Ryel felt his heart race. "I understand that Redbane—or rather, the Count Palatine—has a brother."
"He had two, sir," Dulard answered. "The eldest died in battle, and the younger—Michael, styled the Earl of Morvran—left Hryeland years ago, to study the black arts some say. He likewise was a Red Essern, and never until this generation were there two of them living at once. Many folk of Hryeland believe it's a portent of some great catastrophe to come." Dulard suddenly sat upright in the saddle for the first time. "But now that we speak of Redbane—the enchanted castle opens! I swear, I sometimes think I have magic powers. There's Jorn Alleron, a friend of mine. I'd speak a word with him, by your leave. Come, I'll present you." And Dulard steered his nag toward the black-uniformed, flaxen-haired, superbly-mounted officer just riding out of the gate—a man middling tall and ruggedly built, as lithe in the saddle as a Steppes brave.
Dulard bent toward Ryel, speaking in an undertone. "We're in luck, Mr. Mirai. Alleron is Redbane's equerry, and master of horse to the army. You wouldn't guess from his proud looks that he's a mere commoner, would you? But he and his family scorn all titled rank—their honor and pride is to serve the house of Essern, which they have for generations. During the Five Years' War Alleron's father Renaye gave his own life to save that of Roskerrek's sire, the famed Warraven."
"Warraven." Ryel felt Edris' cloak like a sheet of flame about him as he remembered his father's words. Warraven, he thought. So it was Redbane's father whose cloak you stole, ithradrakis. Warraven, who almost killed you—
Dulard continued blithely on. "—and Renaye died stuck like a hedgehog full of Barbarian arrows when he threw his body between his master and the attack—why, well met to you, my brave Captain Alleron."
The flaxen officer leveled a piercing stare at Dulard, but not a muscle in his face revealed the merest hint of willing recognition. A good honest face it was, young for its near-forty years and neither plain nor handsome, but now unrelentingly dour.
"So, scribbler," the captain said. "What do you want?"
At the sound of that voice, dry as alum, Dulard cleared his throat. "Why, only to give you good day, Captain, and ask the news." He flashed a broad though not especially mirthful grin. "As you've doubtless heard, I've been away from the city the past week, as guest of his grace of Gledrim."
The captain's facial immobility twitched. "Gledrim's a buggering wastrel."
The poet flushed, but kept grinning. "He entertains the best company, sir, and I was made welcome among it."
Alleron wasn't impressed. "Meaning you sang for your supper, ate it in the kitchen, and slept in a garret with the footmen and their fleas. Tell me I lie."
The poet chortled at what he plainly considered Alleron's merry jest. "I'm far too wise ever to gainsay a swordsman like yourself, captain. But to somewhat freshen the theme of our talk, how does your noble lord, the worshipful Count Palatine? Was he perchance diverted by the poem I made in his honor? I spent an infinite time on it, polishing it to perfection; not that I expect anything in the way of gratitude, but—"
The equerry almost smiled. "Oh, you'll be well paid, fear not."
Dulard sparkled. "Really, Captain! And in what way?"
The near-smile widened a fraction. "With a horsewhip across your shoulders, laid on smartly and with interest."
The poet swayed in the saddle. "You jest, captain."
"You know I never do," Alleron icily assured him. "I've seldom seen my lord more furious than your arse-kissing doggerel made him. You're damned lucky you weren't in town when he read it."
Dulard goggled in drunken horror. "But Captain, I especially composed that panegyric in the Count Palatine's honor! I made him a demigod, the dearest favorite of the battle-deity Argane. I even put you in the poem, as the hero's trusty comrade."
The officer glowered through slit eyes. "And a fawning ridiculous slave you made of me; but I scorn to let a scurvy jingler's paltry doggerel do me insult. However, the filthy insinuations you made regarding my lord and the Domina won't go unrequited. Expect your next play to be roundly hooted, and yourself tossed naked into the sewer where you belong."
Dulard sputtered. "But sir, I never intended to suggest that the Domina…"
Alleron thrust away the explanation with a savage gauntleted gesture. "Never tell me you didn't mean bawdry, you scrawling lickspit. But stay awhile, for my lord will be here any minute now to give order for your reward."
Save for his ale-blushed nose, the poet paled white as the sickly plumes of his battered hat, which he plucked off his head with an unsteady hand. "Always a pleasure to chat with you, Captain—but I've business at my bookseller's, and cannot stay." He turned to Ryel. "I'm sorry we must part so precipitately, sir. But I hope we may meet again, in more favorable circumstances. And so, your servant—" As he spoke he urged his nag away and effaced himself in the crowd until his bedraggled feathers were lost to sight.
Alleron turned his head and spat. "I can't abide that halfwit. Don't tell me he's a friend of yours."
The wysard was surprised to find himself addressed, and seized what he knew was a chance beyond all expectation. "The poet is an acquaintance," he replied. "We met on the road by chance, this morning."
"Stay clear of him. He's a fool." The captain surveyed the wysard with the razor's edge of his steel-blue eyes. "What brings you to Hallagh, Destimarian?"
Ryel thought very fast, seeing unlooked-for chance opening wide its double door. "I heard that Lord Roskerrek suffers from various complaints."
Alleron shrugged with some impatience. "Well, and?"
"I am a physician of some skill in his disorders, and would attempt his cure, if he so wishes."
This news was met with utmost indifference. "You wouldn't be the first." All the time they'd talked, Alleron's steely eyes had been making a nonchalant but minute scrutiny of Ryel's mare. "That's a fair bit of horseflesh."
"I think so, too," the wysard answered, fully as casually.
"I'll buy her of you, if I like her price."
"You wouldn't, Captain. Trust me."
Alleron's left mouth-corner leapt upward. "You're of the Inner Steppes, aren't you? The Stormhawk phratri, I'd guess."
"You're not far off," Ryel said, surprised and rather pleased. "I'm of the Elhin Gazal."
Alleron slowly twisted his flaxen mustache with his gloved hand, his keen eyes still numbering Jinn's perfections. "The Triple Star. I'm something of a horse-scholar, doctor. The great bloodlines are my especial interest, and those of the Rismai I've committed to memory. Did I put faith in miracles, I'd say your mare seems to be one of the right Windskimmer breed."
Ryel inclined his head. "You've a rare eye, Captain."
Alleron swore violently, but in a reverent undertone. "What physician can afford to bestride a horse so fine?"
Ryel smiled. "Not a bad one, maybe."
Alleron rode closer, pulled off his glove and caressed Jinn's mane with a tender connoisseur's hand; and Jinn gave an almost flirtatious whinny that nearly made Ryel jealous.
"You beauty," the captain murmured, as warmly as if wooing a mistress; then addressed the wysard, without taking his eyes from the horse. "Usually I carry some sugar in my pocket for encounters such as these, but today I forgot, damnation take it."
"Just as well," Ryel said, perhaps a little shortly. "She'd never accept it."
Before Alleron could reply, as he certainly intended to, a soft yet incisive voice broke in, cold as a blade. "Who is this man you speak with, Captain?"
Instantly Alleron wheeled about, sweeping off his hat and bowing low. Ryel observed that the newcomer was a cavalry officer of great rank, to judge from the extreme richness of his black uniform. He was a coolly adroit horseman too, mastering with impatient ease his unruly big roan. But even more singular than the officer's dress or his horse were his looks, which the wysard knew at once. Dulard's description had not exaggerated. Redbane's hair was indeed red as blood, his skin dead white—and those ice-gray eyes with t
heir all but invisible pupils were most certainly unsettling, especially since they were now taking a minute yet absolutely inscrutable inventory of every lineament of the wysard's every physical characteristic, and of Jinn's as well. They lingered long upon the wysard's scarlet mantle, but with no emotion that Ryel could unequivocally read.
"M'lord," Alleron was saying, "this is a physician of Destimar who has healed notables and princes, and claims to be versed in ailments such as yours."
The gray eyes never blinked under the broad shadow of hat-rim, never ceased their cold surmise. "I no longer wish any doctors, equerry. I believe I have told you so before, more than once."
"But m'lord," Alleron protested. "This man—"
"Rides a remarkably fine Steppes mare, which you doubtless noticed first," the Count Palatine replied. "You're an able judge of horses, equerry. I suggest you keep to what you're best at."
As Alleron drew back, clearly bruised by the rebuff, Ryel spoke. "My lord of Roskerrek, I will ask nothing for my services."
The Count Palatine's thin lips twitched in icy derision. "Nothing, you say. Nothing buys few horses." His strange eyes continued their unreadable examination of Ryel's cloak, and the wysard in his turn further remarked the singularities that had so forcibly impressed him at first glance.
Ryel had been much struck by the contrast between Roskerrek's figure and his face. Though the Count Palatine's garb might be rich and his body well-formed to wear it, being both slender and strong, his countenance was ill-favored to an extreme. A sour-lidded bitter-lipped face it was, shaven close save for a narrow mustache adding yet more width to the mouth, and a pointed beard further sharpening the tip of the chin—both ornaments colored the same strange blood-scarlet as the hair of his head, that fell in lusterless skeins to his shoulders. But the wysard saw that Roskerrek's ugliness owed more to a lifetime of continued pain than to any inherent flaw. Protracted suffering had scored slashes deep upon the brow, etched harsh acid around the eyes, carved long furrows athwart the mouth-corners. Even now migraine made the eyelids twitch, and cramped the lines of the lips. What Ryel beheld was defacement that drove to the very soul—and for reasons he could not explain, he sorrowed for it.
Roskerrek felt the wysard's regard, and maybe his emotions. Whatever he felt he was far from showing. But his next words, though couched in the coolest indifference, said all. "That is a military cloak you wear, doctor."
Ryel levelly met that ice-gray gaze, glad that his heart was hidden. "Is it?"
"The highest ranks of the army wore such, years ago. The unfading richness of the color was greatly prized." Roskerrek glanced pleasurelessly down at his own cloak, which was of deep gray guarded with black and silver, then back to the wysard's. "I doubt you served in the Hryeland cavalry when that garment was in fashion, doctor. My father owned one virtually identical to yours—I remember it well. But shortly after his death it disappeared, no one ever knew where."
"I am sorry to hear it," Ryel replied. "But many things thought forever lost may be found again."
Alleron, clearly baffled by their talk and impatient too, broke in. "M'lord, only let him try to work your cure. I know he'll—"
The Count Palatine's soft voice frosted. "Equerry, I command you to hold your tongue."
Alleron turned his face away, blinking furiously as he muttered a curse. Roskerrek regarded the captain a long impenetrable moment, and then addressed Ryel. He was smiling, though ever so barely.
"Who I am, I believe you know. Now I would learn your name, doctor."
Ryel told him. Roskerrek seemed to muse, as if in recollection.
"Ryel Mirai," he murmured at last. His pale eyes searched the wysard's, observing the slant, remarking the blue. ""The Inner lands … and Almancar. You use only two of your names—but I trespass. Tell me the true price of your cure, physician."
Astonished though he was by the Count Palatine's acuity, Ryel replied with calm. "I would have the answer to a single question."
"That could mean little, or too much," the Count Palatine said, again after a silence. "Whatever you desire to ask, I refuse to answer until I consider myself cured."
Ryel bowed his head to conceal his chagrin. "As you wish."
In that interval Alleron muttered fervent thanks to the goddess Argane. Roskerrek heard, and smiled now with all his face, although faintly.
"You're difficult to deal with, Jorn."
"And I'm damned glad I am, sir," the captain replied, his voice rough.
Roskerrek again addressed the wysard. "At present I'm engaged at the Ministry of Arms, Ryel Mirai. But come to me here at headquarters any time after four of the clock, and we will discuss the terms of my treatment—unless you have other appointments."
"I will not fail you," Ryel replied.
At that moment a rider dashed up in a clamor of ringing steel, angry horse-noises and energetic cursings, coming to a rearing halt at Roskerrek's side and saluting perhaps a little too smartly.
"Well met, General."
Roskerrek flinched at the racket and its resultant cloud of dust, greeting the newcomer with a resignation all too evidently habitual. "If you think so, Lieutenant Valrandin."
The young officer thus addressed grinned, showing teeth very white and even. He was at most twenty-three and of unusual good looks, with auburn ringlets framing a beardless face almost a girl's for delicacy, did not the bold hazel eyes and firm-lipped mouth and decidedly arrogant chin lend it strength. His maroon velvet doublet and breeches well became his supple slimness, and rich lace at neck and wrists drew the eye to mark the graceful poise of his head and the elegance of his ungloved hands. Spurs of bright silver rang at the heels of the lieutenant's boots, his fingers glittered with rings, diamonds flashed in both his ears; and from his entire body emanated a delicate yet penetrating fragrance compounded of rare and precious essences. To match this magnificence Valrandin had a demeanor both prideful and insolent, traits well evident in his next words, all the more cutting for being uttered in a voice so attractively resonant and musical.
"You look even more ghastly today than usual, General."
"And I'm sure you're sorry for it, Lieutenant," Roskerrek dryly replied.
Valrandin smiled. "It wrings my heart, General."
Long did they look on one another, with the slit-eyed intensity of predators; but when Roskerrek spoke again it was with no audible emotion. "I see you're not in uniform. Are you idling as usual, or have you some errand here?"
Valrandin became solemn. "I was sent by royal command. The Domina desired me to observe and report to her that place in the city where ruffians and knaves and other worthless persons most congregate. So here I am." Gazing coolly about him, he whistled a tune between his teeth a moment. "Word has it that you called for yet another round of torture yesterday."
"A few incorrigibles among the ranks were disciplined as they deserved," Roskerrek said. "What of it?"
The lieutenant's lip curled. "Disciplined. That's putting it sweetly. Flogged to death is more like it."
The Count Palatine's soft voice stiffened with the rest of him. "You exaggerate, Valrandin."
"And you lie, Roskerrek."
During that wiredrawn interval Alleron cursed the lieutenant under his breath with rare inventiveness; and Valrandin darted a glare at the captain, tapping his sword-hilt. "You grunted something, dog-robber?"
Alleron set his jaw. "What if I did, hell-imp?"
The Count Palatine softly but incisively interposed. "Equerry, I would have you show more civility."
"Why?" Alleron demanded. "Don't I rank the little braggart?"
Roskerrek's quiet tones held a warning edge. "Lieutenant Valrandin is the Domina's especial favorite, and as such deserves your respect."
Alleron only snorted a laugh at that. "Favorite. That's putting it cleanly."
Valrandin went white. "And that's enough of your mouth, stall-mucker. Let's have it out here and now." And he would have drawn his sword, but Roskerrek rode close and gr
asped his arm with raptor suddenness.
"I'll not have brawling in my district, Lieutenant."
Valrandin struggled and grimaced. "You're hurting me, damn it."
"Am I? I beg your forgiveness." And to Ryel's amazement, the Count Palatine carried the lieutenant's struggling wrist to his lips and kissed the veins of its underside like an amorous suitor before flinging it away. "Someday I'll break it for you."
At this extraordinary scene the watching soldiers lounging about the headquarters entrance snickered, and Alleron flung back his head and barked a laugh. Flushed and furious, Valrandin shot murder from his eyes all about him, but most of all at Roskerrek.
"We'll see what gets broken first, Redbane," he hissed. "The Domina sent me to give you a message."
Roskerrek took his sobriquet very ill indeed, but stayed calm; and now a warm hint of color allayed the dull pallor of his ravaged features. "I await the Domina's word with all alacrity, Lieutenant Valrandin."
"I know you do," Valrandin said with a meaning scorning smile. "Very well, she wishes that you attend her tomorrow night."
"Ah." The pupils of Roskerrek's pale gray eyes dilated a fraction. "In what service?"
Valrandin grinned wickedly. "A church service, as it happens—worship of the Master, which too long you have scanted."
The Count Palatine's bilious eyes narrowed, and his splenetic lips twisted. "Apparently the Domina has forgotten that I am no friend to that religion. You may return her my thanks, and my respectful refusal."
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 31
