The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  The wysard received this news very blankly. "What?"

  The wysardess grinned with much self-satisfaction. "At least as far as young Priamnor Dranthene is concerned, you've been a corpse since yesterday, when the imperial guard took your body back to Almancar. Your very dead, horribly mutilated body." In her maddening way Lady Srin poured herself some more chal, sat comfortably with her back against a rug-covered chest, and spoke at complete leisure. "Actually, it was the body of an Almancarian messenger—one of Priamnor's elite soldiery. Some robbers caught and killed this particular courier, but I doubt they enriched themselves much. Imperial envoys ride light. I found him quite by accident, with the letter still upon him. A stupid waste, to kill a comely young officer for a parcel of paper that not one of the thieving illiterate brutes could hope to make sense of. You'll have to excuse the bloodstains—he was carrying it under his shirt, next to his skin."

  Ryel remembered the hoof-marks with the Dranthene cipher that he'd seen during his climb up Kalima, and felt his heart constrict with regret for that young officer, galloping headlong to his death. "Who was the letter meant for?"

  "No one but you, lad."

  Ryel felt very confused. "But Lady Srin, only yesterday I was in Almancar. It isn't possible that—"

  "No, no, lad. A couple of days ago you were there, very true."

  "But how…in the name of All, did I really sleep two entire days?"

  "You did, much to the good of your health. Almancar had worn you out. Too much stimulation, specifically in the area of daimon-dealings and debauchery. I decided you needed a bit of rest, and did the necessary things to make sure you got it."

  "I wish you hadn't," the wysard replied, not caring if his resentment showed. "You made me waste time."

  "Nothing was wasted, whelp." Lady Srin regarded the wysard's stunned face with serene complacency. "Thanks to your little nap, matters turned out very well. From Priamnor's missive I was able to deduce your activities in Almancar, and thus had your remains ready to hand over to the soldiers when they came searching for you yesterday. Fortunately the courier's corpse was tall and slim enough to resemble you exactly once stripped of its uniform, cut under the right ribs, modified here and there with a touch of Mastery, and left under a hot sun for awhile."

  "It'd better be a convincing fraud," the wysard said, looking away. "Priamnor and I have swum together."

  "As I've said, I know your every hair," the wysardess serenely—and disconcertingly—reminded him. "At any rate, your advanced state of decomposition will do much to keep the fastidious young Sovran at a safely unsuspecting distance. As far as he's considered, you're an extremely dead man. And I've little doubt he's taking it hard, if this letter's any indication." Lady Srin held out the blood-grimed paper. "Here. It's all yours."

  Reluctantly the wysard did so. The first lines made him knit his brows in perplexity.

  "It's in High Almancarian, which for most people might as well be code. If you need help—"

  Ryel did not look up. "I don't."

  The wysardess, warned by his tone, fell silent. But ever as he read, Ryel was chagrined to feel Lady Srin's eyes on him, inexorably assessing every twitch of his face, every change of color. And they were many.

  "To Lord Ryel Mirai, greeting:

  "The doublehandedness which embarrassed me at our first meeting has proven of great service now, for my right arm is broken and will take long to heal, and I cannot entrust these words to any scribe.

  "I write this not sure if you are alive or dead. Every moment I relive the excesses of the Diamond Heaven, my drunken madness, your blood drawn by my blade. The daimon's false illusion deceived me, to my everlasting shame. No sooner did I emerge from unconsciousness, my arm broken and my wits clear, than I saw how grossly the courtesan of the Dream Garden counterfeited my sister. For my injury I hold you blameless, only too well aware that I deserved a far worse punishment. I can only hope your Art has saved you, and that my torment of mind will soon be ended by news that you are alive and in health.

  "Although greatness such as yours transcends any earthly title, in recognition of our blood-bond I have conferred upon you the rank of Prince of Vrya, together with all its privileges and appurtenances. This I will make known to all the rulers of the lands with which Destimar is allied, in hopes of hearing some word of you.

  "Since your leaving, my sister has learned of Agenor's daimon-wrought death, and is in deepest mourning. Nevertheless her sorrow is nothing to that of your desolate kinsman, Priam."

  Ryel felt his eyes scorching. "I broke his arm."

  "He hurt you rather worse, from the sounds of it," Lady Srin said. "Although he puts the blame on Dagar. Still, he's made handsome amends by declaring you a Dranthene prince of the blood. Which gives you triple nobility—of the Steppes, of Markul and of Destimar. Not bad."

  Ryel wasn't listening. Priam, he thought. Ah, ilandrakis. When you see that body you'll never forgive yourself.

  "Ryel, you're smiling."

  The wysard started. "Am I?"

  "I don't blame you," Lady Srin said, quite self-satisfied. "I thought my ruse very clever, too. Now you won't have to worry about being pursued on your way."

  "My way where?"

  "You know as well as I," the wysardess answered. "But tell me about that wound of yours. Are you healed?"

  Ryel nodded. "Completely—thanks to Lord Michael, late of Elecambron."

  He had expected at least a lifted eyebrow, but Srin Yan only gazed musingly into her chal, as if in divination. "I'd never have expected Michael Essern to become that daimon Dagar's servant, preaching sedition and discontent. I thought him stronger than that." Lifting her head, she met Ryel's empty eyes with her own. "Dagar called me as well, long ago. Wanted me for its use, as it wants you; but I resisted, until it decided I was too old, and the wrong sex. It marked me, as it has marked you—its way of putting its seal on those it intends to make use of. That surprises you, I see; but nevertheless it is a fact that no Overreacher was ever marred in the eyes until Dagar's death. Long has Dagar hovered in the Void, seeking a body in which to return and rule."

  "Edris is there with him, Lady Srin. I spoke with my father in Almancar. He told me to find you." And Ryel described the encounter, how it had taken place and what was said; and when he was silent, Srin Yan Tai made no remark, but threw more mandragora upon the coals until the smoke swirled around her. After a time, Ryel spoke again.

  "Edris said that you would know how his rai might be joined again with his body."

  She shook her head, plaits a-clack. "Edris gives me too much credit. That Mastery was of Lord Garnos' making, and was lost long ago. Not even Dagar could find it. But Dagar has its henchman Michael to seek out a stratagem; and Michael's skill in the Art equals yours, surpassing yours in some regards." With contemplative deliberation Lady Srin gazed upon the wysard through the eerie black emptiness of her eyes. "Dagar kept vigilant watch over the Crossing. The old and unable it maimed or destroyed; the strong it singled out as his own. Young manhood such as yours surpassed even Dagar's desire. And don't flatter yourself by thinking it's your purity Dagar seeks, your unsullied soul. He craves your flesh. He has burned for you, believe me, ever since he saw you before the walls of our City."

  The thought of that covert vacant scrutiny upon his nakedness gave the wysard chills. "Why would Dagar not choose Michael? He is nearly as young as me, fully as strong in the Art—and from what I've seen of him, far stronger in body."

  Lady Srin nodded entire agreement, to the wysard's dismay. "True on all counts; and not half bad-looking, depending on one's taste for his type of tiger-cat charm. I'm sure that Michael would more than willingly give over his body for Dagar's misuse, and damn his own rai to the Void forever. But the bane of the Red Esserns runs in his blood, and makes him of more use to Dagar as a vassal."

  "I've seen him in my Glass. His looks are strange, and I could tell he was in pain."

  "His elder brother is similarly afflicted. The Curse goes
far deeper than mere physical traits; blinding migraines and black moods alternate with malaise, complicated by a variety of digestive disorders."

  "What Overreachers are there alive besides you and me, and Michael?"

  "One only. Theofanu, an Ormalan wysardess who now masques as a priestess up in the Barrier lands—high priestess of the cult of the Master."

  "So that religion began in the North."

  "Yes. And has flourished so well that Dagar has seen fit to send his apostle Michael to propagate the faith in Destimar. That's not good, trust me."

  Ryel remembered Edris' deep voice, so incongruous in Priamnor's body. He recalled the mention of Starklander, revealed to him as Lord Guyon Desrenaud, and the yet mysterious Redbane—two men who would have to be found, for the World's sake. "When I left Rismai, I told my mother I'd be back in two weeks," he said. Even in Markul he had never felt farther from home.

  The wysardess dryly tsked. "Foolish boy."

  Ryel half laughed. He felt terribly trapped. "I doubt the rest of the World could care less, Lady Srin Yan."

  The wysardess' reply had cold iron in it. "There's no shirking the task before you, whelp. Believe me, all men will have cause to fear the name of Dagar. And don't imagine that you are the only thing it wants. It's begun to lay foundations for civil war in the North, and will soon put in motion insurrection that may or may not mean the end of Destimar. If Dagar is not destroyed—and by that I mean annihilated, reduced to less than dust, tracelessly erased—the World will be made to serve the Beast forever."

  Ryel looked out to the plain where great Almancar's gilded spires caught the last of the light, and flinched as he remembered the false Diara, and the drunken brawl. "It's like one of the epics I used to read as a boy, only more fantastic…and far less heroic."

  Soberly Lady Srin shook her head. "This is no foolish tale, whelp, but earnest danger. Serah Dalkith may have considered Dagar something overwhelmingly monstrous, to be feared abjectly; my viewpoint is rather less awestruck. If Dagar has his way, the World will simply become too tiresome to live in. Tyrannous regimes never last in the World, because people eventually tire of being always afraid and bored. They grow sick of living in continual dinginess and degradation. They grow ashamed of having to be always mean and vile and ignoble. They grow restless from being deprived of ideas, and having their imaginations crushed. Eventually, whether it takes weeks or centuries, they respond to the call of their higher faculties, and fight to the death for beauty and nobility and peace. But if Dagar achieves incarnation, the tyranny will last forever, and you will live forever—until such time as Dagar discards you like a rotten rag in favor of something fresher."

  The wysard shuddered at the crawling of his skin, but then warmed again with the memory of wine-tinged lips, night-black hair falling across his arm, bright water and bronzed nakedness, endless sun glittering on all the treasures of the earth. "Almancar could never be swayed by Michael's rantings."

  Srin Yan Tai laughed, short and dry. "You're not seeing enough moves ahead, lad. Once Michael incites the Fourth District to revolt, young Priam will be too distracted to notice his half-siblings' grab for the throne."

  Vaguely Ryel recalled Priam's mentioning that he had other brothers and sisters besides Diara. "Which half-siblings are those?"

  "The twins Catulk and Coamshi, by Agenor's first wife, a Zegry princess. Red-skinned twins with pale yellow eyes, a striking combination that unfortunately had far more physical affinity with a certain Falissian captain of the guard than with the Sovran, who divorced the wife and executed the lover. Together with their mother the twins rule the poisonous jungles of the Azm Chak, which boast a numerous and belligerent population very fond of jewels. They're vicious, those Zegrys. This won't be their first attempt on Priam's life."

  Ryel stiffened. "What do you mean?"

  "The Azm Chak is famed as a hotbed of repulsive and incurable diseases," replied Lady Srin. "One of them is jirankri, an especially troublesome venereal complaint. Some years ago the twins envenomed a beautiful woman with this disorder, and sent their pretty fireship to Almancar's pleasure quarter to infect Priamnor and his favorites. Among jirankri's more annoying manifestations is its necrotic effect on the male organs of generation, which after much noisome suppuration and untold agony eventually drop off—a nasty surprise for its victims. I happened to be in Almancar at the time, and managed to persuade Agenor to let me cure his son before the worst could occur. Only the utmost powers of my Art could save him—although Priamnor's mother the Sovrana Calantha, a good but unreasoning woman, gave all the credit to the goddess Demetropa."

  Ryel winced as he remembered the counterfeit Diara of the Diamond Heaven, her false flesh surely laced with danger worse than anything from the Azm Chak. "I have to return to Almancar, and help Priam."

  "Priam will have to help himself," said Lady Srin. "You've more important business." Turning about, she opened one of her wooden chests and brought out something thin and flat wrapped in a piece of rich brocade. "Here. This might prove useful to you from time to time."

  She unfolded the cloth, disclosing several pieces of broken mirror. Taking a fragment up, Ryel looked into it, but found no reflection.

  "This is a Glass," he said.

  "All that remains of mine," Lady Srin answered, dryly rueful. "It burst into bits when I looked eye to eye with Dagar during the Crossing. I'm lucky it didn't blind me." Carefully selecting one of the shards, she tore off a bit of the golden cloth and wrapped it up, then handed it to Ryel. "Take this with you when you leave. Tomorrow morning you're heading North."

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryel had thought that Lady Srin intended him to ride Northward, and reluctantly contemplated a long stint on horseback despite Jinn's Art-sped swiftness. As matters turned out he was mistaken, as he'd been with so many things since his return to the World.

  "Time's against you, lad," Srin Yan Tai yet again reminded him as they sat cross-legged on the yat-platform, warming their hands on their chal-bowls as their breath and the drink's fragrant vapor mingled with the raw mists of dawn. "Days are as good as months, now, what with so much awork in the World. Only the Art in its purest form can best speed your way."

  Ryel wearily blew the steam from his chal. He hadn't slept well the night before. "You well know that my Art isn't that strong, Lady Srin."

  "Of course it isn't, whelp. But mine is."

  Rolling his eyes and stifling yet another yawn, Ryel peered out through the chal-haze toward Almancar, where now the tallest of the gilded towers—the spires of the Dranthene palace, where the Sovrena Diara doubtless lay still asleep, dreaming he hoped of him—began to glow from the light of the dawn. Gradually the dawn shed its radiance over the great city, lighting the temples and the mansions; dawn warm and clear.

  He glanced from the city to the wysardess at his side. "Was it you that sent Jinn to me, there on the Aqqar?"

  Lady Srin, seemingly absorbed in her chal, shook her head as she drank.

  "Then who?"

  Ignoring Ryel's impatience, Srin Yan Tai meditatively licked her lower lip as she gave a half-shrug. "Can't tell you, lad."

  "You mean you know, but won't tell me?"

  "Meaning I know, but don't believe it. Still, if I'm not being shamefully misled, matters should do well, if all goes as it should. Not that it has to, of course." She, too, fixed her gaze on the great city below, that lay now like a tumbled heap of jewels all agleam in the rising light. "I dreamed of war last night. War down there."

  That explained her restlessness, her frequent muttered cries and starts as she slept, which had kept Ryel irritably wakeful. He was irritable still, and gave a surly inward sigh. Part of it must have escaped, because Lady Srin turned to him, drawing his entire attention into her lightless eyes.

  "Listen, whelp. Dagar has other business to attend to at present, but I can assure you he hasn't forgotten about those who are dear to you. Wherever you go, Dagar will follow, and therefore it's most opportune that yo
ur course leads Northward, away from your mother and sister, and the Dranthene siblings."

  "Even if I manage to get there, I don't know where to start. How to begin."

  "You'll have friends up North, lad. Friends who'll open doors for you. It was revealed to me last night in a vision that a radiant spirit will guide you into Hallagh."

  "Really."

  Lady Srin growled a thunder-chuckle at Ryel's nonexistent enthusiasm. "You'll see. Well, let's get started. I'm glad you haven't eaten anything yet, because this spell is guaranteed to wring your guts."

  They descended the tree, and crossed the moat to the meadow where Jinn stood with her head up and her mane stirred by the morning breeze.

  "Stand next to the horse, and don't move," Lady Srin said.

  Ryel eyed the wysardess warily. "What are you going to do?"

  "Something I shouldn't. Now be quiet, and let me remember the spell." She shut her eyes, silently murmuring awhile. Then she fixed Ryel with her most quelling glare. "Here we begin, lad."

  "Begin what?"

  "The Spell of Translation, of course."

  Ryel all but rolled his eyes. "You can't. It's worthless even to try."

  The wysardess shrugged, ironically affable. "As I said, I get visions. My Art will work, trust me." She paused. "But if it doesn't, and some ill befalls you—like death, perhaps—I hope you'll understand."

  "Oh, certainly. Of course I will."

  Lady Srin smiled, as grimly ironic as Ryel. "You're young and tough—if the spell takes, you'll survive it. A good road be yours, lad." Suddenly she came close, putting both hands on his shoulders; pressed her cheek against his, hard, before drawing away again. "Now it starts. Move a muscle and you're dead. Think a thought and you're dead. Remember that."

  Ryel made no answer either by word or gesture. At his side Jinn stood fully as immobile.

  "Shut your eyes."

  Ryel did so. He could hear the guttural rumble of spell-words, none of them intelligible, as he felt his body dissolve around his rai. It occurred to him that he might indeed be dying, this time for good, and he tried to open his eyes to give Lady Srin a last indignant glare. But he was utterly unbodied now. He felt as if his rai were being hurled like a burning ball at some immeasurably distant target, and for a long time he hurtled through nothingness; but then he hit. Hit hard, then shattered.