Janny Wurts - To Ride Hell’s Chasm

Eight centuries past, one of Sessalie’s queens had desired a rooftop garden. She had grown sunflowers to feed gleaning birds, and shared their winged company through hours of contemplation. The king who was her great-grandson added topiary, and an array of formal flowerbeds, which, years later, the kitchen staff claimed to grow herbs under glass for winter seasoning. No one recalled which subsequent sovereign had added the turrets, and planted the first of the trees.

By Isendon’s reign, the oaks had grown ancient, their gnarled trunks halfway fused with the stonework that vaulted the entry. A confection of wicker tables and chairs scattered under the shaded branches now became the afternoon refuge for Sessalie’s ranking courtiers. Just now the primary occupants were royal, Crown Prince Kailen and the heir apparent of Devall, attended as usual by the deferent circle of his liveried retinue. Only the saturnine advocate was absent, dispatched on an unspecified errand.

On the table, banked in a bowl of shaved ice, a serving of strawberries sweetened their conversation. The Prince of Devall had asked for red wine. The gold tray held a bottle of the famed cloud grape, just emptied. Another one had been opened to breathe, when the seneschal arrived, puffing from his three-storey ascent from the council hall.

‘My Lord Shaillon, you look as tried by the day’s frustrations as any man on two feet,’ greeted Devall’s heir apparent, his dauntless good cheer a brave effort to lift the elderly statesman’s flagged spirits.

Prince Kailen sighed and pushed back the blond hair tumbled over his forehead. ‘Still no word on my sister.’

The seneschal nodded, exhausted beyond platitudes.

Too polished to show disappointment, Devall’s heir apparent lifted the bottle, selected a clean goblet from the tray, then poured in a dollop, and swirled it. ‘Sit, my good man. You’re just in time. We needed someone with a fresh palate to taste this superlative vintage.’

The seneschal drew out a chair and perched like a mournful sparrow. Polite to the bone, he accepted the wine, then cast a frowning glance on the emptied glass next to Prince Kailen. ‘His Highness ought not to be drinking after last night’s indulgence.’

Devall’s heir apparent smiled with sheepish charm. ‘The lapse is my fault. I can’t be truly sorry. Your kingdom produces exceptional wines. Bereft of my bride, who can blame me for seeking such exquisitely seductive consolation?’

Sessalie’s seneschal tasted the sample, then nodded his reserved approval. While the Prince of Devall filled his goblet in earnest, he asserted, ‘A wine haze won’t help Princess Anja’s recovery.’

‘No,’ Kailen murmured. ‘But it does dull the ache.’ He bunched up his napkin, wiped the dregs from his glass, then slid it forward, inviting a refill.

The foreign prince complied, then set down the bottle. His tapered fingers still nursing the goblet that stood all but untouched before him, he broached softly, ‘What news of my current petitions to King Isendon?’

‘They have not been refused outright.’ But the seneschal’s braced posture suggested an edge of stonewalled exasperation. ‘I could wish the issue had been handled differently’

‘Why don’t you address my documents of appeal and their outcomes one at a time?’ suggested the Prince of Devall.

‘The diplomatic complaint cannot be ignored. There will be a punishment extracted. However,’ the seneschal qualified stiffly, ‘the garrison captain who enacted the offence will be dealt with by military discipline.’

‘That means Commander Taskin’s been appointed to call the damned desert-bred on to the carpet.’ Kailen dashed down a swallow of wine, and grimaced. ‘That upright old stick doesn’t cut an offender much slack. He’ll execute the verdict along with the sentence, and won’t relinquish his right to keep privacy inside the ranks of his guardsmen.’

The heir apparent of Devall said baldly, ‘The commander won’t consent to an extradition.’

‘Never.’ Prince Kailen gave a tight laugh, drained his goblet, then fixed haunted eyes on his counterpart. ‘Powers above, this is Sessalie! Here, we hang only murderers and livestock thieves. Our dissenters certainly don’t include traitors. What brangles we settle between foreign diplomats are mostly disputes over how much of our best wine should be sold for export. We don’t have the occasion for criminal extradition, far less any precedent concerning the inequities of law that exist between outside kingdoms.’

‘Your Highness, you can’t have the desert-bred captain turned over to Devall’s bailiffs,’ the seneschal summed up with acidic dignity.

‘Are you trying to tell me he won’t be locked up?’ Brows raised by incredulity, the heir apparent sipped wine to douse the fire withheld from his language.

The seneschal sighed. ‘Taskin maintains his crown soldiers to fight. He keeps malcontents in line with the lash, and remands them for state prosecution only if they have incurred a direct threat of injury to a person of the royal family’

‘But this captain is the mongrel get of a darkling southerner!’ Kailen burst out in protest. ‘Surely a citizen’s entitlements won’t apply?’

‘They shouldn’t.’ The seneschal sustained both princes’ regard, his expression bitter as ice. ‘But Taskin stepped in at a sensitive moment. He stood on his prerogative to handle the trial, and King Isendon charged him to redress the misconduct with fairness.’

‘Well, no blood was drawn,’ the High Prince of Devall admitted. ‘Short of a dead advocate, I cannot submit an appeal to the primary complaint. No, the case must rest. If the outcome is lenient, I will placate my ambassador. He’ll receive my reminder that he shouldn’t expect formal protocol when dealing with low caste on errands.’

Gracious in capitulation, the heir apparent offered the last of the strawberries to brighten the seneschal’s mood. ‘Now, what of my appeal to help search for the princess? Surely that met with a warmer reception?’

‘Sadly not.’ The seneschal declined the blandishment, the deep, sour lines that bracketed his mouth hardened to dole out more bad news. ‘The king has made disposition and given the request over to Commander Taskin’s discretion.’

‘Then the writ will die there.’ Sessalie’s crown prince jammed aggravated fingers through his corn-silk blond hair. ‘Taskin’s nothing if not a cast-iron despot. Never has fancied anyone’s boots trampling over his turf. Devall’s honour guard will not be permitted to deploy, no matter how sensibly competent.’

Devall’s heir apparent absorbed this, pressed at last to withdrawn silence.

The seneschal fell back on aristocratic poise, grasped his goblet, then used the wine to ease his dry mouth. ‘On a good day, the commander would pose an obstructive impediment.’

‘A good day!’ The High Prince of Devall shoved the berry bowl aside. Bolt-upright and incensed, he pulled in a deep breath, but could not quite rein back his lit temper. ‘There’s more?’

‘Oh, yes.’ When balked, the seneschal could deliver a setback with vicious brevity. ‘Taskin made plain he’d withhold all opinion until after his appointment with the Captain of the Garrison.’

Crown Prince Kailen rocked out of his chair, swaying and flushed. ‘Mysh kael! What does Mysh kael have to do with this? My sister is missing, and past doubt in grave danger, and Lord Taskin takes pause to consult with an outlander concerning Devall’s right to assist?’

The high prince grasped Kailen’s strained wrist, bristling with autocratic authority. ‘Sit down!’

‘Bright powers above!’ The younger royal dropped rigidly into his chair. He accepted the filled wine glass pressed into his hand, and knocked back a vengeful swallow. ‘Taskin ought to be down on his knees, singing praises for Devall’s generosity.’