The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  Suddenly the heap of jewels stirred, the plumes of the lofty crown quivered, and the painted mask twitched. The Sovran sat upright and outraged, sniffing the air. His reddened lips grimaced to reveal bad teeth, and he shrieked.

  "Get that—that monstrosity out of here! Now!"

  Every attendant stiffened, and blankly stared about them. But the soldiers looked from Agenor's trembling finger to the thing it pointed at, and found the offending object arching and glaring on the pale Ormalan's shoulder.

  "Kill the filthy thing," Agenor gasped as he blurted a sneeze, sending his chins juddering. At once the guardsman so commanded tore the cat from its owner despite its deeply-dug claws, then flung the screeching creature out the nearest window. A frantic moment the luckless beast grappled the air before its yowling plummet. Order thus restored, Agenor sank back again into his cushions, peevishly wiping his streaming eyes and nose on his silken sleeve. As if this were a sign, all of his entourage save for the guardsmen genuflected in various degrees of abasement.

  A militant hiss scorched the wysard's ear. "You forget yourself, fellow."

  Alerted by the soldier, Ryel glanced about and saw that all the would-be healers were likewise on their knees, and some even more servile on all fours. Yet no lord adept of Markul, much less a Rismai of the Elhin Gazal, would so demean himself, and Ryel only watched with impassive disregard as the guard who had spoken now drew his sword.

  "How'd you get into the audience-room, Fourth District dog?" the soldier snapped. "Bow down, or be cut down."

  Ryel's sole reply was to second the guard's gesture and lift his chin in defiance. With petulant exasperation the Sovran Agenor peered at the wysard through the great table-diamond that hung from his neck on a chain of gold. "Kill the intruding fool," he said at last with faint disgust and utter indifference, far less energetically than he had ordered the dispatch of the cat. But from the doorway a voice rang out, sweet and clear as Diara's but commandingly male.

  "Soldier, I order you to stop."

  Thus speaking, a young noble strode swiftly forward—clearly a great lord despite the sober plainness of his dress and lack of attendance, for everyone in the assembly bowed more deeply as he approached, and the guard at once lowered his sword.

  The austere young man turned to the gaudy old one, his voice now edged with a hint of accusation. "Sire, I thought we had agreed that I would join you this day in choosing a physician for my sister."

  The Sovran glared squintingly down at his son, forgetting Ryel completely. The wysard seized that opportunity to eclipse himself in the crowd. "Aware as we are of your habit of sleeping until the hour of noon, Sovranel, we had no wish to interrupt your slumbers."

  Contemptuously as this was said, Priamnor Dranthene bowed with impassive calm. "And I thank you for that indulgence, Sire, because I believe it has shown me how the Sovrena my sister may be healed."

  As he looked on, the wysard realized that the rumors he had heard in Risma had been utter falsehood. Far from being sickly or deformed, the Sovranel Priamnor was in the full vigor of his years, which numbered close to the wysard's own. His unadorned robes of dusky blue-purple silk were closer cut to the body than was typical of extravagant Almancarian court dress, the sleeves fitted smoothly over the arms instead of flowing in rippling swathes to the ground, allowing Ryel to take clear note of the disciplined strength betrayed by the shoulders' unpadded breadth, the waist's athletic slimness outlined rather than enforced by the plain silver belt, the straight carriage turning middle height to tallness. Not a single jewel or amulet did the Sovranel wear, which permitted undistracted scrutiny to dwell wholly on the singularity of the face and hands. These, Ryel noted with surprise, were not the wonted Almancarian ivory, but the bronze of one who lived much in the sun. Moreover, Priamnor's night-colored hair was shorn close to his head and his face was clean-shaven and unpainted, both likewise contrary to Almancarian custom. The smooth visage drew its beauty, which was great, as much from the keen intelligence of its expression as from the pure regularity of its features. The wysard marveled at the glowing violet-tinged blue of those eyes, all the bluer for the dark lashes that edged them and sun-darkened face in which they were set. And he marked how even Agenor himself flinched under that calm appraising stare.

  "Explain what you have said, Sovranel," Agenor said as he glanced away.

  Priamnor turned his attention from his father, searchingly scanning the little crowd. When he spoke, it was with manifest reluctance. "I saw my sister in a dream."

  The Sovran shrugged. "What of it? We not only dream, but see visions too sometimes."

  "But I do not, Sire," Priamnor evenly replied. "Which leads me to think that this occurrence may be of import."

  "The gods work arcanely, even through the most hardened of skeptics," Agenor said, though without conviction. "Tell us what you saw, but be brief."

  "I saw my sister as she was when in health," Priamnor said. "I spoke with her, and from her lips learned who might heal her."

  Agenor's own lips, raddled and weak, quirked mirthlessly. "So. The cynic atheist now puts his faith in portents. And who does this vision of yours suggest as the Sovrena's healer?"

  "I was told that he would be among this assembly, Sire."

  "Then find him, if you can," Agenor said. "But for this moment we will make use of our own judgment." The Sovran lifted his quizzing-diamond to his watery eye. "We will have these," he loudly and abruptly said after a momentary inspection of the most flamboyantly clad contenders, and with an imperious spike-nailed finger beckoned the two Ormalans, who approached with leering smiles and bent-kneed bows. "Tell us your names, and your stations."

  Ryel did not need to learn either. He knew their kind. Both were base scum, offscourings of the least of the Four Cities; both addicted to a variety of drugs, obvious from their glassy and protruding eyes—drugs very probably administered by clyster, the Ormalan method of choice for swift stupefaction. The one seemed not a little sorry for the loss of his cat, but the other's joy was gigglingly manifest.

  "Your slaves Rickrasha and Smimir are we, most worshipful," she grinned. She was a plump Turmaronian, citron-skinned and gap-toothed. As she spoke, she patted the oversized chameleon that squatted on her shoulder staring at once toward the ceiling and at the Sovran with its yellow balls of eyes—eyes little different, Ryel remarked, from its owner's. "Great adepts and healers, we. Thousands of cures. Thousands of testimonials." And she brandished a great sheaf of documents.

  Agenor bestowed a brief glance on the certificates. "Adepts, you say? That is well. And where from?"

  "The great and wondrous city of Ormala, most worshipful."

  At the mention of that place only too well known to the World, the Sovran's train murmured alarm. But the ruler of Almancar nodded cool approval from the height of his carrying-chair.

  "Wysards, then. Good. You will possess far more skill, and we hope will enjoy far greater success, than any of these tiresome little quacks." And he cast a disdainful sneer upon the disappointed throng of aspirants before turning back to the Ormalan sorcerers. "But we warn you, others of your brotherhood have tried and failed."

  Smimir smirked. His pallid Northern looks had a rattish cast, and were framed by limp locks of greasy brass-tinted hair. "May I ask who made the attempt, most worshipful?"

  "A witch from the city of Tesba."

  Smimir and Rickrasha exchanged glances, and broke into giggles.

  "Most worshipful," said Rickrasha, her gapped grin wide, "I regret to inform you that Tesba was never known for its greatness. I'm not surprised that it could not produce a healer for your daughter."

  The Sovran's mask-face did not smile in return. "There was an Elecambronian, too, that failed—or rather, we did not allow him to try. He attempted to drug the Sovrena with some deadly concoction, for which we had him summarily put to death."

  Smimir paled to tallow, and Rickrasha to chalk. During their abject silence Agenor Dranthene gestured listlessly to Priamnor. "No
w make your own choice if you must, Sovranel."

  Priamnor did not reply. His jewel-blue eyes had alighted on Ryel, having examined and rejected all other contenders. The crowd parted as he approached the wysard, and the two of them stood face to face. For the first time the Sovranel smiled.

  "Keirai."

  At that smile bestowed with such grace, and that greeting uttered in High Almancarian, Ryel felt a strange yet pleasurable sensation, almost a shudder, travel down his back—a sensation heightened by the celestial scent that wafted from the prince's garments, ineffably sweet. "Keirai d'yash," the wysard replied, bewildered and enthralled.

  But even as he spoke, he felt his face afire at his error. High Almancarian was a language at once exalted and intimate: a ceremonial tongue between strangers, a gentle secret one between friends. Ryel had used to speak it with his mother, and so fluent had he become that he could not fathom why he'd made so gross a lapse of usage now. In his reply to the Sovranel he had involuntarily used the most familiar form of address, a form reserved by law only for use between kinsmen of the blood imperial. His was a grave error if not a capital offense, and the Sovran Agenor was enraged by it.

  "How dare you address one of the imperial Dranthene thus?" the bejeweled old man hissed, his painted face aflame. "We will have you—"

  "He has committed no crime, Sire," the Sovranel broke in, smiling reassurance at Ryel as he spoke.

  Agenor stiffened. "No crime? What, is this fellow known to you then, and of your rank?"

  Priamnor bowed his head. "He is, Sire. In my dream my sister described him so accurately that I recognized him at once. As for his rank, the folk of the Inner Steppes bow down to no one, and consider themselves equal to any station no matter how high."

  Agenor glared through his quizzing-diamond at Ryel, his neck craning as much as it could under his chins. "Steppes?"

  Priamnor Dranthene nodded. "From his dress and his manner—not to mention much of his looks—this man is clearly not of our city, but comes from the southern reaches of bold warriors and fine horses." He turned to the wysard. "Am I not right?"

  Before Ryel could reply, the Sovran Agenor slapped at the air with a impatient hand. "An insolent rout of nomads, those Rismai. We think you intend to affront us with this fellow, Sovranel."

  "I do not, Sire," the prince calmly replied. "Nor do I question your choices, whatever I think of them."

  Agenor snorted. "Yours is a senseless whim."

  Priamnor darted a scornful glance at the Ormalans. "Is it?"

  The Sovran's cheeks purpled under their paint. "We warn you. Choose better, or not at all."

  The Sovranel lifted his chin in a gesture that made Ryel start, so like to his own it was. "I will have this bannerman, or none."

  Agenor shrugged with careless finality. "Let it be none, then."

  Priamnor's gentle features hardened; but before the prince could speak, Ryel interposed, addressing the Sovran.

  "Most exalted, I come at the recommendation of Calantha Diaskiros, votary of Demetropa."

  The wysard did not expect so strong a reaction to so simple a declaration. The Sovran froze like a gaudy god-image, and Priamnor went wan under his bronze.

  "You saw her? You saw Calantha, chief priestess of the Mother-Goddess?"

  Wondering at the sudden change in the Sovran's demeanor, Ryel inclined his head as he answered. "Not an hour ago I spoke with her. She said that her word might have some weight here."

  Agenor Dranthene abruptly motioned to his bearers. "Set us down." When he stood facing Ryel, he spoke in a voice much quieter and far more human. "Did she look well?"

  The wysard regarded the ruler of Destimar, now shrunk from bejeweled vainglory into paunchy overdressed insignificance—a little man in every sense, ridiculously bedaubed and bedizened. "Concern for the Sovrena has taxed her greatly, it would seem," he replied.

  "Never has she left her seclusion before," the Sovran murmured. "Not even I might interrupt her retreat." His eyes narrowed as they studied Ryel's face and gear. "What are you named?"

  "I am Ryel Mirai, of the phratri of the Elhin Gazal," the wysard replied.. "Twice six years the Sovranet Mycenas came to buy horses of my father, and gave me his own weapon when I won the Banner Race."

  The Sovran's manner suddenly warmed, however slightly. "I remember that visit of my brother's, peace be to his shade. He had much to say of it when he returned, and mentioned that a lady of this city had chosen to wed a bannerman--you are her son, I gather."

  "I am."

  "The best of your looks show it. I can only wonder that she forsook her native city to dwell among savages. A pity, that your eyes should be so blue, yet slant so ill-favoredly. And where did you learn the physician's art?"

  As calmly as he could given such insults, Ryel replied, "At Fershom Rikh, most exalted" Often as he told the lie, he was never at ease with it; but nevertheless he met the Sovran's gaze unflinchingly as he spoke.

  "Fershom Rikh." Agenor Dranthene lifted an eyebrow. "It is far-famed for its healers. We only hope, bannerman, that you are as good a tabib now as you were a rider then. But I do not expect my Ormalans to fail me."

  Ryel bowed, far less deeply than protocol demanded. "I on the other hand expect nothing less, most exalted."

  The Sovran merely shrugged, all his wonted arrogance returned in full, and addressed Priamnor. "So. You have your wish, despite me; but I will put my trust in these great adepts. Guards, disperse this rabble."

  Agenor again mounted his carrying-chair, and departed with the Ormalan wysards scurrying behind his entourage and casting poisonous glances at Ryel. In the silence that ensued, Priamnor addressed the wysard, that smile so like to Diara's playing about his lips. "My sister described you exactly. A young man, she said, with looks half Steppes, half Almancar. I noted, though my father did not, that you did not use your patronymic when you spoke your name. Pray accept my condolences for your loss, especially if it was recent."

  "It was." Ryel bent his head in thanks, much moved. "You are well versed in the customs of the Steppes, most exalted."

  "My sister was fortunate enough to visit your homeland several times. I have never in my life left this city, but I have read much of your people." Again the prince scanned the wysard's features, with the same mild yet keen scrutiny. "My father did not ask your mother's name. May I?"

  "She is Mira Stradianis, most exalted."

  The prince seemed astonished. "This city had a famous merchant by that surname, Ulrixos, an expert in the rarest antiquities."

  "He was her father, and my grandsire."

  "I see. And your mother's husband was a Rismai warrior." Priamnor seemed to muse. "An interesting heritage, yours. But come, I have taken you under my protection, and would have you be my guest during your time here. I dwell in the Eastern Palace; let us go there now, that we may talk together a little, and that you may then rest until you are called."

  The Eastern Palace was a far different abode from the Sovran's. Its richness was that of simple elegance, its works of art excellently chosen, its opulence chiefly manifest in lush blooming foliage and rilling fountains. Priamnor led Ryel to his audience-room, a fair colonnaded chamber made cool and fragrant by a tree-shaded atrium further beautified by sculpture of marble and bronze shimmeringly doubled in a pool full of lilies, wherein tall cranes and herons stalked in silence.

  "I have observed that your command of High Almancarian is perfect," Priamnor said. "I'm grateful for it, because I speak the vernacular badly." He gave an embarrassed little shrug. "My life's been rather a sheltered one…until recently. I confess that I am uneasy in my mind concerning those Ormalans."

  "As am I," the wysard replied, glad that the prince had no idea how much.

  Priamnor gazed across the atrium to one of the statues. "I doubt those mountebanks have any more learning than their fellows who tried and failed, nor any better methods than the cruel and stupid ones that cost the losers a whipping, and worse. First came the palace doctors with
their bleedings and moxas; and when they failed, then came the quacks and the sorcerers who would have employed drugs, mortal if misused; ice-cold baths and dark closets and chains and worse, still worse. Some affirmed that she could be healed only by means of burning irons on the temples, or symbolic incisions in the skin, or…" He lowered his voice. "I cannot describe the indecency. But my father even at his most desperate would never permit such madness. Those who suggested those cruelties were punished severely."

  "Eternal burning take them," Ryel muttered.

  "My sister's illness is grave, and I expected no easy cure," Priamnor continued. "It has greatly distressed me to find the Sovran's judgment lately swayed by magicians noteworthy only for garish dress and loud boasting. For that reason I today began to join my father in his selection of a physician, for I believe that my views, uninstructed though they are, may be of aid in this unhappy time. I want no wysards."

  Ryel replied as calmly as he could. "How can you be sure I am not one?"

  In answer to that question, Priamnor smiled a little wryly as he glanced at Ryel's Rismaian riding-gear. "If you are indeed a sorcerer, you are exceedingly unsuccessful. Even the clumsiest conjurer can swindle his way to a silk robe." His smile faded, then. "My sister's derangement is caused by neither weakness of mind nor taint of blood, though all the doctors who have treated her so claim it to be. It is worse. Far worse." The Sovranel's voice faltered and he fell silent, his face deadly pale.

  "Tell me what you have seen, most exalted," Ryel said, remembering the voice in his mother's yat, the rant of Michael Essern.