To Ride Hell’s Chasm. Janny Wurts
archers fare out every spring to hunt down the fledgling young. Adults who lair in the close peaks are poisoned. Naught can be done with the mated pairs flocked in the rookeries over Hell’s Chasm. The country’s too rough to clean the nests out, so we’ll never be rid of the scourge.’
‘No boon to invaders,’ the Prince of Devall observed. He peered into the shadowed interior of the Sanctuary where lighted candles flickered like stars. ‘How long, before your court ladies retire?’
Kailen yawned. ‘Not long.’ He settled his broad shoulders against the lion’s stone mane in a vain effort to ease his discomfort. ‘The priest and priestess lead the prayers at midnight and noon. There, can you hear? They are ending the ritual.’
Inside, echoing under the cavernous vault, a male speaker cried praise to the powers above. Voices murmured in answer. Then the boys’ choir chanted the final verses pleading for intercession. The singing rang out with a purity to scald human heartstrings, the liquid-glass harmony braided into the spruce-scented hush of high altitude.
The Prince of Devall inhaled the wafted perfume of the incense, ringed fingers tapping his knee. While the first of his puffing lackeys arrived, he bent his hawk’s survey downwards. ‘Merciful grace! In such close-knit quarters, how can one woman whose face is well known vanish without leaving a trace?’
‘The king’s men will find her. They must!’ Kailen cradled his aching head, the heart of the realm he would one day inherit spread below like a model in miniature. The sun-washed tableau seemed peaceful as ever.
Only small details bespoke the grave trouble slipped in through the well-guarded gates. Taskin’s patrols came and went, double-file rows of neat lancers threading through the carriage traffic in the broad avenues above Highgate. In the queen’s formal gardens, amid lawns like set emeralds, two dozen tiny surcoated figures enacted the midday change of the guard.
The sun, angle shifting, sparkled off the polished globe of a flag spire. The slate and lead roofs of the palace precinct dropped in gabled steps downwards, in cool contrast to the terracotta tile of the merchants’ mansions, crowded in rows like boxed gingerbread above the arched turrets of Middlegate. There, the tree-lined streets ran like seams in patchwork, jammed by the colours of private house guards helping to search for the princess. Their industry seethed past the courtyard gardens, scattered like squares of dropped silk, and stitched with rosettes where the flowering shrubs adorned the pillared gazebos.
Farthest down, hemmed by the jagged embrasures of stone battlements, the lower town hugged the slope like a rickle of frayed burlap, the roofs there a welter of weathered thatch, and craftsmen’s sheds shingled with pine shakes. Mykkael’s garrison troops kept their watch on the outermost walls, the men reduced as toys, bearing pins and needles for weaponry.
Beyond spread the living panorama that was Sessalie, a terraced array of grain fields and pastureland carved into the sides of the vale, joined down the middle by the white tumble of the river. On the east bank, snagged by the planks of the footbridges, the trade road snaked towards the lowcountry.
The gong that signalled the close of the vigil sounded inside the Sanctuary Devall’s laggard retinue scrambled clear of the stair, while the priest and priestess filed out, bearing the staff with the triangle representing the trinity. After them, the veiled acolytes bore the symbolic fire in a golden pan lined with coals.
Prince Kailen clambered down from the lion’s stone leg, astute enough to pay the recessional a semblance of decorous respect.
Presently the court ladies emerged, the deep shade of the Sanctuary disgorging the sparkle of jewelled combs as they slipped off their white veils in the sunlight.
‘There’s Shai.’ The crown prince moved in with athletic grace, despite his wasted condition. He breasted the flower-petal milling of skirts, bestowing kind words and sincere apologies, while the High Prince of Devall trailed in his wake, drawing a ripple of admiring glances.
The woman they sought was slender and retiring, clad in a shimmering bodice of roped pearls and a dress the shade of spring irises. She had paused by the entry, perhaps to commiserate, surrounded by a cluster of merchants’ wives, who paraded their wealth in a peacock display of jewels and stylish importance.
For royalty, they gave ground with flattering speed. Swallowed into the pack, Crown Prince Kailen adroitly deflected their courteous murmurs of sympathy. ‘Pray excuse us, we came to seek cousin Shai.’
Just as adept, Devall’s heir apparent shed their female fawning with mannered good grace. As Shai turned her head, he captured her hand, his polished expression attentive and grave as he measured her burden of grief.
At close quarters, the famous violet eyes were inflamed, and the lily complexion expertly powdered to mask over traces of crying.
‘Forgive me, Lady Shai,’ the High Prince of Devall apologized. ‘Our intrusion is scarcely a kindness, I realize. But is there a place nearby for us to retire to? Your cousin and I would appreciate the chance to address you privately’
Shai touched her trembling fingertips to her lips. ‘Not bad news?’ Her eyes brimmed. ‘You haven’t brought tragic word of the princess?’
Hemmed in by the close press of women, and wary of Bertarra’s peremptory inquiry from the sidelines, Prince Kailen interjected, ‘Shai, no. We have no ill news. No word at all, in sad fact. Taskin’s men haven’t found any trace of my sister.’
‘That’s why we need you.’ The High Prince of Devall shifted his protective grip to Shai’s arm and drew her into the shelter of his company.
Prince Kailen took station on her other side. ‘The Sanctuary has a walled garden nearby, where the priesthood retire for contemplation.’
‘The garden should do nicely. Shall we go?’ The Prince of Devall inclined his head in salute to the hovering ladies. Then he smiled and moved Shai on through the press by the sovereign grace of his kindness.
In dappled shade, soothed by a natural spring that burbled from the flank of the mountain, the High Prince of Devall set Shai lightly down. He stood, Prince Kailen beside him, while she arranged the fall of her skirts over a marble bench. Her small hands flickered with filigree rings set with moonstone and amethyst. Neat as a doll, she could not have been more unlike the princess who was her friend and close confidante.
Where Anja was diminutively tough and outspoken, her frame slim as a boy’s from her manic delight in racing King Isendon’s blood horseflesh, Shai was like elegant fine china. She preferred her petticoats hemmed in thread lace, and her sleeves sewn with embroidered ribbons.
Once settled, she raised her beautiful eyes. ‘I’ve already told Taskin everything I know, which is nothing.’ She regarded the princes, her oval face drawn, and her intelligent, domed brow faintly lined with exasperation. ‘Her Grace scarcely spoke to me since your Highness of Devall’s arrival. Whatever thoughts she had on her mind, she had little opportunity to share them.’
The heir apparent knelt, his face level with hers. ‘Did the princess not seek your opinion concerning the clothes she would wear for the banquet?’
‘Powers, no!’ Shai set the back of her hand to her mouth and stifled a small burst of laughter. ‘That’s a detail she would have left to her handmaid. Writing poetry interested her Grace far more than fussing over her wardrobe. But even if that had not been the case, you must realize, she had no time!’
When Devall looked blank, Prince Kailen propped his back against a nearby beech tree and explained. ‘Since our mother Queen Anjoulie died, my sister has held the keys to the palace.’
‘She manages the staff,’ Shai went on, the veil she had worn in the Sanctuary caught up and wrung between her tense fingers. ‘For years, her Grace has made the decisions that run the royal household. The kitchen defers to her wishes. Visiting royalty meant stock must be slaughtered, with additional provisions bought in from the countryside, and perhaps a dozen village girls hired to help handle the chores and the linen.’
The High Prince of Devall absorbed