The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  Ryel licked dry lips. "You once told me that Srin Yan Tai was eccentric, and given to wild imaginings. What can there be to fear, with Dagar trapped and disembodied?"

  "Much, according to Lady Srin," Lady Serah answered. "Much that she would not tell me, saying it was meant for your ears alone."

  "Then I will find her through my Glass, and speak with her," Ryel said.

  Serah contradicted him with a shake of her fox-haired head. "You'll not succeed. Quite insistent she was that she would have a face to face encounter with you or nothing."

  Ryel recalled the invasive unknown voice, the vision of Almancar…and the daimon temptress of his fifth year. He reached for Edris' cloak that lay near, drawing its warm scarlet cloth over his shoulders. "Then Lady Srin will have to meet me here. I will never leave Markul."

  "Not even were it for the sake of the fair Sovrena of Destimar?"

  "Least of all for her." He would not remember. Not so much as a jewel-gleam, an eye-glint. "It would take more than a woman to draw me from my City. I will never return to the World."

  Serah shook her head, her copper-tinted lids brooding over her beryl-green gaze, her face somber. "If Dagar seeks ways to afflict that World again, you might find yourself choiceless, young brother."

  Ryel stared at her. "Why do you say that?"

  "I leave the explanation to Srin Yan Tai. Nay, no protestations; and I will now depart, and leave you in peace. Time you require to consider the matter of our talk." She rose to her feet in a soft midnight rustle of flowing skirts. "Might I visit you again? Fear not, we'll speak only of trifles, I promise."

  "Since I have no intention of leaving, come whenever you wish, my lady sister." He stood too. "Your visit was a comfort to me. I thank you for it." Taking both her hands, he bent and pressed his brow against their smooth backs.

  "I'll miss you," Serah said, her voice a whisper. "We'll all miss you…"

  She departed swiftly, and for a long while Ryel contemplated the door she'd closed after her; but then he turned back to the mist, and reached for his empty goblet.

  "Again," he said in the command-tongue, and watched as the rich vintage welled up from the whorled crystal stem like a ruby spring, dark and fragrant. Seldom if ever did the wysard drink more than a single glass of wine at a time, but his conversation with Lady Serah had been taxing, coming so soon after his far less cordial talk with Kjal. Unwillingly he remembered what he knew of Dagar Rall.

  It was said that Dagar's very birth was in death—begotten of fatal forbidden lust in Elecambron, by a wysard spirit-slain at the moment of climax, and a sorceress daimon-butchered in her third month of pregnancy. Born a miscarried half-formed fetus Dagar was, to be reared by srihs, during those disordered terrible times so many centuries ago; born to live and thrive against all odds, and to work every evil within his power. And for a long time he worked evil; for a century and more, during which time his beauty never altered, but stayed that of a youth divinely fair. He was Elecambron's scourge, his tyranny cruel and ceaseless until at last the entire population of the City combined all their Art to slay him, lest he escape into the World and afflict it to annihilation. Dagar had summoned the daimonic legions of the Outer World in retaliation, and the savagery of the ensuing battle rocked Elecambron to its icy foundations; the echoes of it made even the walls of Markul quiver. Many great adepts of Elecambron had died in that struggle to protect the World they had forsaken forever. It had been a noble sacrifice, one that Markul remembered with greatest respect.

  "Dagar," Ryel murmured, the name bitter on his lips. "Dagar, most beautiful and most base. He that no wysard of any City dared or deigned to call brother." You died, monster, he thought. There's nothing left of you. Kjal, poor eunuch, has lost what's left of his mind, up in that white hell of frost and ice.

  He lifted his glass to his lips, and drank to dispel those vile imaginings. But all at once he was aware of a sudden oppression of the atmosphere, a stifling heaviness of the air. He fully expected the ever-intrusive voice to torment him yet again, but then he heard a sigh—not the voice's, but a woman's, and not within his head, but behind him. Ryel turned, and stared, and felt his fingers freeze around the goblet's bell. His unmoving lips whispered a word he had not used in a dozen years.

  "Silestra?"

  A woman attired in a gown of Almancarian fashion, her heavy black hair falling in mingled tresses and plaits almost to her waist, stood in the middle of the room—a woman neither old nor young, and agelessly beautiful.

  Ryel leapt up, heedless of the goblet's crash. Although a dozen years had passed, he knew the one he beheld, scarcely changed since the day he had left Risma. But surely his mother would never have stood thus unseeing, unresponsive to his voice.

  Ryel dropped to his knees. "My lady mother. I implore you to speak to me."

  She did not reply, nor even look his way. Instead she paced distraught to and fro, clutching her body with both arms as if entranced with grief and pain. Then she caught sight of the wysard's unveiled Glass in the other room. As if gathering her resolution with great effort she swiftly approached it. Ryel rose and followed, knowing now that it was useless to call her.

  Mira Stradianis Yorganara stared into the Glass, and to Ryel's astonishment her reflection stared back. Ever keeping her eyes on the mirrored image's, she flung back her hair and began one by one to rip away the brooches that fastened the front of her gown. Then with a desperate wrench she tore apart the silken cloth. Ryel would have instantly looked away, having never forgotten the Steppes law that demanded death from any grown man who laid eyes on his mother's nakedness. But the horror revealed in that first eyeblink held him appalled. Next to the reflection's perfect right breast hung a bruised bagful of pus, livid and foul. Ryel cried out in horror at the sight, but his mother did not turn around. She only stared into the mirror, her beautiful face now drawn and pale, her dry lips trembling. Then she hid her face in her hands, and vanished.

  Ryel stood numbed, incapable of movement, crushed by the atmosphere's weight.

  "You caused this," he whispered into the stifling air. "You wrought this lie." And he waited in silence, but not for long.

  I do not lie, the hated voice smoothly said. The woman's cancered. As you might have noted, she's far beyond the skill of any doctor—but perhaps not beyond the Art of the greatest wysard of Markul. The greatest living, I should say.

  Ryel remembered what Kjal of Elecambron had imparted to him; remembered, and forgot to breathe. "Tell me your name, daimon."

  The voice laughed at him. Patience, sweet eyes. Rather than rudely questioning, you should thank me for giving you the chance to reach your mama in time. The woman has, from the looks of her, a month of life left.

  Ryel could hardly speak, stifled with the heaviness of the air and the still greater burden of his anger. "I scorn this ploy of yours, whatever you are."

  As you wish, the voice drawlingly replied. For my own part, I hardly care whether the woman lives or dies. You've already been the death of he that you so cloyingly called ithradrakis, dearer than father—now's your mother's turn.

  Never had Ryel felt so helplessly enraged. "Go and be damned, slave of darkness!" he shouted. As if in complete obedience the air lightened, and he was again able to breathe freely. Drawing a starved draught of air, he sank down in front of the Glass, that now reflected nothing.

  He had never used his Glass save in service of the Art, lest his powers weaken through contact with the World. Always it was Edris who had sought to view the World, and who would later tell Ryel what he had seen. But Edris was dead.

  I will prove you a liar, thing of shadow, Ryel thought; and aloud he said, "Risma, the banner of the Triple Star. The yat of Mira, my mother."

  The surface of the glass shimmered and dissolved, until it seemed that Ryel looked through a window into a circular chamber walled in thick hangings covered with embroidered designs. On the low bed a woman lay—the same woman he had seen before his Glass, in the same gown, her face dra
wn with the same torment. At her side another woman knelt, an old woman with her gray braids straggling from a scarf.

  "Anthea," Ryel whispered. "My mother's nurse, still alive."

  "Poor lamb," the crone said in a voice that quavered even more with tears than with age, "I cannot bear to give you pain, but your dressing must be changed." And she gently began to unfasten the front of Mira's gown.

  "No," Ryel whispered. But he kept his eyes fixed on the scene within the Glass, his hands clenched on either side of the frame.

  Mira gave a desperate gasp despite the old woman's tenderness; and in a throe of agony she twitched away, and the bodice of her gown fell open.

  Ryel cried out furious denial, but nothing lessened the horror of his mother's affliction, more loathsome to his sight even than before. Sickened and stunned, the wysard turned away; and when he at last regained the strength to look back, the image in the Glass had vanished.

  "Was this another ruse of yours, shadow-monster?" Ryel shouted to the air. But nothing answered him; and he beat his fists against the steely surface of the unreflecting Glass, his eyes burning like red fire, until he was bruised and breathless.

  "I can't lose you, too," he whispered. "I will not."

  He had felt guilty sorrow two years before, when he had learned of Yorganar's death—a death such as every Steppes bannerman prayed for, swift and without suffering and in the full accomplishment of his years, his neck cleanly broken by a throw from an overspirited horse. For Edris he had shrieked and thrashed until Lady Serah came to rub his temples with oil of mandragora, uttering frantic spells until he finally quieted and slept. And if his mother were indeed sick, and died through his neglect, he would not be able to survive his grief. "It will kill me," he whispered.

  The air thickened and slowed.

  Such extravagance of sorrow, the hated voice sneered. Such filial devotion. Your mama would be proud.

  Furious, Ryel did not reply, but leapt to his feet and went to his bedchamber. The voice pursued him, teasingly.

  Ah, we are angry. We refuse to speak .

  Ryel clenched his teeth, and stared into his mirror, and muttered a word. At once his shaven head began to darken, covering itself with thick hair, straight and black. When the hair reached well past his shoulders, Ryel said another word that stopped the growth.

  Very good indeed, young blood, the voice cooed. Much better.

  Still ignoring the voice, Ryel uttered a word that faintly bearded his smooth face.

  Excellent, breathed the voice. Most virile. Why this charming metamorphosis?

  "You know why."

  Where will you travel?

  "You know where."

  The voice grew cloyingly, mockingly sweet. The Aqqar is wide, and Risma far. You may not get to your dear mama in time. But I could help you. I can—

  Ryel spat at the Glass. "You can go back to the hell you came from. I won't need your help."

  A laugh, hysterical and shrill. Then the oppression lifted.

  *****

  Naked one came into Markul, and naked one was constrained to leave it. Ryel would be able to take nothing with him that he had acquired in the City—no books or talismans, none of his fine robes or other rich possessions, not even the plain gold rings in his ears and on his fingers. Nor did he greatly care. But it wrung him to have to part with Edris' mantle, and Edris' sword. He gathered the cloak to his heart in a long embrace, rubbing his cheek across the warm nap, remembering what his kinsman had once said concerning it.

  "Since you keep badgering, whelp, I'll tell you." Edris swathed the red-purple mantle more securely around him, for they stood together upon the walls and the winter wind blew strong. His action was not prompted by any reaction to the cold; the icy mist was hardening into swirls of snow, but Edris could not have been less perturbed had his bare feet been shod to the knee in fleece and felt. "It's a soldier's cloak. It belonged to a Northern captain that the army called Warraven, because he lived to fight and he was swarthy as a crow." Edris' long eyes slitted with memory. "One of the deadliest bladesmen in all the North—a fact I know only too well, because my left ribs bear a deep remembrance of his skill. When I arrived in Markul and learned to command the air, the first thing I ordered my srihs to do was steal his cloak, just as I had them bring my sword as soon as I learned the trick."

  Ryel smiled, remembering the Steppes custom between warriors, how close friends would wear one another's clothes—most often a shirt, but frequently enough a cloak—as a sign of their bond. Ryel himself had done so with his play-brother Shiran, before leaving Risma. "You must have admired this Warraven very much," he said.

  "I did indeed. He damned near killed me." Edris shot Ryel a suspicious glance out of the end of his eye, wrapping himself inexorably in the red-purple cloth less for warmth than for surety. "Don't tell me you want this too, as well as my sword."

  "Kinsman, I never—"

  "You're welcome to both when I'm dead and gone—but not before."

  "Then may I wait forever."

  "I'll try to make sure that you do, brat. Go on indoors--you're turning blue out here."

  Ryel folded that memory carefully into the tyrian web, and set the cloak aside; took up the Kaltiri tagh and slowly unsheathed it, reading character by exquisite character the words that ran like scrolled fire down the brilliant double-edged blade.

  "Keener than lover's hunger,

  Sharp as a king's despair,

  Fell as a wysard's fury,

  Coward and cruel, beware!

  Turning to water the wicked,

  Heavy as haunted land,

  Lighter than air am I lifted,

  Fire in a hero's hand."

  Those verses were Ryel's doggerel approximation of the distichs written in the hidden language of the Fraternity of the Sword, a Northern cult of great antiquity. Edris had become a Swordbrother during his years as a warrior, when he fought as a mercenary of the Dominor of Hryeland against the White Barbarians. In accordance with the Fraternity's commandment he had forever after kept its ceremonials and its speech a secret even to Ryel. The young wysard had only divined the Fraternity's language by accident in his tenth Markulit year, while reading the history of the first lords of Elecambron. To his surprise their ancient runes had proven virtually identical to those on Edris' sword. He would have told his uncle of his discovery, but an inexplicable reluctance, a dislike of admitting himself an infringer into hard-won privilege, had continually prevented him.

  Ryel raised the blade in both hands, touching his brow to it. The cold steel stung like a wound. Sheathing the tagh slowly, he lapped it in the cloak and laid it at the foot of his bed. After a final mirror-glance at his new self, he left the room and strode out of his house, leaving the door unlocked, and swiftly descended the black stone stairs that zigzagged level by level down to the western gate. A cold drizzle had begun to fall, but he did not feel it. Softly though he trod, nonetheless the quick ears of the Markulit brotherhood heard, and many looked out their windows to watch the Overreacher pass. Some left their houses and followed, sensing what was to come.

  At the western gate Ryel stood, and uttered the opening-spell. With a recalcitrant shriek of metal stronger than any steel the great portals turned on their hinges, and at that noise so seldom heard a throng began to gather, watching for what would next occur, questioning Ryel to no avail. Lady Serah was among the crowd, and she alone did not ask why he was leaving.

  "So. You took my advice after all."

  At Serah's words the wysard shook his head. "When I declared earlier today that no woman could draw me from this City, I erred. My mother is very ill, and needs me."

  Others heard him, and many were scornful of so slight and foolish a reason for abandoning the life of the Art; but Ryel took no notice of them. He was only too mindful, however, of Lady Serah's questioning gaze and words.

  "How could you have known she was sick?"

  "I saw her in my Glass," Ryel answered, not meeting his Art-sister's eyes
, which could pierce when they chose. "Since I must take nothing with me from Markul, allow me to present you with these, my dear sister." He unfastened the circlets from his ears and drew off his rings, and gave them to Serah; then took her hands and touched them to his brow. She twined her fingers around his own as her beryl-green eyes met his, no longer with their wonted irony.

  "It is imperative that you speak with Lady Srin," she said, her voice low and urgent.

  Ryel shook his head. "But I cannot, sister. I make for Risma, not Almancar, and will return to this City as soon as my mother has been restored to health."

  "Will you? I wonder. But no matter what passes, good fortune be yours, my lord brother. I will look after your house until your return, whenever that may be."

  "You have my thanks, sister."

  "Then show it." Cat-quick, Serah slipped her arms around his neck and drew him down to her, kissing his mouth. "I've wanted to do that for years." Smiling with her old deviltry, she ran a swift hand over his chin. "I like your new looks, by the way."

  Ryel smiled in return. Then he began to ungird his robe, but paused abashed. Lady Serah at once understood.

  "Come, you gawkers," she said to the watching crowd. "We'll climb upon the walls and watch our young brother's going, even as twelve years ago we witnessed his coming."

  The Steppes modesty that Ryel had learned as a boy he had never outgrown despite all the knowledge he'd gained in Markul, and he blushed to strip before a watching crowd. Thankful for Serah's discretion, he waited until everyone had begun to climb the many stairs to the ramparts, then cast off his Markulit garb in haste.