"You're hot, Ryel," she whispered. "Hot and hard."
He seized her, pulling her close. "And you're—" he started away as if burnt. "You're—cold. You're like ice."
"Warm me, then. Fill me with fire."
But he had none. "The water's…freezing." It chilled him to the soul, despite the thick bed of embers glowing just under the crystal. He struggled out and threw on his robe, staring down at the woman in the water—and saw that now the water was no longer opaque turquoise, but a crystal that concealed nothing. "Get out."
"Not yet." She stretched to the full, tauntingly. As she did so the water began to simmer and steam.
Ryel took a step backward. "By every god…" He caught up his robe, and girt it about him. "Who sent you?"
She arched her back, and her breasts broke above the boiling water-line. "Someone you know, Ryel Mirai. One that loves you well."
Instantly Ryel thought of Edris, and went colder yet. "He would never..."
She laughed that meaningless shrill peal again. "No, no. Someone far greater." Lifting her knees, she opened them to the steam, tauntingly shameless. "Is this too hot for you?"
At the joining of her legs she glowed white gold and hot wild rose. Under the crystalline water the fine silk hair waved like a sea-creature's around the soft split of flesh. Her perfume rose on the silver mist of the bath—a strange fragrance made of a hundred scents of which Ryel could not name even one, half of which repelled despite the heady seduction of the rest.
He took up the flask of essence he'd used before, and would have poured it into the water, but she dashed it away with pettish coquetry. It shattered, and the wysard saw one of the shards drive deep into her hand. He gave a cry, but she did not; and the blood he sought to staunch never flowed.
"You had to have cut yourself," he said. "Let me look."
She laughed, and snatched her hand from his, and closed her thighs around it. "Go ahead. See where I ache, Lord Ry."
He loathed her. And he could not bear his hunger. "Get up, damn you."
She only laughed. "Make me."
Braving the scalding water, he roughly lifted her out. Her weight took him aback—dead weight, slippery and burning hot, so hot he could not hold her long. Carrying her as fast as he could into the next room, he dropped her onto his bed, dripping as she was. All the while she laughed that infuriating laugh, and to stop her mouth he kissed her. The thrust of her tongue in his mouth came like a jolt from some malignant fish, and her lips clung like leeches to a wound. Twining her arms around his neck, she pulled him down with irresistible strength, rolling him under her. As he lay breathless and ribsore from the clutch of her knees, her hands ripped his robe open. Under her clutching fingers his stiff flesh throbbed as if flayed with white-hot knives, and he gave a groan, clutching her hips to force her down upon him.
Her changeable eyes had turned complete black. She laughed like a madwoman, and lowered her body to engulf his. But suddenly her laughter changed to filthy cursings, and her knees' grip loosened, and Edris' voice came like the boom of a storm.
"Get off of him, demon."
Seething with frustrated lust, Ryel struck at his kinsman with all the strength he had left, but Edris shoved him away like a tiresome child and caught the woman by her long white-gold hair, dragging her from the bed.
"Who sent you? Tell me the name, hell-whore."
The woman shrieked with laughter, and lunged for Edris' eyes. He caught her wrists, and for a little while they struggled, she far the stronger, until Edris shouted out an unjointed string of syllables that Ryel had never heard before. At first the woman's beautiful features contorted with fury, but then her face went blank, and her prismatic eyes rolled upward, and she dropped with all her weight. The sharp crack of bone brought Ryel fully to his senses at last.
"You killed her," he stammered.
Edris rounded on him, seizing both his shoulders. "You damned fool, Ryel. Do you have any idea of the danger you were in?"
Ryel was more furious still. "You killed her. You murdering—"
The back of Edris' swift heavy hand knocked the words from his mouth. "Quit squealing, and wake up. Fool, she was already dead."
Ryel was utterly numb save for his throbbing cheek. "No. She couldn't have been…"
"Dead, I tell you. A stinking corpse, animated by a malignant srih. Doubtless sent by one of Elecambron, for no Ormalan has this kind of skill."
Suddenly marrowless, Ryel sank onto the bed's edge, staring down at the woman's sprawled silent form. "But why?"
"I can think of several reasons, all of them vile. Did you enter her? Answer me!"
Ryel shook his head, bitterly shamed. "You gave me no time."
"Thank all the gods. Whatever it was wanted your seed, and probably your death afterward."
"But…why?"
Edris' voice hammered away at him. "Couldn't you tell what she was? Didn't any of your training alert you?"
Ryel felt his lips twitching, and bit them hard.
"What of her hot and cold, fool? Her changeable eyes? Look here." Edris lifted one of her eyelids, revealing pure white and deep lapis-blue. "This is the real color."
"They were like opals. But then they turned black. All black."
Edris seemed to quell a shudder. "I saw it. That should've been enough to stop anyone but a fool like you." For some moments he contemplated the woman's pale nakedness with impassive deep scrutiny. "Barely an hour dead. And young—twenty-five at most. It's hard that she should have ended thus. Harder still the heart that could have contrived her death." He took the limp white hand in his, and now held it up, his anger rising once more. "Look here. Cut to the bone, yet not a drop of blood. And you still couldn't tell? How could you be such a—"
Ryel could not bear to be called that name again. "Who was she?" he broke in. "Who sent her? And why?"
"None of that matters." Edris reached for a blanket and covered the dead form. "I think you're going to have to be careful from now on, lad. If anything in the least untoward occurs, I want to know of it at once."
Ryel gave a bitter laugh. "I'll leave my door wide open, next time."
Edris frowned. "Watch your tongue, boy. And for my sake and your mother's love, have a care. This scheme wasn't expected to go awry."
"It was Michael of Elecambron, wasn't it?" Ryel grabbed Edris' arm. "Could it have been?"
The tall man shook him off like a bug. "Don't plague me, whelp. I can't believe Michael Essern would do a thing like this, even as bad as he is. But keep your eyes open…damn it, you'd better."
For the first time Ryel heard fear vibrating beneath Edris' anger, and it awed him. "Even as you wish, kinsman," he murmured. "I'll be watchful, I promise you."
Edris drew a long breath, and his next words came with his usual irony. "See that you are, whelp. Now, what about this corpse? We should burn it."
"No," Ryel said instantly. "Her death was not of her own making, and she said she was a sister in the Art. She belongs in the Jade Tower."
Edris seemed impressed, although faintly. "Have it your way, whelp." He took up his fallen cloak. "We'll have her taken there tomorrow. For now, get some rest; she'll keep." He made no attempt to smother a yawn. "I'm going back to bed." And he would have turned away, but Ryel caught him by the shoulder.
"Edris. Wait." He hesitated. "You—" He dropped his eyes. "How did you know I was in danger?"
"I heard you."
"But how? Our houses are wide apart."
Edris smiled, faintly and oddly hesitant, like his next words. "Do you not remember the Steppes saying—'blood hearkens unto blood'?"
"Yes," Ryel said. "But that saying applies to closer kinship than ours."
"Oh. Does it indeed." Edris' dark eyes dwelt on Ryel's for some time. "Give the credit to the Art, then. Let go of me, brat."
But Ryel would not be kept from taking Edris' hands and bending his brow to them. "I owe to you all that I am, ithradrakis. I will always be somewhere in your debt."
/> At the Almancarian word Edris made no reply, and pulled his hands free; but then he laid one of them on Ryel's head in a hurried embarrassed gesture half caress, half blessing. "Enough, lad. Let's see if you can stay out of trouble for the rest of the night at least."
But when Edris had left, Ryel dressed in warm robes, then calmed himself with some minutes' intense meditation. He gathered up the corpse, now much lighter in his arms than it had been, and carried it to his surgery, laying it out on the granite slab in the middle of the cold windowless room. Since the srih had departed, the flesh gleamed white as marble in the lantern-light, too coldly inert for any lust. But its beauty finally glowed clean and whole.
Despite his Art-driven dispassion, Ryel could not help feeling deep sorrow for this unknown woman, done to death so young. You were of rare intelligence and attractions, surely, he thought as he rolled up his sleeves. It shows in the refinement of your face. The daimon that mocked your lost soul with its lubricity spoiled your charms worse than any disease. Had your lover known how much, he'd have never given you over to death. For your sake someday I will find out who he is, and make him suffer. But not now.
He bent, and touched his lips to the smooth white forehead. Then he took up a scalpel, and began an incision from the navel down.
*****
Ryel shook that memory from him, along with his skin's crawling, and spoke sharply into the air of the night.
"You sent her. Didn't you, Dagar."
But no voice answered him. Awhile the wysard waited. Then, observing that the hour had advanced and he was utterly alone on the great road, he pressed his heel to Jinn's side. The horse leapt into a tearing gallop, and Ryel was borne away as if he gripped a whirlwind between his knees.
The next night Ryel spent in the lands surrounding Almancar's eastern gate. Well within sight the city glowed vast and silent. Above all the other buildings the palaces of the imperial Dranthene towered in the midst, raised upon great platforms of stone. Not a single wisp of cloud flecked the sky, and the risen moon wrought fair alchemy on the gleaming spires.
A city so wondrous deserved fair surroundings, but all around Almancar was wasteland dotted with scattered ruins. Once there had been orchards full of fruit, and great estates of rich men, very long ago. It was said that a wysard wrought that desolation—a sorcerer who demanded in marriage one of the imperial daughters, and was refused. In revenge he had cursed the land around the city, and made it barren with his Art. But he had no power over the Gray Sisterhood where the jewel-mines were, and because of those mines Almancar's folk were the world's richest. At every hour caravans came and went at the eastern and western gates, bringing provisions and luxuries into the city. The northern portal was used only for conveying the dead to the great necropolis of that quadrant, which was famed for its splendid mausoleums and vicious ghosts.
Ryel might easily have ridden the few miles remaining in his journey, but he required time in meditation to gather his strength for the morrow. He had chosen the arcaded portico of a ruined mansion as his shelter, and now sat cross-legged before his chal-fire, his hair tied back and naked to the waist, savoring the unaccustomed pleasures of the night's warmth on his skin, and steady silver radiance. As he had since leaving Risma, he made his camp like a simple bannerman, knowing that it would only too probably be useless to call upon his srihs for any service. He was in fact pleased with himself for requiring so little for his comfort, for so quickly readjusting to the life of the Steppes. After long riding, plain horseman's rations tasted fully as delicious as any banquet commanded from the air, and Edris' cloak made the softest of couches. Tranquilly he sipped his chal, giving his mind over completely to the task ahead, and to she that had drawn him here.
I wonder why I care so much, he thought. I saw you only once, in a daimon-sent vision, and even then you were masked. Why have I come to your help, when I might have returned to my City? It's not as if I loved you.
"I know you do not. I would not wish you to."
A beautiful voice, soft and low and sweet, had spoken in answer to his thoughts—spoken in the most melodious language in the World, the palace tongue of the City of Gold. But Ryel snatched up his sword and leapt to his feet nevertheless.
Out of the shadows glided a slim form, white and black under the moon—a human form, but translucent. "Lay your weapon by," it gently implored. "I cannot harm you. I would not."
Wary and trustless Ryel regarded the apparition. "What are you?" he asked, using the same language as his sudden visitor, but far less gently.
The slender spectre glided closer, until it stood opposite the wysard's kulm-fire. Ryel felt his pulse fail.
"Not you," he whispered. "Not again."
The Sovrena Diara looked on him with surprise. "Again?"
You were masked the first time. But I know you now."
He sensed rather than saw her, in the faint gleam of moon and fire; discerned that now she was clad in a single film of diaphanous white without a single jewel, and that her silken black hair fell unplaited to her elbows. The features of her face he could discern only if he beheld them indirectly, as one views certain star-clusters in the night sky, yet as the stars they were fair and bright, and as with stars Ryel stood awed and wondering.
But she was speaking. "You saw me masked, you say?"
"Yes, in a vision," Ryel somehow managed to reply. "But only the upper half of your face."
"A rich mask?"
"Yes. Covered in jewels, and winged at the brows."
"Ah. Yet another insult." Her voice was weary and sad, now. "Only the courtesans of the Diamond Heaven wear such masks, Ryel Mirai. My captor mocks me, cruelly as always. Shows me how much his slave I am, and to what further debasements he destines me."
The wysard felt the night's heat in his face, and cold anger to his fingertips. "Tell me all you know of your captor, my lady."
She sighed. "I only know that he gives me no rest. Even now he torments me, there in the palace. Makes me tear and bruise and starve myself." She looked toward the silver towers. "So immeasurably distant I feel. From everything."
The wysard took an involuntary step backward, even as his sword fell from his numbed grip. "I address your rai."
She inclined her head, still with her regard fixed on the far towers. "Yes, Lord Ryel. My spirit-self, enclosed in a wraith of my human form."
The night air continued warm, but the wysard felt a chill sweat break out on his chest and back. "Who sent you? How is it you know my name?"
She turned again to him. "I was told."
"By whom?"
"A woman, with powers like to yours."
Ryel came closer. "Serah Dalkith? Srin Yan Tai?"
Diara let him approach, until they were only a few steps apart. "I do not know."
"Why have you appeared to me?"
"I send a message," she answered. "You are not here for my sake alone, Ryel of Markul. Be assured that my captor has designs far larger than the torment of a helpless girl. But nonetheless he delights in giving pain no matter what the degree, and for a long time has lacked that pleasure. Thus he does not miss my spirit's absence now, so rapt he is with my body's torture."
Fury cramped Ryel's insides. "I will not let you suffer another instant." He reached for his shirt, but with a swift gesture she halted him.
"You cannot come to me, Ryel. Not now. You must put yourself in readiness. Tonight you must meditate on the Analects of Khiar."
The Analects were strong precepts against fear. Ryel had last murmured them to himself three months ago, before attempting the spell that had wrought his eyes' darkness and his kinsman's death. "What would you know of Khiar?" he demanded. "How—" racing possibilities halted his tongue.
Diara too fell silent. After a long moment she spoke again. "I know nothing of Khiar. Something put him in my thoughts."
Ryel bowed slightly. "Her, most exalted."
"You see the extent of my ignorance." Her face shimmered a faint smile. "Whatever puts me in mi
nd of Khiar wishes me no harm; I sense that strongly. But I have no time to speak of anything else than my errand, which is this: once you enter the gates of my city, you must meet with my brother, the Sovranel Priamnor. For the past five years he has for private reasons lived in seclusion, never leaving the Eastern Palace. But tomorrow he will join my father in the selection of a physician" She caught her breath as if in pain. "I half hope you aren't chosen. You would see horrors. I'm afraid of how my captor will use me, and ashamed..." she wrung her hands, and turned her face away.
He reached toward her. "Most exalted, if I could only—"
"You cannot…Ry." As she looked round again she said his name so softly that he more felt than heard it, sensing it envelope him like some exquisite scent, some dearly remembered music. "I am glad you do not love me, so glad. My captor would exult in turning that love to loathing, or would kill me outright to give you greater pain, and himself more sport." She trembled. "I do not wish to die, Ryel."
He inclined his head, wrung by the desperate supplication in her voice. With all his Art's strength he willed himself to forget the beauty of her face, the moonlit ravishments revealed by her shift's gossamer. "I promise never to put you in the slightest danger, most exalted."
"Thank you, a thousand times." But then it seemed her voice smiled. "What a pity."
Ryel looked up, astonished. "My lady?"
She was smiling. "It's really too bad. You're so handsome." Her regard slid to his shoulders, his chest, his arms, every glance an appraising caress. "And you look very strong."
He felt himself reddening all over, but somehow replied calmly. "All of that strength is at your service, most exalted."
"Is it. What a pleasant thought." But then her playful smile faded, and she paused as if listening. "I must return, lest my captor suspect."
Ryel had never felt more helpless. "I would do anything to help you here and now. Anything."
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 14
