Priam dealt Ryel a little nudge, jarring him from his revery. "Among her infinity of arts, Lady Belphira has the gift of divination. She can reveal to you all that you are. Do you wish to hear?"
Ryel knew that hesitation would seem churlish. "Tell me who I am, my lady," he said, half dreading the answer.
Lady Belphira fixed her emerald gaze on the wysard, and it seemed she looked into his very soul. "Like your friend Diomenor you have journeyed far, Redestens," she said at last. "Yours are the Inner Lands of the Steppes. I know it by your accent, despite your absolute mastery of the palace tongue. As I have read, there are young men of the Inner Steppes, the Rismai principally, who vow to forswear all soft dealings and to devote their lives to war—I feel that you are one of those."
Priamnor shook his head. "My friend has never fought in battle, fair one."
"Ah, but there is combat far more bitter than that of sword against sword," Belphira said. "The struggle of heart against mind, of self against world, is unending war to some; and there are greater struggles still, in which men render up their lives for reasons beyond love and hate. Such a warrior I sense in you, my lord Redestens."
Ryel looked into the lady's eyes, and saw great understanding there, and wonderful gentleness. Deeply moved, he took Belphira's hand, and would have touched his brow to it; but he remembered where he was, and carried it to his lips instead. "I am no lord, most fair."
She smiled. "In some city, surely, you are a great one."
"In that City you would be a lady far greater," the wysard replied.
Priamnor looked from Belphira to Ryel, a glint of something very close to jealousy in his jewel-colored eyes. "I well recall our first meeting, my lady," he said. "At the palace of the Sovran Agenor during his sindretin, the great celebration of his fiftieth birthday."
"It was glorious," Belphira said, her eyes lighting with reminiscence. "Masses of flowers and lights, the most excellent music and dance, the rarest delicates and wines. Laughter and talk in every one of the world's languages, it seemed."
Priamnor's gaze also glowed. "And celestial singing, because yours was the voice that sang. Of all Destimar you were chosen, for that art of yours."
Belphira lightly waved away the compliment. "I must contradict you, my lord. I believe I was selected because the Prince of Barrad is rumored to be my father, rest be to his shade, and he was brother to the Sovran Agenor's second consort, Lys of Ralnahr."
"Then it's only fitting that you made a queen's entrance, with six strong Zallans like night made flesh carrying your chair. You were gowned in ivory silk crimped in a thousand pleats, and your arms and throat were bare, save for Sindrite emeralds and Zinaph pearls. Instead of elaborate braidings and pinnings, your bright hair flowed loose; and most ensorceling of all, your incomparable beauty was unmasked. I was enthralled, and when you sang, I was enslaved. My recollection of that night has never faded."
At the Sovran's praises Belphira colored deeply, and only half smiled, and looked away. "Nor have my own memories diminished … even though the rest of me has been less fortunate."
"You have not changed a day, my lady," Priamnor said. "But I still recall the night with some anger, because of the insult offered you by that unmannerly brute, Guyon Desrenaud."
The lady flushed, suddenly and with vehemence. "Lord Guyon never meant insult."
"He became your lover," Priam said, now with an edge of rancor.
Belphira inclined her head in slow assent. "He did. But that was long ago. And Guy Desrenaud was my first love, and my last—until you came into my life. These past four years we have not met, you and I, but in that time I have taken no other admirers, choosing instead to entertain the guests of this house with my singing alone."
Priamnor, although very evidently pleased with Belphira's words, still seemed not entirely satisfied by them. "Tell me about that night in the Sovran's palace, my lady. Tell me what made you favor that ill-bred Northern lout."
"Why would you wish to know, my lord?" she asked.
"To learn if he still has a hold on your heart."
The lady looked down. "He did once, and strongly. But that was before he served in Hallagh's wars, and became the lover of that land's ruler, the Domina Bradamaine. Before he became the famous Starklander."
At that name Ryel caught his breath. "Starklander?"
Belphira stared at him. "The name seems to excite you, Redestens."
"Because it's…because it sounds so strange," Ryel replied, dissembling his emotion by reaching for more wine; but it took all his concentration to hold the delicate porcelain bottle steady.
Belphira intercepted the bottle with deft accustomed grace and filled Ryel's glass. "Did you dwell in the North, you would not think the name an odd one," she replied. "Among the Northern nations Starkland is a sobriquet for the Ralnahrian highlands, in recognition of the dour toughness of the folk who dwell there, amid crags and cold. In recent years Lord Guyon gained fame in the neighboring realm of Hryeland, where he became legendary for his bravery and generalship in the army of the Domina Bradamaine. But his young manhood was spent at Ralnahr's royal court, as the chosen friend of Prince Hylas, son of King Niall. He came to Almancar as Hylas' interpreter at the Sovran's sindretin, and thus fate threw us together."
"I need to learn--I mean, I wish very much to hear the story of that meeting," Ryel said to Belphira.
She stared at him, astonished by his tone, but to the wysard's grateful relief Priam spoke next. "I too would be glad to learn the entire story from your own lips, my lady."
Belphira bowed her head in assent, but she looked away; and she replied slowly, her green eyes gazing far.
"I see him even now."
Chapter Nine
Lord Guyon had drawn Belphira's eye at once, for amid the magnificent attire of all the other guests he made a strange and striking contrast. Indeed, the courtesan had never in her life seen anyone more oddly dressed, or more carelessly—nor, she had to admit after the fact, with more fascination. A black and white Shrivrani headcloth concealed everything of his face save for the eyes, and a worn brown desert cloak half-hid his travel-beaten black Northern riding-gear. But the eyes were most arrestingly piercing, and the rusty garments sat close to a form remarkable for its height and perfection of shape. Nevertheless, it was a singular costume for a sindretin guest, almost insolently negligent, and the Sovran glared it up and down, and demanded who had allowed into the palace a ragged aliante. At this insult Lord Guyon's eyes blazed behind the Shrivrani cowl, for in the tongue of Destimar an aliante was a soldier of fortune of the lowest kind—one that would kill for a crust of bread, sell himself to any master and then as lightly betray him.
"'Aliante I may someday be, but never yours, Agenor Dranthene,' the tall Northerner had replied, angrily prideful. He spoke in perfect High Almancarian only a little slurred by drink, the subtle intonations so much at variance with his rough aspect that everyone began to whisper. But the murmured surprise turned to silent amazement when with abrupt defiance the seeming mercenary tore away the concealing headcloth, letting it fall about his shoulders.
"'You speak to Guyon de Grisainte Desrenaud, Earl of Anbren," he said to the Sovran. And Belphira had listened as if to proud music, unable to take her eyes from his face.
"As you may be aware, my lords," she said to Priamnor and Ryel, "in Almancar physical beauty is considered a visible sign of the gods' continuing presence among men. As I looked on Guyon Desrenaud I could not help but feel holy awe and wonder. He was just turned of twenty-four years old, very tall, and wonderfully well made. His tawny hair was cropped close to his head, drawing all attention to his face, and never before, even in my city so famed for the beauty of its denizens, had I seen features more striking. Pure highland Ralnahrian they were, of the finest cast. They had not known a razor for several days, but the beard-stubble in no way obscured their noble harmony. The eyes were full of intelligence wary and stern—dark celadon as a winter sea were they colored, acute and s
teady as a hawk's, turbulent and cold as they braved the Sovran's rage. And I marveled; but as I looked more closely my wonder transmuted like gold to iron, and I thought of the wild storm that shakes and lights the heavens with burning bolts, the delicate-limbed envenoming spider, the lustrous fruit whose one taste slays.
"The face mirrors the soul, and often we find beauty of spirit glowing bright beneath features otherwise uncompelling; Prince Hylas' looks were of that kind. But too often still we see beauty of flesh that fully knows its worth and is made proud thereby, and disdainful, and even cruel; or yet more sadly, beauty spoilt and used by excess, and rendered worse than foul. Such was Guyon Desrenaud's, and I hated the self-conceit that cankered his lips' curve, the dissolute slackness that debauched the firm perfection of the features, the bitter livid rims of those wintry eyes—flaws scarce perceptible to the world, perhaps, yet glaring vile to me.
"I did not know then that Lord Guyon was in mourning for the woman he had loved with all his heart, and in his grief had turned to bad courses, seeking to kill the pain within him by wearing out his body in riot and disorder. The Countess Sandrine de Tresk had been one of the wittiest and most learned and gentlest-souled of the Ralnahr court, a faithful wife to her unkind lord; and Desrenaud had worshipped her with pure adoration. But the countess died in childbed, leaving him all but deranged with grief; and his shorn hair and black clothes at Agenor's sindretin were tokens of his desolation."
Belphira paused awhile, in meditative revery. "I will never forget how strange it was to hear the palace language of Almancar in the mouth of this man—to listen to its difficult elegances perfectly uttered, with only the faintest traces of Northern tang and Sindrite brandy, by one so apparently a stranger to any civilization. The kingdom of Ralnahr is distant and small, and fluency even in common Almancarian is not expected of its court, whose wonted tongue is Hryelesh, the trade-language of the Northland. Therefore Lord Guyon's mastery was doubly surprising, and I wondered how and why he came by his knowledge.
"Then by chance our eyes met, and in that moment he threw me a glance that froze my blood with its scorn. Suddenly I saw myself through his storm-colored eyes—saw an empty-headed bedizened doll smiling blankly as she was borne in like a master-cook's fluffy dessert, cloying and insipid. A garish bauble to be chaffered for and used at pleasure, maybe pulled to pieces, by anyone willing to meet the price required. A mindless child I saw, devoid of volition, ignorant of all hardship, empty of any passion. And I further realized that Desrenaud was a man made up of self-will and strong desires, hardened by rough upbringing and aged beyond his years, rankling with old sorrows and recent grief—a man whose entire existence had run entirely counter to mine, whose contempt dismayed me and whose strength I envied…and whose desolation of spirit I pitied with all my heart.
"At that moment the Sovran requested me to sing for the guests. I chose a love-ballad of ancient times, and sang as I had never sung in my life, all of my heart poured into every word. And as I sang, I felt Desrenaud's gaze like an inexorable hand under my chin, and I looked up amid my first tears ever shed in shame or pain only to find his winter-eyes as wet as mine.
"How long we remained thus electrically enmeshed I have no idea. But then all at once he pushed through the listening throng and dropped to the ground before me, wrapping his arms around my skirt, pressing his forehead against my knees as a supplicant does a ruler or a god in the old tales. An inexplicable act of sheer madness—and yet I did not find it so, any more than I heard the outrage of the guests. The world had fallen away from him and me, sequestering us in a sphere of flame. For the first time in my life I comprehended the full force of male strength, the depth of male longing—and all I could feel in return was terror and hunger. I had drunk wine, and my wits swam; I would have given all my other lovers' gifts and fortunes for a single kiss of Lord Guyon's mouth. But I had only enough time to caress his close-shorn hair, whispering that I knew, I knew—yet I could never have explained what I knew, or how…"
Belphira halted, fetching her breath with trembling lips. In that interval of silence Priamnor spoke, his voice hard.
"I remember the fellow's insolence. Had I been armed, I would have cut the ruffian down."
At those words Belphira smiled as her inward eyes beheld the past. "The Rei of Zalla very nearly did."
The Sovran of Destimar nodded with the same memory, but with a smile very different from Belphira's. " He would only too gladly have run Desrenaud through with that evil-looking diamond-hilted dagger of his. But you would not allow it—would you, my lady? No, you needs must fling yourself in front of that Northern churl and dare the Rei to strike."
Belphira saw herself in that remembrance, and laughed. "I admired the Rei's courage, although I deplored his action."
"It wasn't courage Akht Mgbata showed. It was devotion," Priam said. "I don't doubt the Rei would still murder Lord Guyon for your sake—and that you would still prevent him."
"I very well might." Belphira gave Priamnor a near-teasing smile as she turned to Ryel and continued her narration. "Only the pleadings of Prince Hylas kept Lord Guyon from prison, and perhaps worse. He was bodily thrown out of the sindretin, and forbidden ever again to enter the palace."
"But he found his way to the Diamond Heaven," Priamnor said, grudging now.
Belphira met Priam's rancor levelly, with no discomfiture whatever. "Yes, my lord. He found his way to this place…and to me. But before you condemn either me or him, you should know that I was no easy conquest. He did not want me to be. I did not want to be. He wooed me in a hundred different ways, but always with worship. And I, who unlike him had never before known love, accepted his homage with delight—and terror. For love is a tremendous thing, if real. There is no emotion more strong or lasting. The deepest hatred can waver in the light of reason, or fade with time, but the deepest love knows no reason, and is deathless."
Ryel listened awed, and even Priam seemed moved instead of angered. Belphira continued, her voice soft.
"It was strange, to be surrounded by the Diamond Heaven's pleasures, yet to remain chaste. To play at courtship as if it were an elaborate endless game. Strange, yet inexpressibly sweet." Her beauty clouded, then. "But ours was not a harmless paradise, for there was one constantly watching us, who could never comprehend any feelings save the most vile."
In a few words she explained. Among Prince Hylas' entourage there had been a rude puritanical lordling named Derain Meschante, notorious as a stern hater of all things fleshly. He would steal into the Diamond Heaven to berate the courtesans and their clients for what he considered their sins, using language and actions both rough and foul. Again and again he was expelled, only to return again and again.
"He always wore rented finery," Belphira said, not disguising her contempt. "There are many shops outside the Heaven's gates that provide such. It disguised him well enough for him to constantly evade detection. Were not my dislike so strong, I would have pitied him, for he could never comprehend pleasure or know joy, but always despise and mistrust all that was beautiful. And his loathing of Lord Guyon was strongest of all his hates. Thus it fell out that when one night Meschante again sneaked into the Heaven to quarrel and condemn, he and Lord Guyon came to blows, here in this very place."
Priamnor's mouth tightened. "Brawling in the pleasure-district is a capital offense."
Belphira nodded. "True. But the punishment is very seldom carried out, especially if wealth and rank intercede. Prince Hylas pleaded for the lives of both Guyon and Meschante, and his request was granted—on the condition that the two enemies never again enter the Heaven, and never again visit Destimar. But before Lord Guyon departed, he bought my freedom at ruinous cost, and I joined him as part of Prince Hylas' entourage when it returned to Ralnahr."
"I remember," Priamnor said, his umbrage undisguised. "You were gone for years."
"Two years only," Belphira replied. "I was glad to return to my native land. It was sweet to breathe the sharp air of the hig
hlands, and feel the caress of snow on my face."
In Ralnahr she had become one of Queen Amaranthe's ladies-in waiting, and soon afterward she and Lord Guyon were betrothed by sanctioned rites, and passed from courtship to love in all its fullness even as a leaf-sheathed bud becomes a bright blossom rich with fragrance. Folk soon began to whisper that a great change had come over wild Guy Desrenaud: that he had given up his rakehell ways and bad companions, and turned his mind to serious matters. He especially studied statesmanship and diplomacy, and with his skill rendered great service to King Niall. All the court admired the change—all save Derain Meschante, who contrived his utmost to come between the lovers and their happiness.
"I loathed Meschante," Belphira said, her soft lips trembling as they formed the despised name. "Loathed his coarseness, his bigotry, the dirty smallness of his mind. And ever as Guyon's reputation for greatness increased, Meschante's hatred grew with it. Fortunately, all unlike Guy, Meschante had no friends—only Prince Hylas, whose kindness to him was little more than pity and forbearance. But the prince had never been strong in health, and soon sickened of a disease the doctors had neither name for nor cure, and died in his twenty-fourth year. Guyon's heart was broken by the death of the prince, who had been to him dearer than a brother. Once again, as it had with Sandrine de Tresk, grief made him desolate and restless, until in the end he could no longer bear it, nor could I help him; for I know well that in the matter of one man's sorrow for another, a woman's sympathy is useless. He left Ralnahr to soldier in the pay of the Domina Bradamaine, fighting in her war against the White Barbarians. Without him I could no longer bear the Northern cold, and returned to this place. He and I have not met again since. That was seven years ago."
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 25
