Beyond the Hanging Wall

by Sara Douglass

  Maximilian nodded, accepting the answer. His cheeks, pale when he had first appeared at the table, were now slightly flushed. “Where is ‘here’?”

  Ravenna took a deep breath and looked away, unable to bear the pain in his eyes.

  “We are in northern Escator, Maximilian, close to the sea.” Vorstus paused, wondering how much information Maximilian could absorb at one time.

  Maximilian frowned. “The sea?”

  “Yes. Maximilian, we are within three hundred paces of the area they call the Veins.”

  “The Veins?” Maximilian’s eyes had a wild sheen to them now. “The Veins?”

  Ravenna took his hand, hoping her touch would give some reassurance. Apparently it did, for Maximilian went on in a more normal tone of voice, and the light faded from his eyes.

  “Is that where…” He hesitated, unwilling to speak it. Vorstus and Ravenna were silent, holding his eyes with their own. “Is that the space below the hanging wall?”

  “Yes, Maximilian.”

  Maximilian thought for a very long time, his eyes grave as they stared at the table. “I liked it there,” he said eventually. “It was warm, and I was not alone. And the darkness was my friend. It kept me alive.”

  Ravenna swallowed, and fought to keep her eyes steady. Now his hand squeezed hers slightly.

  “My name,” he said slowly, “is Maximilian Persimius.”

  Vorstus blinked at the surname. No-one had mentioned that in front of the prince.

  “And,” Maximilian raised his eyes, “Maximilian Persimius does not belong below the hanging wall, does he?”

  “No, Maximilian Persimius. No, he does not.”

  Maximilian nodded, and withdrew his hand from Ravenna’s. He stood, and glanced about the interior of the hill. His discomfort was clear. “I shall lie down again, I think. When Garth Baxtor arrives, will you wake me?”

  “Assuredly, Maximilian Persimius.”

  The Veins was in uproar. Rarely did a prisoner manage to escape, but when they did, they were always found relatively quickly, cowering in some hole or beneath an overhang. No-one had ever managed to reach the surface before.

  Now, not only had a prisoner escaped, but he could not be found, and Furst had slowly come to the unpalatable conclusion that Lot No. 859 (859, damn it!) had escaped far beyond the confines of the hanging wall.

  The two guards who had been assigned duty to his gang had no idea how the man had escaped.

  “He was there one minute,” one mumbled as a furious Furst had stalked back and forth in front of him, “and gone the next.”

  His companion came to his rescue. “And Lot No. 859 was always pliable. Willing, always willing,” he said. “I can’t think why he of all prisoners should choose to make a dash for it.”

  Furst, who could well understand why 859 might want to see the sky again, nevertheless refrained from comment. Gods! But he could lose his job over this!

  He stilled. And more besides. Damn it, where could the man be! “No-one leaves the area unless he be searched,” he seethed. “And I want every man identified before he is allowed beyond the perimeter. If this man is not recaptured then it will be your miserable hides that will be flogged. Do you understand?”

  The guards both nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Then get to it!” Furst shouted, and they scrambled for the door.

  Furst slowly sank into his chair, eyeing the guard duty roster on his desk. He had been working on it when…when the alarm bells had begun to peal. Then he had only cursed, thinking some poor wretch had managed to file his way to a brief interlude that would end only in his death.

  But it had taken just one question for Furst to realise the danger was much, much more serious.

  “Curses be heaped atop your soul, Maximilian,” he whispered, low and viciously, “for when I catch you I will make sure that you will be thrown down the deepest shaft of the Veins. I should have done it years ago. Damn it! I should have done it years ago!”

  It was a sentiment that Furst was to repeat over and over again during the next few days.

  Joseph and Garth left their quarters well after dark. Somehow they had managed to get through the day, although they’d not been given much to do. Indeed, in the fuss over the escape of the prisoner they had been sent to the surface relatively quickly—no point fixing fungus when the entire complex was in turmoil. Besides, there were no guards to spare to look after them.

  And, both thanked the gods, no-one seemed to remember the strange guards who had appeared among their midst one day, and then completely vanished.

  They tried not to look furtive as they left, and had in fact announced to the roomful of physicians as they stood from the table that they were going to take a stroll through the night air.

  Lam Bent looked up from the newssheet that he’d already read thirty-five times from end to end and raised a speculative eyebrow. “And where could you be finding to go this late at night, my friends?”

  One of the other physicians sniggered into his beer.

  Joseph tried to look as uncomfortable as he could. “Well, ahem, Garth here has not yet seen all of the attractions that Myrna has to offer and, ahem, tonight appeared to be a good chance to slip through the back streets unannounced…if you get my meaning.”

  They all laughed—all except Garth who just looked puzzled—and waved them out the door. “I’ll not expect you back before morning, then!” one called, and Joseph grinned shamefacedly as he hustled Garth out the door.

  “What was that all about?” Garth asked as soon as it closed behind them.

  “I hope you’ll not find out for a good many years yet,” Joseph mumbled and, taking his son’s elbow, hurried him down the pathway leading towards Myrna.

  They were stopped within a hundred paces by a detail of suspicious guards.

  “Who are you?” one asked, leaning his pike dangerously close.

  “Physician Baxtor and my son, Garth,” Joseph replied calmly. “Out for the night air.”

  Another of the guards laughed and spat. “No one enjoys the night air in this forsaken slime pit,” he said. “Now, tell me the real reason.”

  To Joseph’s utter shame, he blushed—an action that was, in the end, the saving of him and Garth.

  “I’m taking my son through to the, ah, Ladies’ House in Myrna. I thought it time he be introduced to some of the more exotic pleasures in life.”

  The guards all roared in delight, relaxing at Joseph’s obvious embarrassment and Garth’s equally obvious puzzlement. “Ladies’ House?” he said. What was his father going on about?

  “Here,” one of the soldiers said. “I know these two. Went down with them the last time they were here. The lad’s grown a bit—”

  “He’ll grow a bit more tonight!” another guffawed.

  “But it’s him all right. Let them pass.”

  Joseph would have relaxed if he wasn’t so utterly embarrassed. Garth had finally caught onto the general drift of the conversation and was peering at his father with a strange look on his face.

  The guards stood back, still chuckling, and let Joseph and Garth past.

  “Father, how could you even suggest…”

  “Well, it got us past, didn’t it?” Joseph snapped, and hurried along the path.

  Some one hundred paces past the guards both checked their stride, and looked carefully about.

  “Was this where you said?” Joseph said.

  Garth nodded, trying to peer through the gloom. “Yes. A small hill, Vorstus said, with a rock protruding halfway up its eastern aspect. Look, what about that one?”

  “Yes, you could be right. Is anyone watching?”

  “No. Not this far away. Father…how well do you know the Ladies’ House?”

  But Joseph was already halfway to the hill, and Garth scrambled after him.

  Gustus spotted them as soon as they rounded the southern part of the hill and guided them inside.

  “How is he?” Joseph asked an instant ahead of his son.
Both had completely forgotten the embarrassing incident at the guard post.

  “Washed, is all I know,” Gustus said as he rolled the rock silently away. Joseph stared at it briefly but curiously. It was operated by some ingenious mechanism that had been so cleverly hidden that unless you knew exactly where it was, you would never be able to find it. “I’ve been outside most of the evening watching for you.”

  Both Joseph and Garth stared in silent amazement at the hollowed interior of the hill. It had a warm, homely air, despite its size, and had obviously been used by the order for some time.

  Vorstus greeted them as they stepped into the chamber, and he noted their looks with some pride. “The order has many of these hollow hills about Escator, Joseph, Garth. And other, stranger, places besides. We find them…useful.”

  But neither looked at him now; both stared beyond his shoulder to the still form lying with his back to them on a bed by the far wall.

  “Yes,” Vorstus said softly. “He is well—as well as I could expect. He has acknowledged his identity, but little else.”

  He smiled suddenly. “Little else but ask for you, Garth.”

  “Me?” Garth was surprised. Surely Maximilian would have better things to think about.

  “He remembers only little bits, boy. He only wants to remember little bits, else he will go mad. But he remembers you, and he wants to talk to you.”

  Garth made as if to step over, but he hesitated. “Vorstus, you remember the old king and queen, don’t you?”

  The monk nodded.

  “Well…does Maximilian look like them? Is he…?”

  “Is he a true Persimius or is he the changeling that he claimed, Garth? Well,” Vorstus hesitated, and neither Garth nor his father liked the expression that came over his face. “The truth is, I can’t tell. The old king was tall and lean and with black hair. His queen had dark blue eyes. All of these Maximilian has…but no other resemblance that I can see. If he is a changeling—hold boy! I said if!—then the queen could easily have selected an infant whose parents were tall and dark with blue eyes.” He paused, and stared at his hands. “Garth, Maximilian said something down the Veins which makes me think he knows the meaning of the verse the Manteceros gave you. That is good. If he comes through that test, if he can make the claim on the throne, then I can speak for the entire order in saying that we will support him. But,” he repeated, “the Manteceros must make the final judgment.”

  Garth accepted it. In his heart of hearts he knew Maximilian had to be the true king. “Can I…?”

  “Yes, boy. Go and speak with him, and your father can come and sit with Ravenna and myself for a while and share bread and cheese.”

  Garth walked towards Maximilian slowly, wondering what he would find. Before he had only seen Maximilian as a begrimed man huddled in the dark, even in his dreams the prince had worn a peculiarly faceless aspect.

  So it was that when Maximilian rolled over at the sound of his step Garth was surprised at the pleasantness of the man’s face; surprised, because somehow he had expected a man with a heroic visage and a sternness of expression that reflected the trials of his life. But then Maximilian smiled, and Garth gasped as Vorstus and Ravenna had done.

  “You are Garth Baxtor?” Maximilian asked slowly.

  “Yes, I am Garth.” He hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He glanced with some concern at the prince’s face; it was flushed, feverish, and his eyes were too bright.

  Maximilian slowly raised his hand, and Garth grasped it. “You were the one who found me, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Garth kept his face clear of expression, but he did not like the feel of the man through his Touch.

  “You demanded of me that I remember.”

  Garth was silent, his eyes compassionate.

  Maximilian licked his lips. “I remember that my name was once Maximilian Persimius, and I remember that once I lived in this strange world beyond the hanging wall. But I do not remember very much else.” A small smile flitted across his face again. “Except that I now remember the taste of tea.”

  Garth wrapped both of his hands about Maximilian’s. “Do you remember speaking to me about the Manteceros?”

  Maximilian frowned. “The Manteceros? No…no. Did I? Garth, I…” He halted, his face now twisted with the effort to remember. “Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, I do remember. You were so demanding. You insisted that I was this Maximilian. You wanted to rescue me.” He sighed, long and deep. “Yes, I remember the Manteceros now. And I remember that I told you the Manteceros would not want much to do with me. I am not worthy, Garth. I can remember that much.”

  “You are alive again, Maximilian,” Garth said, low and fierce, his hands gripping the prince’s tightly. “You have your life ahead of you—have the courage to grasp it.”

  Maximilian laughed bitterly. “I should resent you, Garth Baxtor, for it is your fault that I have been dragged from a life that I knew and understood and that knew and understood me. The darkness was warm and it was my friend, Garth Baxtor, and you have taken it from me.”

  Garth was about to say something more when he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Peace, son,” Joseph said softly. “Memory can sometimes be a fickle lady. He has been through trauma such as you and I could not imagine, and he has been wrenched—as he has just pointed out—from the world he knew and understood into a world that he suspects is only a bad dream. His loss of memory is a shield, and if he is to lower that shield then he is going to need a friend to help him through.”

  “I understand, father.” Maximilian had closed his eyes again, and Garth twisted about to look his father in the eyes. “I do not like what I feel through his flesh, father, yet I cannot understand it. Can you…?”

  Joseph knelt down beside the bed. “Maximilian?”

  The prince reluctantly opened his eyes to the light. “Yes?”

  “My name is Joseph Baxtor. Once I was physician to your father. When you were a boy we played hoopball in the courtyard of your home.”

  Something flickered in Maximilian’s eyes, but he said nothing.

  Joseph grinned broadly and fingered his beard. “But I did not have this then, and I had fewer lines of care to bracket my eyes. I am not surprised you stare at me so uncomprehendingly. My Prince, both my son and I employ the Touch—you have already felt Garth’s power—and now I would like to Touch you as well. Would you permit me?”

  “Surely,” and Maximilian withdrew his hand from Garth’s and gave it to Joseph.

  Joseph held it for a long time, running his own hands over it slowly. He kept his head bowed, his breathing slow and deep, and Garth knew that he was concentrating hard on the feelings that flooded into him from Maximilian’s body.

  When he finally raised his eyes, his expression was blank. “Prince, may I Touch your arm?”

  Maximilian was more doubtful this time, but eventually he jerked his head in assent.

  Joseph rolled back Maximilian’s sleeve and exposed the thick burn across his biceps, then wrapped his hands firmly about the prince’s upper arm. He took a quick intake of breath, his eyes fluttering wide before he narrowed them again. After only a moment he let Maximilian go and rolled his sleeve down again.

  “I thank you, Maximilian. Now, rest. Close your eyes, embrace the darkness again.”

  Maximilian visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Joseph. I…I wonder if one day you would teach me to play hoopball again?”

  Joseph guffawed with laughter. “Us? My Prince, I fear we are both too old to play hoopball again, but if it is your wish, then it is my command. Hoopball! Hah!”

  Maximilian smiled, and Joseph’s expression stilled at the sight. “Rest well, my Prince.”

  Maximilian nodded, and closed his eyes.

  Joseph motioned Garth away from the bed.

  “What did you feel?” Garth asked urgently. His father was adept at interpreting what he felt from someone else’s body; as yet Garth could only interpret the simple
st of sensations.

  But Joseph did not answer immediately, taking his elbow and guiding him back to the table where waited the monks—all four of them now—and Ravenna.

  They shifted to make room as the two approached, and Garth and his father sat down between Isus and Morton.

  “What’s wrong, Joseph?” Vorstus asked for all of them.

  Joseph glanced back towards the bed, but Maximilian had turned to face the wall again and appeared to have gone back to sleep.

  “He has been through great trauma during his life.” Joseph glanced about the table. “In part he has learned to deal with that trauma by forgetting. His rescue from the only life he could remember today has proved further trauma for him. He will need time and trust and friendship to have the heart to remember all that has befallen him.”

  Joseph fell silent, folding and then unfolding a table napkin in his hands. “But that is not all. Garth, you felt something strange.”

  His son nodded.

  “And I saw you both look at his flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes,” Ravenna said softly, her grey eyes intense.

  Joseph looked at her strangely. He had seen her many times on his visits to the marsh, but it was strange to see her here now, and in this company. And her mother was so strange. “Yes, Ravenna. He is consumed by a fever, but it is no ordinary fever. My friends,” Joseph looked about the table, meeting each in the eye, “he is consumed by an inner sickness. I think…I think it is the mark of the Manteceros struggling to break free of the scar tissue that surrounds it. If it cannot escape, then I fear that Maximilian will burn up.”

  “Die?” Gustus asked, aghast.

  Joseph nodded. “Eventually, yes.”

  “Can we help?” Garth asked urgently, leaning forward.

  Joseph hesitated. “Yes, perhaps…but not here.” He looked Vorstus straight in the eye. “We—he—will have the best chance in the place where the mark was originally engraved.”

  Vorstus smiled, but it was cool. “What are you saying, Joseph?”

  “I am saying that Maximilian needs to be taken back to the forest. For many reasons.”