All walls and furniture had vanished. Now a vast cavern yawned about him. In one way it reminded him of the marsh outside, for mist roped about and he could hear the vague lap of water somewhere within its interior, yet at the same time it reminded him of the infinity of the night sky, for the shadows dancing about its boundaries hinted at eternities of distance, and slim, luminescent rays of light occasionally pierced the mist as moonlight sometimes pierces cloud.
“Garth Baxtor?” Venetia asked to one side. Her voice was puzzled, but it was also very, very distant.
“Ah…”
Venetia, watching him, took a deep breath. “Oh,” she said softly, and put the packages down and moved to his side. She laid a hand on his arm, her touch cool and soothing. “There is no danger, Garth.”
Both grateful and disconcerted by her touch, Garth looked at her, then hurriedly looked away again. Mist was tangled in her hair, and now he could see that it was exactly the same colour as her eyes. “Does my father…?”
“No. He has never seen it. Few ever see it, and now I wonder why you can, Garth Baxtor.” Her grip tightened.
He took a shaky breath. If anything, the impression of vastness was only increasing, and the mist seemed to be thickening. “Who…what is this…what are you, Venetia?”
Her lip curled softly. “This is the marsh and I am a marsh woman, boy. I inhabit dreams.”
Dreams? Garth opened his mouth but was forestalled by a movement in the door behind him. He turned, stunned that the door was still behind him.
A young girl—likely the daughter that he had spied on the road to Ruen—was standing in the rectangle of light. Behind her Garth could see daylight, safe and ordinary, and the shadow of his horse as it dozed in the sun. Venetia let his arm go.
“Ravenna.” The woman’s voice was warm, and she held out a hand for her daughter. “See who has come to visit. Garth Baxtor, son of Joseph.”
The girl stepped through the door, and Garth could see that she was slightly older than he had first thought—perhaps much the same age as he. She had her mother’s look, with sinuous movements and long dark hair framing a delicate face, but her eyes were dark grey rather than light, and her mouth was wider and friendlier. “He sees.”
“Indeed, he does, Ravenna. What do you think, then.”
“Unusual.” Ravenna stepped closer to Garth then, unexpectedly, she held out her hand and smiled. “How do you do, Garth Baxtor?”
Garth grasped her hand; her grip was cool and firm. “I am well, Ravenna.” He felt more than a little foolish, mouthing polite phrases in this most unusual of circumstances. “But…but I do not understand what I see in this hut.”
Now both her hands were wrapped about his, and her eyes widened curiously. “You have the Touch, Garth Baxtor, and you have a warm and courageous soul. I like you.”
Garth grinned. “I like you, too, Ravenna. But, please,” he pulled his hand free and waved about him, “will you explain?”
Ravenna glanced at her mother, then they both laughed.
“What you see is simply the marsh, Garth Baxtor,” Venetia explained. “The marsh is far more than the forest of low trees and the silted water you saw outside. That is merely its outer layer, put on to greet visitors until it decides whether or not it likes them.”
Garth frowned, some of his uncertainty returning. “The marsh is not what it appears?”
“No, boy, it is not.” Now Venetia’s voice hardened, and she abruptly stepped the distance between them and jerked the neck of his tunic apart. “And neither are you.”
Garth started backwards, but he was too late; her strong fingers had seized the medallion of the Manteceros.
“Explain!” she hissed, and both her eyes and those of her daughter lightened until they were almost white.
Power seeped through the spaces of the hut and Garth felt it probe at his mind. Strangely, its touch did not disturb him, even though both women were obviously on edge; the power was gentle and unobtrusive, persistently curious rather than forceful.
“A street trader gave it to me,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes steady on Venetia’s. “It is the Manteceros.”
Venetia’s lips parted and her eyes glittered, and Garth hurried on before she could interrupt.
“I seek the Manteceros, but he is but a myth…a dream.” Garth paused. Both mother and daughter still stared at him, but puzzlement was gradually replacing the hostility in their eyes. As their hostility abated, so their eyes darkened and the power about them faded. Release the dream, Maximilian had said, and the thought of Maximilian gave Garth the courage he needed to ask the right question.
“Yet you said you inhabit dreams, Venetia, and I think I might stand within one now,” he concluded softly. “Do you know where I can find the Manteceros?”
At his throat Venetia’s fingers trembled, then released the medallion. It fell back against his throat, warm from her grasp.
Venetia glanced at her daughter, then stared at the floor for a long moment. She raised her head. “Why do you seek the Manteceros, Garth Baxtor? What need do you have of its riddles?”
Garth shifted, and, surprisingly, felt the table against his hip. About him the misty spaces were slowly resolving back into the room. Neither Venetia nor Ravenna appeared to notice.
Garth dropped his eyes. What should he say? Could he dare say to these women what he could not tell his father? Why was his urge to trust them so strong when he had trusted no-one else?
Why? Because for the first time in months Garth felt the presence of hope. Here were women who understood dreams—and only a dream was going to help Maximilian. Without further hesitation, Garth risked his trust and Maximilian’s life with Venetia and Ravenna.
“Six months ago I accompanied my father to the Veins for the first time. While there I treated a man. On his right biceps,” Garth tapped his own arm softly, “was an old burn mark. Underneath—”
Venetia’s eyes widened in shock, and she grasped Ravenna’s hand.
“—underneath I felt the mark of the Manteceros. It had a strangeness about it.”
“Maximilian!” Ravenna breathed, and Garth looked at the girl, the last vestiges of his disquiet fading away. He was right to have trusted them.
“Yes. Maximilian.”
He paused, and took a great breath. “Help me. Please—help me.”
TEN
QUESTIONS
“Tell us,” Ravenna said, and Garth did. He explained how he had found Maximilian, and he explained about Maximilian’s doubts, his denial of his own identity and his insistence that there was nothing beyond the hanging wall.
Both Venetia and Ravenna turned aside at that, obviously distressed at the thought of the man trapped for so long within the darkness of the earth.
Garth repeated the riddle Maximilian had told him. “Do you know what it means, Venetia?”
Venetia chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes guarded as she shared a glance with her daughter.
Garth shifted impatiently, both irritated and unnerved by the glances between mother and daughter. That they knew something was obvious, yet Garth feared they might just shake their heads and turn away.
But eventually Venetia replied. “The first two lines obviously refer to a time when need is great—and if it is Maximilian trapped beneath the hanging wall—”
“It is,” said Garth, low and fierce.
“If it is Maximilian trapped beneath the hanging wall,” Venetia repeated, irritated herself now, “then the need must necessarily be great.”
“And you were right to say that the Manteceros is a dream,” Ravenna said, her grey eyes steady on Garth’s face, “for he is nothing but.”
Venetia nodded. “And the last two lines, Garth Baxtor, indicate that we must set the dream free—”
“Set him free into this world,” Ravenna murmured. Now her eyes were distant and dreamy, and after a minute she lowered them and averted her face.
“So he can test the king’s true worth.” Venetia finished, and took a deep breath, adding almost to herself, “Is Maximilian a changeling, or is he true? And what form is the test?”
“An ordeal, the scroll said,” Garth explained, and told Venetia and Ravenna what little he had discovered in the library. “If there is more than one claimant to the throne, then the Manteceros must administer an ordeal.”
Venetia shuddered, and her face became very still.
Garth hesitated. “Will you help me?” he asked again, looking between the two. “Can you find the Manteceros?”
Venetia stared at him, then nodded her head.
“Perhaps, boy. Come,” her tone turned brisk, and she turned to the table.
Garth blinked. He could have sworn that when last he looked the table held nothing but the saddlebags and the packages of herbs. Now bread, cheese and sausage were spread across thick white platters, while mugs of frothy ale stood to one side.