Luceum. Not Obiteum. I don’t know how he does it.” My father chews his lip. A habit of his, when he is thinking. “As for the why … I asked the same thing, and he said it was because he needed someone he could trust wouldwantto help you, not just follow the letter of his instructions.”
“You think he was lying?” I can hear the doubt in my father’s voice.
“I think he had further reasons. The best I have come up with is that he feared I might have been used against you in Res. But I also think your being here was a surprise he hadn’t figured out how to work into his plans, yet, and he was scrambling. The druid you told me about—Cian? I was meant to smooth things over with him when he brought you to me. He was expecting Ostius tomeet him on Solivagus when someone eventually came through the Gate, but by the time Ostius found out about you, you were apparently already on the boat heading back to Fiachra.” He shakes his head. “In the end, though, Ostius’s real motives didn’t matter. Not to me. The reason he gave me was enough. I only asked that he let me say goodbye to the version of you in Res, and then we came here.”
I’m silent, then, “You spoke to me? The other me?”
“For far shorter a time than I wanted. And he was … recovering. I’m not even sure he will remember it.” His smile is rueful. “It was selfish. I just … it felt wrong, to just leave him. To leave you without saying goodbye.”
“But you chose not to come to me, here?” The faintest hint of hurt to the other question that’s been plaguing me. I still sense that strange pulse from him. “I know you were at Loch Traenala, warned me of that raiding party. And before that, at Didean, when Lir came. You could easily have met with me then. Why tonight?”
“Those were because of what was coming—things I could draw your attention to, but not prevent. Now, it’s because of where you are going.”
