Joseph nodded, tears running down his face, then he leaned forward and wrapped the prince in strong arms. “But you are back now, Max. You are back now.”
Maximilian finally broke down and wept, clinging to Joseph as the last remaining remnant of the life he had lost.
He sat fifty paces away from the rock-walled hut, gazing at it with thoughtful eyes. The trail had been faint, but traceable, and it had made him frown and then follow it. One or two from that most secretive of orders, perhaps, for he had seen them here previously. But others accompanied them. Two horses, a youth, and a man crippled by some debilitating injury. And a woman, as light as a fairy child on her feet—so light, he’d only realised she was with the group after a full hour of tracking.
Who did the order bring beneath the shade, when it was death for any layman simply to step beneath the treeline?
He smiled, thinking of this cleverly hidden hut. But not so cleverly that he hadn’t found it—and five years ago, now. The moment he’d spotted the trail this morning he knew where they’d be heading.
His smile died. What were they doing, that’s what he’d like to know. What were they doing so secretive like? Who had the order brought to this hidey-hole?
And why hadn’t he left before now to seek help and report the intrusion?
Unconsciously, his hand crept to the small pocket in his breeches.
“My parents?” Maximilian asked after a long time.
“Your father died eighteen months after your disappearance, Maximilian,” Joseph said gently. “Your mother three weeks after him.”
Maximilian nodded and took a deep breath, bringing his emotions under tight control. It had been so long…he hadn’t truly believed they’d still be alive. “The throne,” he said suddenly as the thought occurred to him. “Who sits on the throne?”
Everyone else eyed him silently, and Maximilian narrowed his eyes at their reaction. “Who?”
“Cavor,” Vorstus replied calmly. “As abbot of the order I marked him myself, and watched through his claim.”
Maximilian was very still for a moment, then he nodded. “Of course. Cavor. He would have been closest in line.” He smiled, shocking the others. “I like Cavor. He was kind to me as a child, and I was always envious of his skill at arms and his flamboyance.” His smile turned into an easy grin. “He sometimes seemed more the prince than I.”
“No doubt he thought so, too,” Joseph muttered under his breath. Over the past few days the four had compared thoughts and suspicions as Maximilian had slept by the camp fire; all believed that Cavor’s hand was evident in Maximilian’s disappearance and incarceration in the Veins—why else appoint Fennon Furst as overseer? Why else the massive effort to recapture a single escapee?
Maximilian looked at the four of them. “What?” he asked softly but with the utmost authority. “What is it?”
Vorstus answered for the others. “Maximilian, we believe that Cavor was involved in your kidnap and incarceration.”
“No!” Maximilian shot to his feet and turned to the fire, hiding his features from them. “No! I will not believe it!”
“Maximilian,” Vorstus said firmly. “For many years the Order of Persimius mourned you dead. But then I was called to the deathbed of,” he hesitated, then decided it was no longer necessary to keep the man’s identity secret, “Baron Norinum of the estates east of Harton.”
Maximilian turned back to them, his face flat and expressionless. “I know…knew him.”
“Yes,” Vorstus continued. “Norinum asked for the abbot of the order to confess him, because the sin that weighed his soul affected us most. Maximilian, Norinum was one of those featureless, anonymous men who circled you that day so long ago.”
Maximilian’s shoulders slumped. “No!”
“He told us little,” Vorstus continued remorselessly. “But he told us enough. The man who’d hired—or blackmailed him—into helping was of noble birth. So noble that even on his deathbed Norinum feared naming him. And you know as well as I that Norinum and Cavor were ever close.”
“Cavor has been troubled by his mark for many years,” Joseph took up the thread smoothly. “Sorely troubled. As Garth and the Order of Persimius crept closer to your discovery, his mark festered anew.” He shrugged. “Perhaps coincidence, perhaps not.”
“And who else would assign Fennon Furst to the Veins, Prince?” Garth argued, leaning forward. “Why else?”
“I will not believe it,” Maximilian said stubbornly. “Cavor was my friend.”
“And will he continue to be your friend when you step into his throne room, Maximilian Persimius?” asked Ravenna quietly. “Will he welcome your return? Your claim?”
Maximilian stared at her, then turned back to the fire. “I will not believe it,” he repeated.
Silence. Then: “But you will claim,” Vorstus said, and it was not a question.
A longer silence, save for the crackle of the uncaring fire.
“Your father is dead,” Joseph said, enunciating each word carefully and clearly. “You are the rightful king of Escator.”
“Damn you!” Maximilian shouted, swinging back to face them. “You are hounds from the netherworlds to so bark at my heels! Yes! Yes, damn it! I will claim. Are you satisfied?”
“Good,” Vorstus said evenly, as if Maximilian had not just shouted into the room. “Then the order will back your claim, and those in this room will witness.”
His temper gone as suddenly as it had erupted, Maximilian sat down on his stool. A small and somewhat embarrassed smile flitted across his face. “I apologise for calling you hounds,” he said. “I owe you my life, and more.”
“Forgiven,” Joseph smiled, and Garth grinned good-naturedly to take the sting out of his words.
“You’ve done nothing but shout at me ever since I found you.”
Maximilian’s embarrassment deepened. “Then my father would chide me for my ill manners, my friends, for no king can afford to shout at those who so demonstrably prove their loyalty and friendship.”
He glanced at Ravenna, and she inclined her head gravely. “You have never shouted at me, Maximilian Persimius.”
“Nor would I ever want to, Ravenna,” he replied, equally as gravely, then he looked back at Vorstus.
“But how can I claim, Abbot Vorstus, when,” he waggled the ringless fingers of his right hand at the monk, “the ring of my father and of his forefathers has been lost? They tore it from my hand that day, and tossed it aside. You know, as do I, that my claim will crumble into uselessness without it.”
Disturbed, for he had never thought to question the ring’s absence, Vorstus opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came, for a terrible thundering at the door shattered the peace of the room.
“Open this door, fugitives! Now!”
Each one of them leaped to their feet. Garth grabbed Ravenna and hauled her to the back of the room, protecting her with his body. Joseph and Vorstus took an uncertain step forward, then an even more uncertain step back, as if partaking in a half-remembered dance. Maximilian’s hand slid to his hip as if he expected to find a sword there, then he looked at his hand in amazement at its long memory.
“Open, now!” and a great crack splintered down the centre of the door. Whoever was out there had a weapon and was prepared to use it.
“I hear only one voice,” Vorstus whispered urgently. “And we are five. Surely—”
The door cracked wide open and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room, an axe swinging at the end of one well-muscled arm. He wore the rough clothes of an outdoors man, but his eyes were bright with keen intelligence clouded now by grave suspicion—and although he was grey-whiskered with old age he moved with the grace of a champion swordsman.
For several heartbeats everyone stared, then Vorstus took a hesitant step forwards. “Woodsman? I…we must apologise for disturbing the peace of your forest. But as a member of the Order of Persimius I have every right to be here, and—”
The woodsman did not let him finish; he had not taken his eyes from Maximilian. “I have no quarrel with you, monk, ’tis your friends here who have mistaken their way, methinks.” He narrowed his eyes even further. “And I can’t help wondering if one of them is the reason King Cavor has laid martial law so tight across northern Escator even cats are questioned for walking the streets at night.”
“I am the reason Cavor seeks,” Maximilian said, and Joseph could hear the almost concealed hurt in his voice. “I escaped from the Veins some days ago.”
“A prisoner,” the woodsman spat, and hefted the axe in his hands. “Wretch! I…by the gods! What is that on your arm?”
In the act of raising his axe to strike Maximilian down, the woodsman’s arm trembled and his hand slipped on the haft of the axe, the weapon sliding from his clasp and clattering to the floor. Joseph hesitated, then bent down and picked up the axe, placing it safely out of the woodsman’s reach.
Maximilian’s eyes did not waver from the shocked stare of the woodsman. “It is the Manteceros, friend.”
“But you died!” the man whispered. “You were taken by a bear!”
“What?” Vorstus ejected.
“Peace, Vorstus,” Maximilian said calmly, holding out a cautionary hand to the monk. “Let us hear what our friend has to say.”
“Two years after your disappearance,” the woodsman said, stumbling over the “your”, “I found what remained of your bones in a bear’s den not far from here.”
“And why did you think it was me?” Maximilian asked, although his heart grieved for the anonymous youth sacrificed for the sake of an evil pretence.
“Because of this, my Prince,” the woodsman said, calmer now, and he slipped to his knees before the prince. “Because of this.”
In his hand he held the Persimius ring.
TWENTY TWO
THE CLAIM
They shared a meal, then talked some more, then Maximilian laid himself down to sleep, for he would have a long night ahead of him.
“Has Cavor sent troops into the forest, Alaine?” Vorstus asked the woodsman.
Alaine shook his head and scratched his thick beard. “I last saw troop movements two days ago now, and they were spreading westwards and south towards Ruen. As far as I know the forest is clear.” He glanced at Vorstus, then at the back of the sleeping prince. A grin split his beard. “You’ve had the gods’ own luck, Vorstus, to avoid patrols in the open country before the forest.”
“Well,” Garth said quietly, staring at the gathering dusk outside the window, “Maximilian has finally earned some luck, methinks.”
Alaine sobered. He had been deeply affected by Maximilian’s story. “People will be glad to hear of his return.”
“Do you think so, Alaine?” Vorstus asked sharply. “Cavor has been a good king by and large.”
“Ah,” said Ravenna softly to one side, the dusk gathering about her like a loving mist, “but Maximilian was a beloved prince.”
Alaine nodded. “You be right, m’Lady,” and Ravenna smiled a little at the title. “As a boy Maximilian walked in the gods’ own sunshine, and I think many will want to see that brightness about Escator again.” He turned to Vorstus. “Will he claim, Brother?”
Vorstus nodded. “He will prepare himself tonight, and will claim on the morrow.”
“Brother,” Alaine hesitated. “You have not said outright, but I am no fool. I have watched Cavor pull northern Escator apart in search of Maximilian. It was Cavor, was it not, who schemed to make away with the young prince?”
Vorstus indicated the other three, all watching the woodsman carefully now. “It is what we think, Alaine, although we have no proof.”
“The proof is in Cavor’s over-reaction to the escape of a lone prisoner,” Alaine said dryly. Then he made up his mind. “The prince will need friends. Friends who will be prepared to step forth once he makes his claim public.”
“We will stand forth!” Garth exclaimed, miffed.
Alaine nodded, and touched Garth briefly on his knee. “I know you will, young man. But Maximilian will need more than the four of you in this room. Vorstus,” Alaine kept turning to him as the natural leader of the small group now that Maximilian was asleep, “let me prepare the way for you. Let me begin to spread word.”
Vorstus was uncertain. “Premature action could harm rather than aid.”
“Once his claim is made then he must needs act quickly; Cavor will not let the matter rest. Maximilian will need friends, more than are held in this room, and fast.”
Vorstus made up his mind. “Very well. Here,” he reached for a small piece of paper from a pack and scribbled some names. “Start with these men. They are members of the Order of Persimius. Tell them what has happened. They will help you. Already we have a substantial network waiting only for this day.”
“Good.” Alaine scanned the list then hid it in the pocket that until recently had harboured the Persimius ring. He looked one last time at Maximilian, then without another word he rose to his feet and strode to the ruined door, sliding his axe into his belt as he went. He paused, tipped a finger to his forehead in brief salute, then was gone.
Once night had fallen, Vorstus woke Maximilian. The prince refused the drink and meal Ravenna offered, spoke briefly but quietly with Vorstus for a few minutes, then slipped out the door.
Garth watched him go with concern. “Vorstus? What does he do? Will he be all right?”
“Peace, boy.” Vorstus sat down beside Garth and Ravenna. “He will be well.”
“He goes to prepare for the claim,” Joseph said, his eyes dark and reflective. “And for that he needs a night alone for meditation and prayer.”
“Oh,” Ravenna said, understanding his refusal of food. “He needs to fast. He will make his claim cleansed both spiritually and physically.”
Vorstus looked gently at her. “Yes, child. Yet despite all he has endured, I think Maximilian’s soul is already pure and sweet, sweeter by far than that of the man he would supplant.”
When Garth woke in the morning, Maximilian was back, sitting in a shaft of sunlight that fell through the window. His face was calm, his eyes still, and Garth thought he had never seen a man more at peace with himself and the world about him.
The Manteceros on his arm seemed to leap and twist in the morning sunshine.
“When?” Vorstus asked as he rose from his bedding.
“Soon,” Maximilian replied. “But you have time to breakfast.”
Again the prince refused food, although he took a sip or two of clear water, and the others ate quickly and silently. The air was tense with expectation, and Garth wondered that Maximilian showed none of the excitement that so evidently gripped everyone else. Even Ravenna, normally so composed, dropped a plate and several forks, muttering her apologies even as her cheeks stained with embarrassment.
The prince’s mouth twitched, and he watched her as she moved about the room, but he said nothing.
Finally all was ready. “What do we do now?” Garth asked Vorstus under his breath as they threw cold dirt on the fire and spread the few remaining coals out to die on the hearth.
“Now? Now we wait, boy, for today will be in Maximilian’s hands.” Vorstus turned to one side and lifted a small pack from a cupboard.
As if he had heard him, Maximilian stood up from his stool. “It is time,” he said, and stepped out the door.
“Every heir is taught how to claim almost before he can walk,” Vorstus explained quietly as they followed Maximilian down a gently sloping forest path away from the ravine. “The procedure becomes instinctive.”
“And the verse that the Manteceros taught me?”
“It was a cryptic reference to the procedure used to claim, boy. Every heir knows it, and its meaning.”
Garth eyed the small pack that Vorstus had seized from a cupboard as he’d left the hut. A sword stuck inelegantly out of one corner, but whatever else the pack held remained a mystery. “Vorstus?” Garth inclined his head at the
pack.
Vorstus shrugged Garth’s curiosity aside. “Be quiet, boy. This is a reverent moment, and likely one you will see only once in your lifetime.”
Maximilian led them down a path towards the heart of the forest, his pace brisk but not overly fast. He still wore only a simple pair of breeches and some boots, and Garth wondered that he would not dress more formally for such an important day.
They walked for over three hours, Maximilian never hesitating at a fork in the path or even when the trail disappeared completely. Garth glanced back several times to where his father and Ravenna followed, but they only nodded at his glance, their faces as calm and unquestioning as Vorstus’.
Finally, when Garth was wondering if all the claim consisted of was a hike through the forest, Maximilian came to an abrupt halt.
He tilted his head to one side, his blue eyes blazing. “Do you hear it?” he asked, and for the first time that day Garth could detect a trace of tension in the prince’s voice.
“Yes,” Vorstus replied gently. “I hear it, Maximilian Persimius.”
Garth strained for a moment, then heard a soft roar above the normal sounds of the forest.
But Maximilian did not wait to answer the question that sprang to Garth’s lips. Without another word he turned back to the trail and strode forth, his pace noticeably hurried now.
The others hastened after him.
Within half an hour Maximilian led them to a great waterfall, a green lake spreading out from its misty base. Jewel-like lilies, their velvet pads so broad and thick it seemed a man could use them as stepping stones, spread over the calmer sections of the lake, while fish flashed just beneath the lake’s surface.
But Maximilian had no eye for any of this beauty. He stared at the waterfall, then he turned to Joseph. “Will you witness?” he asked tersely.
“Assuredly, Maximilian Persimius,” Joseph said without hesitation.
Beyond the Hanging Wall Page 22
