Beyond the Hanging Wall by Sara Douglass
Contents:
PROLOGUE
ONE THE SUMMONS
TWO THE COURT AT RUEN
THREE THE VEINS
FOUR DESCENT INTO MADNESS
FIVE LOT No. 859
SIX LIFE AND WORK IN THE VEINS
SEVEN THE MEDALLION
EIGHT THE LIBRARY
NINE INSIDE THE DREAM
TEN QUESTIONS
ELEVEN SKIP, TRIP, MY PRETTY MAN
TWELVE THE ORDER OF PERSIMIUS
THIRTEEN CAVOR
FOURTEEN INJUSTICE CONFRONTED
FIFTEEN ESCAPE!
SIXTEEN INSIDE THE HOLLOW HILL
SEVENTEEN THE FAIR LADIES OF MYRNA GO ON A PICNIC
EIGHTEEN THE ROYAL FORESTS
NINETEEN UNWELCOME NEWS
TWENTY THE FOREST
TWENTY ONE OF MARKS AND MEMORIES
TWENTY TWO THE CLAIM
TWENTY THREE THE PAVILION
TWENTY FOUR CAPTURE!
TWENTY FIVE CITY SQUARE
TWENTY SIX A SAD, SAD TALE
TWENTY SEVEN BEYOND THE HANGING WALL
TWENTY EIGHT ON THE BEACH
PROLOGUE
The hound jerked to a halt, his head raised, his body quivering. There. Again. The secret whistle he had been trained to obey from puppyhood. Without hesitation he bounded down a small trail through the trees, following the sound only canine ears could pick up.
The other hounds attached to the hunting party did not recognise the whistle, and so they paid it no heed.
Maximilian pulled his chestnut mare to a halt, frowning. Why had Boroleas bounded off like that? His mare fidgeted, eager to run, and Maximilian’s frown relaxed into a grin. Perhaps Boroleas had picked up the scent of a hart. The hound had more than proved himself in the six months since he’d arrived at court, the gift of an anonymous well-wisher for the prince’s fourteenth birthday, and Maximilian trusted the hound’s instincts. He looked about, still hesitating. The rest of the hunting party had spurred their horses after the pack of hounds following the trail north, and in the excitement no-one paid the prince any attention.
Maximilian’s grin widened as he made his decision, and he swung his mare after Boroleas. Let the pack follow the hare, he thought, for when I corner the hart I shall earn a place in the first ranks of the hunt.
The mid-afternoon light faded into dull gloom almost as soon as Maximilian urged his mare down the narrow forest trail. She was fleet of foot and eager to run, and soon drew close enough to the hound to allow Maximilian to see Boroleas’ dim shape racing between the trees.
The scent of the hart must be strong, he thought, for Boroleas to race so unhesitatingly. Caught fast in the thrill of the chase, Maximilian leaned still further over the mare’s neck, urging her to greater efforts.
Only the sounds of the forest followed Maximilian down the forest path. As yet, no-one had noticed his absence from the hunting party.
Boroleas gave a bay of excitement and leaped into a small glade dappled with pale forest light. Maximilian pushed his mare after the hound, convinced that Boroleas had finally cornered the hart, then lost his grip on reins and saddle as his mare twisted sideways in a massive shy.
The prince hit the grassy floor of the glade hard enough to knock the breath from his body and force dirt between his teeth. He lay still for a moment, then spat the dirt out and rolled slowly onto his back, blinking ruefully at the light as it filtered through the forest canopy. “Father will surely have words for me now,” he muttered, slowly sitting up and wincing at the grazes on the heels of his hands.
Then he raised his eyes to look for his horse and all thoughts of his father’s retribution fled from his mind.
He was surrounded by silent horsemen, the last of them just emerging from the shadows behind the trees.
Boroleas gazed incuriously at the prince. He sat quietly by the side of a horseman idly swinging a small whistle to and fro in one hand.
“What?” Maximilian said softly, half rising to his knees. All of the horsemen were dressed in brown leather body armour, their heads encased in dull metal helmets; black cloths, wrapped about the lower portions of their faces, hid their features. None wore markings or insignia of any kind.
To the last man, their eyes were cold and unblinking.
For the first time in his life, Maximilian felt the glimmerings of true fear. As the only heir to the throne of Escator, Maximilian’s father kept him well protected—too well, as far as Maximilian was concerned—thus his rush of excitement earlier when he’d thought to corner a hart all by himself.
Now he wished he were safe at home with his mother soothing his black hair back from his brow and his father reading him yet another lesson on the art of kingship.
His movements slow, Maximilian rose warily to his feet.
If he felt afraid, it did not show on his aquiline face.
One of the horsemen kicked his mount forward. “Well, well, Prince,” he said, his voice roughened with outlander accents and heavy with sarcasm. “Lost yourself, have you?”
The prince took a small step backwards, a hint of fear finally shining from his deep blue eyes.
The horseman laughed, harshly and gutturally, and turned his head slightly to one side. “Have you heated the irons, Furst?”
“Aye, my lord,” answered a man standing unseen behind the circle of horsemen. “But would it not be easier to kill him? Have done with the brat here and now?”
Now openly terrified, Maximilian whipped about on his heel, seeking escape, but the encircling, blank cold eyes left no room for hope.
As he stopped, his chest heaving, the horseman slid to the ground, drawing his sword with a chill rattle. “A tempting suggestion, Furst. But no. Even though it has been carved on a changeling, the mark guards him from a murder. Now, no hesitation. We have our orders. Seize him!”
They searched for days, then weeks, and hope only faded after months. The people of Escator mourned with their king and queen, for Maximilian had been a beloved prince, and his disappearance spelt the end of the Persimius family, who had ruled Escator for centuries.
Two years later a woodsman, searching for spoor in an isolated quarter of the great forest, stumbled on a pile of bones at the foot of a ravine. Horse bones, his sharp eyes saw, and those of a dog. Several of the bones were scored with raking claw marks, and the horse’s left femur had been ground by powerful jaws intent on finding the marrow. The woodsman raised his eyes, suddenly wary. But curiosity overcame wariness. What had happened to the rider? He spotted a trail through the rocks and climbed forward, his movements slow and silent. A little further down the ravine he found a deep overhang of rock guarding the entrance to a small cave.
A bear’s den. Now his every movement stiff with care, the woodsman edged into the shaded recess. He paused and sniffed. The air was rank with the scent of bear, but he could not see or hear any movement, and so he crouched down, quickly sifting through a pile of bones to one side. They were broken and gnawed, and all but unrecognisable. The woodsman almost turned away, but his eye was caught by the glint of something golden underneath one of the heavier bones.
He pushed the bone to one side—and his eyes filled with sudden tears. A beautifully worked golden ring lay among the detritus of the bear’s hunger.
The woodsman picked it up. It bore the insignia of the Manteceros, the symbol of the royal family of Escator.
The woodsman bowed his head, his tears running free. Here lay what remained of the last member of the ancient house of Persimius. Six months previously the king had died, followed three short weeks later by his queen. Neither had ever recovered from their grief at the loss of their only child, and the king’s distant cousin, Count Cavor, had succeeded to the throne.
“And best they be dead,” the woodsman mumbled, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. “For it would have pained them greatly to have known of this sad end.”
He pocketed the ring, wondering whether he should make some attempt to bury these bones. But he decided against it. With the bear likely to return to its den at any moment he could not afford the time, and from what he could see there were few human bones left in this sad pile anyway. What remained of the prince was surely scattered from one end of the ravine to the other by this stage. It was a wretched resting place for a prince, but there was little he could do about it.
The woodsman shook his head, said a swift prayer for the dead prince’s soul, then moved out of the ravine as quickly and as silently as he could.
For weeks he debated whether or not to pass the ring back to King Cavor. Finally he kept it, not really knowing the reason why.