The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  Ryel felt a little twinge of pride, but still raised a brow. "Nelora is only a girl of fourteen, if I reckon her years rightly."

  "Tell her that. And she's no cloud-witted child, believe me, but so learned at her age that the elders marvel at her."

  Ryel leaned forward, interested. "So she's bookish, then, and gentle?"

  Shiran flung back his head and laughed. "Hardly. Did you see her playing at kriy a-horseback with the boys—and winning—you'd think her neither. And with that tongue of hers, she doesn't need a dagger. Half wild she is, and self-willed, and fair as one born of your mother must be." But then Shiran ceased smiling, and spoke the words Ryel had seen hiding in his eyes all along, words the wysard had been dreading. "I do wrong to throw away your time this idly, Ry. You should see to your mother at once."

  Again Ryel heard the unnamed voice. Its cruel taunting. "Then she is…"

  "In deepest need of all the physician's skill you learned in Fershom Rikh. I suppose you are here for that cause, but I wonder how you knew--"

  "I can't stay," Ryel said abruptly, already turning Jinn's head toward the yats.

  Shiran nodded understanding. "May your doctor's arts help her. And when we next talk, may I hear of her cure."

  "You will, ilandrakis."

  The word Ryel had used was an eloquent, cherished one on the Steppes, meaning dearer than brother. At the sound of it, Shiran reached out. "Let this be greeting instead of farewell." And he bent from the saddle and caught Ryel about the neck, pressing his right cheek against that of his friend's. "Our faces were smooth when last we took leave of each other, and now we meet again, grown and bearded. Long years, play-brother."

  Ryel returned the gesture with his whole heart. The two friends parted, and Ryel rode on to the encampment. As he neared the yats, a screaming crowd of dogs and children swarmed around Jinn's legs, but the wysard made no attempt to scatter them; the sight of shaggy hounds and red-cheeked little faces was too much of a novelty after petless, childless Markul. He merely quieted the urchins with a few calming-words, to which his mare added some kicks that sent mongrels scudding and shrieking in all directions. Because he had passed the sentinel and was therefore a friend to the banner, Ryel was not otherwise hindered as he rode through the encampment, although many paused to scan his face or admire his horse.

  They think they know me, he thought as he acknowledged their nods and waves. The old ones who smile at me remember the lad who left to become a physician and study with the great doctors at Fershom Rikh; but did they realize that a lord adept of Markul rode among them, every hand now raised in greeting would be hurling stones.

  In his admiration of the green infinity of steppe he had forgotten how rough life was among the yats. Forgotten the dirt and the din, the compacted miasma of meat seared by fire, of hot spices, horses, human sweat, the gritty reek of dust and smoke. The noisy hordes of children, and gangs of truculent dogs. Markul had taught him the luxuries of peace and cleanliness, however sparely he had elected to live there, and now he could not help wondering why his mother chose still to dwell among the Elhin Gazal when she might freely return to her native city of Almancar, the fairest in the World.

  Mindful of ancient custom, he rode to the center of the encampment where the banner of the Triple Star was fastened to a tall slim mast in the midst of a clearing, its azure and gold silk straining at full length in the brisk spring wind. At the foot of the mast a simple wooden shrine held a burner of incense and various small offerings—wildflowers, copper money, and delicate seashells and fishes made of stone. The latter tokens were very rare, carefully pried out of secret places in the rock by horseman's knives. Bending from the saddle Ryel took up one of the shells and studied its fanned ridges a moment, remembering the old tales of his tribe. One told of how gods had carved the shells in their long millennia of idleness before man was created; another story even more fantastic, which none but the tiniest children believed, spoke of a great ocean that had once covered all the land.

  Ryel turned the shell about in his fingers, his eyes fixed on the infinite green of the Steppes but his thoughts filling with another sea of vast and restless blue, splashing and foaming against the walls of Markul; and then the flashing glance of eyes bluer than any sea, azure with a live tint of violet. At that last memory he flinched, and hastened to complete the ritual of return, one performed by every bannerman after a journey. Bowing his head to the flag, he waved some of the incense-smoke first toward his face, then toward the four directions, invoking their gods; then touched the back of his hand to his brow, murmuring the ancient words of greeting to the protective deities of the phratri. These ceremonies done, he straightened, and turned Jinn's head toward his mother's yat.

  He had recognized his family's yat-compound at once, pitched at some distance from the rest of the encampment and looked after by servants working hard at their various chores. Radiating from its central tent were five pavilions that served as sleeping-chambers and storerooms, while smaller yats for guests, guards, and servants stood somewhat further off—an arrangement once unique in Rismai, but now much imitated by those that could afford it. The yat-compound was but one of Mira's many successful attempts to confer at least a hint of her homeland's elegance to the uncivil Steppes. Other experiments were less happily realized: Ryel noted the struggling rose-bushes on either side of the yat's main entrance, and he recalled the constant efforts his mother had made to bring to this endless grassland some remembrance of the bright gardens of her native Almancar: the little orange-trees she cosseted to no avail in blue-and-white pots, the sweet herbs she sowed in neat patches never strongly enough fenced against marauding dogs and hares, the heaven-blue morning-glories she loved and ever tried, with little success, to wreathe about the yat-door. The memories distressed Ryel for the first time.

  Constantly you sought to soften this hard life, my mother. But the roses always died, and the herbs never flourished, and the morning-glories would not bloom, and you would sigh and remember the flowering vines and sweet teeming greenery of your Almancarian girlhood, and my heart would ache for you. Neither of us belonged here.

  Still, he could never once recall her complaining of her lot, any more than he could ever recall her spending her time idly. All of the many books she owned, and which Yorganar deemed useless clutter, were good and beautiful. Often Ryel would ask her to read aloud in her sweet voice, or listen to her as she sang. Often he would sing with her; and when she played the faldh, the soft-toned cithern of courtly Almancar, he would accompany her on his krusghan, the Steppes flute known for its soft carrying tones. The skill of her hands was marvelous, and her exquisite embroidery mingled Steppes designs with Almancarian, creating mythical beasts, fantastic flowers, unique ornament. No one else had the secret of those delicate sweets she made, lakh and other rarities that seemed the food of paradise.

  Partly because she insisted, partly because it amused him, Yorganar had taught his young wife how to ride, and soon Ryel's mother had become proverbial among the Steppes for her bravery and skill on horseback. Although it was not unusual for young girls of the Rismai to become avid horsewomen, that activity virtually always ceased after marriage; and some of Ryel's most pleasant childhood memories were those in which he and Mira galloped together across the endless plains, she in bannerman's gear with her black hair streaming behind her, her cheeks flushed with the joy of exertion, her blue eyes glowing.

  But now as Ryel neared his mother's yat, all he could remember was that Mira had never once looked upon her husband with any feeling deeper than gentle resignation. In the next moment he recalled the way she had gazed upon Edris that winter's night of so many changes, and the way Edris had returned that gaze. Ryel felt a wrenching qualm of sorrow for his mother, pity and regret for a delicate nature suborned to a dullard husband, a rough people, a harsh land.

  Then the wysard's breath came fast, for he saw that the largest yat's entrance framed a woman, tall and girl-slender. Like a queen enthroned she half-recl
ined in a chair, instead of sitting upon a carpet in the Rismai fashion. Her night-hued tresses, only a little touched with silver, were arranged in the Almancarian fashion of many plaits and tresses, and her garments were Almancarian likewise, heavy silk and fine embroidery falling in a thousand narrow folds. She was more fair than many another woman half her age, but her cheeks were pale and her eyes and lips were taut with pain. She lifted her face to the sunlight as if it were the last she would ever feel.

  Ryel flung himself off his horse and fell to his knees before her, pressing the backs of her hands against his forehead to receive their blessing. "My lady mother." He kissed her fingers, that were fully as cold as his own, and breathed the slightly bitter fragrance that clung to them. You're drugged, he thought. Drugged strongly with hrask, which means that your pain is great, but your doctors good.

  At first she had recoiled, breathlessly startled. But now she gazed down at him, uncertainty giving way to recognition. "My little son," she said wonderingly, in the palace dialect of her native city, their shared and secret language. "My boy-child, now grown so tall." She reached out and laid a hand upon his head, caressing his hair. But her fingers trembled, and her voice was as faint as her smile. "Ah, Ryel, I longed for this. At the sight of you my heart beat so strong—"

  She paled, and swayed. Ryel caught her in his arms. "My mother, you are grievously sick."

  "Not now," she said; but he could barely hear her. "Not now. My thanks to every god that I saw you again before I breathed my last--"

  "No," he said, whispering into the soft braidings of her hair. "No words."

  "But you must hear them. You must know that I am—"

  Ryel would not hear. "You are ill, yes. And I have come to heal you."

  "Too late, Ryel."

  "I said no." And Ryel lifted her up and carried her inside the yat before she could protest, finding his way at once to the curtained chamber where her bed was; and in her bed he set her, and knelt at her side.

  "And now, my mother, I will consider how best to cure you."

  Mira gazed upon him tenderly, but shook her head. "I am beyond any physician's cure, Ryel. The doctors have done all they could, save cut me. I would not let them."

  "Good. But I know they drug you daily; your skin's redolent of it. You have cancer of the breast."

  She stared at him. "How could you know that?"

  "I saw your malady in a vision. Because of it I am here." A wave of cold passed over him as he spoke, because he had almost chosen not to believe that vision, sent by the voice; had almost not come to this place, but stayed in his City.

  "You do not ask after Yorganar."

  Ryel had not thought of him until this moment. "I am aware that he died three years ago. Edris told me when it happened."

  "Edris." Mira's pale cheeks colored momentarily. "Did you mourn for Yorganar?"

  "Should a son not mourn his father? Did you not mourn your husband?"

  Mira gazed long on her son; yet her look was strange. "I never loved man but your father, Ryel." Again she put her hand to her breast; her beautiful features contorted. "The drug's power is waning," she whispered.

  "I will give you more, and better."

  "Some hurts there are that no medicines can touch, my own. You think my cancer gnaws me, but a greater pain has fed upon my heart these many years, years enough to number those of your life …"

  Ryel bent near, alarmed. "Let me only—"

  She clasped her hands above her heart, desperately. "Never. Have you not seen it already in your vision—a loathsome growth, ulcerated and monstrous? I have done great wrong in my life, yes; but it is hard to endure, this rotting alive. This pain. This horrible pain—"

  The wysard would have risen and gone to search Jinn's saddlebags for stronger drugs, but Mira halted him. "No. No more. Only wrap me in your cloak, and I will be well."

  "But my mother—"

  "Your cloak. Only that."

  Ryel enveloped her in the thick tyrian cloth, and she lay back strangely calmed and smiling. "It's warm," she whispered. "So warm." And she caressed its heavy web, and lifted a fold to her face, breathing as if she scented healing balm.

  As her eyes closed, instantly the wysard said a word that made Mira fall into sleep. Then he fastened shut the hangings of the entrance, returned to his mother's side, and again knelt. All around was silence, for the dense hangings and layered carpets muted every sound within the yat and without. Ryel lit the lamps, and then, keenly feeling the chill in the room, he piled more kulm into the little tiled Almancarian stove, one of several that heated the various chambers of the tent-dwelling. A moment he looked about him as he warmed himself to readiness, and with enstrengthening pleasure contemplated the embroidery that covered every visible vestige of cloth with glowing designs that gentled barbaric Steppes angularity with soft Almancarian grace—every inch of it the work of his mother's hands, begun when she came to Yorganar's yat as a bride, increased an opulent hundredfold over the twelve years of Ryel's absence

  The wysard next threw in a handful of dust onto the fire—feia powder, taken from Lady Haldwina's gifts—and at once a heady scent, not sweet but redolent of summer's earth, impregnated the air. In her sleep Mira breathed deeply of it.

  "Good," Ryel murmured. "Let it take you." It's taking me as well , he thought. Blocking out the World, leading me deep into my mind's widest reaches, to my real strength.

  Outside was strong daylight with Dagar not yet abroad, if Pukk was to be trusted. But Ryel did not greatly care either way, for he would rely on his Mastery to work his mother's cure, not the services of his srihs. He cradled both his mother's hands in his own and bowed his head over them, pressing the cold fingers against his brow.

  "Give unto me the death within you," he whispered. "The death that thinks it owns you. Give it to me, and let me make it suffer."

  Closing his eyes he uttered a word, and felt his being slip away from his body; and suddenly he was slammed into icy blackness sharp as knives. Excruciating as the pain was, it was yet worsened by Ryel's realization that he'd felt it once before. This was not his first time in the emptiness. He had stood in the same place almost two months ago; and he had never felt such horror or such fear before as then.

  But I'm not afraid now, he thought. It can do no more to me than it has done.

  There in the echoing abyss he stood on a narrow bridge that linked him to his mother body and mind. Naked and unarmed he stood, knowing he must not look down, but straight on into the blackness. In that moment he was mindful of the half-mocking words of Edris.

  "Here's a little rhyme for you, whelp—never forget it," his kinsman had said. "'If there be doubt, the Art will find it out.' Any flinching, and you'll fail. Always. Either give it your all or leave it alone."

  Half-mockingly spoken, yes. But behind those dark eyes Ryel had seen a sternness that made him tremble. "I will," he had replied, firmly quelling his fear, facing his kinsman with lifted chin and steady gaze. "I will."

  And now Ryel faced the blackness with the same level defiance, with his entire determination, his complete self committed to the fight. Swiftly and boldly he spoke the needful spells, those that would destroy the cancer and restore the corrupt flesh to wholeness. His words reverberated a thousandfold before silence suddenly enclosed him, heartlessly cold. He stood breathless, straining like drawn wire.

  And then it came.

  His skin—the invisible integument of his disembodied being, not his shell of flesh now left a million leagues behind—began to tingle, then burn. And then the cancer engulfed him in a crawling swarm of fanged and clawed clots of slime. Taken aback by the onslaught, Ryel struggled appalled.

  I can't fight this. It's too strong. By every god—

  Strangled by overwhelming doom he thrashed and writhed, but all in vain. The foul tusks and fiery talons rent and tore him until he could no longer shriek, but dropped throttled into the abyss.

  Chapter Four

  Out of the blackness the voice
he loathed came like a kick.

  So, sweet eyes. You're not invincible after all. What was it you said to her—'give your death to me, that I may make it suffer'? You arrogant imbecile.

  Even though he lacked material form, Ryel still ached and smarted bitterly. "Where am I?"

  In a safe place, thanks to me. I had thought you'd be stronger. Your life hung by a thread.

  "Is she alive?"

  Yes, damn her.

  "And healed?"

  To my inutterable disgust, yes .

  Ryel felt a surge of strength. "Then my Mastery prevailed."

  The voice grew furious. Your Mastery, it sneered. Fool and double fool, I saved your idiot skin. Your sorry Art was only strong enough to rid the woman of her cancer; without me, your heart would have stopped forever.

  "I had no idea how much my Art would be lessened by the World."

  Lessoned, you mean. I hope you learned humility from this. You might thank me.

  "What made you come to my rescue?"

  I have my reasons, and you'll learn them soon enough. But how idiotic, to risk your sweet young life so that an old woman might grow yet older. Especially when according to your dirty land's laws, she should have been worm's meat long ago.

  Disembodied though he was, Ryel shook at that. "Why? For what cause?"

  The voice laughed, sly and greasy. Guess it, my arrogant beauty.

  The wysard comprehended, and grew furious. "You lie. My mother has been blameless all her life. She is—"

  The voice howled giggling. A common trollop! Edris didn't need to force her, oh no. She slipped between his sheets all willing, under the very roof where her husband snored oblivious. And the bastard fruit of their bed-sport became Markul's youngest lord adept, Ryel the Pure. How do you think you could have grown so great so young, fool, had not a wysard made you? And now that you have the truth, go thank your mama. Go.