Beyond the Hanging Wall

by Sara Douglass

  Maximilian jerked his head in thanks, then he turned to where Garth and Ravenna stood. “Will you name me?” he asked, his voice softer now.

  Garth opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Ravenna answered for the both of them. “Certainly, Maximilian Persimius.”

  Maximilian relaxed enough for a small smile. “Then I thank you.”

  Finally he turned to Vorstus. “Are you ready?”

  “I am, Maximilian Persimius.”

  Maximilian took a deep breath. “Already seventeen years have been wasted. I have no taste for lingering.”

  And with movements swift and smooth he stripped himself of his clothes and stepped to the side of the lake.

  “In crystal do drown me,” Vorstus said low, but very clearly. Garth glanced sharply at the monk. Vorstus had assumed an air of utmost authority and gravity, and Garth realised that this was not Brother Vorstus who stood before them, but the Grand Abbot of the Order of Persimius.

  “In crystal do drown me,” Maximilian repeated, and in one graceful action he dived into the lake.

  They watched the progress of his pale body as he swam deeper and deeper, ever further into the centre of the lake until he vanished beneath the still green waters. Garth held his breath in sympathy with the prince, and only became aware of it when his chest tightened in agony.

  Just when Garth thought that he must have drowned in truth, the prince’s head broke water at the very centre of the lake. He ran his hands back through his hair, wiping it out of his eyes, then shook his head and looked about.

  As soon as he spotted the group standing at the lake’s edge, he swam back to them with long, lazy strokes. As he stood from the water, Vorstus stepped forward and touched the prince’s forehead, then his chest, with slow, deliberate movements. “You are washed of your sins, Prince Maximilian Persimius. Do you wish to proceed with your claim?”

  “I do,” Maximilian said, and Vorstus reached down into the pack he’d left close by, pulling out a long white silk shirt. Maximilian held out his arms, and Vorstus slipped the shirt over the man’s head and neck.

  As it tumbled down over the prince’s damp body Vorstus spoke again, this time touching Maximilian briefly on the mouth. “Do you swear only to speak with the words of truth, Maximilian Persimius?”

  “I do so swear,” Maximilian replied.

  “Then wear always the white of truth draped next to your skin to remind you of your vow, Maximilian Persimius.” Vorstus reached down again, and this time he withdrew a pair of brown hose from the pack. “Do you swear to renounce pride, and embrace humility as a lover?”

  “I do so swear,” Maximilian replied quietly, and stepped into the hose as Vorstus held them out.

  “Then draw the dirt-brown of death up about you, Maximilian Persimius, to remind you that death and the decay of the grave await at the end of your life, and that pride is a road that leads nowhere.”

  Vorstus reached into the pack again, and Garth, Ravenna and Joseph found that their eyes were filled with tears at the solemnity and majesty, yet the utter simplicity and extraordinary beauty of this ceremony.

  Now Vorstus held a surcoat of crimson silk in his hands. “Do you swear that you will not hesitate to spill your own blood in the defence of your people?”

  Again Maximilian swore, and Vorstus helped him don the crimson surcoat as a visible reminder of his vow.

  This time, when Vorstus straightened up from the pack, the severity and solemnity of his face was relieved with a small smile. In his hands he held a pair of sturdy brown leather boots.

  “Then Maximilian Persimius, you will have need of courage if you speak nothing but the truth. Exist in total humility, and fight to the death for your people’s needs. Accept these, as a gift from the order and from your people themselves.”

  Maximilian smiled, and slipped the boots on.

  Finally, Vorstus offered the prince the sword. It was sheathed in a scabbard of spun gold and silver, and hung from a belt of the same fine craftsmanship. “Let the light bind and hold you tight in its loving hands, Maximilian Persimius,” he whispered, belting the sword about the prince’s hips, “for none deserve it more than you.”

  Then he stepped back, his face once more grave. “Who will name this man to lay claim to the throne of Escator?” he called, his voice shockingly loud in the stillness of the forest.

  “I will!” Ravenna stepped forward, her voice ringing confidently. “I name him Maximilian Persimius, son and heir of the king dead, and I name him fit claimant to the throne of Escator!”

  “And I!” Garth had suddenly realised his role in this ceremony. “I also name this man Maximilian Persimius, son and heir of the king dead, and fit claimant to the throne of Escator, and my naming adds weight!”

  Maximilian, whose head had remained bowed through this exchange, now looked up. His face was bright with hope, and his eyes blazed with some inner fire. Whatever else Maximilian may have lost in the Veins, he had not lost his sense of destiny.

  He stared, but it was not the small knot of people before him that trapped his eyes.

  “Then step inside the green shadowed parlour, Maximilian,” Vorstus whispered, his voice now hoarse with emotion, “and claim what is rightfully yours.”

  Maximilian stepped forward, and both Ravenna and Garth hurriedly stepped aside. He brushed past them, hardly aware of their existence, and lifted his foot onto the first step of the Pavilion that now sheltered beneath the trees behind them.

  Garth and Ravenna could not stop a gasp of surprise. It had not been there a moment ago, and both instinctively understood that Maximilian had somehow called it from the dream world into this.

  Ravenna’s eyes followed Maximilian as he stepped into the Pavilion. They were filled with vastly increased respect.

  TWENTY THREE

  THE PAVILION

  Unlike its existence in the dream world, the Pavilion was carved from solid yet curiously translucent white stone. Its columns, twelve in all, soared to support a domed roof of emerald enamel that cast a deep shadow over the circular floor.

  Calm and sure, Maximilian stepped into the very centre of the floor, then he sank to his knees, his head bowed in prayer for a long moment.

  Raising his head and taking a deep breath, Maximilian slipped the ring of his forefathers from his finger and leaned down to the mosaic floor. Not hesitating, he grasped the ring so that its black gemstone was turned downwards, then he carved into the stone floor, tracing the lines already laid out in translucent blue gems.

  Cavor was taking his afternoon leisure in the parlour of the Ladies House in Myrna. Despite the soldiers lack of progress in finding Lot No. 859, Cavor seemed curiously unworried. Later that afternoon, he had assured Egalion (who waited patiently outside), he would order the royal guard to a new destination—one that would almost certainly yield results.

  Then, just as the youngest and most delectable of Anya’s girls leaned her sweet lips towards his, Cavor let out a most unloverlike shriek and shoved the girl aside.

  Fire was slowly tracing through the lines of his mark.

  Slowly, but with fierce concentration, Maximilian traced through the patterns on the floor. Expelling his breath in relief as he completed the pattern, he stepped back, not taking his eyes from the stone floor.

  The floor was laid out in deep green tiles, but with a slightly raised pattern of blue insets that outlined the same mark that stood out on Maximilian’s arm.

  As Maximilian watched, the green shimmered, then the blue lines wavered and his own mark burned fiercely.

  He hardly noticed it.

  Slowly the blue shape set in stone bulged into the room as lines quivered into life, and stone into bone.

  Cavor staggered outside onto the verandah, brushing aside Anya’s concerns, and grabbed Egalion by the shoulder as the commander snapped to surprised attention.

  “Get my horse,” the king whispered hoarsely, “and get those damned units of yours moving. We ride to the forests. Now!”r />
  The Manteceros sighed and shook himself, regretting—as always—the transfer from the dream world into this. This world only contained soreness and problems, and the Manteceros had every expectation that it had just materialised into one of the greatest problems it was ever likely to face.

  The creature gazed about the Pavilion, its face mournful, its eyes sorrowing, then it rested its eyes on the man who stood before him. “Who comes to claim?” it asked. “Who dares the Dream?”

  “I do,” the man said quietly, and the Manteceros did not fail to note the unconscious pride in his bearing.

  “And you are…?”

  Maximilian stood straighter, wondering at the strange beast that now stood before him. Yet he was not frightened, nor even overawed. For fourteen years he had been trained for this very moment.

  “I am Maximilian Persimius, Prince of Escator, Warden of Ruen, Lord of the Ports and Suzerain of the Plains,” he replied, giving the Manteceros his full titles, “and I am heir to the throne of Escator.”

  “Oh I don’t know about that,” the Manteceros mumbled sotto voce, shifting its weight from leg to leg. “Why have you summoned me forth?” it asked in a louder although no less doubtful voice.

  The Manteceros knew why—but all the formalities had to be observed.

  “I claim the throne of Escator.”

  The Manteceros’ agitation increased. “You dare to claim? You—”

  “I dare,” Maximilian interrupted softly, and the Manteceros’ eyes narrowed. “I dare to claim.”

  “This is very unfortunate,” the Manteceros said. “Very. The throne does not lie vacant.”

  Maximilian was silent, his blue eyes steady on the beast before him.

  “Well,” the Manteceros said, and blew air through its nostrils in a deep sigh, “why now? Why wait all this time?”

  “I was deceived and kept from making my claim at the rightful time.” Maximilian paused. “The wrong man sits the throne.”

  “He made a good claim,” the Manteceros justified.

  “Nevertheless,” Maximilian said, refusing to back down, “he is the wrong man.”

  The Manteceros pursed its lips, remembering what Garth had told him. “I have heard tell you think yourself a changeling,” it challenged.

  “It was a lie to keep me chained and silent. I am true-blooded and bred, and I am first-born.” Maximilian’s tone hardened. “The throne is mine.”

  Now the Manteceros’ tail swished and the skin along its back twitched. It snorted. “You know I shall have to administer the ordeal.”

  Maximilian held the beast’s eyes, but did not speak.

  “You are very confident,” the Manteceros observed, and a strange light filled its eyes. “But are you confident enough to dare the ordeal? Do you have the strength and fortitude to see you through?”

  “I have no choice,” Maximilian replied. He paused, wondering at the expression in the Manteceros’ eyes. “Will you accept my claim?”

  “I have no choice,” the Manteceros said tersely.

  “And the ordeal? When will you administer that?”

  The Manteceros stared at the man. “Cavor sits the throne. When you challenge him with your claim, then will I administer the ordeal.”

  Then, in a flash of blue light so bright that Maximilian was forced to close his eyes and step back, the Manteceros vanished.

  “Too late!” Cavor hissed as he pulled his horse to an abrupt halt on the road eastwards. “I lingered in that black sinkhole too long!”

  “Sire?” Egalion mumbled, confused. Behind them the column of soldiers were milling to a halt.

  Cavor turned furious eyes on his commander. “Take three squads and ride for the forests, Egalion. Seek any who might harbour the escapee. I…” his voice dropped and Egalion had to lean close to hear him, “I shall ride for Ruen. Home. Guard the throne. Wait. He must appear eventually.”

  Guard the throne? Egalion wondered, but he did not voice his question. “As you wish, sire,” and, shouting orders, he formed three squads behind him.

  TWENTY FOUR

  CAPTURE!

  They stayed that afternoon and the next day in the stone hut, Maximilian silent and introspective, the others waiting for some sign of what he wanted to do.

  On the evening of the day after he had claimed, Maximilian raised his eyes from the fire, glanced at the four sitting quiet about him, and said one word, “Ruen.”

  They left the next morning, the forest still and secretive about them. Even the bird calls were muted, yet none, all caught to some extent by Maximilian’s introspection, thought to question why.

  Garth and Joseph led the small column, riding the horses. Some fifteen or twenty paces behind them stepped Ravenna, wrapped in mysteriousness as thick as her cloak, and some further eight or nine paces behind her came Maximilian and Vorstus. Maximilian had abandoned the clothes he wore to claim, and was now dressed in drab woodsman’s clothes—but Garth thought that even in their rough weave he exuded both dignity and destiny. None seeing him could ignore him.

  Maximilian and Vorstus conversed in low tones, discussing the safest route to Ruen (through the forests for as long as they could, then across the plains by the stealth of night) and the knottier problem of what they should do when they got there. If Maximilian needed to challenge Cavor’s right to sit the throne he would undoubtedly have to get into the palace. How best to do that? Vorstus took Maximilian’s arm and his tone sank even lower.

  The morning was clear and, as far as Garth could see through the interlacing branches of the forest, relatively bright. He relaxed on his horse, refusing to worry until they were closer to Ruen. Joseph glanced at him, sharing a smile with his son, then turned his eyes back to the path; light dappled prettily across the leaf-strewn ground and Joseph wondered at the sense of peace that enveloped the forest.

  There was a slight noise to the right, and Joseph turned his head slightly, expecting to see a badger snuffling through the undergrowth.

  Instead he saw a glint of steel.

  And the peace of the forest shattered.

  Scouts had reported movement ahead of them ten minutes before and Egalion, experienced campaigner that he was, had no trouble setting the trap well before the two riders emerged from a pool of particularly shadowed forest light. Having been at court when Joseph Baxtor had treated Cavor almost two weeks previously, Egalion recognised them instantly.

  He also knew them to be the prime suspects in the escape.

  Egalion gave a smooth, economical hand signal and the attack was launched—neither the physician nor his son had a chance. Within heartbeats they were ringed with steel, their faces pale with shock, their horses’ heads tossing in alarm.

  Too late Egalion realised that there were several other people on foot some distance behind the Baxtors.

  There was a girl—he saw her first—and saw her wheel about to place restraining hands on the chest of a tall, dark-haired man who had stepped forward the instant he saw the riders encircled.

  The man’s face was pale, his eyes wide pools of blue anger, and he opened his mouth to shout something.

  Another man, older and tonsured like a monk, had grasped the man’s arms from behind and, like the girl, was similarly restraining him.

  Egalion spurred his horse past the milling soldiers about the Baxtors, intent on seizing the man before he could escape. He must be the prisoner—who else would the Baxtors attempt to secrete in these woods?—and the capture of the Baxtors would be incidental if the prisoner were to escape.

  Egalion was not worried about either the girl or the monk; the girl was slight and the monk too old to seriously perturb an armoured man on horseback. None were armed.

  Yet even as he hefted his sword in his hand something made Egalion hesitate.

  The man’s face—the prisoner’s face—seemed familiar, and Egalion did not understand it. The prisoner’s bearing and his startling anger when he should have been afraid gave him the demeanour of a noble, not a man
who by rights should have scuttled to cower in the shadows at the first sign of trouble.

  Egalion was a man several years past fifty, and he remembered the past king well.

  He also remembered—and why this memory now?—the young prince, lost in this very forest.

  “Maximilian!” the girl screamed, and wrapped her arms about him. “No!”

  Tendrils of mist appeared from nowhere and wrapped themselves about the monk and the girl, both still struggling to keep the prisoner from rushing down the forest path to rescue the Baxtors.

  Maximilian? Egalion’s confusion grew.

  His horse, sensing his hesitation, faltered in its rush, and gave Ravenna the vital seconds she needed to get Maximilian away from the trap. She hugged Maximilian to her, enveloping both him and Vorstus in rapidly thickening mist, and dragging them through to the dream world with every last ounce of power that she had.

  Behind him Egalion could hear horsemen spurring to his aid, but it was too late…far too late. One moment the three figures had been struggling in the middle of the shadowed path before him, all three—even the girl now—staring at him with a mixture of anger and defiance, then strange mist had enveloped them and, in enveloping them, spirited them away in a manner that was beyond Egalion’s understanding.

  In the next instant his horse strode through and beyond the spot where they had stood, and Egalion reined him back and wheeled him about, his eyes frantically searching the shrubbery and trees.

  But neither his eyes nor the efforts of his men could flush anything out of the surrounding forest save a dozen birds and a scuttling lizard, and Egalion was forced to ride for Ruen with only the Baxtors to assuage Cavor’s need for satisfaction.

  And as they rode, Egalion thought only one thing.

  Maximilian? Maximilian?

  The Chamber of Justice was cold, and Joseph thought that the coldness emanated not only from the stone walls and flagging, but also from the fear and retribution that had been meted out in the chamber through the centuries.