Vorstus halted, allowing the others to catch up. “The woodsmen are loyal and true, Ravenna, and they understand the secrets of the forests far more than the king and even, I suspect, more than the members of my order. They will leave us alone.”
And with that they had to be content.
Vorstus continued to lead them deeper into the forest, striking northwards after an hour, and then north-east. The ground began to rise, the leaf litter giving way to stones and small rocks, and Joseph and Garth broke into a sweat with the effort of keeping Maximilian on his feet. The prince was breathing heavily and his face shone with sweat, but Garth, sharing a glance with his father, realised it was due to the fever raging within him rather than to the effort of walking. Ravenna, the horses scrambling behind her, kept close to them, occasionally murmuring encouragement to Maximilian, occasionally calling a soft question to Vorstus.
“It is not far now,” he finally snapped to her third inquiry. “Be patient.”
A few minutes later he led them into a small, blind ravine. A stream of water tumbled over the cliff at the end of the ravine, sparkling in the sun, and Vorstus led them to a spot close to the waterfall. The conifers thrived here, even in this stony soil, and in a clear space between two of them stood a stone hut, almost totally concealed behind a tumble of dead wood.
Garth and his father frowned—it scarcely looked large enough to hold one of the horses—but when Vorstus led them inside they saw that a spacious interior had been carved out of the cliff face behind the facade of the hut. Plain but comfortable furniture had been fashioned from pine and beech, and a hearth stood ready to be lit, a stock of pine wood and cones stacked nearby.
“I’ll take care of the horses,” Vorstus said shortly. “Lay the prince on that bed over there, and light the fire.” He paused, his sharp black eyes flickering over Maximilian. “And after a quick meal, Prince, we must see what remains beneath that scar of yours.”
Cavor slammed the door to the overseer’s hut behind him with a grimace of gratification. By the gods! The place stunk! And it was filthy besides. He mentally cursed Maximilian; if the damned man hadn’t escaped in the first place he wouldn’t have had to demean himself with a visit to this blighted sore. This, he seethed, was no place for a king!
He strode over to the chair behind Furst’s desk and sat down, leaning back and balancing the chair on its rear two legs. “Well, Commander Egalion? What are you doing to find this desperado? When shall you satisfy my order?”
There were three officers of the royal guard in the room, all armed and armoured, the blue Manteceros blazing from gleaming chest plates. The officer on the extreme right, a tall man with thick blond hair and the red and gold shoulder epaulettes of his command rank on his broad shoulders, stepped forward smartly and saluted. “Sire. A gnat could not move in northern Escator without it being noted.” Over the past three days the regions north of Ruen had been placed under a suffocating blanket of martial law; a dawn-to-dusk curfew had been imposed and all traffic on the roads monitored.
Cavor’s nostrils pinched and the commander suppressed a wince. “I do not want to know the movements of a gnat, Commander. I simply want this prisoner found.”
His tone was low, but Egalion did not fail to note the threat that underpinned it. The king had not been pleasant to be around since Overseer Furst had shattered the peace of the court. “Sire. If he moves, then we will find him. No-one could have moved further south than Ruen in the days since the escape, unless it be by ship—and we have searched every vessel plying the coastline thrice over. He is still in northern Escator—unless he has moved northwards beyond Surinam.”
Cavor tipped the chair still further back as he stared at the most senior commander in the realm. No doubt he wondered why he was being asked to do a policeman’s job; well, let him wonder. “No. He is still here. Somewhere.” Maximilian would want to claim, Cavor thought. He will not escape out of the realm completely. His Persimius-damned pride will keep him here.
Something niggled in the back of his mind, but Cavor was too intent on relieving his anger, frustration and, yes, he was prepared to admit it, his fear, on Egalion and his subcommand to pay it any attention. “What have you learned from the guards detailed to Section 205, sirrah?” he snapped, his eyes narrow and cold.
Egalion fought to keep his face mild and expressionless. Cavor had always been a fair man to work for previously—what had happened to him to drive him into such a pit of anger? Who was this prisoner?
“We have questioned them all, sire.” And those interrogations had been bad, very bad, because Cavor had demanded that all possible measures be taken to ensure the guards answered as truthfully and as completely as they were able. None, Egalion was sure, would ever be able to work down the Veins again—or anywhere else for that matter. “But their answers only add to the mystery. They speak of dreams and fogs, of witches and sweet songs. Nothing makes sense.” Now Egalion allowed some frustration to darken his face. “Nothing.”
Cavor stared at the man for several long minutes. Were enchantments involved in this? Few within Escator had the necessary knowledge to wield enchantments. Few. The king’s eyes narrowed still further until they were grey slits. Who?
Egalion, composed again, gave the king the only piece of good news he had. “We have one of the senior guards waiting outside, sire. A man who seems to have been associated more closely with Baxtor and his son than any others. I have left him until last, thinking that you might want to have a hand in, ah, be present for his interrogation.”
Cavor smiled, but it did not add any warmth to his face. “Good. The Baxtors appear to be the key to this mystery. What is this guard’s name?”
“Jack, sire.”
Joseph ran careful hands over Maximilian’s biceps. The prince was in obvious distress now, his breathing shallow and ragged, his cheeks bright with fever, his eyes dull and apathetic. Ravenna sat at the head of the bed, running cool cloths over the man’s forehead. He did not seem to be aware of her presence.
Joseph trembled, then withdrew his hands. He looked up to where Vorstus and Garth stood close by; both of their faces were creased with concern. “It burns…rages…beneath the scar tissue,” he said quietly. “It’s eating him up, consuming all his energy and will and hope. If we don’t do something then shortly Maximilian will be nothing but an empty husk, and then even that will succumb to the fever.”
“What is going on?” Ravenna asked, her voice made terse by her anxiety. “Why is the mark fighting for freedom now…after all these years?” Her eyes were very light.
Joseph took a deep breath. “I can only hazard a guess, Ravenna. All these years Maximilian has denied his identity. Suppressed it. And so the mark lay quiescent. But now…now that Maximilian has begun to admit to himself who he is, the mark yearns for freedom itself. Vorstus? You know more about the ink and the mark of the Manteceros than anyone else—am I right?”
Vorstus nodded. “I couldn’t have put it better myself, Joseph. The mark cannot be denied unless the bearer himself denies it. Joseph, Garth, you must remove the scar tissue. Set the mark free…and then perhaps Maximilian will find the heart to set the Manteceros free.”
Garth breathed in sharply, his eyes locking into those of his father’s. Surgery? Physicians rarely attempted anything like that; physical intervention of a surgical kind was always dangerous. Even the Touch could not always guard against the inevitable shock, pain and, all too often, infection. Yet what was the alternative? Watch Maximilian burn up before their eyes?
Joseph acknowledged his son’s concern with a small nod. “Vorstus? In what site did the order originally engrave the mark on Maximilian’s arm? If we can find the spot where the mark was originally made…”
His voice trailed off, but Vorstus understood his query. “He might stand a better chance? Yes, Joseph, you are right. The engraving of an heir is always performed in a site heavy with magic and under a thick veil of enchantment—a place we know only as the Pavilion. The ceremony itself is performed with the full Order of the Persimius present to witness and to add power. But,” he exhaled raggedly, and the skin of his face sagged, “even if I could get every one of our order here—and that is time we do not have—it would be pointless. The Pavilion is…” Vorstus hesitated, not knowing how to put it. “The Pavilion exists in its own world. Not this one.” He swung his hand in a sweeping gesture that included not only the room but the entire forest. “The Pavilion will appear in this world for only two purposes. To mark an heir and to make a claim.” He dropped his eyes to Maximilian, now virtually unconscious; the muscles of the prince’s face twitched as the fever took greater hold. “No-one can summon it for anything else. Not even to save an heir’s life.”