Beyond the Hanging Wall (19 page)

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 nothing 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.”

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.

Garth looked back at Ravenna, and took a quick breath of concern. Her eyes, back to their natural grey for the moment, were ringed with exhaustion, and her mouth was thin and pinched. “Ravenna!”

“I will be well, Garth Baxtor,” she said quietly. “I can rest while you heal Maximilian, and the return will not be half the effort the journey here was.”

Garth doubted her too-easy reassurance very much, but he did not say anything. After a moment longer he dropped his eyes to the prince.

Maximilian was staring at him, his blue eyes heavy with pain. “Help me, Garth,” he whispered. “Free this damned Manteceros that troubles me so sorely.”

Garth winced at the agony in Maximilian’s voice, remembering Cavor’s ravaged face and eyes. Joseph had taken him to one side before Ravenna had spirited them here, and whispered to him hasty instructions. None of them had reassured Garth very much. He had never caused an incision into anyone’s flesh before—and creating the wound instead of healing it was anathema to Garth’s training.

But it had to be done.

Garth took a deep breath and lifted the bag of instruments his father had given him. “Ravenna,” he said quietly, his eyes not leaving Maximilian’s face, “take his hands. Hold him tight.”

She nodded, and lifted Maximilian’s hands into her own.

The prince’s torso was already bare, and Garth folded back the sheet so that he would have easy access to his arm. Trembling slightly, he ran his hands over the thick scar that rippled over most of
Maximilian’s upper right arm, trying to feel the outline of the Manteceros beneath it. He probed with the entire strength of his Touch, but, unlike the first time he had Touched the man beneath the Veins, it was useless. All he could feel was the hot angry ridged tissue beneath his fingers. The mark was buried deep, very deep.

“Maximilian,” he said very softly. “The scar tissue must be cut away. It will hurt.” He hesitated. “I am sorry.”

Maximilian, his face even paler than normal, if that were possible, nodded curtly, then turned his face away, burying it in the comforting folds of Ravenna’s gown as she sat beside him.

Garth clenched his hands momentarily to stop their trembling—how was he going to be able to get through this!—then took gauze and a flask from the bag beside him, liberally wiping disinfectant over the scar. He took a deep breath, focusing both mind and Touch as tightly as he could, then reached into the bag and withdrew a shiny scalpel.

It glinted wickedly, even in this misty light.

His jaw tight with strain, Garth touched the blade to the lower portion of the scar tissue.

The door had just slammed behind Egalion and his two soldiers, the limp form of Jack dragged between them, when lightning agony knifed into Cavor’s arm.

Unable even to scream, his eyes and mouth open round in shock and horror, Cavor slipped from the chair to the floor and thrashed about, clutching his arm, his low, agonised moans inaudible to the guards outside the room.

At the first touch of the blade, Maximilian arched his body in shock and screamed.

Ravenna cried with him, her eyes wide with horror, and Garth, appalled by the prince’s reaction, dropped the scalpel from his hand.

It fell with an apologetic splash into the water that flowed gently about his feet.

Trembling almost uncontrollably now, Garth reached down, mentally cursing himself. The metal would be contaminated by whatever medium it had fallen into, and he would have to wipe it clean again. Gods but he wished this were over and done with.

Gods, but he wished his
father
were here to do this instead of him.

His hand groped about at his feet, searching blindly through the water—surely it was only a finger’s width deep? But however much his fingers scrabbled about, they found nothing. Garth met Ravenna’s eyes above the now silent prince. “What are you going to do?” she asked, and Garth wondered if her calm expression hid accusation.

He groped about a moment longer, his heart sinking icy cold within his breast, then he sat up. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I have no other knife.”

To his surprise, Ravenna relaxed. “Believe,” she said. “Believe in yourself, and trust in the man who lies between us. Believe.”

“Believe?” Garth whispered, appalled.

“Believe,” she said gently, and leaned across Maximilian to kiss Garth gently on the cheek. “I believe in you, and Maximilian believes in you, and above all you must believe in your Touch. It is far deeper and far more powerful in you than in any
before you. Joseph does not understand that yet, and neither do you. Believe in yourself, Garth. Trust in your ability. In you and in this place the Touch can be used in ways unimaginable.”

Garth stared at her, mesmerised by the touch of her lips and by the words she spoke. Believe.

“Believe,” he whispered and, his hands still trembling slightly, he Touched Maximilian’s arm just above the elbow.

His Touch was warm and dry, yet felt like the distant reverberations of a swarm of bees. Maximilian shuddered, trusting, and fought to relax under Garth’s hands.

“Believe,” Maximilian whispered. “Believe.”

Garth’s Touch felt strange, unsettling, but it did not hurt. Maximilian relaxed further, and Ravenna stroked the backs of his hands with her thumbs and crooned wordlessly to him.

Garth was now concentrating so hard he was hardly aware of the man beneath his hands or of the young woman across from him. The Pavilion faded into insignificance, and all Garth could feel was a throbbing that thrilled through his veins from the very centre of his being towards his palms and fingertips—which burned as though they had been engulfed in cold yet painless fire.

“Believe,” he whispered again. “Trust,” and gave himself completely to the Touch.

Cavor moaned one more time, then realised the pain had gone. He rolled over, his fine clothes dusted with the dirt of Furst’s floor, and stared uncomprehendingly at the floorboards as they
stretched away towards the far wall. A feeling of warmth and comfort such as he had never felt before was spreading upwards from his right elbow.

Garth massaged Maximilian’s flesh between his fingers and thumbs, rolling it to and fro, probing deep and surely. Slowly his fingers moved up Maximilian’s arm towards the first ridge of scar tissue. His lips moved, although he made no sound.

Maximilian had relaxed completely, and Ravenna had let go of one of his hands and was now smoothing the hair back from his forehead. His head had lolled back on the pillow; his eyes now closed, a small smile lit his face, mirroring Ravenna’s own expression as she watched Garth work his miracle.

Garth’s fingers and thumbs had now reached the scar tissue, and he frowned. It was irritating,
irritating
beyond measure! Angry with the impure flesh beneath his Touch, he muttered and shifted slightly on the bed, changing his grip on Maximilian’s arm.

He dug his thumbs under the lower edge of the mass of scar tissue and slowly…achingly slowly…rolled and lifted it from the Prince’s arm as a dirty carpet is rolled away from a smooth floor.

Ravenna’s hand stilled on Maximilian’s forehead, and her lips parted slightly in wonder.

Unaware of anything but the need to roll the offending tissue away completely, Garth continued to work his fingers further and further up Maximilian’s arm, submerging himself completely in the Touch, letting its power sweep through him and, through him, into Maximilian.

As the scar tissue buckled and rolled away it exposed white skin almost crystalline in its purity. Not a mark marred its surface.

Ravenna frowned slightly.

But Garth continued to work. Now almost half of the scar had been rolled back, and it bunched and roiled above Garth’s fingers. Maximilian had relaxed so completely he seemed deeply asleep.

A few minutes longer and the scar was almost completely removed—yet still the skin beneath it remained white and pure. Ravenna opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it as she glanced at Garth’s face, and closed her lips slowly.

“Ah!” Garth grunted, and with an abrupt twist of his hand tore the loose scar tissue away from Maximilian’s arm completely. With a look of utter distaste, he flung it as far as he could from them.

There was a distant splash, and Maximilian’s eyes sprang open. They widened impossibly, and neither Ravenna nor Garth could read the expression in them nor understand what he saw in the mist surrounding him.

“
Watch out!
” he screamed, and twisted his head and shoulders away as if avoiding something charging out of the mists.

Too shocked even to scream, Cavor rolled violently across the floor until he rested against a wall, certain he was about to be trampled.

There was a thunder of beating feet, and Ravenna and Garth winced and hunched low, not sure what to avoid or even what direction the danger came from.

The next instant Maximilian cried again, tore his left hand from Ravenna’s clasp, and gripped his right biceps tight. His body rolled and twisted on the bed.

“Garth!” Ravenna cried, her hands to her face. “Look!”

Following the direction of her eyes, Garth looked at Maximilian’s hand where it gripped his biceps. He gripped so hard that his fingers dug into his pale flesh, but as Garth looked there was a flash of blue light from between the prince’s fingers. Maximilian convulsed, crying out yet again, and then he slowly relaxed, a look of wonder on his face.

His hand dropped slowly away from his arm.

Simultaneously, Garth and Ravenna took great breaths. Emblazoned across Maximilian’s right biceps in all its thick-legged, stiff-maned glory was the blue outline of the Manteceros.

Maximilian twisted his head and stared at the mark, then slowly shifted his eyes to Garth. “I remember,” he whispered. “I remember it all.”

Cavor heaved in great breaths, coughing as floor dust lined his lungs, then slowly, wonderingly, pushed himself to his feet. He stood a moment, his chest heaving, then he tore his jacket and then his shirt from his torso, twisting his head and arm to see.

His arm was completely healed. The mark of the Manteceros blazed forth clear and blue from skin rosy with health.

The pain that had plagued him for years had completely gone.

Gone.

Slowly his breathing calmed, and Cavor raised his eyes, staring sightlessly into the depths of the room. Intuitively he understood what this meant. If his mark had healed, then it meant Maximilian’s mark had been freed from beneath its scar tissue.

And if that had happened…

If that had happened then Maximilian was free to make his claim. And there was only one place he could do that.

“The forest,” he whispered. “He’s in the forest.”

Maximilian sat silently before the fire, a bowl of soup in his hands, lifting the spoon to his mouth in slow, thoughtful movements. He had said almost nothing since Ravenna had returned them to the rock hut, and now stared into the flames, coming to terms with the flood of his memories in his own way.

He wore only breeches and boots, and the firelight flickered over his pale, naked torso. Every so often the eyes of the watchers would sweep over the proud blue mark on his arm, then they would sweep back to the prince’s face.

As his sickness had sloughed away from him and his memories had surged in to fill the vacuum, Maximilian had automatically assumed the demeanour and bearing of a prince. His shoulders, hunched and unsure ever since he’d been freed from the Veins (and for how many years before that?) were now straight and strong. His movements, although slow, were measured and deliberate.

His face, uncertain and haunted before, still had traces of pain lacing his eyes (and would probably all the rest of his life, thought Vorstus), but was now
grave and calm, even curiously peaceful for the memories that must be coursing through him.

But then, Joseph remembered, even as a young boy he’d learned to keep his innermost feelings well to himself.