“In crystal do drown me,” Maximilian repeated, and in one graceful action he dived into the lake.
They watched the progress of his pale body as he swam deeper and deeper, ever further into the centre of the lake until he vanished beneath the still green waters. Garth held his breath in sympathy with the prince, and only became aware of it when his chest tightened in agony.
Just when Garth thought that he must have drowned in truth, the prince’s head broke water at the very centre of the lake. He ran his hands back through his hair, wiping it out of his eyes, then shook his head and looked about.
As soon as he spotted the group standing at the lake’s edge, he swam back to them with long, lazy strokes. As he stood from the water, Vorstus stepped forward and touched the prince’s forehead, then his chest, with slow, deliberate movements. “You are washed of your sins, Prince Maximilian Persimius. Do you wish to proceed with your claim?”
“I do,” Maximilian said, and Vorstus reached down into the pack he’d left close by, pulling out a long white silk shirt. Maximilian held out his arms, and Vorstus slipped the shirt over the man’s head and neck.
As it tumbled down over the prince’s damp body Vorstus spoke again, this time touching Maximilian briefly on the mouth. “Do you swear only to speak with the words of truth, Maximilian Persimius?”
“I do so swear,” Maximilian replied.
“Then wear always the white of truth draped next to your skin to remind you of your vow, Maximilian Persimius.” Vorstus reached down again, and this time he withdrew a pair of brown hose from the pack. “Do you swear to renounce pride, and embrace humility as a lover?”
“I do so swear,” Maximilian replied quietly, and stepped into the hose as Vorstus held them out.
“Then draw the dirt-brown of death up about you, Maximilian Persimius, to remind you that death and the decay of the grave await at the end of your life, and that pride is a road that leads nowhere.”
Vorstus reached into the pack again, and Garth, Ravenna and Joseph found that their eyes were filled with tears at the solemnity and majesty, yet the utter simplicity and extraordinary beauty of this ceremony.
Now Vorstus held a surcoat of crimson silk in his hands. “Do you swear that you will not hesitate to spill your own blood in the defence of your people?”
Again Maximilian swore, and Vorstus helped him don the crimson surcoat as a visible reminder of his vow.
This time, when Vorstus straightened up from the pack, the severity and solemnity of his face was relieved with a small smile. In his hands he held a pair of sturdy brown leather boots.
“Then Maximilian Persimius, you will have need of courage if you speak nothing but the truth. Exist in total humility, and fight to the death for your people’s needs. Accept these, as a gift from the order and from your people themselves.”
Maximilian smiled, and slipped the boots on.
Finally, Vorstus offered the prince the sword. It was sheathed in a scabbard of spun gold and silver, and hung from a belt of the same fine craftsmanship. “Let the light bind and hold you tight in its loving hands, Maximilian Persimius,” he whispered, belting the sword about the prince’s hips, “for none deserve it more than you.”
Then he stepped back, his face once more grave. “Who will name this man to lay claim to the throne of Escator?” he called, his voice shockingly loud in the stillness of the forest.
“I will!” Ravenna stepped forward, her voice ringing confidently. “I name him Maximilian Persimius, son and heir of the king dead, and I name him fit claimant to the throne of Escator!”
“And I!” Garth had suddenly realised his role in this ceremony. “I also name this man Maximilian Persimius, son and heir of the king dead, and fit claimant to the throne of Escator, and my naming adds weight!”
Maximilian, whose head had remained bowed through this exchange, now looked up. His face was bright with hope, and his eyes blazed with some inner fire. Whatever else Maximilian may have lost in the Veins, he had not lost his sense of destiny.
He stared, but it was not the small knot of people before him that trapped his eyes.
“Then step inside the green shadowed parlour, Maximilian,” Vorstus whispered, his voice now hoarse with emotion, “and claim what is rightfully yours.”
Maximilian stepped forward, and both Ravenna and Garth hurriedly stepped aside. He brushed past them, hardly aware of their existence, and lifted his foot onto the first step of the Pavilion that now sheltered beneath the trees behind them.
Garth and Ravenna could not stop a gasp of surprise. It had not been there a moment ago, and both instinctively understood that Maximilian had somehow called it from the dream world into this.
Ravenna’s eyes followed Maximilian as he stepped into the Pavilion. They were filled with vastly increased respect.
TWENTY THREE
THE PAVILION
Unlike its existence in the dream world, the Pavilion was carved from solid yet curiously translucent white stone. Its columns, twelve in all, soared to support a domed roof of emerald enamel that cast a deep shadow over the circular floor.
Calm and sure, Maximilian stepped into the very centre of the floor, then he sank to his knees, his head bowed in prayer for a long moment.
Raising his head and taking a deep breath, Maximilian slipped the ring of his forefathers from his finger and leaned down to the mosaic floor. Not hesitating, he grasped the ring so that its black gemstone was turned downwards, then he carved into the stone floor, tracing the lines already laid out in translucent blue gems.
Cavor was taking his afternoon leisure in the parlour of the Ladies House in Myrna. Despite the soldiers lack of progress in finding Lot No. 859, Cavor seemed curiously unworried. Later that afternoon, he had assured Egalion (who waited patiently outside), he would order the royal guard to a new destination—one that would almost certainly yield results.
Then, just as the youngest and most delectable of Anya’s girls leaned her sweet lips towards his, Cavor let out a most unloverlike shriek and shoved the girl aside.
Fire was slowly tracing through the lines of his mark.
Slowly, but with fierce concentration, Maximilian traced through the patterns on the floor. Expelling his breath in relief as he completed the pattern, he stepped back, not taking his eyes from the stone floor.
The floor was laid out in deep green tiles, but with a slightly raised pattern of blue insets that outlined the same mark that stood out on Maximilian’s arm.
As Maximilian watched, the green shimmered, then the blue lines wavered and his own mark burned fiercely.
He hardly noticed it.
Slowly the blue shape set in stone bulged into the room as lines quivered into life, and stone into bone.
Cavor staggered outside onto the verandah, brushing aside Anya’s concerns, and grabbed Egalion by the shoulder as the commander snapped to surprised attention.
“Get my horse,” the king whispered hoarsely, “and get those damned units of yours moving. We ride to the forests. Now!”
The Manteceros sighed and shook himself, regretting—as always—the transfer from the dream world into this. This world only contained soreness and problems, and the Manteceros had every expectation that it had just materialised into one of the greatest problems it was ever likely to face.
The creature gazed about the Pavilion, its face mournful, its eyes sorrowing, then it rested its eyes on the man who stood before him. “Who comes to claim?” it asked. “Who dares the Dream?”
“I do,” the man said quietly, and the Manteceros did not fail to note the unconscious pride in his bearing.
“And you are…?”
Maximilian stood straighter, wondering at the strange beast that now stood before him. Yet he was not frightened, nor even overawed. For fourteen years he had been trained for this very moment.
“I am Maximilian Persimius, Prince of Escator, Warden of Ruen, Lord of the Ports and Suzerain of the Plains,” he replied, giving the Manteceros his full titles, “and I am heir to the throne of Escator.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,” the Manteceros mumbled sotto voce, shifting its weight from leg to leg. “Why have you summoned me forth?” it asked in a louder although no less doubtful voice.
The Manteceros knew why—but all the formalities had to be observed.
“I claim the throne of Escator.”
The Manteceros’ agitation increased. “You dare to claim? You—”
“I dare,” Maximilian interrupted softly, and the Manteceros’ eyes narrowed. “I dare to claim.”
“This is very unfortunate,” the Manteceros said. “Very. The throne does not lie vacant.”
Maximilian was silent, his blue eyes steady on the beast before him.
“Well,” the Manteceros said, and blew air through its nostrils in a deep sigh, “why now? Why wait all this time?”