Again there was silence for long minutes. Vorstus sat in a state of reverie, and neither Ravenna nor Garth dared to disturb him.
“Our arts, boy?” Garth’s eyes flickered from the fire back to the monk as he spoke again. “Arts? Simple, but sometimes effective.” Vorstus smiled with such genuine friendliness that Garth found himself responding in kind. “But nothing like those that Ravenna here displays. Suitable for making fast disappearances from marketplaces and—sometimes—for reading thoughts. You are yet young, Garth, and have not yet learned to dissemble. Thus often I find your thoughts clear and easy to interpret. Yours, young woman,” he turned his eyes to Ravenna, “are clouded in mist as thick as that of your border lands.”
Her mouth twitched, and she inclined her head, pleased.
Garth turned the conversation back to the Persimius family. “The kings were responsible for the decline in learning and for building the Veins?”
“Assuredly, Garth Baxtor. I would find it ironic, if it were not so tragic, that one of them now labours below the hanging wall itself. Perhaps…” his voice trailed into silence.
Garth leaned forward. “Vorstus? Can you explain how Maximilian has survived so long in the Veins? My father tells me that men normally live no longer than five years at the rock-face—and even that is unusual.”
“It is the ink that his arm was marked with, Garth. Always a monk will do the tattoo, and always with the blue ink that we guard so carefully. The ink has…unusual properties. It protects against murder, for instance. Whoever abducted Maximilian could not have killed him, no matter their heartfelt desire to do so. No wonder they threw him down the Veins. But even there, even under the scar tissue, it appears the mark has worked to protect Maximilian.”
“My father told me the ink used to create the mark is rumoured to have been made with the blood of the Manteceros itself.”
But at that Vorstus only smiled slightly, and dropped his eyes.
“One of your number must have marked Cavor,” Garth said slowly.
“Yes. But then we truly thought Maximilian dead. And Cavor was closest in line to the throne—although in him the Persimius blood is thin indeed.”
Garth nodded, remembering. “My father and I treated his arm when we were in Ruen, Vorstus. The mark has not taken well. It festers, and causes him agony.”
“Really?” Vorstus sat up. “I did not know that.”
“Perhaps Cavor’s mark festers because the other mark in existence has been so badly damaged,” Ravenna said thoughtfully. She had been content to listen throughout most of the conversation, but now leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hand, so that the firelight trickled through her long black hair. “Perhaps the ink links both marks and both men.”
“Perhaps,” said Vorstus, looking at her with hooded eyes.
Garth ignored both remark and look. “Vorstus?” The monk swung his gaze back to Garth. “Maximilian claims that he is not the heir. He claims that he is not even Maximilian.”
Vorstus frowned. “Perhaps it is just that he has been lost below for so long that—”
“No. Not all,” Garth interrupted. “Maximilian said that he has no true claim to the throne because he is a changeling.”
“What?” Vorstus almost exploded out of his chair.
“Can it be true?” Ravenna asked. She had not moved at Vorstus’ violent reaction.
The monk’s hands trembled. “A changeling? I don’t know. Oh dear, this is dreadful…dreadful. Ah, let me think…his parents were old when he was born. Some thought his mother well past the age of childbirth when she produced Maximilian. A changeling?” Vorstus’ face had paled so badly Garth thought he might be about to faint. “Did she want to produce an heir so badly that she faked a birth—or even substituted a stillborn son with a healthy babe?”
“You would not have known when you saw the baby?” asked Garth.
Vorstus shook his head. “No. The mark can be carved into any arm with the ink, it does not have to be a Persimius arm.”
Garth and Ravenna exchanged worried glances. The Manteceros had said much the same.
Vorstus did not notice. “We were merely presented with the babe…and we marked him. No one thought that…that the queen would have…” he was unable to continue.
“Well,” Garth said firmly, repressing his doubts. “I believe that the man who labours beneath the hanging wall is the true king. Can your “arts” confirm that, Vorstus?”
The monk shook his head again, his eyes haunted. “No. Only the ordeal that the Manteceros administers can determine the true king from two rival claimants.”
“Do you know what the ordeal is?”
“No, Ravenna. It has never been administered before.”
Garth quickly informed Vorstus about the riddle the Manteceros had told them. “Vorstus, do you understand it?”
Now the man’s dark eyes were slitted and unreadable. “Perhaps. But the question is, does Maximilian know what it means? If he does, then the Order of Persimius will back his claim to the throne. It will not be definite proof of his blood, but it will be enough to show that he is the man who was once prince.”
“Vorstus.” Now Garth leaned forward. “Will you help us free Maximilian?”
“Assuredly, Garth. It is why I have come to Narbon to see you.”
THIRTEEN
CAVOR
Garth had to fight with his parents to be allowed back down the Veins.
“But look at how you felt after last year’s experience, Garth,” Nona said, her worried eyes flickering to Joseph. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Your mother has a point,” Joseph said seriously. “Since you returned from the Veins you’ve become over-serious. Too contemplative. Damn it, Garth! You’re still a boy! Enjoy life while you can!”
“I’m only two months from my seventeenth birthday,” Garth argued. “And well into my apprenticeship. And I’m good—you can’t deny that, father. I want to come.”
“After twenty years’ experience you won’t be so keen,” Joseph muttered, but he was giving way, and Garth could see it.
So could Nona. “Joseph!”
“He’s right, my love. He’s old enough to make up his own mind—and I can’t deny that I enjoyed his company last year. It made the horror more bearable.”
Joseph looked at his son. Garth had shot up another hand-span in the past year, his frame had filled out, and now he was more man than boy. His now-short brown hair added several years to his true age, and at some time during the past year Garth’s hazel eyes had become keener and more intense. Joseph dropped his own gaze, unable to bear the appeal in Garth’s eyes.
“Very well, Garth. You may come. Besides,” he grinned, trying to lighten the mood in the kitchen, “the summons also requires me to attend King Cavor again. No doubt the experience of court will amuse you, Garth. I remember that maid who caused your cheeks to blush bright red the last time we dined there.”
This time Garth’s cheeks remained pale—that too had changed, Joseph thought.
“Good. I look forward to seeing the king again.”
The day before Garth and his father were due to ride north, he hurried down to the wharves after his father had closed the surgery. He had thought Joseph would never finish, and he was worried in case he was late.
But he was just in time. The wharf cranes were still engaged in swinging great nets of supplies on board the ship, and passengers still milled about the wharf itself.
“Vorstus,” he breathed, relieved, as he approached the cloaked monk.
Vorstus swung around, his own face relaxing at the sight of Garth. “I thought you wouldn’t make it, boy!”
“Father kept me behind.” Garth’s eyes anxiously searched the small crowd behind Vorstus. “Is she…?”
“I’m here, Garth,” and Ravenna stepped forward. Both were travelling north on the supply ship, planning to disembark at the small port of Estorn, a day’s ride south of Myrna and the Veins. They didn’t want anyone remarking on their disembarkation at a place where they should have no business.
Garth eyed Ravenna carefully. Someone—Vorstus probably—had finally managed to persuade her to wear some thin-soled sandals, but she looked distinctly uncomfortable in them, and Garth guessed she would take them off the moment the ship was out to sea and clear of prying eyes. She still wore her simple white dress, but now it was covered with a well-cut cloak of red wool. Her hair was firmly plaited and wound about her head. She looked very much like what she was pretending to be—niece to Vorstus, and travelling north to visit family.
But her grey eyes were still mysterious—and ever lighter—and Garth hoped that Vorstus would take care of her.
Ravenna smiled as she saw Garth’s doubts “We’ll be careful, Garth,” and then she surprised and delighted him by leaning forward and hugging him fiercely. “When you get to the Veins, we’ll be there.”
Over the past month or two Vorstus, Ravenna and Garth had carefully discussed how they could rescue Maximilian from his living death. They had a plan, but Garth felt that it was so flimsy the slightest miscalculation would see them all condemned to the Veins with Maximilian.