Beyond the Hanging Wall

by Sara Douglass

  Garth thought about that a moment. “The forests are the royal preserve, Vorstus, but is it only because of the hunting?”

  Vorstus paused before he answered. “No. The kings claim the forest as their royal hunting preserve, true, but there is a deeper reason the kings prefer to keep the forest as lonely a place as possible.”

  “A deeper reason?”

  “You will no doubt understand soon enough, boy.”

  Garth nodded. The forest—or something within the forest—obviously played a vital part in the process whereby a man laid claim to the throne. “Does anyone inhabit this forest?” he asked after a few minutes’ contemplation. He was panting a little, for he and his father were now supporting virtually Maximilian’s full weight.

  Perhaps too sick to pay attention, the prince was ignoring the conversation about him.

  Vorstus grinned over his shoulder. “Apart from the odd monk, Garth?” His grin broadened slightly at the “odd”. “A few woodsmen in the employ of the king, that’s all. They keep an eye on the game, and fell any trees which are so badly damaged during the spring and autumn storms that they might topple on any unwary hunting party that thunders by. I doubt that we shall see any.”

  “And if we did?” Joseph asked.

  Vorstus shrugged, slowing his gait a little as he saw how Joseph and Garth struggled with Maximilian. “They are used to the visits of the order, Joseph.”

  Ravenna, following slightly behind the rest of the group, laughed at the monk’s words. “And how would you explain the rest of us, Vorstus? Surely the sight of us would send any woodsman scrambling to inform the king of the presence of unwanted visitors.”

  Vorstus halted, allowing the others to catch up. “The woodsmen are loyal and true, Ravenna, and they understand the secrets of the forests far more than the king and even, I suspect, more than the members of my order. They will leave us alone.”

  And with that they had to be content.

  Vorstus continued to lead them deeper into the forest, striking northwards after an hour, and then north-east. The ground began to rise, the leaf litter giving way to stones and small rocks, and Joseph and Garth broke into a sweat with the effort of keeping Maximilian on his feet. The prince was breathing heavily and his face shone with sweat, but Garth, sharing a glance with his father, realised it was due to the fever raging within him rather than to the effort of walking. Ravenna, the horses scrambling behind her, kept close to them, occasionally murmuring encouragement to Maximilian, occasionally calling a soft question to Vorstus.

  “It is not far now,” he finally snapped to her third inquiry. “Be patient.”

  A few minutes later he led them into a small, blind ravine. A stream of water tumbled over the cliff at the end of the ravine, sparkling in the sun, and Vorstus led them to a spot close to the waterfall. The conifers thrived here, even in this stony soil, and in a clear space between two of them stood a stone hut, almost totally concealed behind a tumble of dead wood.

  Garth and his father frowned—it scarcely looked large enough to hold one of the horses—but when Vorstus led them inside they saw that a spacious interior had been carved out of the cliff face behind the facade of the hut. Plain but comfortable furniture had been fashioned from pine and beech, and a hearth stood ready to be lit, a stock of pine wood and cones stacked nearby.

  “I’ll take care of the horses,” Vorstus said shortly. “Lay the prince on that bed over there, and light the fire.” He paused, his sharp black eyes flickering over Maximilian. “And after a quick meal, Prince, we must see what remains beneath that scar of yours.”

  Cavor slammed the door to the overseer’s hut behind him with a grimace of gratification. By the gods! The place stunk! And it was filthy besides. He mentally cursed Maximilian; if the damned man hadn’t escaped in the first place he wouldn’t have had to demean himself with a visit to this blighted sore. This, he seethed, was no place for a king!

  He strode over to the chair behind Furst’s desk and sat down, leaning back and balancing the chair on its rear two legs. “Well, Commander Egalion? What are you doing to find this desperado? When shall you satisfy my order?”

  There were three officers of the royal guard in the room, all armed and armoured, the blue Manteceros blazing from gleaming chest plates. The officer on the extreme right, a tall man with thick blond hair and the red and gold shoulder epaulettes of his command rank on his broad shoulders, stepped forward smartly and saluted. “Sire. A gnat could not move in northern Escator without it being noted.” Over the past three days the regions north of Ruen had been placed under a suffocating blanket of martial law; a dawn-to-dusk curfew had been imposed and all traffic on the roads monitored.

  Cavor’s nostrils pinched and the commander suppressed a wince. “I do not want to know the movements of a gnat, Commander. I simply want this prisoner found.”

  His tone was low, but Egalion did not fail to note the threat that underpinned it. The king had not been pleasant to be around since Overseer Furst had shattered the peace of the court. “Sire. If he moves, then we will find him. No-one could have moved further south than Ruen in the days since the escape, unless it be by ship—and we have searched every vessel plying the coastline thrice over. He is still in northern Escator—unless he has moved northwards beyond Surinam.”

  Cavor tipped the chair still further back as he stared at the most senior commander in the realm. No doubt he wondered why he was being asked to do a policeman’s job; well, let him wonder. “No. He is still here. Somewhere.” Maximilian would want to claim, Cavor thought. He will not escape out of the realm completely. His Persimius-damned pride will keep him here.

  Something niggled in the back of his mind, but Cavor was too intent on relieving his anger, frustration and, yes, he was prepared to admit it, his fear, on Egalion and his subcommand to pay it any attention. “What have you learned from the guards detailed to Section 205, sirrah?” he snapped, his eyes narrow and cold.

  Egalion fought to keep his face mild and expressionless. Cavor had always been a fair man to work for previously—what had happened to him to drive him into such a pit of anger? Who was this prisoner?

  “We have questioned them all, sire.” And those interrogations had been bad, very bad, because Cavor had demanded that all possible measures be taken to ensure the guards answered as truthfully and as completely as they were able. None, Egalion was sure, would ever be able to work down the Veins again—or anywhere else for that matter. “But their answers only add to the mystery. They speak of dreams and fogs, of witches and sweet songs. Nothing makes sense.” Now Egalion allowed some frustration to darken his face. “Nothing.”

  Cavor stared at the man for several long minutes. Were enchantments involved in this? Few within Escator had the necessary knowledge to wield enchantments. Few. The king’s eyes narrowed still further until they were grey slits. Who?

  Egalion, composed again, gave the king the only piece of good news he had. “We have one of the senior guards waiting outside, sire. A man who seems to have been associated more closely with Baxtor and his son than any others. I have left him until last, thinking that you might want to have a hand in, ah, be present for his interrogation.”

  Cavor smiled, but it did not add any warmth to his face. “Good. The Baxtors appear to be the key to this mystery. What is this guard’s name?”

  “Jack, sire.”

  Joseph ran careful hands over Maximilian’s biceps. The prince was in obvious distress now, his breathing shallow and ragged, his cheeks bright with fever, his eyes dull and apathetic. Ravenna sat at the head of the bed, running cool cloths over the man’s forehead. He did not seem to be aware of her presence.

  Joseph trembled, then withdrew his hands. He looked up to where Vorstus and Garth stood close by; both of their faces were creased with concern. “It burns…rages…beneath the scar tissue,” he said quietly. “It’s eating him up, consuming all his energy and will and hope. If we don’t do something then shortly Maximilian will be noth
ing but an empty husk, and then even that will succumb to the fever.”

  “What is going on?” Ravenna asked, her voice made terse by her anxiety. “Why is the mark fighting for freedom now…after all these years?” Her eyes were very light.

  Joseph took a deep breath. “I can only hazard a guess, Ravenna. All these years Maximilian has denied his identity. Suppressed it. And so the mark lay quiescent. But now…now that Maximilian has begun to admit to himself who he is, the mark yearns for freedom itself. Vorstus? You know more about the ink and the mark of the Manteceros than anyone else—am I right?”

  Vorstus nodded. “I couldn’t have put it better myself, Joseph. The mark cannot be denied unless the bearer himself denies it. Joseph, Garth, you must remove the scar tissue. Set the mark free…and then perhaps Maximilian will find the heart to set the Manteceros free.”

  Garth breathed in sharply, his eyes locking into those of his father’s. Surgery? Physicians rarely attempted anything like that; physical intervention of a surgical kind was always dangerous. Even the Touch could not always guard against the inevitable shock, pain and, all too often, infection. Yet what was the alternative? Watch Maximilian burn up before their eyes?

  Joseph acknowledged his son’s concern with a small nod. “Vorstus? In what site did the order originally engrave the mark on Maximilian’s arm? If we can find the spot where the mark was originally made…”

  His voice trailed off, but Vorstus understood his query. “He might stand a better chance? Yes, Joseph, you are right. The engraving of an heir is always performed in a site heavy with magic and under a thick veil of enchantment—a place we know only as the Pavilion. The ceremony itself is performed with the full Order of the Persimius present to witness and to add power. But,” he exhaled raggedly, and the skin of his face sagged, “even if I could get every one of our order here—and that is time we do not have—it would be pointless. The Pavilion is…” Vorstus hesitated, not knowing how to put it. “The Pavilion exists in its own world. Not this one.” He swung his hand in a sweeping gesture that included not only the room but the entire forest. “The Pavilion will appear in this world for only two purposes. To mark an heir and to make a claim.” He dropped his eyes to Maximilian, now virtually unconscious; the muscles of the prince’s face twitched as the fever took greater hold. “No-one can summon it for anything else. Not even to save an heir’s life.”

  Garth stared at the monk. “Then Maximilian must make his claim!” What was this Pavilion that Vorstus was prattling on about?

  Vorstus smiled humourlessly. “Maximilian? At the moment Maximilian could not swat a fly, Garth, much less make a claim. Until now I had not realised just how surely that scar has him trapped.”

  Ravenna had sat silently as the talk of the Pavilion washed over her; now she put the damp cloth she’d been wiping Maximilian’s brow with to one side and folded her hands in her lap. Her face was very calm and very beautiful; her eyes had paled to the colour of the sheet folded over Maximilian’s body.

  “You have spoken truth, Vorstus. The Pavilion will not appear in this world for any other reason than to mark an heir or to enable him to make a claim.” She paused, and her teeth gleamed. “But that does not mean to say that we—or at least, some of us—cannot visit the Pavilion in the dream world.”

  Finally Garth could stand no more. “What in the name of the gods is this damned Pavilion?” he demanded.

  “Your name is Jack?” Cavor asked mildly. He circled the man, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Jack nodded. “Yes, sire.” He stood to attention, every muscle in his body straining, a thin film of sweat covering his face and shoulders.

  “And what do you know of this escape, Guard Jack?” Cavor’s voice remained bland and his face smooth, but it was an effort for him to conceal his contempt for this dirty, sweat-stained man before him. He smelled of the Veins, and Cavor had to turn aside for a moment.

  “All I remember is Adelm—the guard assigned to Lot No. 859’s detail—running down the tunnel, screaming of the escape.”

  “And you saw nothing?” Cavor had his distaste under tight control now, and he turned back to the man.

  “No, sire.”

  But his voice was hesitant, and Cavor permitted himself a small, predatory smile. “Nothing, Guard Jack? Nothing at all?”

  Egalion, who stood to one side with two of his command, glanced at his king’s face, then his eyes flickered back to the luckless guard currently at the centre of Cavor’s attention.

  “It is nothing, sire. A trifle. I’m sure that it means nothing.”

  “How dare you tell ME what means nothing!” Cavor abruptly screamed, and Jack rocked on his feet, his face blanching into colourless terror. Cavor seized the shoulder-strap of the man’s armour and hauled him so close their faces were only a finger span apart. “What do you remember?” he seethed, in a tone that, although quieter, was far more menacing than his full-blooded fury.

  Jack opened his mouth and moved his lips, but nothing came out. His throat had gone tinder dry with fear…and with the memory of what had happened to the two guards who’d been in charge of the gang that 859 had escaped from.

  “That day was so vague,” he stammered finally, his voice rasping. “I cannot recall clear details…”

  Cavor growled and tightened his grip.

  “It was dreamlike…I remember…I remember…”

  “What?” Cavor hissed, and with his free hand seized Jack’s face in a vice-like grip.

  Jack was now trembling uncontrollably. “A song, sire! A song…it haunts my dreams even now!”

  “It will haunt your death if you do not tell me what it is!” Cavor hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Skip, trip, my pretty man,” Jack whispered, his eyes round and terrified. “Skip, trip, into my heart!”

  Cavor avoided screaming his frustration and anger only through a supreme effort. Was his whole realm populated with fools! His hands tightened about the hapless Jack. “Now I want you to tell me about the Baxtors, father and son. Everything you remember. Everything!”

  “The green shadowed parlour,” Maximilian whispered, rousing, and everyone stared at him. “The green shadowed parlour is the Pavilion. Please,” he groped for Ravenna’s hand, and she clasped it tightly, “please, Ravenna, can you help me?”

  Vorstus, shocked by both Ravenna’s and Maximilian’s words, nevertheless roused himself to whisper an explanation to Garth. “The Pavilion is the parlour of the Manteceros’ verse. Maximilian might not have remembered it from the day he was engraved as a babe, but he would know as heir that it is the place he would have to stake his claim to the throne.”

  Garth tried to understand. “And if Ravenna takes him to the Pavilion in her dream world, can he stake the claim there?”

  Vorstus shook his head. “No. Maximilian must summon the Pavilion here to do that. But perhaps his mark can be healed there. Joseph,” Vorstus turned to where the physician sat at Maximilian’s side, his hands still lightly touching the scar about the Prince’s arm, “can you heal Maximilian…”

  He never finished. Ravenna interrupted, both her hands tight about Maximilian’s now. “No, he can’t help Maximilian,” she said calmly as Vorstus whipped his eyes towards her, “because he cannot come. I can only take Garth and Maximilian with me into the dream world. Garth because his own power is strong, far stronger than Joseph’s, and Maximilian because he and the Pavilion are already bonded through that mark. Garth, you will have to remove that scar by yourself. Heal Maximilian by yourself. Can you do it?”

  His mouth ajar, Garth looked at his father. “I’ve never done anything like this,” he whispered.

  Joseph returned his son’s gaze levelly, his eyes gentle with pride and trust. “I will tell you what to do, Garth. All the power you need is already contained within your hands, and you will need no more than the basic skills I have already taught you. Maximilian,” his gaze shifted downwards, “will you trust Garth to help you?”

  �
��Yes,” Maximilian whispered almost inaudibly. “Yes. He believed in light when I saw only darkness, and I followed him then. I will do so again.”

  TWENTY ONE

  OF MARKS AND MEMORIES

  Unlike the last time Ravenna had taken Garth into the mists of the dream world, this time she just asked Joseph and Vorstus to stand back from the bed, uttered a soft prayer to the Lord of Dreams, grasped both Maximilian and Garth by the hands and began to sing.

  The song she sang was so haunting it was almost unbearable, and Garth had to turn his eyes, although Maximilian kept his riveted on Ravenna’s face. She sang of tiles and columns and soaring domes, of the fairy creatures who girdled their handiwork with ancient enchantments and, as far as Garth could make out, she sang them directly into the Pavilion. All he knew was that one moment the bed they sat or lay on was surrounded by the homely interior of the forest hut, the next moment damp tendrils of mist had tangled through Ravenna’s hair and the interior—as had his father and Vorstus—had disappeared.

  Like Maximilian, Garth stared at Ravenna, trusting her to bring them safely through the mists. As the last time he’d travelled into the dream world with the girl, strange creatures, only half-glimpsed, surged past them and, in one instance, underneath them. The sound of wings and soft, padded feet echoed about them, but Ravenna kept a light smile on her face and tightened her grip on Maximilian and Garth’s hands, and continued to sing.

  Garth half wondered if the Manteceros might loom out of the mist, his sad face startled at being so abruptly confronted with the irritating pretender to the throne, but there was no sign of him, and before Garth could peer too closely about he became aware that Ravenna had stopped singing, and that she had relaxed her grip on his hand.

  “We’re here?” he asked, then looked about at her nod.

  If they were in a building then it appeared insubstantial—dreamlike for the dream world. Half-glimpsed columns soared into the mist about them, and Garth had a faint impression of a domed roof over their heads. When he looked down at the floor beneath the bed, he frowned. There was a floor there, he was sure of it, but there was a thin film of…water?…flowing over it. Green and blue shadows chased each other underneath his feet, and whatever the true nature of the floor of the Pavilion, it was hidden from his curious eyes.