She departed, closing the door. Ryel found himself in an apartment furnished with flaunting magnificence gleaming in the light of countless candles, its great bed a mirrored altar to lubricity. On a marble table nearby were a ewer and basin, and Ryel filled the silver vessel, then pulled off his mask to dash water on his face with both hands, seeking to quench his heat. But the water was scented with a fragrance that crassly counterfeited the transcendent essence of the carnelian vial, and he wiped it from his skin in disgust.
A tickling hand touched his shoulder, light as a spider. Whirling around, he gave a cry. Diara stood before him—Diara the Sovrena of Destimar, masked and robed in the light livery of the Diamond Heaven.
"No," Ryel whispered hoarsely, recoiling from her. "Get away from me."
She smiled and tossed aside her mask, and let her robes fall. Under a single sheer film of gossamer silk her white body glowed like moonlight. Lifting her hands to her head she removed and cast aside the jeweled pins, freeing her dark tresses as she spoke. "Perhaps this guise is more to your liking?"
Ryel's heart beat hard as a memory-flash brought back that night in the desert, outside the walls of Almancar. But still he shrank from her.
"You're not her," the wysard whispered. "You can't be."
She smiled with complacent pride. "It is my good fortune to resemble the Sovrena Diara as closely as would her twin, and by reason of that lucky chance many have sought me, men and women equally ready to face ruin for a night in my arms. I cede my favors now only to tall young braves with wild blood in their veins. I saw you on the edge of the dance and knew you must be mine tonight; these charms that have brought great fortunes to dust shall cost you nothing." She held out her hand as if dropping alms. "Many a one would kill for a single touch of this."
She had an imperious self-assurance, an insolent vanity, utterly unlike the artless charm of the girl she so unsettlingly resembled. Her voice, too, was chill and thin, devoid of Diara's soft music, and no violet lights added heavenly graces to the ice-tinged transparency of her eyes, that were devoid of intelligence, sweetness, or charm. But nevertheless she was beautiful, fair beyond bearing; and Ryel took her hand, and found it warm.
The false Sovrena smiled again, with Diara's lips and a harlot's vanity. "What man would not wish to lie with the paragon of Destimar?"
Ryel looked her up and down, past the shift's transparency; shook his head. "The Sovrena's ankles and waist are more slender, and her knees smoother," he said. "Her breasts are somewhat smaller, too; and she has a little mole nearby her navel that you have not." His gaze halted at her face. Her resemblance to Diara was uncanny, yes; but her expression was trivial and petulant, spoiling her beauty entirely, and Ryel could only remember the serene nobility of the Sovrena's features, and eyes that mirrored inner graces.
The fair simulacrum sneered. "Oh, yes. I'm sure you've seen enough of her to know those niceties." And she would have snatched her hand away in spite, but Ryel held it fast.
"You're not her," he said. "It's a good thing you're not."
For a time he stood motionless, feeling her smooth fingers warm his own. Then suddenly he pulled her into his arms, so hard that she gave a little surprised cry of pain; but her cry instantly altered to a laugh, and she clutched the back of his head, crushing her lips against his, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. Locked and reeling they fell onto the bed, and Ryel reached down and clutched the hem of her shift, yanking it upwards as her legs opened under his to clasp his sides, spur the small of his back, grind damp heat into his groin.
As the wysard struggled with his robes and cursed them, somewhere on another world came a great crash and a shouting, and then something even stronger than his lust pulled him away from the girl. Blaspheming daimonically he jerked about, and faced Priamnor, and lost his voice.
But Priamnor had all of his and more. "A house full of women, and you needs must shame my sister? Is that your kinship, dog?
Ryel tore off his mask and threw it down, furious as the Sovran and thwarted too. "You fool, she was more than willing. She—"
Priamnor struck him across the face, sudden and blinding as lightning. "How did you corrupt her? How? Or what sorcerer's drugs did you use?"
Ryel licked the blood from his mouth-corner. It shocked like raw spirit, and he grimaced and spat. "Are you blind? This isn't the Sovrena, but a whore that by chance resembles—"
Another blow, harder and angrier yet. Ryel put his hand to his face. I'm drunk, he thought, tenderly feeling the pain throbbing beneath his fingers. Drunk, and drugged, and ready to kill. And so is he. It's…strange.
He stood up and flung off his Almancarian robe, revealing the Steppes garb hidden by the garish satin. Then he turned to the giggling trollop on the bed. "Reach me my sword."
She tossed it to him, shrieking with harsh laughter that rivaled the ring of steel as Ryel tore the weapon from its sheath. For a moment Priamnor seemed to freeze at the sight of the naked blade, but then he, too, stripped off his mask and drew.
As they circled, watching their chance, Ryel spoke. "You're all wrong about this, cousin."
"Never call me that again, half-blood." Priamnor struck aside Ryel's blade and lunged, but the wysard evaded the thrust with no trouble whatever, and could have taken instant and fatal advantage of the Sovran's loss of balance caused by treacherous trailing silk. But something held him back.
I don't want this to end, he thought. Not just yet.
Something had to take the place of lust, while he was still hot— something just as urgent and insane. This would do beautifully. Priam was the perfect adversary, good but not quite good enough, easy to hold at bay, push aside, beat back. It made the wysard laugh, this risky sarabande fought to the shrill music of a slut's laughter.
"Cut him!" the harlot screamed to Priamnor. "Say this!" And she screamed out a word that clanged like clashed metal. With a raw shout Priamnor repeated the word as his sword shot forward. Razored steel drove deep into the wysard's side in a thrust of amazing pain, and Ryel cried out, his echoing howl throbbed in red waves against his eardrums. Somehow his hand found its own way to the wound, and struggled to wrestle back the blood that broke from around its palm in a flood of slow fire. Instinctively the wysard grunted a staunching-word as he dropped to his knees, head bowed, blind with agony. But all at once the air shut in around him, driving the breath from his body.
"Finish him! " the whore screamed. "Gash his throat!"
With sickening effort Ryel turned toward the bed. In the harlot's shrieking laughing face the eyes were entire black, hard as onyx. Ryel stared and trembled.
"Priam," he panted, choking on the blood in his throat. "Priam, look at her. Only look. Can't you see it's the daimon? Can't you—"
Priamnor Dranthene only snarled in reply, and swung his red-drenched blade aloft in both hands for a killing blow. "You bastard," Ryel whispered. But he was not speaking to the Sovran. Flinging himself forward, he drove his shoulder into Priamnor's knees. The Sovran staggered back, hitting the wall and falling hard.
"Murder!" the false Diara screamed. "The Sovran of Destimar has been killed! Help, someone!"
"Bitch," Ryel hissed. But the bitch's eyes were blue now, and the air had lightened. Momentarily regenerated by a few famished lungfuls, the wysard threw on his flame-colored robe, then yanked the cloak and mask from Priamnor's unresisting body and donned them headlong, and made his escape even as the hallway's many doors began to open and half-clad courtesans and their gallants emerged in every state of confusion and undress.
Once again on the Jewel Path the wysard hesitated, catching his breath through gritted teeth. Some noticed him but only smiled, believing him merely drunk. Golden cloaks and owl-horned masks were common wear at this late hour, and the guards of the quarter would have their hands full trying to search all of them. Ryel edged and excused his way through the crush, ever smiling lest he arouse suspicion; but the jolting throb in his side froze his face into a rictus.
In the
courtyard of the Temple of Atlan yet another rout of maskers was assembling for the midnight service, and Ryel struggled past them; inadvertent elbows brought the blood to his eyes, and the heavy redolence of perfumes made him gag. Stumbling down the steps of the temple into the courtyard, he found Jinn waiting. Such was the stringency of Almancar's laws that his saddlebags were untouched; but revelers had twined roses in the mare's mane. Unable to mount, the wysard clung to Jinn's neck, guiding her toward the gardens and a deserted grove with its lanterns still burning. With the help of the gay little lights Ryel found that Priamnor had stabbed him just under the ribs of his right side, deep enough to reach any number of crucial veins and vitals.
"Good work," he muttered. "You'll make a warrior yet, ilandrakis."
He flung aside his mask and lay down in the grass to breathe in the fresh air of the night, staring up at the dainty lamps, unsure if a stray breeze or disorienting agony was making them sway. For the first time since leaving the Aqqar, he missed his City.
I can't heal this, he thought, more than a little amazed at his detachment. All I can do for myself is either ease the pain and bleed to death, or stop the blood and lie here trying not to scream. Not a world of choice. Not a World of hope.
He would have liked to sleep. The night air was warm, the grass soft and fragrant as Diara's hair, sweet against his cheek. But it hurt too much to sleep.
"I was going to stay with you, ilandrakis," he whispered, his eyes afire. "We were going to rule Destimar together. We—"
The air crushed in around him, squeezing like a great snake, and he gasped and strangled as the hated voice crooned in the middle of his brain.
You've made this city too hot to hold you, sweet eyes. Time to escape, while you yet can.
"No," Ryel panted. "I'll talk to Priam, and tell him the truth."
The voice only laughed. He won't listen, beauty. I can assure you he won't—not with the ideas I've put in his pretty head. And at any rate, you haven't time to find him. You're dying. But your healer awaits you at the western gates.
Ryel spat yet more blood. "I'll never get there."
Oh, but you will.
Ryel groaned. "How?"
You know how. Go.
Before Ryel could say or think another word, the air lifted and cooled. Drawing a starved breath, the wysard lay and gathered his will.
I know what to do, he thought, gritting his teeth. I only hope my healer does.
Tightening the wide sash of his Almancarian robe hard over the wound, he whispered the pain-allaying spell. Instantly his blood burst forth, but he felt only its spreading heat as he pushed himself up from the ground. Moving as quickly as he might, he swung into the saddle and muttered the staunching-word. The pain came back like a fresh thrust from a sharper blade, and he groaned. Alternating spells in favor of bleeding when torment made him sway too much, he rode half-senseless through a pale blur of streets and walls, a welter of crowds and voices. The streets began to close in upon him, and the voices called out, offering horrible pleasures. Now and again a painted child with drugged eyes was thrust in his way.
Suddenly a wild shouting, deep and strange, wakened him from his pain-dream.
"Blight is on this city! The corruption of courts, the whoredoms of false Atlan! Blight and doom!"
The ragged black fanatic Michael now stood in the courtyard before the western gates, haranguing the crowd, which was large although the hour was late, because of the caravans making ready to leave or enter the city. Drivers and muleteers, drudgers and toilers stood in a rapt throng, enthralled with every loud mad word.
"Death!" Michael exulted. "Death is upon this city of whores and wastrels! Death upon those gilded degenerates, and their vain idols of the guts and groin! Even as you stand here, torn from a weary bed to sweat and haul, your high nobility swaggers and riots in the whore's quarter—but the Master has compassion on your sufferings, and has taken his first step toward vengeance! Your stripling Sovran Priamnor lies at this moment in some house of lust, senseless from debauchery and worse, far worse!"
Risking the blood-loss, Ryel stunned his pain with the right words, halted Jinn and glared at the grim preacher. Michael suddenly ceased his diatribe, and his empty eyes again met Ryel's. His hard lips parted in a daimon-grin, and his nostrils flared as if he scented blood and liked what he smelled. Dismissing his listeners with a peremptory gesture he approached Ryel, who scarce could keep the saddle, and grinned up at him with teeth white as stars, eyes black as empty space. "Well met, my lord brother."
Michael spoke now in his native tongue, harsh guttural Hryelesh. "Get away from me," Ryel muttered in the Rismai dialect, incapable of any other language.
Amazingly, Michael understood. "All in good time, Steppes gypsy." And the Elecambronian said a single Art-word stronger than any of Ryel's, undoing both spells. Torture and blood alike overwhelmed the wysard, and he reeled as the deep music of Michael's voice engulfed him in velvet hell.
"Take it like a man, Markulit. A mere man, this time."
Drained past all speech, Ryel impotently struck at the grimy hand on Jinn's bridle. With a laughed curse Michael pulled him down and slammed him against Jinn's side, ignoring his gurgles of agony. They were alone now in the shadow of a wall, with no help nearby even if Ryel had had the strength to shout for it.
Hot breath and cruel mockery burnt Ryel's ear while hands irresistibly strong tore open his robes. "So what became of you, gypsy? Wounded in the brothel district were you, brawling for a slut? You shouldn't be where you don't belong, sweet brother of chaste Markul. Where's the pain—here?"
Dirty fingers thrust into Ryel's side, deep into the gash, while the other hand clamped over his mouth and stifled both shrieks and retchings. With inhuman cruelty Michael clutched the wound, wringing the lacerated flesh as he growled spell-words in his throat. Never had Ryel known that kind of pain. It was like burning coals being driven into his body. Dirty wool blackness overcame him and he collapsed, but arms hard and hot as white-forged steel hauled him upright again.
"Thank me, Markulit. You'll yet live, and work the Master's will."
Ryel shuddered and gasped. But suddenly the pain vanished like a rat down a hole. Stunned by his deliverance, the wysard felt himself going limp in that loathed yet imperative embrace, too weak to move or think. His mind emptied dry, and the only things that came to fill its void were Jinn's anxious whickering, the acid scorch of vomit in his throat, rank leanness conferring the merciless essential encirclement of cruel sun-darkened arms, and low-toned music soft with rage, borne on breath wonderfully and bewilderingly sweet.
"Your strength is nothing to mine, Markulit. I could break you like a reed. I begged the Master to take me and use me as He would, but He wants only you—a weakling boy who can't even survive a scratch, much less cure it. But you bear His mark; you are destined for His having, as I am for His service. For my Master's sake I sacrificed that which I most loved, and gladly; but never can I forgive your part in it, Edris' bastard. Never."
"I don't understand."
Michael's voice was thunder, low and terrible. "You'll learn. Oh, you'll learn. Do you still hurt?"
"No."
The arms unlocked, leaving Ryel dizzy and cold. "Get out, then, while you still have time. But first take this, that the Master bade me send you."
And Michael seized Ryel's head in both his hands, kissing his mouth with savage ferocity. At that kiss the wysard again blanked into blackness, but in another moment came to and wildly looked about him. His grim tormentor and savior had disappeared. Ryel leaned against the wall dazed and spent, still scenting the reek of Michael's sweat, tasting the baffling sweetness of that breath, licking the bruises on his lips left by those white teeth. Then he put his hand to his side, dreading the pain that would surely erupt from the touch. But none came. With increasing boldness and disbelief he explored the place where Priamnor had stabbed him, that now betrayed no hurt whatever. Jerking his robes away, he found only a dried red smear where
the wound had been. He felt no weakness, despite all the blood he'd lost, and none of that blood had left any stain on his Steppes garments, although his torn flame-colored silken robe was drenched with it.
"By every god." He stroked his side, and found all his flesh smooth and whole. But he had little time to marvel at Lord Michael's cure, for the shouts of the city guard reminded him of that he was still in danger. With all haste he flung off his stained Almancarian finery, then re-mounted as a Steppes horseman spurring toward the gates of the city.
Although only false dawn had broken, the western portal of Almancar was open and teeming with traffic of departing and arriving caravans. Behind him Ryel heard soldiers shouting for the gate-wardens to stop anyone who sought to get through, but Jinn's wild gallop forced all who stood near to leap aside.
A commanding shout rang loud, deep as a death-knell. "Stop that rider! He has killed the Sovran!"
The voice was Michael's. But before anyone could mount and follow, Jinn was scouring the desert road toward the mountains, the night-wind her only rival.
Chapter Ten
Stubby thickset trees covered the foothills of the mountains in clumped groves, and into one of these Ryel plunged for cover. Once hidden he dismounted, throwing himself on the ground and burying his head in his arms, his eyes throbbing.
"Priam," he whispered, his heart's torment sharper than any sword-cut as he remembered the fight, and the fall. "Ah, Priamnor Ilandrakis—"
He rolled over, dry leaves crackling under him. Numbly he contemplated the sky, now beginning to brighten with dawn. For some time he lay distraught, his ideas confused and desperate. Then of a sudden he heard the thud of hoofbeats in the ground at his ear. Sitting up and peering through the branches, he saw that the soldiers had not given up their pursuit, and were coming ever closer to his hiding place. Breathlessly and half without thinking he spoke a word, and then another; and the soldiers drew rein and halted, seeming to dispute among themselves. After some moments' conference they again began their chase, but now they veered away from the wysard, wheeling about toward the Baltaigor pass.
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 27
