The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Stand straight," hissed Roskerrek in his ear, wiltingly cold amid the assembly's collective throb.

  Ryel's eyes burnt with desperate shame. All about him men and women whined and panted, but at Ryel's side Roskerrek stood cold and unyielding as carved stone, his attention fixed on Bradamaine who now sat slumped and breathless, her ice-eyes heavy-lidded and fixed far, her red lips moving inaudibly.

  New music sounded, beguiling and soft. Weary but not yet sated, ladies and gallants brushed against each other with suggestive deliberation, exchanging languishing glances, whispering trysts. Theofanu surveyed her work and seemed well contented. She spoke a word, and one of her acolytes brought her a great deep bowl of gold—an empty bowl, Ryel saw.

  "The Master heeds your prayers." Holding forth the vessel, the witch waited silently. In another moment courtiers approached to cast into the bowl not money or jewels, but folded papers. Theofanu welcomed each offering with smiles, and then handed the bowl to another of her priests.

  "The Master gives all and asks nothing. Go, be joyful."

  She disappeared, not in a blinding blast but little by little, her substance seeming to dissolve into the mandragora haze as the congregation watched in awe and made various signs of devotion. The priests left the dais with stately steps, retiring behind the hangings as the music continued to play in soft languorous measures.

  Slowly and unwillingly Bradamaine rose from her chair amid the dazed obeisance of her court. Her face was flushed, and her breath came fast.

  "Ah, Gabriel," she said thickly, embracing Valrandin's slim-laced waist. "Let's leave this place, and lie down a little."

  Valrandin, acutely aware of Roskerrek's relentless presence, whispered something urgent in the Domina's ear. Those words worked like a spell, causing Bradamaine's wonted pallor to return, her eyes become ice again. She released her favorite, and addressed the Count Palatine.

  "Roskerrek, I would speak with you tomorrow morning, in my audience-chamber. Alone."

  At her last word the Count Palatine visibly started. "On what business, m'Domina?"

  "A private matter. You have said that you'll never fail to render me absolute obedience—I've an asking for you that will require it." As she spoke, she glanced at Ryel, but the wysard could not read her look.

  The Count Palatine bowed, visibly mastering his astonishment and joy. "I will not fail you, m'Domina. You have my word."

  Her harsh lips coldly tightened. "Do I indeed? We'll see. Until tomorrow, then." Abruptly she turned to the wysard. "My lord prince, most glad I am that we met."

  Ryel observed that her gladness seemed very slight, but he inclined his head. "As am I, m'Domina."

  "This will likely be our last encounter, I regret to say. I will be much busied with affairs of state henceforth. But if I can render you any service whilst you're in Hallagh, you've only to ask. Farewell, my lord of Vrya."

  Without another word Bradamaine departed, her arm once more around Valrandin. Ryel watched her going with misgiving, but he placed the blame for his mood and the Domina's on the dangerous drugs still impregnating the air.

  Then something seemed to sting him between the shoulder blades. Jerking about, he saw one of Theofanu's androgynous acolytes beckoning to him from the dais. At that moment Alleron, who had been standing throughout the service as near the door as possible, approached with a message for the Count Palatine, and the wysard took occasion to slip away.

  The silent priest led Ryel behind the hangings, through iron-bound doors and a somber antechamber, from thence into a great room filled with every luxury, lit by many lamps and warmed by a dozen braziers wrought in silver and jade, where precious essences burned among the coals. Ryel had expected to find appointments of barbaric magnificence in the wonted style of the Azm Chak, but saw nothing of the kind. Dawn-mauve, muted peach, soft green and ivory were the only colors, while the furniture was all deep-piled couches designed for intimate converse, and little tables carved of crystal and sweetwood, whereon stood dishes of perilous delicacies, phials of sense-obscuring drugs, ewers of bright wine, precious vases filled with narcotic flowers. Paintings of a suavely lascivious nature covered the walls, and statues of exquisite yet disturbing beauty peopled the room with maidens and dainty boys, clad lightly if at all. From one of the couches Theofanu smiled at Ryel.

  "Over here, brother." And she patted the cushions next to her with a spike-nailed ochre-hued hand. Most incongruous did she appear in those soft surroundings, monkeylike in her cloth of gold, her oiled hair skinned back from her scarred face in a great black knot stuck full of long lacquered pins. "Over here, for pretty talk."

  Ryel joined her, and the acolyte silently took his leave, bowing low to both wysardess and wysard.

  "Wine?" Theofanu asked. "It Masir. You fondest of Masir."

  Ryel remembered his lewd imaginings of only moments before, and felt himself coloring hot. "I want no wine."

  "Drugs? I have all drugs."

  "No. Why did you wish to see me?"

  Theofanu bunched herself up, hugging her ankles, tilting her head as she studied his face with her whiteless eyes. "So. Ryel Edrisem Mirai, lord adept of Markul. You like my rites?"

  "I found them childish."

  Theofanu laughed in shrill simian peals, hugging herself. "Yes! It take me much time to find something fool enough for the court of the Domina. But I find it. You know how? I look at the Unseen. I find the Unseen hates all sweet things. Loves money, much money, always money. No music, no drugs, no dirty, no danger in temple of the Unseen. Only talk, talk, ugly talk. The religion of a cold land, a cold people. I bring the sun. Color, all colors. Pleasure. Music, very sweet good music, because they love music here in the North. And I ask no money, not one copper coin money, never. Today is best so far; today, everyone have pleasure." She winked, slyly. "Even you."

  Ryel quelled the hot blood that would have shamed his cheeks. "The Count Palatine of Roskerrek resisted your foolery, at least."

  "Ha. Redbane." She said it as if spitting out sucked poison. "One day he suffer. One day soon."

  Ryel quelled the hot blood overtaking his face. "Dagar uses you like a foolish toy, Theofanu of Ormala," he said.

  "I make this city my toy. Its queen my toy. Soon, all the land."

  "So it's nothing more than a game to you?"

  "The Master gave me a great gift, brother." She poured herself some wine. "You sure you not want some? No? Well." She sat cross-legged, and drank. "In Azm Chak, all women treated like slaves. Beaten. Married too young, to old men. Their pleasure cut away before marriage." The opaque eyes narrowed in memory. "My sister die of it. Many girls die of it. But me, I live. Then they want to marry me to some man I hate—I hate all men, after that—and I run away from the Azm Chak, to Ormala. Learn the Art very fast. But nothing bring back my lost pleasure. Ormala not enough; I go to Elecambron. Dagar I find when I Cross; and Dagar gives me back my pleasure."

  "Dagar restored the excised flesh?"

  "Not restore. Return the feeling. Make it more." She licked her lips, her tongue like a slug on a fungus. "I have much pleasure, much, thanks to Dagar. I am grateful."

  Ryel stared at her. "Grateful enough to aid in the destruction of the World?"

  She only nodded. "The World and more." She reached for the golden bowl at her side, and brought up a handful of folded notes. "The World destroys itself. Gladly, daily." She chose a note and began to unwrap it. "Here are askings. Bribes, offers." She began to read. "A great lord in difficulties need gold. Offers his two children to serve the Master—boy and girl, lovely, both virgin. Another, from a lady who wish her false lover made impotent. Here another lady want her husband dead."

  "Surely you do not fulfill such requests."

  She tossed the papers away. "No. Foolish askings. I tell them that Master answers all prayers, but only prayers spoken in the temple. So they come, and bring others."

  "If you keep using strong drugs in your rituals, Hryeland will soon have a pack of idiots and madm
en for its court."

  Theofanu's fleshy lips drew back in amusement. "So the Master hope."

  "Dagar's methods are well-suited to his auditory," Ryel was forced to admit. "Fleshly excess for the Hryeland aristocracy, and grim threats for the lower orders in Almancar."

  Theofanu nodded serene assent. "Much happen since you left Almancar. New religion there now, most stern—most like the Unseen. The dirty folk of the Dog's Ward worship the Master. Some rich ladies, too, find the priest Michael pleasing. Wise are the ways of the Master."

  "I have failed to see Dagar's wisdom in any of our encounters," Ryel retorted.

  Theofanu laughed at him. "How wise you? You that took Redbane's sickness to yourself?"

  Bitterly self-disgusted, Ryel made no reply.

  The sorceress leaned forward, locking her empty eyes with Ryel's. "We have both Crossed, brother. Both Crossed, both seen, both come back marked with Dagar's seal. We know."

  The wysard tried to look away; could not. "I don't understand you, sister."

  "Let Dagar have you. Fight no more." Her hand moved to wrap Ryel's wrist, but he evaded that touch, revulsed.

  "I will fight to the last of my strength, Theofanu."

  The witch frowned. "But why?"

  "Because my Art is in the service of life." As Ryel spoke, his stomach cramped and queased. "Because there is too much pain in the World already." His skin burnt and sweated. "Because I know … what love is." A hammering ache pounded his brain to gray mash, forcing him to silence.

  Theofanu's chattering laugh added to his suffering. "I feel your thoughts during the rites, brother," she chuckled. "Much violence, much."

  Ryel fought the chill that tried to shake him. "I am not well. But I will find a cure."

  "The Master will heal you," said the witch. "Let him."

  "No." The wysard stood up, and the swiftness of his action made his head burst almost. Clutching his head in his hands, he spoke again, even though his voice seemed to fracture his skull. "Dagar cannot succeed, Theofanu."

  She only sneered. "The Master will sway all soon, brother. The World. The Cities. The stars."

  Ryel trembled, all his blood burning. "No."

  The witch snickered, shrill and contemptuous. "No? Someday soon, worship of Argane be heresy. And someday you join me and Dagar, soon."

  The wysard moved away, clenching his teeth. "I've had enough of this."

  "You in pain, brother." The sorceress reached out her skinny arms, her long gilt nails. "Here, I help."

  "Don't touch me!" Turning away violently, Ryel fled staggering from the room, Theofanu's scorning tittering laughter echoing behind him.

  Desperately pushing aside the hangings of the dais, the wysard lost his balance, and clung to the cloth as he swayed. Unable to master his guts, he vomited onto the precious mosaic pavement. Blind with excruciation he stumbled down the temple steps and into the open air, never so sweet to him before, and shoved past the guards into the park. Dropping down on the grass, he numbly groped in his coat pocket for the Transcendence scent-cylinder.

  He never expected it to help him, but the merest whiff of the Dranthene fragrance took away the pain. Gasping with the deliciousness of that salvation he sat up, leaning his back against a tree and blankly staring up into the grudgingly budding branches for a time. Only thirst racked him, now. Looking about, he saw that one of the ornamental fountains spurted a thin jet of water. This he made for, and drank deeply after splashing his face and rinsing his mouth.

  A known voice addressed him. "You look as if you could use something stronger." And Jorn Alleron, materialized like some helpful spirit, handed Ryel a silver flask.

  The wysard tilted it to his lips, tasted pure Steppes frangin, and sighed with sheer delight. " I never expected this."

  "I'm fond of the stuff. It has a rare tang to it." As he spoke, he captain sat down next to the wysard at the fountain's edge.

  "Why are you here?" the wysard asked.

  "My lord bade me wait for you," Alleron replied. "Are you all right? You look ghastly."

  The wysard took another pull of frangin, feeling like the trees about him, tingling with sweet strong rising sap. "It must have been the incense of the Master's rituals."

  Alleron spat. "Wasn't it foul, though? All of it was foul—except the music, I'll admit. That yellow slut jerks the court about like puppets, playing their passions like strings, scaring them the way a nursery bugbear tale frights a child—and like children they clap their hands even as they shiver and squeal. The incense you speak of is some filthy drug, no?"

  Ryel nodded. "A compound of several powerful narcotics."

  "Addictive ones, I doubt not."

  "Yes," the wysard replied. "The strongest known."

  "I thought as much. That's why I stood next the door, to breathe clean air."

  "The Count Palatine seemed unaffected," Ryel said. "I must confess that surprised me."

  "His body is impervious to all drugs, sir, even as his faith in Argane Queen of Battles withstands all arts and wiles. You look half dead from that witch's filthy smokes and stinks."

  "I'm well enough, now. But I must say I envy the Count Palatine's powers of resistance."

  "As do I," Alleron said. "On that subject, my lord bade me learn what the yellow-eyed bitch wanted of you, when you stayed behind after the service."

  "Her eyes are yellow?"

  "You didn't observe? They're like a snake's, or lizard's, or whatever other creeping vermin you please. She aimed at your conversion, I suppose."

  "She did," Ryel replied, grimacing at the memory.

  "And she failed?"

  "Most miserably."

  Alleron lifted his flask to the wysard before taking another swig. "My congratulations. I knew she'd never make a convert of you; but had she done so, you could never try for a Swordbrother tomorrow. The goddess Argane admits no divided loyalties. She's a jealous mistress, is Argane."

  Ryel smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

  "I've asked to be your Preceptor, if that suits you," Alleron said. "The rites are straightforward, but you'll still need some instruction."

  The wysard inclined his head in thanks. "I would be honored, Captain." He accepted the re-proffered flask with a nod of thanks. "Are you really going to fight with the Countess tomorrow?"

  Alleron nodded unshakeable assent. "At two of the clock, in the headquarters courtyard."

  "Your strength against a girl's, Captain?"

  Alleron blushed with nothing but frangin. "The girl you speak of is one of the wickedest bladesmen—bladeswomen, I should say—in Hryeland. She's been the death of more than one poor devil hereabouts."

  "But she's your sister. Swordsister, I should say."

  "This is a private quarrel, m'lord prince, and has naught to do with the Brotherhood."

  Ryel kept his reply neutral. "The Count Palatine might object."

  Alleron grunted a half-laugh. "He hates the little slut as much as I."

  Ryel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I much doubt that, Captain."

  "He'll be glad to see her taken down a bit. Well, I don't doubt you're blood-weary after so much rank mummery, and looking forward to a drink and some dinner, which we'll have at headquarters in the best style thanks to my lord's order. He's meeting with the Brotherhood council tonight, which is certain to rule in your favor, and I'm to instruct you regarding some particulars of the ritual. Whenever you feel like moving, I'll escort you back to headquarters. Your little Jinn's on hand to take you there—I sent away that gaudy whorish coach that awaited you."

  Ryel turned about and was glad to find his mare quietly standing next to Alleron's not far away. "My thanks, Captain."

  For a moment Alleron paused. "I don't know if you know, m'lord prince, but you're very likely the first man not of military rank ever to join the Fraternity."

  The wysard considered those words, but could not help likewise recalling the words of Belphira Deva in the Diamond Heaven: words concerning the battle of heart ag
ainst mind, self against World, that was unending war to some.

  "In my own way I'm a soldier, Captain," he said aloud. And for the first time, he felt like one.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thanks to the healing fragrance of Transcendence, Ryel was able to savor to the full both the excellent dinner concocted by the Count Palatine's cook Verlande, and Alleron's equally enjoyable conversation. It began with legends of Argane's origins, deeds, and miracles, but moved to the matter at hand once the table was cleared and only the wine remained.

  "Now comes your instructing, but first a pledge." The captain lifted his glass. "To my lord's continued health, and long tenure as Commander."

  Ryel seconded the toast. "How did Lord Roskerrek become priest of the order?"

  "The only way possible—he bought the right with blood," Alleron replied, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. "Upon the resignation or death of a Commander, succession is determined by single combat, and the candidate must vanquish all other challengers. It's a violent ordeal, as should be obvious. Of the five who contended for the right, my lord killed two and most seriously maimed the others, himself receiving no more than scratches."

  Ryel blinked. "Was he not brought to law for those killings?"

  Alleron shook his head. "The Fraternity has its own laws, which by tradition supersede those of the realm; and by those laws my lord's bloodshed was no murder, but rather honorable sacrifice to the goddess. He's defended his priesthood with the same energy against all adversaries for seven years, the longest term of anyone in the Fraternity's history."

  "You've witnessed some rare combat then, I take it."

  "Indeed I have. The best I ever saw—well, the second best—was the Earl of Rothsaye's bout with Valrandin when she joined the Brotherhood, two years back. All the more entertaining since she's the first and so far only woman to be of the Fraternity, and needs must fight like all the rest of us, stripped to the waist. I confess I was afraid for those pretty breasts of hers—not much for size, but high-set and firm as apples. As good fortune would have it, they took no harm, and she ended by giving Rothsaye a smart nick on the shoulder, something he was far from expecting."