The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  *****

  He was, by Markulit reckoning, six years old; twenty by World-count.

  "You called me."

  Often had Edris srih-summoned Ryel to his conjuring-room, to impart some bit of lore or other. But now for the first time he drew aside the curtain that veiled his Glass. "Look hard here, whelp."

  The black matte surface of the Glass shimmered and lightened. The world it disclosed, endless green and blue, made Ryel's heart leap. "Risma," he whispered with a pang of longing; but in another moment he felt unease. Many times in his loneliness he had been tempted to make use of Edris' Glass to look again on his mother, sister and friends, but Edris had strictly forbidden him. When he spoke again, he was unable to keep a hint of reproach from his voice.

  "Kinsman, you always told me that a Glass is not meant to be used to view the World."

  "True," Edris replied with an offhand nod. "The Glass is for communication with others of our kind, and—in the old days when the First lived—for scrying into the future, or trying to. Nothing else."

  "Then why--"

  Edris indicated the Glass again. "Look. You know that man, I think."

  Ryel looked, and saw a cavalcade of horsemen riding at an easy pace over a great sweep of flower-spangled grassland. The leader caught the eye and held it—a tall man of some sixty years, with features most purely Almancarian, dressed Steppes-wise in riding-gear of silk and gold; a man whose eyes were like sky-colored jewels in his sun-dusked face, whose hair streamed in black and silver almost to his belt, whose slim figure had not yielded an inch to age; a man freely and unconsciously regal.

  "I've never forgotten him," Ryel said, feeling his blood warm and quicken as he spoke. "Mycenas Dranthene, brother to the Sovran Agenor. He came to Risma when I was thirteen, and watched me during the races at the horse-fair, and gave me my dagger."

  Edris' voice held a grin, one Ryel didn't like. "Maybe you recall the rumors about your grandmother Ysandra."

  Ryel shook his head vehemently. "I'll never believe them. They dishonor our house."

  "Hah. Spoken like a true Steppes lout. That hearsay would make the Sovranet your kin, and you an heir to the Dranthene dynasty, albeit by many a remove."

  Ryel's blue eyes flashed. "It's a vile lie."

  "Calm, lad. Calm. Many in the World would give their skin to belong to the imperial house of Destimar, however left-handedly."

  "I'm not in the World. Remember?" Ignoring his kinsman, Ryel studied Mycenas and his entourage and their wonderful horses. But then his eyes fixed on one sight alone. "Tell me who that boy is, riding next to the Sovranet."

  Edris seemed surprised. "Boy? What—ah, I see who you mean. I don't know, whelp. One of Mycenas' servants, probably. Some page or other."

  "He's dressed too well for that."

  Edris grinned, all too meaningly. "Maybe he's a special favorite—very special. Maybe the Sovranet's tastes run to—"

  "Don't say it." Ryel waved away the enormity of the implication, furiously. He'd discovered the truth, to his infinite relief. "It's not a boy, but a girl."

  "Ah. Really. Enlighten me as to what makes you so sure, whelp."

  "Her hair. It touches her saddle-bow, and some of it's in braids. Braids with jewels in them."

  Edris gave a great bay of a laugh. "And what about those beckoning curves in her shirt and her breeches? Don't tell me you didn't see them."

  Ryel had. But he'd never let Edris know.

  "I'll give the little wench this—she knows how to ride."

  Ryel nodded full assent at Edris' observation. She was admirably firm in the saddle, this girl—firm and supple and fearless. Overly fearless.

  "That's too much horse for her," Ryel frowned.

  "I have to agree," Edris said. "Those Fang'an geldings are as wild as full-stoned stallions. Mycenas should know better than to put his own niece in such danger."

  Ryel's eyes widened. "Niece?"

  As if that word were a malign spell, the horse curvetted and reared. A great outcry went up among Mycenas' entourage, and all rushed to the girl's rescue, but she kept tight in the saddle and impatiently waved away every offer of help. The animal at last calmed, and the ride resumed.

  "Strong legs for a lass so young," Edris said, coolly approving. "And that Steppes rig shows them off uncommonly well, wouldn't you say?"

  Ryel ignored the question. "She was afraid," he said. "I could see it. But her pride was even greater than her fear."

  "The Dranthene are notorious for pride, if nothing else."

  At that remark Ryel turned about to accuse his kinsman. "You knew who she was. You knew all along."

  Edris gave a bare nod. "And now you do, finally. About time you had a sight of the peerless Diara, old Agenor's daughter. She's visited Risma every year in Mycenas' company since she was twelve. She's sixteen now."

  Ryel felt a surge of regret and anger. "She and I could have met, had I never come to Markul."

  "No doubt you would have," Edris tranquilly agreed. "And you'd have been an ignorant churl stinking of stable-reek, and she'd have passed you by without a second glance. As it is—"

  "As it is I'm buried here," Ryel muttered. He yanked the curtain over the Glass, covering the image. "I didn't need reminders." And he would have left the room, very swiftly, had not Edris blocked the way.

  "I didn't show you the Dranthene princess to torture you, whelp—much though you may enjoy thinking so."

  "Then why?"

  "As with everything else I show you. For your instruction."

  Ryel eyed his uncle bitterly. "And what have you taught me, except to prove yet again that I'm a prisoner here? I've been living in cold fog for half my life almost, but it's springtime in the World. The Steppes are covered with flowers, and the sun is shining down on them, and a beautiful girl I'll never know is riding through those flowers, under that sun. And laughing. I haven't laughed since I came to Markul, not once—but you wouldn't have noticed."

  This Ryel said and much more, as his kinsman stood listening with remarkable patience. When he'd at last made an end, Edris calmly enjoyed the silence awhile before speaking.

  "Well, brat. I can't say it hasn't been hard for you—and it's going to get harder, believe me. But if it's any comfort, you're very likely not destined to end your days within these walls."

  "You've said that before. Why not tell me what you mean?"

  "You'll learn."

  Ryel had heard those two words endless times during his years in Markul—long years full of danger and cold and, very often, pain. He felt anger rising in him, furious resentful rage, but the emotion was so familiar that he despised it.

  "I'm going to try the Crossing," he said.

  Edris showed no sign of interest. "Oh. Really. When?"

  "You'll learn." And Ryel flung out of the room, expecting Edris' jeers to embed his back like flung knives. But he heard nothing, and his door-slam resonated in the hollow of utmost emptiness.

  *****

  The wysard’s musings ranged far until a light hand on his shoulder made him start, even as a voice he loved calmed him again. Once again he was at his window on the wall, dressed in ripped mourning, his head shaven. But his sorrow now had a sharer, and he reached up to clasp those gentle fingers.

  "Lost in dreams you looked, young brother."

  Lady Serah Dalkith stood at his side gazing down at him, her face unflinchingly gentle as her beryl-green eyes met his empty ones. "Knock though I might, you heard naught. But I made bold to enter—all the easier since your door's never locked."

  "Never against you, my lady sister. I'm glad of your coming." The wysard took her cloak and uttered a command-tongue to the air, and instantly a laden tray appeared at his side, with wine and the sweet delicacies in precious vessels of crystal and gold.

  "Always the courtly host." Lady Serah took a savoring sip of the wine, and reached for a one of the dainties on the tray. "Never do I eat these almond-apricot things except when I'm with you. What are they called ag
ain?"

  "Lakh. They're Steppes sweets. I never got enough of them, when I was little."

  "And do you get enough now?"

  "Not really. No skill, no matter how magical, can equal that of my mother's hands."

  Together they gazed companionably out at the mist as they enjoyed the wine and sweets, and the heady Ghizlan vintage—the most excellent obtainable, as one might expect to be offered by a srih-servant—brought on more memories.

  "Yon's the frock I threw off twenty years gone," the wysardess said, pointing a smooth bejeweled forefinger at one of the cloth-heaps beyond the wall. "Purple silk and gold embroidery still unfaded and untarnished. And I could still fit into it, I do assure you, were I to wear it now."

  "It'd become you well," Ryel said, again admiring Lady Serah's Northern looks—beauty tall and fine-boned, hair like a fox's pelt thrown back from a high forehead and hanging over strong shoulders. The pelt had silvered along the temples, but the lady's form retained its slender elegance, even as her face kept its bold hard beauty, its vivid lips and brows. Instead of wysard robes she favored elegant gowns cut in the Northern style, fitted to the body down to the slim ornately belted hips, thence flowing in folds to the ground, in deep dark colors and rich tissues. Today's was midnight velvet and purple brocade. "You seem not to have aged since you left the World, sister."

  Lady Serah gave that little shrug of hers, that ironic smile. "The Art is kind to women." She rested her arms on her knees, her chin on her arms. "Even now, so many years away, I well recall the nights I spent with men who loved me; the children I birthed and suckled, the mountains I lived among. But life is sweeter, here where the flesh has no hold on me. Here where I can weigh and consider the causes and purposes of existence, and look into what might come after."

  Ryel had always enjoyed the lilting tang of Lady Serah's voice, its Northern nuances—the long slide of the vowels, the clipped gerunds, the burry r's, the quaint inversions. Whenever he heard it he envisioned places he had never seen save in books and dreams—Serah's native island of Wycast, and its neighbors Ralnahr and Hryeland—cold lands of rough moss-grown crags, towering pines and aspens, snow-fed streams and waterfalls, wide skies of deepest blue and white-feathered clouds. To hear more of it he said, "Among all the talk we've shared, my sister, I wonder that I never asked what brought you to Markul."

  She gazed out deep into the mists of the air. "The World drove me. Forty-five of its years had I numbered. My children were either grown or dead, my lovers and my husbands were all of them either dead or gone from me; the World's way had I lived, without a thought. And then I felt the Art stir within me like a quickening babe, and came here to give birth to that new life." She gave a sly little laugh. "Greatly abashed you looked when you stripped before the gates—even now you blush at my mention of it. But I felt no shame when I disrobed, far from it. Proud was I of my body, in those days; and I well remember how the City flocked atop the walls to look upon me."

  Ryel smiled. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to witness that." He offered his guest more wine, which she accepted willingly; but after a sip she set down her glass.

  "As I said, brother, you greet your guests with Steppes courtesy; and like a true bannerman of Risma you would never think of asking me the reason for my visit. But do you not wonder? All the more since I know the ways of your grassland home, that mourns in seclusion?"

  Ryel shook his head. "We have been friends a dozen years, Lady Serah. I know you well enough to understand that when you speak of detachment, you are usually agitated within; and I also know that you will sooner or later tell me why."

  "As I said, brother, with Steppes courtesy you greet me, and like a true bannerman of Risma never would you think of asking me the reason for my visit. Well, the truth is that I myself had a visitor today."

  "An unwelcome one, it would seem."

  "Srin Yan Tai it was," Serah replied slowly. "She called me to my Glass this morning—rather earlier than I prefer. 'Twas of you we spoke."

  Ryel had heard much of Srin Yan Tai over the years, from Lady Serah and others. Lady Srin had come from the Kugglaitai Steppes to Markul, but had left the City many years past to dwell in the mountains overlooking Almancar. "How could she know me?" he asked. "We never met."

  "All your life she has known you," Serah answered. "She charged me to give you a message."

  Ryel waited, then prompted. "And what was it, sister?"

  "Often she and Edris would confer together, when she dwelt in this City; they shared a bond wrought deep, of kindred lands and customs and language. After she departed and you found your way here, he would speak with her through his Glass, asking advice on how best to deal with you. She now wishes to see how you have grown up…and to learn what you experienced during the Crossing."

  "I remember nothing of it, sister."

  "Recall it now." She reached into the pouch at her belt, taking out a malachite vial, and sprinkled some powder from the vial into her palm. "Here. Breathe of this."

  Ryel wet his finger, touched it to the powder, tasted; recoiled. "But this is quiabintha."

  "You are stronger than it is," Serah said, quietly urgent. "Put your trust in me. You know I would never harm you, dear my brother. Breathe."

  Warm it was within the great curve of the window, snug and dry behind the glass as chill rain fell upon the barren land; silent save for the rain's fall. Safe. Ryel bent to Serah's smooth fair palm, and inhaled deeply; closed his eyes, tensing against the shock he knew must come.

  Used as he was to quiabintha, having learned its power early in his study of the Art, he trembled as it snaked through his veins. "I have always loathed and distrusted this drug," he said; and his voice seemed as far as the stars. "Only xantal is more vicious."

  Lady Serah's voice seemed to come from the same immense distance. "Do not think of the drug. Are you ready?"

  Quiabintha was quick. Already Ryel felt its hold upon his mind and body, accelerating his heartbeat and his thoughts. "Direct me," he said. "I am sightless until you lead."

  "Good. Go back."

  "How far?"

  "Drift," Serah intoned, soothingly. "Drift until I stop you."

  Ryel stared out at the rain, seeing nothing but gray emptiness as his memory slid away minute by hour by year; time felt like a skin that his being slipped free of as he moved ever backward.

  Lady Serah's voice whispered like rain. "You are being born; you are before the walls of Markul, naked as the moment you pushed out of your mother's womb."

  "I am there," Ryel said, marveling and dazed.

  "As am I, watching you," Serah replied from someplace incredibly distant. "Tell me what you see."

  "Edris has opened the gates. Has come to me, stands at my side." Ryel drew a sudden breath, his heart quickening. "He's pulling my hair." How real it seems, he thought. To be here, and yet there; to be so cleanly divided, yet so completely whole.

  "Move through the gates, and deeper into the years. Now you are no longer a boy, but a man, and more learned in the Art than anyone alive in Markul. You have chosen the Mastery of Nilandor for your Crossing spell."

  "Yes. It is the quickest." Fire leapt in the hearth of his house that had been Lord Aubrel's, and nearby a table stood ready with the things needful for the coming ordeal. "I am there."

  "Enter that place again. The emptiness."

  Sudden darkness enclosed him, cold and opaque and seamless. "I cannot."

  "Only try, brother."

  Urged by her pleading he felt the glass, uselessly pushing. "I am trying with all my power, sister."

  "Surely you must sense something."

  Ryel quit fighting the darkness, and instead pressed the lids of his lightless eyes with the heels of his hands, drawing a weary quiabintha-drained breath. "Nothing." He opened his eyes to the warm familiar window-nook, the gray rainy light, Serah's intent concern. "It's gone from me. All I can remember is losing consciousness, and regaining it to find you telling me that Edris had died giving his life for
mine. And then I believe I went mad for a time, until you healed me. Often I wish you had not, my lady; very often, these days."

  Serah did not reply, but took another vial from the bag at her belt, this one full of liquid. When she removed its stopper, the fragrance of celorn made Ryel reach for the little bottle, impatient for its deliverance.

  "Only a taste or two, brother. 'Tis strong essence, and will work quickly."

  "Thank all the gods." Ryel drank, and almost at once felt the quiabintha's harsh grip on his mind first relax, then dissipate. As he closed his eyes in gratitude, he felt Serah's gentle hands on either side of his head, and he leaned slightly forward, resting in her touch. "And thank you, sister."

  "You suffered much, dear brother."

  Ryel tried to swallow; snagged on his dry throat. "I suffer more, now. It is an everlasting shame to me. That I should have labored so hard, and in vain; spent months in readiness, and risked my life to seek the boundaries of death, only to come back empty. Worse than empty—bereft of one dearer to me than father, whose greatness in the Art would have far surpassed my own."

  Serah's voice was always soothing, always like music he loved, but never more than now. "Lord Edris had been my friend from the moment we met. Often would he come to my house, and we would speak of you. Difficult enough it is to live in this City after passing one's prime, but for a young lad it is harder yet, and for a lad on the edge of manhood it needs must be not only hard, but perilous." She hesitated. "He told me about the succubus that tempted you in your fifth year."

  Shamed blood burnt Ryel's cheeks. "I've tried very hard to forget that."

  "Nor would I have spoken of it, but Srin Yan Tai suspects that the creature was sent by none other than that hell-born miscreant Dagar Rall…even as she believes that Dagar is responsible for the death of Edris."

  Ryel could not speak for a long time, and when he did it came out raw. "But Serah, that cannot be. Dagar died long ago." As he spoke, he saw again Kjal's lipless, hideous face, speaking the same impossibility.

  "His body indeed perished, and horribly as was fitting. But Lady Srin most adamantly maintains that his rai now dwells disincarnate yet vitally malignant, in that chartless realm too terrible for you to now remember. She believes that in these secret reaches Dagar's power is great, and is steadily increased by the energy it robs and takes unto itself from those emanations we of the brotherhood harness for our daily use. She is sure that Dagar is the cause of the decline of our powers, and I am persuaded she is right. Furious and vengeful Dagar ever was; and if he continues to draw its power from the Outer World, I tremble for what might be."