Little Nelora at that moment escaped from the yat and ran staggering toward them, bawling with baby abandon. Yorganar picked her up, hushing her with a tenderness he had never shown Ryel.
"Hold your noise, wee lamb." And he tossed the child in his arms until Nel quieted and smiled. Addressing Ryel again, Yorganar harshened. "Those are not gifts. Nelora will grow up as a Rismai woman should, and have no need of a sword. As for the mare, Jinn was yours from the day of her birth, and I am no back-taker."
It's better this way, Ryel thought. I'm glad he loves Nel, at least. Reaching out, he stroked the child's wealth of curls, marveling as he always did at their bright gold gleam, so rare in the Steppes and so praised; the touch felt like a blessing, as did the little arms that stubbornly wreathed his neck until he gently urged them away. "Farewell, baby sister." He kissed her petal cheek, then turned to Yorganar, all haltingly. "My father, I will miss you."
Yorganar held Nelora closer, not looking at Ryel. "Edris will take my place. Has he not already?"
Ryel had no reply to that. For the past year he had remembered Edris every night as he lay awake, and dreamed of dark towers when at last he slept; had ridden the plain and climbed the dead fire-mountains and played kriy and wrestled with his play-brothers, knowing in his secret heart that he would never grow to manhood among them; had been a devoted son to his mother, and a loving brother to Nelora; had kept out of Yorganar's way, save when they fought with swords.
"Farewell, Yorganar Desharem," he said, then bent from the saddle and kissed him for the first and last time in his life, on the temple in the Steppes way between male kindred, swiftly lest he be pushed away. Wheeling Jinn about, he sent her into a gallop with a touch of his heel, and felt the swift wind blow the tears out of his eyes into his streaming hair.
*****
"Wake up, whelp."
Ryel blinked, torn from his revery. Edris stood waiting, his own sword drawn and ready—a Kaltiri tagh like Yorganar's, slim and double-edged and silver-bright, its hilt fashioned long for two-handed combat; like Yorganar's, but far richer and deadlier. Most wonderful of all, it was incredibly light, as easily wielded as a willow switch. Yorganar's sword felt like a log of lead in comparison. Ryel had been permitted to handle this exquisite weapon only once, but forever after had coveted the way its hilt-ridges took his grip like a firm handclasp, the fearful beauty of its glass-keen blade etched with an inscription that Ryel could not read, and that Edris would not translate.
"I want your sword," the boy-wysard said, feeling Yorganar's great tagh maddeningly clumsy in his hand.
Edris' cropped head gave a fierce scorning shake. "You'll have to kill me first."
"You've come close to being killed lots of times, from the looks of it," Ryel said, at once defiant and daunted. "You're covered with scars."
"Grown men gave them to me, boy."
During his time in the North, during the strength of his youth, Edris had become a member of an arcane cult of elite warriors, and the inscription on Edris' blade had been conferred by the order after deadly combat; that much Ryel knew, but no more. "Tell me what those runes say."
"Never, brat. Come on."
They squared off and saluted in one of the Kaltiri ways—not the salute of enemies bent upon death, nor of friends vying in strength, but of a warrior testing his squire—a low bow from Ryel, and almost none at all from Edris, and then blades lightly crossed once, twice, then drawn apart slowly—and in that lingering last moment, battle swift and strenuous. Soon Ryel felt all his blood grown hot, heard himself panting as he slashed and lunged.
Edris was fully versed in the formal style of Northern fencing, and had taught Ryel its rules and rituals as an aid to concentration. But for sheer diversion he and Ryel both relished the Eastern fashion of fighting with its wild grace and headlong acrobatics, its yells and grunts and curses, its savage slashings and hairsbreadth dodges. The Northern style relied on cold skill, agile discipline and rigid punctilio, but the way of the East was one of ruthless force and arrant treachery.
Although Edris had never yet employed the latter stratagem, Ryel knew his kinsman's strength only too well. Fifty World-years had thinned and grayed Edris' close-shorn dark hair, and deeply etched his outer eye-corners, but none of those years had shrunken or softened the lean muscles that clung to his hulking height. Now the disarray of combat revealed the long stark-sinewed arms and legs, the broad chest, that the trailing amplitudes of Markulit robes at all other times concealed, and at the sight Ryel felt newborn weak and naked.
"Someday I'll beat you," he panted.
Edris only gave a jeering grin. "You'll need Art for that, whelp. Go on, do your worst."
Ryel had never forgiven himself for what happened next. Murmuring a word that made his adversary lose his balance, Ryel had lashed forward; and all at once a great jet of blood burst from the base of Edris' throat, and he sank to the ground, clutching both hands against the gush.
Nerveless with horror, Ryel dropped to his knees at Edris' side. "Ithradrakis—"
Edris tried to speak, but no sound came save a horrible wordless rasp as he clutched at the wound. Steaming in the cold, blood welled up between his fingers, spilled down his chest, drained the bright battle-flush from his face.
Ryel forced his kinsman's hands away, replacing them with his own. The hot blood pulsed under his desperate palms, leaving no time for anything but as many words of Mastery as he could remember and rattle off lesson-like, terrified lest none of them should work, knowing that he had no right to utter any of them, that they were many levels above his learning, yet knowing too that any mortal art was more useless still. And with those words he mingled others of his own making, desperate mantras never learned from books, but surging forth from that hidden place within where his secret strength lay.
Only when his tears trickled into his mouth-corners and made him gag did he realize he was crying. He could smell Edris' blood, there was so much of it—a metallic savor of rust—and the fear-soured reek of his own body; feel the chill damp stones gritting his bare knees, the raw mist-laden wind freezing his face. Under his encircling arm Edris was slipping, growing limp. You can't, Ryel thought, all his own blood panicking. Not this way.
Edris' head lolled heavily against Ryel's shoulder, its eyes shut hard, its lips snarled in a lifeless grimace.
No, Ryel thought. Not while I live. And scorning that life he Art-willed his strength into Edris' dying body, uttering each word with such fevered concentration that when he fell silent he could barely breathe for exhaustion. But his kinsman remained motionless.
"Gone," Ryel whispered brokenly. "Gone—" he closed his own eyes, sick with desolation. In his heartbreak he began to make the keening moan uttered by the Rismai in their worst despair as he rocked back and forth cradling his kinsman's dead weight, a mourning-cry he'd forgotten for years.
But in that torturing moment he felt a stinging pat across his cheek as startling as a full-fisted blow, and Edris' heavy inert body give an impatient twitch. Ryel started, looked down, cried out. Edris' long dark eyes were open and gleaming, and his wide mouth grinned, and his deep voice mocked.
"In the name of All, quit squealing, brat. And hold still."
Ryel had already frozen. He was mute as well, but Edris didn't appear to notice.
"Not bad Mastery, whelp. Presumptuous, dangerous, and stupid, but good of its kind."
Ryel felt as weak as if half his own blood had been drawn. He couldn't speak, and didn't want to cry anymore, had no reason to now, yet the tears still fell. And for the first time in their lives together he felt Edris embrace him and hold him close, making him sob all the more.
"Shh. Quiet down, lad." Edris' long fingers raked Ryel's black locks, and his lips touched the thudding wet-haired fever just above Ryel's left ear. "Well done. First kill me, which so many have tried to do and failed, and then bring me back. Clever work."
Ryel heard his voice leap and crack. "Forgive me."
"Hah. Not in a
hurry I won't. You had to resort to the Art to give me that cut—an unfair advantage."
"Treacherous, you mean," Ryel muttered. "I despise myself."
Edris shook his head. "Don't. I asked for it. I wanted to see how good you were in all your skill, Art and swordplay both. You're an indifferent fighter, but I'll have to admit you're turning into a pretty fair wysard."
Ryel felt his breath coming fast. "You mean you let me wound you?"
Edris shrugged. "It didn't hurt that much."
"But my uncle. The cut was mortal."
Edris gave a laugh. "Damned right it was. I'd have died had your Mastery been less."
Ryel trembled. "You'd not have saved yourself?"
"I'm not sure I could have, lad." He gave Ryel an impatient shake. "Quit sniveling. It's unmanly."
Ryel quieted, and for some minutes he and Edris rested against each other on the courtyard flagstones. Ah, ithradrakis, Ryel thought as he rubbed his wet cheek against the gore-stiffened hair of Edris' chest. How could I love you with my entire heart, and nearly kill you—
"You're shivering," Edris said. "It's raw out here, and our sweat's grown cold and we're reeking dirty. Come on." He got to his feet, and pulled Ryel to his.
Ryel stared at the place he'd cut. "Are you in pain?"
Edris considered a moment. "Not much. Hardly at all."
"There's a scar."
Edris fingered the place where he'd bled. "Yes. A good big one." He wiped his hands on his clothes. "What was that name you called me? The Almancarian one."
Ryel bit his lip. "Ithradrakis."
Edris seemed not to hear as he threw his cloak about him. "I need a drink of something strong. Come on." And he strode away, but Ryel watched him long before he followed.
*****
Later that night, after he had returned to his house and calmed his thoughts with a long hot bath and steadying meditation, Ryel dressed in fresh robes and settled in to study for the night. He had chosen one of the Books of the First that gave the histories of the Builders of Markul, his curiosity whetted by words Edris had let fall before their duel.
There in his conjuring-room, as he read by lamplight during that endless interval between midnight and dawn, he felt it--a stirring not of the air, but of something beyond the air. It was wordless, yet it commanded him. Never before had he been summoned to his Glass; Lord Aubrel's Glass it had been, large and richly framed, hidden behind a dark curtain broidered with arcane symbols in silver and gold. Ryel had always kept it tightly closed, but now he slowly crossed the room and drew aside the velvet drapery.
At length a shadow floated over the Glass, and fixed there; and the shape's darkness took form bit by bit, as if some unseen artist were painting an image upon the matte silver surface. It began with the hair--startling hair of deep blood-red, that spilled in thick skeins to broad shoulders. The body next appeared, to the waist; a strong form clad not in wysard robes but a black jacket such as Northern soldiers wore, with silver insignia denoting an officer of high rank. The top buttons of the jacket's high collar were loosened as if for the wearer's ease, but as if cognizant of Ryel's scrutiny the form's hand reached up and fastened them as the face filled in, starting with the eyes.
Those eyes would haunt Ryel's thoughts forever after. Never had he seen a regard more cold, so icy that he caught his breath at it; eyes of pale gray, wolfish and utterly unreadable under level lowering brows. The rest of the face was forcefully handsome in a harsh, abruptly planed way, every feature firm and unyielding. Ryel could not imagine that face smiling, save in scorn; and even now the fine lips twitched, parting to reveal teeth fiercely white, and a voice like deep still music issued, akin to a great bell tolling at a far distance.
"So. Ryel Mirai."
Ryel inclined his head, but just barely. He knew well with whom he spoke, and his Steppes blood quickened in his veins, and his hand clenched at his side as if around the hilt of a sword. "From all seemings, I address Lord Michael of Elecambron. What would you want of me?"
"Only to view for myself the boy wonder all the Brotherhood speaks of. How old are you?"
"Five. Nineteen, in World-years."
"My World-years number twenty-seven. I’ve dwelt in this ice-hell for six of them. It seems an infinity."
Ryel felt a twinge of pride. "Then you're only a year older than me, in Art-reckoning. That isn't much."
Michael grunted disdain. "I came here with well-trained wits and a battle-hardened body, studied the Art with my entire attention and almost no sleep, and didn't throw my time away as I've heard you do."
Ryel bristled. "And how might you have come by that knowledge, Lord Michael?"
The red wysard waved away Ryel's words with offhand scorn. "I have my ways. I also know how the Art found you. But if you think your little romp in the rain and bit of a shock impressed me, think again. I was thrown alive into my grave, Steppes gypsy. Stripped naked, smeared with pitch, bound with chains, and tossed into a hole full of fire." He made a noise probably meant to be a laugh. "The Hrwalri didn't like the color of my hair, perhaps…not that they're ever gentle with their prisoners."
Ryel thought of that fate, and shivered. "You were a captive of the White Barbarians?"
"Aye, a roving band of them. It was during the Barrier Wars. I don't think the savages expected me to crawl out of that pit unscathed, any more than they could have imagined the death I dealt them afterward." His wolf-eyes prowled over every feature of Ryel's face. "My Art's strength dates from that time. And my strength is greater than yours, boy. Far greater, even if I chose Elecambron instead of my forebear's City. I have the blood of the First in my veins."
Ryel blinked. "How is that possible?"
Michael's cold stare moved past Ryel and fixed on the open book on the wysard's desk. "Keep reading that and you'll find out." He fell silent awhile, his eyes brooding. "An accursed line it's been; high time it ended. My brother and I have made a pact to be the last." He reached up, thrusting back his strange hair as his teeth clenched in evident pain. "Enough of this. I wanted to see you, and I have."
"Wait." Ryel hardly knew what to say next, or how to say it. He'd suddenly realized how much he'd missed talking to someone close to his own age, and past Michael's truculence he sensed a kindred isolation. "If you ever wish to speak with me again, my lord brother, I'd be honored."
Michael grimaced, his face taut. "I've nothing more to say to you."
"You seem to be suffering. I have some skill in healing, and if you would…"
"Let me be, damn you.”
Stung and angered, Ryel would have replied, but the red wysard growled a word of dismissal and his image faded into blackness.
When Ryel had regained his composure, which took some time, he read further in the history he'd begun, and learned to his amazement that Michael Essern was indeed a lineal descendant of Lord Aubrel D'Sern, one of the most famed of the First and Highest. Aubrel's family had ruled in the North many centuries gone, and as an eldest son Aubrel was marked for kingship; but the Art called him to Markul. And for a long time he and the other First Ones dwelt there harmoniously together, studying and working the Mastery; but then Aubrel unwisely sought to explore the boundaries between life and death. He survived the Crossing, but returned infected with the malignant energy of the Outer World. It drove him mad, and among his many acts of insanity he forced and violated one of the wysardesses, Fleurie of Ralnahr.
She conceived by him, and was counseled by the Brotherhood to take drugs to end the pregnancy; but Markulit training and her own inner convictions would not permit her to go against the service of life. She left the City and made her way North, where Aubrel's family took her in and cared for her. Despite their every precaution, the birth killed her; but her son grew to manhood, carrying his father's infection in his veins, with his outward form likewise tainted—colored strangely, blood-red of hair and unnaturally pale of skin. He too died mad, but not before marrying and begetting. From that time daimonic sickness establishe
d itself among the male Esserns of the direct line. The unfortunates who carried the curse invariably died raving witless after lives of unremitting pain—short lives, mercifully, but not too short to preclude procreation.
*****
"A terrible legacy," Ryel murmured, recalling yet again that encounter from years past. "We never met again, and now you are out in the World…perhaps lured by the same entity whose voice gives me no peace."
I learned so much here, Ryel thought as that memory, like the others, trailed away into the mists. All of my kinsman's skill in battle, which was great, I learned as well as I could. All of his Art, which was greater. And it has made me strong, stronger than anyone in this City; but what good to measure my strength against the nerveless impotence of these creeping dotards? And what good to have learned the surgeon's art to no purpose, practicing on corpses? To have a birther's skill in this childless place? To know all the mysteries of pleasure—for I have learned them, as thoroughly as any amorist—and never hold a woman in my arms?
That last thought made him clasp his knees more tightly, and press his forehead against them until pain came to match that of his next memory.
Something like a woman I indeed embraced, that very night after my duel with Edris—a creature more beautiful than any woman alive could hope to be…which should have put me on my guard. But I had been hot with the knowledge of my strength, and restless with hungers I had no name for, and—
He forced his thoughts away from the memory of that night, but only to remember other beauty, real and breathing beneath its jeweled mask and diaphanous silk. Tormented, he hugged his knees harder, and ground his forehead against them until he winced as much from his body's pain as his mind's; and his memories drifted again, becoming part of the chill mists enveloping the City's dark walls.
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 5
