To Ride Hell's Chasm

by Janny Wurts

  ‘Lady Phail.’ Formally crisp, he touched the old woman’s palm to his lips, then tucked her wrist over his elbow and bowed his white head to the king. ‘Your Majesty, have I leave?’

  King Isendon’s demeanour perked up to recapture the semblance of regal presence. ‘As your duty commands you.’

  Taskin signalled to the blond guard, then one of the officers beside him. Both men stepped out at his low-voiced instruction to post a sharp watch at the stairhead. ‘If anyone comes here, delay them. Make plenty of noise. I want no one approaching his Majesty’s chamber without warning.’ Next, the commander called one of the guards in the corridor by name. ‘Step inside, please.’

  The appointed man replaced the one just dispatched with the seamless poise of the elite. A nod from their commander placed the remaining officer in armed readiness at their backs, a stark oddity. But the men entrusted with the king’s person knew better than to serve such a change with remarks. Taskin himself ushered Lady Phail to her seat.

  Glittering in his surcoat and gold braid, the Commander of the Guard bowed again to his king, this time with rigid correctness. ‘Your Majesty, I ask your indulgence with a precaution.’

  ‘Trouble, Taskin?’ the aged sovereign asked, his fingers settled with laced dignity into his blanketed lap.

  ‘Perhaps, sire. Kindly bear with me.’ Given the regal nod to proceed, the commander knelt by the hearth. He used the fire iron to shut the flue damper, then reached under his surcoat and withdrew a sprig of evergreen, which he tossed on to the flames.

  Fragrant smoke billowed, clouding the room. Back on his feet, Taskin stood his ground before his two guards, his chiselled regard trained upon Lady Phail, and the invalid form of his sovereign. No one moved. No face showed a flicker of trapped fury; only puzzlement and restrained anxiety, as the cedar smoke wafted a spreading pall on the draught let in through the casement.

  The commander released a slow breath, while the officer by the doorway eased his tense shoulders, and relaxed the taut grip on his sword hilt.

  ‘Lock the door,’ Taskin said. ‘I would have our discussion kept private between those of us here in the room.’

  The king raised a weak forearm and fanned at the fumes. His fragile cough spurred Taskin to attend the necessity of releasing the closed-off flue. Smoke swirled at his movement. Tendrils combed into the gloom by the armoire, and there, something embedded unseen in clear air met and tangled.

  Like the hissed shriek of flame doused in ice, a whirlwind of sparks shot upwards. The eruption scored across startled eyesight, there and gone in an eyeblink.

  ‘What was that!’ Shocked, Lady Phail dropped her cane.

  The thud as it landed upon the thick carpet jarred the guardsmen’s cranked nerves. The officer by the door yanked his blade from his scabbard, while the others surged on to their toes. Yet their readiness encountered no visible target. The king sat with his knuckles clenched on his knees, with Taskin like cast ice before him.

  The smoke billowed up and licked the groined ceiling, then dispersed to a pall that misted the shine of the candles, and dimmed the surrounding furnishings.

  ‘Glory preserve us!’ King Isendon grated, distraught. The sharp scare appeared to have focused his wits. ‘That I should have lived to see Sessalie befouled by a sorcerer.’ His faded glance encompassed his commander. ‘We are in grave danger, indeed. I trust we are reasonably safe at this moment? That the smoke has effected a banishing?’

  Shaken to pallor, Taskin knelt. ‘Your Majesty, what little I know may not be enough to stave off a threat to your life.’

  Isendon’s gesture suggested impatience. ‘Rise. You are trusted to handle what must be done. Carry on. Have you news, or fresh hope for my daughter?’

  ‘Very little, sire.’ Taskin stood erect, his lifetime habit of unflinching nerve maintained by relentless courage. ‘I have no direct facts concerning the princess, or any clue to her whereabouts. Only the report from your garrison captain, who maintains the emphatic belief she’s alive. Mysh kael’s battle experience against warring sorcerers suggests he has knowledge to support this.’

  Isendon nodded, his sunken chest wracked again by a feeble cough. ‘You knew he fought against Rathtet?’ At the commander’s stark surprise, the aged sovereign showed the ironic humour that had once been famous for scalding unwary courtiers. ‘Oh, yes. He saved the Efandi princess, it’s said, though her survival is a close-guarded secret.’

  ‘You knew this?’ Satisfied that the smoke had penetrated every last remaining cranny in the room, Taskin directed his officer to release the damper blocking the flue.

  ‘A king has his own ways to acquire information,’ Isendon said. ‘Ambassadors trade in state secrets to buy favours.’ Forced by shortened breath to speak in clipped sentences, the king battled his weakness and qualified, ‘The man won the summer tourney with formidable skills. Now he guards my keep gates. I had better know whether to trust him.’

  Still rocked by discovery that the old fox had outflanked him, Taskin blurted, ‘And do you, sire?’

  ‘Within careful limits.’ King Isendon’s smile was given to Lady Phail, who quietly straightened his blankets. She tucked a pillow to prop his frail shoulders in response to the reed-thin exhaustion that frayed through his phrases. ‘One can never trust any foreigner, fully. His nation of birth is not Sessalie. Yet Mykkael has sworn my oath of crown loyalty. I pay him for fair service. Which, so far as I’ve managed to trace, he has delivered to all his employers.’

  Taskin released an explosive sigh. ‘I found no evidence on him of oath-breaking, either. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t hired beforehand to assay an outsider’s plot against Sessalie.’

  Isendon tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, the tremors now sorrowfully pronounced. ‘Do you think so, Taskin?’

  The commander stood, struck to stillness, the platinum shine of his hair hazed under the tarnish of fug in the air. ‘No,’ he said at strained length. ‘Blinding glory, I’ve pushed him! Yet by the pernicious fact that he won’t crack, I cannot be wholly certain.’

  This time, the play of irony over Isendon’s features came shaded by relentless grief. ‘Then, my old friend, you understand very well how to shore up the burden of Sessalie’s crown. I can’t, for much longer. The fates of my heir and my daughter must reside in your hands, meanwhile.’

  Remanded to address that harsh duty, Taskin inclined his head. ‘Very well.’ He slipped the coarse leather bag from his belt, which contained Mykkael’s gifted talismans. ‘These artefacts were brought by the garrison captain from his service against Rathtet. He claims they will offer protection from sorcery. Sire, will you consent to wear one?’

  Lady Phail’s gentle voice broke the widening pause. ‘His Majesty’s awareness has slipped again, Taskin. I’m sorry.’ She patted the king’s knee, but aroused no stir in response. ‘If my opinion matters, I believe our liege would have done as you asked.’

  Taskin nodded, struck grim as he shouldered a decision he found abhorrent. He passed two of the copper discs into Lady Phail’s keeping. ‘One for the king, Duchess, and, if you’re willing to share the same risk, the other for you. I trust you to stay by his Majesty’s side and stand guard for his wandering wits.’

  ‘A sharp ear on the court gossip can’t hurt,’ Lady Phail agreed with stout courage.

  Taskin’s smile of gratitude was heartfelt. ‘I would never have asked that much, Duchess, but yes.’ He added instructions to keep the talisman hidden, and to wear it always next to the skin. While the elderly granddame donned the vizier’s talisman, then gently attended the king, the crown commander distributed the last two discs to the best of his men, appointed to stand guard at the door.

  ‘You will wear these, soldiers, and not disclose them to anyone! Here forward, you don’t leave your king’s bedside, ever! You’ll eat in his chamber, and sleep in his presence by turns. You’ll flank his litter as he goes to hear audience. Only those in this room are protected. That means, you keep imp
eccable secrecy! Speak to no one outside of the five of us, am I clear? I will have the servants bring wood, and you will see that a log fire burns in this chamber at all times!’

  ‘Sorcerers can’t stand such?’ the red-haired guard asked.

  ‘Some of them. Their minions are said to avoid chance exposure to wood smoke.’ Taskin nodded to the taciturn captain who stood as his second in command. ‘Bennent, you can unbar the door.’

  ‘What of our crown prince?’ inquired the fair guard. ‘For the security of Sessalie’s succession, should his Highness not wear a talisman before one of us?’

  Worn to hag-ridden tension, the commander met that inquiry squarely. ‘I’m sorry to say that Prince Kailen can’t be trusted to keep his shirt on for the whores.’ He matched eyes with the guardsman, whose gaze flicked aside, unable to refute that sad truth.

  ‘I know our prince. Beneath inexperience, there is no man better. Under happier circumstances, his Highness could be forgiven the feckless adventures of youth.’ Taskin stifled his deep grief, and delivered his iron-clad conclusion. ‘But this sorcerer who stalks Sessalie is utterly ruthless. If King Isendon falls to his spellcraft, such an enemy could prey upon every subject in this realm through his sovereign rights to the throne. I grieve for the necessity. But the protection of Sessalie’s people must come first. I will guard Prince Kailen as I can, but against this danger, the weak game piece wearing the crown must be the most stoutly defended.’

  Under the wax-bright flare of the candles, Taskin regarded each guardsman in turn, and measured their commitment and courage. ‘Stand your post with due vigilance, soldiers. The king’s safety relies on your hands.’

  He signalled his officer, prepared to depart, when an outburst of arguing voices arose in the corridor outside. Taskin surged forward and jerked open the panel, all but bowled aside by the breathless arrival of Sessalie’s seneschal.

  The irate official ploughed straight in, determined to demand royal audience.

  ‘Lord Shaillon!’ Lady Phail sprang up with cane in hand to enforce the king’s violated privacy. ‘How thoughtless of you to barge in with no consideration for the hour! Your liege is asleep, and needs his rest sorely! I will not see you task him with burdens, my lord. If you should press his Majesty’s health, he may not be lucid to sign the documents the council requires in the morning!’

  Stalled on his course, the seneschal spun and bristled at Taskin. ‘You let that slinking desert-bred go free! How dare you flout this kingdom’s incurred debt. You’ve let Devall’s slighted honour be slapped aside for a pittance!’

  ‘I’d scarcely call any lashing a pittance,’ Taskin stated in acid correction. ‘Have you had occasion to see a man whipped? Your accusation does nothing but expose your cosseted mind and rank ignorance.’

  ‘Only twelve strokes!’ The seneschal sniffed. ‘The last guard with the effrontery to brawl with a foreign royal’s servant received twenty. Or don’t you recall how to count?’

  ‘You will not bring your childish bluster in here,’ Lady Phail snapped with stout righteousness. ‘Out! Now!’ She gave Taskin a jab in the small of the back, then hooked the seneschal’s arm in steel fingers and urged him back towards the doorway.

  ‘Duchess, would you obstruct the king’s greater interests?’ The seneschal planted his feet. ‘I implore you to use better sense. The heir apparent of Devall is not pleased by the commander’s cavalier treatment.’ After a rancorous glower towards Taskin, Lord Shaillon plunged on in appeal.

  ‘His Highness of Devall could stand on his rights and take offence. Should he annul his suit, Anja’s heart would be broken. Would you risk seeing her Grace jilted?’ Harried backwards another step by the indomitable granddame, the seneschal snarled, ‘Is this scruffy dog of a desert-bred captain worth casting our rights to the sea trade into jeopardy?’

  Lady Phail tapped her foot. When her staunch manner threatened to enlist the royal guardsmen for help to clear the king’s chamber, the seneschal accosted Lord Taskin, who stood obstructively next to the moulded door jamb.

  ‘That foreign captain is a liability to this kingdom’s prosperity!’ the seneschal ranted. ‘I insist, he should be clapped into irons.’

  An astute tactician, Taskin saw the withering, cold fire that sparked Lady’s Phail’s narrowed eyes. Wise man, he bowed and stepped clear, the image of the genteel courtier in his impeccable falcon surcoat.

  Yet the seneschal was sunk too far into his tirade to keep pace with his rival’s acuity. His impudence was caught short: the old lady rapped her ivory cane on his wrist, the same treatment she allotted to importunate boys caught stealing jam in the scullery.

  ‘For shame, Lord Shaillon!’ said Lady Phail. ‘Your behaviour lies beneath well-born dignity, to raise such a row against a common man who is innocent. King Isendon has already given the matter the swift disposition it deserved.’

  ‘What? His Majesty was lucid?’ Lord Shaillon’s beaky face jerked sideways, once more brought to bear on the commander’s upright serenity. ‘What has the king said? You were present?’

  Cool as the sheathed sword, Taskin answered. ‘You won’t lack for witnesses. We were all here. His Majesty pointed out that the garrison captain has never mishandled his oath. Since Mysh kael’s past record bears no charge of treachery, he is held by the crown to be trustworthy’

  Defeated, the seneschal stalked to the door. ‘This will not end here, I promise!’ Faced straight ahead, unwilling to spare a disdainful glance for the other armed captain, who paced like a predator at his heels, Lord Shaillon pronounced, ‘That desert-bred cur is a liability to the realm and I will not stop until I hold proof to expose his deceitful nature.’

  XII. Evening

  STARS SALTED THE SKY OVER THE PALACE PRECINCT, YET NO NIGHTFALL HAD EVER SEEMED BLACK AS THE ONE THAT FOLLOWED PRINCESS ANJA’S disappearance. Without news, the rampant explosion of rumours spread a climate of blanketing fear. No carriages rolled in the avenues, or pulled up before the marble fronts of the mansions. Shadow and gloom hung over the door yards, where the welcome lanterns set out for guests should have cast jonquil circles of light. No candles illumined the glass panes of the salons, and no laughter trilled on the air.

  The peacock splendour of Sessalie’s court stayed withdrawn behind locked doors on the hour the seneschal hastened to pay his next call.

  He arrived on foot at the east wing of the palace. There, the High Prince was installed in the lavish apartment allotted to visiting royalty. Out of sorts, the seneschal knocked at the door beneath Devall’s quartered banner.

  A butler in a velvet tabard cracked the panel. He peered down his pampered nose before letting the seneschal in, his practised eye busy as he sized up his visitor’s vexed bearing. By smooth rote, he chose the appropriate words to acknowledge the jammed wheels of state. ‘Your plea went unheard? Then I have to warn your lordship in advance, the high prince’s mood is not sanguine.’

  ‘He has every right to express his distress,’ Sessalie’s seneschal soothed him. ‘I will see him, regardless, provided he is willing to receive an official from Isendon’s court.’

  ‘Would you offer condolence?’ Prepared to stay planted with superior obstinacy, the butler considered the matter. ‘How should I present you?’

  ‘I don’t bear good news,’ the seneschal admitted, too well seasoned at handling prickly foreign diplomats not to manage an uppity servant in his stride. ‘Say the ruling that balks his Highness was made by the king, but explain that a resourceful young man might hear the details, if he wished to probe for a loophole.’

  The butler bowed. ‘My Lord Shaillon, wait here, if you please.’

  Smoothly as butter left on a plate, the seneschal found himself cooling his heels on the carpet in the front hall. If that pre-emptive treatment stuck in his craw, he made himself swallow the sting. It was Sessalie’s shamed grace that begged Devall’s indulgence, sadly not the other way around.

  Yet his cause was not lost. The butler trundled back befo
re long, bringing word that the high prince would admit him. The seneschal was ushered into the elegant small dining room, where busy staff were clearing the dishes that remained from his Highness’s supper. The heir apparent of Devall sat, informally clothed, while another servant poured tea. He looked hag-ridden. Stripped of rings, his hands seemed too slender and still. His plain tie-string shirt with its facings of satin clothed the posture of a despondent young gallant.

  He glanced up, the sovereign gold of his eyes shadowed beneath tawny hair. ‘I was not expecting state visitors,’ he apologized, not asking forgiveness for his maudlin mood. ‘Be comfortable. Sit. Would you care for some tea?’

  While the butler vanished, the Seneschal of Sessalie accepted the chair presented by another ubiquitous manservant. Not a seat at the prince’s table: crown officers in Devall were not treated with any such familiarity. But the placement set him an intimate distance to one side, where two men could speak eye to eye. ‘Tea would be nice.’

  A porcelain cup was set into his hand, then sweetened with a dipper of spring honey. His royal host constrained his impatience, while the table servant awaited the seneschal’s nod that his personal taste had been satisfied.

  ‘My butler informed me you bring no fresh news,’ the High Prince of Devall said in opening. Hope in him blazed anyway, a simmering tension that shifted him anxiously forward. ‘Did you perchance have something more you thought should be delivered in private?’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Highness.’ The seneschal’s lanky knuckles engulfed the gilt cup, lending the appearance of threatened fragility. ‘The king’s grace endorsed the decision of his crown commander.’

  ‘They place their trust in that dark foreign captain, then. Why?’ Too well bred to pace before another realm’s titled delegate, Devall’s heir shifted his burning gaze, consumed by frustration and worry. ‘The man has shown nothing but suspect behaviour. What does he know that we don’t?’