Garth stared at the monk. “Then Maximilian must make his claim!” What was this Pavilion that Vorstus was prattling on about?
Vorstus smiled humourlessly. “Maximilian? At the moment Maximilian could not swat a fly, Garth, much less make a claim. Until now I had not realised just how surely that scar has him trapped.”
Ravenna had sat silently as the talk of the Pavilion washed over her; now she put the damp cloth she’d been wiping Maximilian’s brow with to one side and folded her hands in her lap. Her face was very calm and very beautiful; her eyes had paled to the colour of the sheet folded over Maximilian’s body.
“You have spoken truth, Vorstus. The Pavilion will not appear in this world for any other reason than to mark an heir or to enable him to make a claim.” She paused, and her teeth gleamed. “But that does not mean to say that we—or at least, some of us—cannot visit the Pavilion in the dream world.”
Finally Garth could stand no more. “What in the name of the gods is this damned Pavilion?” he demanded.
“Your name is Jack?” Cavor asked mildly. He circled the man, his hands clasped behind his back.
Jack nodded. “Yes, sire.” He stood to attention, every muscle in his body straining, a thin film of sweat covering his face and shoulders.
“And what do you know of this escape, Guard Jack?” Cavor’s voice remained bland and his face smooth, but it was an effort for him to conceal his contempt for this dirty, sweat-stained man before him. He smelled of the Veins, and Cavor had to turn aside for a moment.
“All I remember is Adelm—the guard assigned to Lot No. 859’s detail—running down the tunnel, screaming of the escape.”
“And you saw nothing?” Cavor had his distaste under tight control now, and he turned back to the man.
“No, sire.”
But his voice was hesitant, and Cavor permitted himself a small, predatory smile. “Nothing, Guard Jack? Nothing at all?”
Egalion, who stood to one side with two of his command, glanced at his king’s face, then his eyes flickered back to the luckless guard currently at the centre of Cavor’s attention.
“It is nothing, sire. A trifle. I’m sure that it means nothing.”
“How dare you tell ME what means nothing!” Cavor abruptly screamed, and Jack rocked on his feet, his face blanching into colourless terror. Cavor seized the shoulder-strap of the man’s armour and hauled him so close their faces were only a finger span apart. “What do you remember?” he seethed, in a tone that, although quieter, was far more menacing than his full-blooded fury.
Jack opened his mouth and moved his lips, but nothing came out. His throat had gone tinder dry with fear…and with the memory of what had happened to the two guards who’d been in charge of the gang that 859 had escaped from.
“That day was so vague,” he stammered finally, his voice rasping. “I cannot recall clear details…”
Cavor growled and tightened his grip.
“It was dreamlike…I remember…I remember…”
“What?” Cavor hissed, and with his free hand seized Jack’s face in a vice-like grip.
Jack was now trembling uncontrollably. “A song, sire! A song…it haunts my dreams even now!”
“It will haunt your death if you do not tell me what it is!” Cavor hissed through clenched teeth.
“Skip, trip, my pretty man,” Jack whispered, his eyes round and terrified. “Skip, trip, into my heart!”
Cavor avoided screaming his frustration and anger only through a supreme effort. Was his whole realm populated with fools! His hands tightened about the hapless Jack. “Now I want you to tell me about the Baxtors, father and son. Everything you remember. Everything!”
“The green shadowed parlour,” Maximilian whispered, rousing, and everyone stared at him. “The green shadowed parlour is the Pavilion. Please,” he groped for Ravenna’s hand, and she clasped it tightly, “please, Ravenna, can you help me?”
Vorstus, shocked by both Ravenna’s and Maximilian’s words, nevertheless roused himself to whisper an explanation to Garth. “The Pavilion is the parlour of the Manteceros’ verse. Maximilian might not have remembered it from the day he was engraved as a babe, but he would know as heir that it is the place he would have to stake his claim to the throne.”
Garth tried to understand. “And if Ravenna takes him to the Pavilion in her dream world, can he stake the claim there?”
Vorstus shook his head. “No. Maximilian must summon the Pavilion here to do that. But perhaps his mark can be healed there. Joseph,” Vorstus turned to where the physician sat at Maximilian’s side, his hands still lightly touching the scar about the Prince’s arm, “can you heal Maximilian…”
He never finished. Ravenna interrupted, both her hands tight about Maximilian’s now. “No, he can’t help Maximilian,” she said calmly as Vorstus whipped his eyes towards her, “because he cannot come. I can only take Garth and Maximilian with me into the dream world. Garth because his own power is strong, far stronger than Joseph’s, and Maximilian because he and the Pavilion are already bonded through that mark. Garth, you will have to remove that scar by yourself. Heal Maximilian by yourself. Can you do it?”
His mouth ajar, Garth looked at his father. “I’ve never done anything like this,” he whispered.
Joseph returned his son’s gaze levelly, his eyes gentle with pride and trust. “I will tell you what to do, Garth. All the power you need is already contained within your hands, and you will need no more than the basic skills I have already taught you. Maximilian,” his gaze shifted downwards, “will you trust Garth to help you?”
“Yes,” Maximilian whispered almost inaudibly. “Yes. He believed in light when I saw only darkness, and I followed him then. I will do so again.”
TWENTY ONE
OF MARKS AND MEMORIES
Unlike the last time Ravenna had taken Garth into the mists of the dream world, this time she just asked Joseph and Vorstus to stand back from the bed, uttered a soft prayer to the Lord of Dreams, grasped both Maximilian and Garth by the hands and began to sing.
The song she sang was so haunting it was almost unbearable, and Garth had to turn his eyes, although Maximilian kept his riveted on Ravenna’s face. She sang of tiles and columns and soaring domes, of the fairy creatures who girdled their handiwork with ancient enchantments and, as far as Garth could make out, she sang them directly into the Pavilion. All he knew was that one moment the bed they sat or lay on was surrounded by the homely interior of the forest hut, the next moment damp tendrils of mist had tangled through Ravenna’s hair and the interior—as had his father and Vorstus—had disappeared.
Like Maximilian, Garth stared at Ravenna, trusting her to bring them safely through the mists. As the last time he’d travelled into the dream world with the girl, strange creatures, only half-glimpsed, surged past them and, in one instance, underneath them. The sound of wings and soft, padded feet echoed about them, but Ravenna kept a light smile on her face and tightened her grip on Maximilian and Garth’s hands, and continued to sing.
Garth half wondered if the Manteceros might loom out of the mist, his sad face startled at being so abruptly confronted with the irritating pretender to the throne, but there was no sign of him, and before Garth could peer too closely about he became aware that Ravenna had stopped singing, and that she had relaxed her grip on his hand.
“We’re here?” he asked, then looked about at her nod.
If they were in a building then it appeared insubstantial—dreamlike for the dream world. Half-glimpsed columns soared into the mist about them, and Garth had a faint impression of a domed roof over their heads. When he looked down at the floor beneath the bed, he frowned. There was a floor there, he was sure of it, but there was a thin film of…water?…flowing over it. Green and blue shadows chased each other underneath his feet, and whatever the true nature of the floor of the Pavilion, it was hidden from his curious eyes.
Garth looked back at Ravenna, and took a quick breath of concern. Her eyes, back to their natural grey for the moment, were ringed with exhaustion, and her mouth was thin and pinched. “Ravenna!”
“I will be well, Garth Baxtor,” she said quietly. “I can rest while you heal Maximilian, and the return will not be half the effort the journey here was.”
Garth doubted her too-easy reassurance very much, but he did not say anything. After a moment longer he dropped his eyes to the prince.
Maximilian was staring at him, his blue eyes heavy with pain. “Help me, Garth,” he whispered. “Free this damned Manteceros that troubles me so sorely.”
Garth winced at the agony in Maximilian’s voice, remembering Cavor’s ravaged face and eyes. Joseph had taken him to one side before Ravenna had spirited them here, and whispered to him hasty instructions. None of them had reassured Garth very much. He had never caused an incision into anyone’s flesh before—and creating the wound instead of healing it was anathema to Garth’s training.