The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "It is."

  The Domina's mouth tightened. "You'll not have an easy time of it, I do assure you."

  Ryel felt his insides cramping. "I realize that the earl is no longer in this realm, but—"

  "Neither in this realm nor this world. Lord Guyon's dead." Bradamaine's last words came rougher than all the others, but her ice-eyes never thawed. "He died as he lived. In battle. After fleeing the Barrier, he sold his sword to Wycast, fighting in their unending war against Munkira. In some border-skirmish or other he fell, it's said. A witless, worthless death." She reached for her wine, and drank deep.

  Ryel set his own glass down, rather too hard. "Who told you this?"

  "Roskerrek," said the Domina, the word rough in her mouth.

  "You believe him?"

  Bradamaine nodded, although with manifest reluctance. "Whatever wrong he's wrought in his day, never has he lied to me."

  Fighting to conceal his reaction, Ryel felt the daimon-sickness well outward from his inmost spirit, cramping his entrails, savaging his brain. Feverishly he reached for the scent-cylinder, opening it in sweating haste. The exquisite essence overcame the air, and his pain. But Bradamaine seemed not to notice it in the least.

  "What's that? Some medicine?"

  Ryel's astonishment overwhelmed his other emotions. "You can't smell it?"

  She shook her head. "Mine's a blind nose for scents, Prince Ryel—which I've been frequently glad of, what with all the perfumes my courtiers reportedly soak themselves in."

  The wysard thrust the scent-cylinder into his pocket again. The fragrance had not only cleared his wits but sharpened them, and he sensed deception; whether it was the Domina's or Roskerrek's he resolved to learn, whatever the cost, in the Temple of the Sword. But he knew the price would come high, for the daimonic blight was strong within him, and the combat would take place at night, with Dagar there.

  Bradamaine was speaking, her tongue loosened by wine. "I never knew Starklander," she said, mostly to herself. "Never did he seem a man of human making. I never learned him. Like something out of a fable he came to me." She opened her eyes not looking at Ryel but far away. "Know you the story of how Starklander and I first met, my lord prince? It's a famous tale hereabouts."

  The wysard leaned forward. "I would very much like to, m'Domina."

  "Very well. It has long been Hryeland custom that whenever the ruler of the land passes through the palace gates, folk may assemble there to beg favors or offer petitions. One winter's day some years ago as I rode up to the gates, the people thrust forward as always with their endless askings. But all of a sudden, one among the crowd, a great strong Barbarian disguised, dragged me off my horse and pulled out a dagger to run me through. I'd have been instantly spitted, had not a tall ruffian in dusty black flung himself on the assassin and knocked him down, wresting the knife away. Whilst some of the guard dragged the assassin off for questioning—a soft word for torture and execution—I had my savior brought before me. Reeking dirty he was, his face bearded, his hair all unkempt. But anyone not stone blind might tell that he was of no ordinary making, nor was I surprised to learn that he was none other than the notoriously famed Guyon Desrenaud. As it happened, in struggling for the Barbarian's knife Desrenaud took a hard cut on the forearm, and it further so chanced, as too often it does in the North, that the blade was poisoned. It was Desrenaud's great good luck that Roskerrek had experience in the treating of envenomed wounds; the Count Palatine is more learned in the art of poison than any other in the North."

  Ryel stared. "The Count Palatine healed Lord Guyon?"

  Bradamaine gave a harsh laugh. "Not of his own wishing, I can assure you; 'twas at my express command. And thanks to Roskerrek's care, Desrenaud survived, and regained his health and all his looks. An idle foolish romance-book might say that Desrenaud was formed by nature to beguile. He had come to Hryeland to fight in my wars with the Snow-folk, and he proved himself so able a soldier that in two years he rose from mere captain to second in command only to Roskerrek. But he overstepped his authority beyond forgiveness when he made that treaty with the White Barbarians; he engineered it himself, against my orders and Roskerrek's opposition. Trekked alone across the mountains through the snow to the camp of the Barbarian chief, and effected what thirty years of struggle could not—an end to the pillaging and rapine, and quiet at last."

  Ryel listened enthralled, as to a tale of wonder. "Brave," he murmured.

  Bradamaine shook her head, her eyes focused far, into memories. "Witless, rather. But ever since then, the peace has held. I was furious with Starklander for taking matters into his own hands, and for putting himself in so much danger, but when he returned to Hallagh in triumph to the cheers of the entire populace, I could hardly punish him."

  She had looked away from Ryel all the time she'd spoken, but for a bare moment he caught her eye. Instantly he compelled his Mastery to hold her gaze, fixing it immovably on his own.

  "You loved him, or thought you did."

  The Domina's pallor colored suddenly, startlingly. "I'd wanted him from the first sight. But feelings for me he had none. Only a mere soldier's service he rendered me, and I wanted all of him. At last I besought Theofanu for a love-philtre that would bring him to my bed." At Ryel's shocked astonishment she lifted her hand, then let it drop again. "I had no choice. He would never have lain with me otherwise, so besotted he was with that whore of his, Belphira Deva. But I thought that if he could so lightly leave her for no other excuse than the death of Prince Hylas, he could just as lightly become mine."

  "And then?"

  She tried to look away, but could not. "It took strong drugs to sway him. Soon he became fonder of them than of me. We quarreled, and I commanded him to leave my realm at once. No sooner was he gone than I learnt I was with child by him; but it was born before its time, and born dead. No one knows of that but me. Would that I had Guy Desrenaud's cold corpse beneath my foot, and his traitor heart bleeding in my hand...but now even that pleasure is denied me."

  Silence fell awhile. "Might I know what caused your brother's death, m'Domina?"

  She would not look at him. "A fever."

  "You do not sound entirely sure," Ryel said.

  "Regnier lived a life of riot and excess. No one was surprised at his death."

  "Least of all the Count Palatine, I have a feeling." Those words made Bradamaine look up, eyes narrowed, and once again the wysard locked them with his own, and searched them with his Art. "Did Roskerrek kill the Dominor on your orders?"

  It did not seem possible for the Domina to turn any paler, but she did; and as she did she nodded an answer. "My brother more than merited his death. But Roskerrek never asked reward for that service, and I often wonder what he will demand of me someday."

  "His devotion to you is spiritual, not carnal."

  "That's scarcely reassuring. It's said that the goddess Argane's statue in the Sword Brotherhood's temple looks uncannily like me, and that Redbane draws his own blood as offerings to it. I find that…disgustful. I wish he and I had never met…" Her eyes welled up wetly, and blinked hard once or twice. It broke the Mastery-spell, and the mood, which turned so cold the wysard shivered and drew away from her as she pushed back from her chair, rising as she swiped her eyes with her doublet-sleeve. "That wine's damnably strong," she said; and Ryel knew their interview was over. "You'll guest at Grotherek tonight, my lord prince?"

  Her tone held no cordiality, and the wysard was happy to decline. "I thank you, most exalted, but I have already accepted the hospitality of Lord Roskerrek."

  Bradamaine's eyes narrowed. "Ah. Have you." I have expressly commanded him to be present with my court at the Temple of the Master tomorrow. Join us, if you would; even if we can make no believer of you, I've small doubt you'll find the rites of interest."

  "For that invitation I thank you, most exalted," Ryel replied, calmly dissembling his surprise at this new bit of luck. "When do the rites take place?"

  Bradamaine glanced at the c
ased clock by her work-table, that had accompanied the conversation with sepulchral monotonous insistence. "Three hours hence. If you have no other clothes than those you stand up in, more suitable I'll have sent to you at the Count Palatine's quarters."

  At this less than veiled reflection on his dusty Steppes gear Ryel gave a slight bow. "No need, most exalted, although I thank you. I have better with me."

  "Good. I'll have a coach sent for you, that you may appear at the Temple of the Master in a style befitting your rank."

  As quickly as he could, Ryel took his leave. But for a moment he stopped at the yard where the statues stood in broken neglected disarray.

  Despite its having been created by an artist unquestionably great, the statue of Lord Guyon Desrenaud had received rough treatment, scratches and dents, and the pedestal's inscription had been roughly chiseled away. Alleron was no longer there, but at the base of the statue lay a fresh little bouquet of the few flowers that grew wild around it. You've come down in the world, Starklander, Ryel thought. I only hope you're still falling, and haven't yet hit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On his return to the headquarters Ryel was ushered by Roskerrek's orderly to his quarters, which by their rich appointments seemed intended for visits from heads of state. The Count Palatine's rooms overlooked the courtyard and the city, but the wysard's faced the Lorn and the mountains beyond it. As Ryel was examining the rooms, a platter of the Verlande's delicious cuisine was sent in accompanied by noble wine, and Ryel fully enjoyed both as coppers of steaming water and a bath were made ready in front of the blazing hearth.

  Just as the wysard had sank into the bath with a contented sigh, with a perfunctory knock Jorn Alleron entered the room, carrying a large long cloth bag over his arm. At the sight of the enbathed and embarrassed Ryel he bowed with punctiliously averted eyes. "Forgive the intrusion, m'lord prince—and rest assured that I know your Steppes ways well, and won't abash you by staring. My lord thought you might find use for some clothes in the Northern fashion. They're fresh from the tailor, never yet worn. If you don't want them, I'm to leave them here nonetheless."

  "How did you know to address me by that title?" Ryel demanded, surprised at how matter of factly Alleron had uttered it. "I thought I was incognito."

  "No chance of that, thanks to my lord's spies at Grotherek," Alleron replied, almost in apology. "Speaking of which, here's his letter."

  Opening the crackling silver-sealed paper, Ryel quickly scanned the sharp-angled symmetry of the writing.

  'The Count Palatine regrets that he knew not the wandering Prince of Vrya in his incognito, and wishes to make amends for his oversight by taking advantage of the old Northern custom by which guests are made welcome with fresh raiment. He further asks that the Prince command whatever he wishes for his ease and comfort.

  In all recognizance,

  Roskerrek.'

  Ryel folded the letter again, inwardly debating. Gorgeous Almancarian robes would more suitably adorn the Prince of Vrya than Northern dress—and attract the most inconvenient kind of attention. "The Count Palatine's generosity is not only thoughtful, but remarkably well-timed," he said at last. "I accept it with pleasure."

  Alleron nodded approvingly. "Good. You and he are just of a height, and much of a size, so these should serve. I'll give order to have your own things laundered, by your leave." He dropped the bag on the bed, somewhat exasperated. "You might have told me you were a prince of Destimar, sir—but I should have guessed as much from your horse. Will you need help in dressing?"

  The question surprised Ryel, but then he realized it had been asked because of his exalted rank, a status he knew would be hard to get used to. "I can manage on my own, Captain. Have a seat and try some of this wine; it's remarkable."

  The flaxen captain nodded thanks as he removed his hat and tossed it aside. He had changed out of uniform, and was now handsomely outfitted in lapis-blue shorn velvet and finely pleated lawn. "I have time for a glass or two. Then I must attend my lord at that heathen service—damnation take it." He faced the fire, and jabbed it into roaring life with the poker.

  "You have little sympathy for the cult of the Master, it seems," Ryel ventured.

  "I serve one master only, sir, not some low tinsel blasphemy that dares call itself a religion. Let me get you a towel."

  Ryel made a declining gesture. "Thank you, but it's within my reach."

  "So it is; but I've orders to wait upon you." Removing his gloves, Alleron took the towel from its rack by the fire, holding it open discreetly screenwise.

  Ryel stood up, allowing himself to be enfolded in the warm thick-napped fabric, and reached for another towel to dry his hair. "What do you know concerning the cult of the Master?"

  "It's naught but rank witchcraft—babbled nonsense, bewildering drugs, lewd mummery."

  "Then how did it take hold?"

  Alleron barked his quiet laugh. "To comprehend, you need only have been to a church service anywhere in Hallagh."

  Ryel remembered the cheerless stark rites he had witnessed earlier, and nodded. "I can well understand."

  The captain opened the bag on the bed and took out a rich silk dressing-gown of deep maroon brocade, helping Ryel into it. "Religion's sadly altered since I was a lad. I used to enjoy attending worship service with my lord, because the music was always so fine and grand, and the colored glass windows were splendid to behold, and the priests wore such fine robes. The rites were full of ceremony, and grave and stately. I always felt as if man were a noble thing at those times. But the reforms put down all of that, as you've seen. The puritanical observances now in fashion might be well enough for the citizens, but the court, being for the most part licentious and unbridled, grew heartily tired of the Unseen—weary of the unvarying dull rigmarole, sick of an invisible god who did nothing but threaten and demand and forbid. Then comes Theofanu with her jigs and her drugs and her fleshly delights, all of them scot-free, and the court leapt on the Master's way like an old lecher on a fresh doxy."

  Ryel laughed. "The rites of the goddess Argane are different from both, I hope."

  "As unlike as sunshine day from dirty night, sir," the captain replied, most decidedly. "But you'll find that out soon enough. For now, let's see to that hair of yours." As he spoke, he took up a comb. "Sit there by the fire, if you will."

  Ryel complied, but hesitantly. "Thank you, but—"

  "It's no trouble." And Alleron with a gentle patience born of dealing with many a mane untangled the wysard's clean damp locks, pulling never a strand as he combed it smooth. "You've good hair, sir," he said approvingly. "Fine, but thickly set. I daresay it'd curl well with a little help—shall I call in a barber?"

  "I think not," Ryel replied; but he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed being so skillfully looked after. "Grateful though I am for your services, captain, I would not further inconvenience you. Therefore—"

  "I'm glad to. It takes me back," Alleron said, his tone reflective, his fingers infinitely apt as they combed and ordered. "I used always to take this care of my lord, during the wars; and I still have, during those times his sickness afflicted him more cruelly than usual, days now gone forever thanks to you. They're a mutton-fisted parcel of louts, his orderlies." He hesitated. "Speaking of my lord, I would thank you again for your care of him. It's altered him much—not only his mood, but his looks too. He might even wed if he wished, now."

  "As ill as he's been, I can't imagine that."

  "You'd be surprised. Women in the northlands look for solid merit when it comes to men, and several ladies, great ones in this realm, would gladly be wife to my lord because he's learned in so many arts, and poetical, and a steel-nerved soldier too. Often when his health's allowed he's taken part at the Duchess of Craise's famed gatherings, where the best minds of Hallagh convene; Her Grace is a rare and lovely woman still young, and would marry him in an eyeblink if he asked. I doubt she'd mind changing ranks, either; here in Hryeland a count palatine is worth fully as much as a p
rince of Destimar, by your leave."

  Ryel smiled. "And what of yourself, Captain?"

  Alleron shrugged. "I'll not wed until my lord does. I've three brothers, two of them my elders, all of 'em wived and childered. Not every man's a marrier, and I'm in no hurry. Now that your hair's dry, m'lord prince, here's your clothes." He opened the bag, drawing forth a suit of pearl-gray corded silk exquisitely made, and body-linen of dazzling whiteness. Shaking out the shirt, he held it to the fire to warm it, and a delicate fragrance of lavender and citron rose upon the air.

  Taking advantage of Alleron's discreetly turned back, Ryel pulled on a pair of soft cambric under-breeches. "Speaking of skills, I've also heard that the Count Palatine is expert in the healing of envenomed wounds."

  Alleron handed Ryel the shirt. "Ah. So we're speaking of Guy Desrenaud now?"

  Ryel nodded. "I believe we should."

  "What would you know of him, m'lord prince?"

  "I've heard he's dead," the wysard replied.

  Alleron did not reply at once. "That's scarcely common knowledge hereabouts."

  "Do you believe it?" Ryel asked.

  The captain looked the wysard in the eye, true as steel. "I believe anything my lord tells me, sir."

  "What do you remember concerning the Earl of Desrenaud?"

  At Ryel's question Alleron half-smiled in his wry way. "I recall that the first part of my lord's cure was to order that the earl be thoroughly washed, privately murmuring that a more reeking fellow he'd never been near in all his life. He had no love for Starklander from the first; yet he could not help but admire him for his bravery and coolness in the face of danger when the wars came."

  "Did they ever quarrel?" the wysard asked.

  Alleron ironically nodded. "Oh, many a time. Here's your stockings--it's custom to wear a couple of pair, against the cold." As the wysard donned them, Alleron shook out the suit's breeches with a sharp snap and set them within reach. "My lord would kill, I think, merely to kiss the tips of the Domina's fingers, and it gave him untold pain to see Bradamaine prefer a wild Ralnahrian lordling to himself. But that's no more than common knowledge."