The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  She fell silent. After a time Priamnor spoke, his soft voice tinged with rancor.

  "You speak great praises of Desrenaud, but he would have lived and died a feckless wastrel had it not been for you. And I can tell that you are holding back some of your story."

  "Only because I fear to tire your patience."

  "That brute Meschante insulted you. I can tell."

  Belphira colored under her mask. "Both in this place and in Ralnahr he called me vile names, yes, to my face and behind my back…but never within Guyon's hearing. To Meschante I was a common prostitute, and it was useless to tell him that in the Diamond Heaven I had been a tiraktia, a singer and a musician able to choose her admirers freely. But he did not hate me quite entirely, I learned all too soon. For hardly had Guyon left Ralnahr than Meschante tried first clumsy flattery, then outright force to gratify the lusts he admitted he had felt since the night of Agenor's sindretin."

  "The hypocrite animal. I'll make sure he pays for it, someday," Priamnor said, his voice harsh with cold." His tone gentled, then. "Continue your story, my lady."

  "That is all of my tale, dear my lord," Belphira said, softly and evenly save for the slightest tremor. "To end it, I can only say that to have known the love of Guy Desrenaud was the first joy I had ever felt in my life. And until this moment, I had resigned myself to believing it the last."

  Despite his sympathy for Belphira's plight, Ryel could not help a thrill of excitement. So I've found one of the two, the wysard thought, his pulse rushing. Surely the mysterious Redbane cannot be far behind. Aloud he said, as calmly as he could, "And does Lord Guyon still soldier in the North?"

  With a sigh Belphira shook her head. "No. He had not been but two years in Hryeland when he committed some impardonable act of treason against the Domina, and fled the Barrier in secret. The high rank he had held in the army, the titles and riches conferred upon him by the Domina--all were stripped from him." Her next words were almost a whisper." Rumors have reached me from the North that he no longer lives."

  Ryel remembered his father's words, uttered in Priam's voice. Had Guyon Desrenaud been dead, surely Edris would not have spoken of him. Reaching out, the wysard touched Belphira's hand. "There is always hope, my lady," he said.

  "I will be glad to believe you." Returning Ryel's gentle pressure, Belphira looked toward the mirror of the moon. As she gazed, bright silver welled up in her eyes and spilled down beneath her mask's spangled edge. But then she remembered the place she was, and the men she spoke to. Instantly she dried her eyes, and smiled once more.

  "I entertain you very badly, my lords Diomenor and Redestens. Let us turn the talk to some other matter. All the news in this city is of the prophet Michael, who in his loathing of the flesh sounds even worse than Meschante. What are your thoughts concerning him?"

  "Tell us yours first, my lady," Ryel said.

  Belphira smiled wryly. "I think Michael knows full well how much black rags and bare feet become him, and I think every rip in his raiment and every smear of dirt on his face are arranged with care and forethought." Her smile faded, then. "And I think he is very, very dangerous. The folk of the Fourth District hang upon his every word, and with reason."

  Ryel observed how Priamnor's lips tightened to a line. "Tell me of that, if you would," the Sovran said.

  With a sweeping jeweled hand Belphira indicated the brilliant revels going on about them. "Here we are, my lord, amid all that the world can offer in the way of delight," she said. "But at this very moment, little children of both sexes are being unspeakably used in a place scornfully called the Dog's Ward by the rich of this city. And many others are undergoing every kind of perverse torment and humiliation for a few small coins." She gazed upon Priam's face, seeing past the mask. "That surprises you? You did not know?"

  "I did not know," Priamnor murmured. Ryel caught all of the pain in those four whispered words, as did Belphira.

  "Few among the elect of this city know of the Fourth District's ills," the beautiful courtesan said. "Few, save for those who take base advantage of them. The new Sovran of Destimar would do well to learn the truth."

  "I'll make certain that he does," Priamnor replied.

  "I believe you will," Belphira said. At that moment a servant approached, and whispered something in her ear, at which she nodded, and rose to her feet. "I have talked far too long, and forgotten an appointment," she said as the servant departed. "I am expected in one of this house's banqueting-rooms, to sing for the guests."

  Priamnor nodded, but reluctantly. "I am well aware of your fame as Almancar's most excellent musician, my lady; and I see that your cithern lies nearby. It would greatly please me were you to favor us with a song before you part."

  Belphira met his eyes, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. "Nothing on earth is more precious to me than your pleasure, dear my lord," she murmured at last. And she took up her instrument and tuned it, during which all around her grew silent in expectation; then she ran her jeweled fingers over the strings in a silvery intricate preamble. At that sound, it seemed the entire company of that place fell silent; and when she sang, it was in the sweetest voice Ryel had ever heard.

  "He came in the springtime,

  In conquering might;

  I yielded my lands to him

  Without a fight.

  He came in the summer,

  In fire and in pride;

  He burnt up my gardens,

  My deep fountains dried.

  He came in the autumn,

  In rain and rude mirth,

  He withered my orchards,

  Sowed salt in my earth.

  He came in the winter,

  In snow and in frost,

  Left all my lands empty,

  And all my heart lost."

  When the song ended, everyone within earshot murmured in applause; but Ryel was too moved to do anything but gaze at Belphira in wonder.

  Priamnor found his voice, a little unsteadily. "Was that song of your making, my lady?"

  With a soft tremor of wings she inclined her head. "It was, dear my lord."

  "It was very beautiful," the Sovran replied. "But melancholy."

  "Forgive me," she said. "I should have better diverted you."

  "Ravishment surpasses diversion, my lady. For music so divine, this poor token is but small," Priamnor said; and as he spoke he took from his finger his only ring. "But it may serve as a charm to open a door."

  Accepting the jewel, Belphira contemplated it silently, seeming to think now of joy, now of sorrow. "One unlocking demands another, lest you later think your generosity ill-advised." With those words she removed her mask, disclosing a face of empyrean beauty. "Such am I now, still unaided by the surgeon's art. But five years ago some thought me fair."

  "They were very wise who did," Priamnor said, dwelling on the dark green eyes, the rich hair of amber gold, the noble yet sensuous sweetness of every feature. "And they have yet more reasons now." Taking both her hands in his, he touched his lips to them, but his eyes as they again met hers mingled misgiving with desire. "Five years ago I thought myself a man. But now … "

  His voice faltered. She gazed up at him, seeing far past the mask. "This moment was enough," she whispered. "And it will always be, whatever comes after." She freed her hands from his, but only to strip off every one of her many rings and cast them down like litter. She slipped the Sovran's jewel onto her finger, and held out her hand to him. "It fits as if made for me."

  "Because it was." Taking her hand, Priam drew her to him, and bent to her lips. Their kiss lasted no more than a moment, but promised infinities.

  "Come to me. Soon."

  He had spoken in a whisper, and Belphira replied as softly. "I will."

  *****

  Taking their leave of that house, the wysard and the Sovran once more regained the Jewel Path, which had grown more tumultuous now than ever.

  "We'll never last the night unless we have some chal," Priamnor said, blinking wine-weary
eyes in recognition of a shop-sign. "And here's just the place to find some."

  Soon they were sipping celestial brew from vaporing delicate bowls at a pavilion overhanging the canal, somewhat retired from their fellow revelers likewise seeking a respite from excess.

  Priamnor swirled his chal-cup, studying the jade-colored liquid. "Perhaps we left the Realm of Joy too soon? You must have expected something more than conversation from Atlan's fairest nymphs."

  Ryel shook his head. "I had all I wished."

  "You are a very unusual person, if that be true. None of the ladies charmed you in any way?"

  "One did, and deeply. But she made her preference for my companion only too clear."

  The Sovran smiled, seeming to muse. "In my years of seclusion I never forgot the beauty of Belphira Deva's singing. I used to hear it in dreams." He looked up, meeting the wysard's eyes. "I loved her, Ryel. Tonight I realized I still do. But I was once able to show my feelings … entirely."

  The wysard hardly knew how to reply. "From what I sense in Belphira, the spirit is of far greater significance to her than is the flesh."

  Priam gave an ironic laugh. "She is a woman, ilandrakis. A woman of great beauty and strong passions. He that would win her heart—and all the rest—must be a man in every sense." Before Ryel could speak, Priamnor continued, seemingly off the subject. "I had forgotten my father's sindretin. But now I recall that Guyon Desrenaud was remarkably well-made, with an animal virility I remember being jealous of, boy that I was." He swirled the chal meditatively. "Belphira has never forgotten him. But I must. My present concern is for the people of the Fourth District, and the terrible degradations they suffer. It shames me that I never knew until now of their troubles until Belphira's mention of them. No wonder they are discontented, and readily give ear to the fanatic Michael."

  "He will only become more powerful," Ryel replied. "You have never entered the Fourth District?"

  "Never," Priamnor said. "But I will, and soon."

  "To see it truthfully, you should go in disguise."

  "Wise advice. I'd be glad of more of your counsel—and I'm sure you think I need it."

  Ryel shrugged. "Well, you have, after all, lived an unusually privileged life…"

  "Sheltered, you would say."

  "In some respects, yes. You'll need to be careful in your choice of advisers. What you most require is an able chief minister, someone you can trust entirely."

  Priamnor nodded grave assent, but then he smiled. "I've already found one. But I warn you, you'll have your hands full."

  Ryel started, knocking over his chal-cup. Patiently the Sovran of Destimar poured the wysard's cup full again, set the chaltak aside, and continued in all seriousness. "I had planned to ask you after tonight, but why not now? Stay here in my city, Ryel Mirai. Stay, and take your place as my closest counselor. We will rule Destimar together, even as Diomenor and Redestens ruled the imperial realm of Kasrinagal."

  The wysard looked away, glad of his mask. "You honor me far too greatly, most exalted."

  "Don't call me that. You are more exalted still, in a City far greater than mine. But answer."

  Deeply embarrassed, Ryel cast about for a fit reply. "The honors you would confer upon me are befitting only to one of your family, most ex—"

  "Never call me that again. You are of my family."

  Ryel froze all over; froze and burnt. "Not possible."

  "Try to believe that after you hear these facts," Priamnor said. "Shortly after we met, you let fall that your maternal grandmother's surname was Stradianis. As it happens, her name figures in the Dranthene archives."

  The wysard could only blink. "But why?"

  "You may have heard that your grandmother the Countess Ysandra was a great beauty in her youth. My great-uncle Aristanes was her most ardent admirer, and continued to be so even after her marriage to Ulrixos Stradianis, who was a man in years at the time, and rumored incapable of siring children."

  The wysard colored hot. "That proves nothing."

  "Perhaps. But it might mean that we are cousins. Would you regret belonging to the Dranthene line?"

  "With all my heart would I welcome it; but never at the cost of my own family's dishonor."

  Priamnor smiled. "That is the puritanical Steppes speaking, not gentle Almancar."

  "What other proof do you have of our kinship, besides the archives?"

  "Evidence of a highly specific and physical nature," Priam replied. "Certain characteristics of the Dranthene bloodline breed true in every generation. In the archives it is further recorded that when your mother was one year old, she was presented at the Temple of Demetropa, as are all well-born children of Almancar. The priestess who examined her observed that the little girl had several traits peculiar to the Dranthene."

  Ryel swallowed. "And what were they?"

  "The eye color, first of all," Priam replied. "They had a hint of violet not common anywhere in Destimar save with my family. You have those eyes, Ryel."

  The wysard glanced away. "That isn't enough."

  "You might not have noticed the shape of your mother's ears, but this configuration is pure Dranthene." And reaching out, Priamnor gently flicked one of the wysard's lobes. "Mine are exactly similar. More significant still, there's your response to Transcendence. None but the Dranthene are physically affected by the scent. A final conclusive test is severe intolerance for cats—all the Dranthene are deathly allergic to those animals. None are permitted in the Diamond Heaven, but I half wish there were a cat nearby now, so that I might test you and be sure—"

  "I'm glad there's not," Ryel said. "I'd sneeze myself silly."

  Priam stared open-mouthed, and Ryel laughed, and then they were both laughing. The young Sovran reached out, and the wysard met him halfway.

  "I knew it from the start," Priamnor said as they embraced. "Knew it from that first look."

  "I felt it, too," Ryel replied, his heart full.

  "Then you'll stay."

  "I must," the wysard said. "You need me now more than you could ever imagine."

  Priam drew away to study Ryel's face, startled by the sudden gravity of his tone. "What do you mean?"

  "The prophet Michael is no mere demagogue, Priam. He serves the daimon that took your sister captive."

  The young Sovran's smile vanished, and he grayed under his pearl-dust. "But then he is … "

  Ryel nodded. "A wysard, even as I am—a lord adept of Elecambron, with strength to equal my own. His Master has sent him here to incite first discontent in Almancar, then insurrection throughout the realm."

  The young Sovran of Destimar grew pale. "Then this land is in great danger."

  "Not just Destimar, Priam. The World."

  "Then what help is there?"

  At that despairing question Ryel put his hand on his kinsman's wrist. "There's me," he said. "Me and my Art, as far as both can aid you."

  Touch and words both calmed and heartened. "Ah, cousin. What a hollow fiction the demigod Redestens seems compared to you. But come, let us return at once to the palace, that you may tell me more."

  They left the chal-shop and once again became part of the reveling crowd on the Jewel Path. But as they made for the Temple of Atlan's broad steps, Ryel halted, remembering words said earlier.

  "What of your promise to the ladies at the Garden of Dreams?"

  The Sovran's mouth quirked half-exasperated beneath the mask's edge. "I had forgotten them. But I gave my word, after all…and I admit I feel like celebrating our kinship, dire though your news has been. Knowing the ladies of that place, it's best we go forearmed. Here's the shop where I used to buy little gifts for my fair friends of the quarter--I see it's still flourishing. Let's halt a moment."

  Thanks to their manner and their garb, they were welcomed exceedingly, shown the best wares available, and left freighted with pretty vials of lip-rouge, inlaid boxes holding exquisite sweetmeats, painted ivory-sticked fans and ornate silver hairpins—exquisitely crafted and dauntingly costl
y, all of it.

  "Where do we put these things?" Ryel asked.

  "In our sleeves," Priamnor replied, adroitly demonstrating the procedure. "Heaven-robes have their practical side."

  The two friends were welcomed eagerly at the Realm of Joy, where the rooftop was crowded with revelers far less decorous than those of the Dream Garden. The Sovran and the wysard were greeted with smiles and embraces, and their pretty gifts increased the already eager attentions of the fairest. Soon they were drawn into a tumultuous dance, with laughing courtesans on either hand. Sometime during the dance Ryel was wooed away by yet another beauty to join in a glass of frangin. As he sipped the liquid green fire he watched Priamnor, who had called for a somewhat slower tune and now led the others in a stately Almancarian zarvana, partnered by the fairest lady of the house.

  "Ah, but he is beautiful," breathed the girl at Ryel's side.

  Ryel could only nod. But it was not of Priam he thought. He set his glass aside, that suddenly weighed his hand like lead. Dagar lurked in the darkness, preventing all remembrance of Diara, but feelings took the place of memory a thousandfold. Ryel felt the same torment he had known that night in the desert outside the walls of Almancar, after the vision of the Sovrena had left him. The same helpless, aching need.

  The courtesan seemed to comprehend, and took his hand. "Come with me," she whispered. "There is someone who most deeply desires to speak with you."

  She led Ryel from the rooftop down the stairs and into a wide columned corridor dimly lit, lined with portals behind which issued sighs and murmurs that made the wysard shudder and burn.

  "Here," the lady said. And she opened a door, motioning Ryel inside.

  Ryel wavered on the threshold. "What awaits me?"

  Soft plumes brushed his face as the lady murmured in his ear. "The fulfillment of your desire, my lord. Stay and make ready, and it will soon come to you."