The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "The Countess is a law unto herself," Ryel said, his Steppes upbringing slightly scandalized by Alleron's narration. "I wonder who I'll end up fighting."

  "Oh, you can count upon your initiation to be a mere formality, and whoever you face will let you off with the lightest of scratches, since you cured my lord's illness. Speaking of which, as bad as that sickness made him, only once did I ever see my lord commit an unworthy action, when he was goaded beyond even his wonted self-command."

  "Who did he fight?" Ryel asked.

  "Starklander." Alleron's edged-steel eyes glinted in revery. "Now there was a bout. I've never seen a braver duel. And I'd have never wished it ended, either, but at last Desrenaud dealt my lord a wound that survives to this day as a white scar at the top of the cheek just under the left eye, stretching to the ear, neat and delicate. I daresay you've seen it."

  "I have."

  "A love-cut, we call such dainty scratches. But I doubt my lord thinks over-fondly of Guyon Desrenaud every time he spies that sword-token in his shaving-mirror. He took it hard, believe me. For by Brotherhood rules the combat must terminate as soon as blood's drawn, but my lord would not stop, so furious had Lord Guyon made him. Lashing out wildly, he hacked Starklander through the right ribs, a cruel deep blow. We had to part them by force, and throw some stun-dust on the fire to drug Desrenaud into calm—but not my lord, for whom no drug has effect, as you've seen."

  Ryel yet again recalled his weakness during Theofanu's rites, and Roskerrek's cold impervious admonition. "I'm glad I'm on your lord's good side," he said, with an attempt at a smile.

  "I'd be very sorry for you if you weren't. Well, the hour's late and you've listened long enough to my droppings, and require rest. I'll light you to your rooms, by your leave, and may you sleep like a baby."

  *****

  That night Ryel indeed slept as Alleron had wished; slept like a child with night-terrors, tormented by countless appalling visions—for visions and not dreams they appeared to his racked unconsciousness, prophetic of a future looming near, and unspeakably terrible. When he at last found real rest the hour was close to dawn, and when he at last rose, the sun was high in the sky, as he discovered when he began to open the window-curtains. The light hurt his eyes damnably, and he could barely stand upright, he felt so sick. Had it not been for the aid of Transcendence, he would have been weary of his life.

  A quick-eared orderly heard, and entered to wish him a good morning, and to inform him that both the Count Palatine and Captain Alleron were absent from headquarters and not expected to return until later in the day. A plentiful breakfast was brought in, the fire in the hearth was roused to life and replenished, and the curtains thrown wide. Luckily Ryel could now bear such disturbances, thanks to the inestimably precious powers of the Dranthene scent. He could enjoy the fire's warmth, the chill wan sunlight, the food set before him—excellent, as dinner had been the night before.

  As Ryel chose among the several dishes offered him he discovered, to his surprise and pleasure, that breakfast included chal. It was a little weaker than he preferred, but of the finest quality, as the wysard had come to expect from all that belonged or pertained to Yvain Essern. Fresh clothes were laid out for him, newly made and quietly elegant.

  Feeling well again, Ryel washed and dressed, then had Jinn saddled for a ride. Visible on the other side of the Lorn was a range of stately stone buildings set in deep lawns leading down to the river, and the wysard felt a sudden keen interest in them. Crossing the bridge and arriving at the gates, Ryel learned that he'd found his way to Hallagh's famed university. Entrusting Jinn to the care of the porter, he wandered about the arcaded courtyards, listening to snatches of lectures on all subjects, admiring the statues and monuments, and watching the students as they hurried to and from classes in their black gowns. It was lively and learned, and he savored the inquiring energy of the place. The great library was full of long tables well-stocked with scholars, but its books were jealously kept, and not available for casual browsing. When Ryel expressed disappointment at that regulation, the librarian suggested that the wysard visit the observatory-tower, which had a fine view of the city and a collection of scientific instruments both rare and costly.

  The wysard had no great interest in what seemed a long upward trek, and would have gone on to other explorations of the grounds; but he felt inexplicably pulled to ascend the tower's winding stairs. Having climbed the many flights to the top, Ryel glanced out over the city, comparing it unfavorably with Almancar and Markul; then duly noted the gleaming array of machines and implements carefully shelved behind glass cases or displayed upon pedestals. They seemed to his Art-trained eyes touchingly naïve in their attempt to quantify the immeasurable. As he smiled in tolerant sympathy, he was not surprised to find the great circular room's treasures guarded, or at least watched over by a man sitting at a desk in the chamber's midst. This person was very apparently a professor—an intense hawkish man seemingly in his middle sixties, well wrapped in a scholar's gown of mouse-colored velvet lined with squirrel-fur, regarded the wysard unwaveringly over his leather-bound book. Very keen and clear were his light-brown eyes, peering out benignly but searchingly under a grizzled thatch of hair and a very large academic cap; most ironically mobile his mouth, partly obscured by a graying scrub of beard; and when he spoke, it was in an accent twangingly Ralnahrian.

  "Welcome, sir," the professor said. "Your polite indifference to these priceless instruments could only come from an extremity of ignorance, or a superabundance of knowledge. Now, as you are a young man not yet thirty, I might well suppose the former condition; many an idle gallant wanders in here, glances about, perhaps in his ignorance mishandles one of the astrolabes, and is summarily ejected by myself or some other vigilant member of the faculty. But your appearance betokens knowledge of a highly specialized kind."

  Ryel glanced down at his elegantly plain Northern dress. "I don't understand."

  The don's kindly bright regard sparked yet more. "You would require my eyes to do so, my lord."

  Suddenly restless, Ryel wandered over to another of the instruments. "Why do you call me lord?"

  "I freely admit it would be my error to thus misname one of the Rismai—which most of your looks proclaim you," the professor said. "But to an adept of one of the Four, and an Overreacher at that … "

  The wysard dropped his hat and spun around. "Who are you?"

  The scholar set down his pen and musingly rubbed his scraggy beard. "Scholar Jeral I'm called, sir; and since I last spoke with Lady Srin Yan Tai in my Glass concerning you, I must assume you are Ryel Mirai, erstwhile famulus to Lord Edris of Markul, rest be to his shade."

  Ryel reached down and picked up his hat, but did not resume it; and he assessed the scholar's own egregiously outsized headgear. "And you can be none other than Lord Jeral Colquhon, formerly of Tesba."

  The leathery cheeks colored, the otterish eyes glinted. "You name me rightly, sir. But how might my name be known to you?"

  Ryel bowed low. "Lady Mevanda Reggiori had dwelt in Tesba before she came to Markul, and she knew you well, my lord brother, and often mentioned you."

  The cheek-tinge became a flush, the eye-glint a glow. "Mevanda. Now there's a name I haven't heard for many a year." His fingers drummed the desk-top. "Mevanda Reggiori! I knew her well indeed! Hyacinthine curls, and eyes of melting fire, and charms like—but once I get started on those, I'll never stop. Ah, those delicious nights, deep in the flowering forest …"

  Ryel dissembled his confusion with a cough. "But I thought Tesba was more a jungle than a forest."

  "Why, so it is," the scholar affably agreed. "A wilderness of luxuriant vine-twined towering trees, spangled with a thousand bright colors of blossom and fruit, glittering with rills and fountains, alive with brilliant birds and rainbow-hued butterflies; and set within this paradise a City harmonious and fair, not as grand perhaps as Markul but far more pleasantly situated. Imagine a city built entirely of glass—glass of a thousand hues
, crystalline or opaque, twisted like barley-sugar or planed in prisms, graced with ornaments spun thread-fine or embossed jewel-bright, glowing and gleaming in the light—an earthly miracle, kept everlastingly lovely by the same srihs that constructed it so long ago. Many years I dwelt in Tesba with pleasure and joy, learning the beauty of the Art."

  "How could you leave such a place?" the wysard asked, enthralled. "It sounds like a paradise."

  Lord Jeral gave a wryly reminiscent grimace. "Because it was killing me by inches--delirious, deadly inches. Air too rich, too warm; drugs too seductive, spells too extreme; and sensuality far too strong and frequent, with an exhausting number of partners. Delicious for a time, nonetheless. Having taken my fill of Tesba, I toyed awhile with continuing my studies at a higher level in Markul, as Mevanda had done; but I was worn to the bone. I required the bracing cold of my native North, a rigorous mode of life. Some philosophy I had learned at Tesba worth teaching the youth of the World; therefore I came home, to the great relief of my health." The Tesbai adept spun on its spindled axis one of the gold and enamel planets of the exquisite little orrery that adorned his desktop, setting all the rest of the precious orblets in lazy motion. "Here I have given much thought to the origins of life, and our purpose in the scheme of existence—an old man's puzzles."

  "You are not yet old, Lord Jeral," Ryel said.

  The professor bowed slightly in reply, then said a few Art-words, and smiled as the five planets of the orrery with their attendant moons detached themselves from their spindles and gently floated upward, gyring slowly in mid-air around Ryel's head some six inches from his eyes. "There. How does it feel to be the center of the universe?"

  Ryel did not smile in return as he watched the tiny planets float past. "I could get used to it." Blowing a puff of breath, he knocked one of Drihatyn's moons out of orbit. "But it has its risks."

  "I know it well, sir," Lord Jeral said wryly. Another word, and the elegant precious little spheres obediently returned to their machine. With a gentle forefinger he caressed the fairest planet of the orrery, malachite and pearl and lapis Cyrinnis. "I assume you know of the Black Strife that afflicted this unhappy globe some centuries gone?"

  Ryel nodded, repressing a shudder. "Yes, I read of it when young, and wish I hadn't. It cost me much sleep, imagining that holocaust." As he spoke, he remembered how it had infected his dreams the night before.

  Lord Jeral's lips cramped. "No imaginings, however lively, can ever come close to it, which is fortunate for our sanity. More than one half of all humanity perished in the Black Strife, by wars, atrocities, disease … and suicide. Appalling weapons they had in those days—great explosives that could level cities, dropped by winged machines. The dead have been buried, the ruins rebuilt or razed, but still we have not recovered from that devastation, and perhaps never will. No daimon had a hand in the destruction, my lord brother; all, all was solely the work of man. Which, when considered philosophically, is most impressive. But the Black Strife will seem a mere boys' battle of sticks and stones compared to what will transpire when Dagar returns to Cyrinnis from the Void, with the armies of the Outer World at his beck."

  Ryel was silent a while. "Lady Srin told you everything, then."

  "She did indeed."

  "Then I doubt this meeting was by accident."

  Lord Jeral nodded, his eyes sparkling. "Not in the least. I Called you, and I have to say I wondered if you'd show up; I wasn't sure my Art would be strong enough."

  Ryel gave a slight laugh devoid of mirth, took up the orrery, and flicked one of the planets, rather too hard. "Pent up as I was in Markul, I devoted no time to the study of pure evil. It is a fascinating field, the abnormal. The daimonic." He turned away from the window and its punishing light, pressing a hand to his temple. "I have witnessed since arriving in the North a great deal of cruelty, depravity, and the like; but coldly detached compulsion is a peculiarly Elecambronian achievement. My Art-brother Michael Essern enjoys a great capacity for it."

  Baffled, Lord Jeral blinked. "Why would you wish to become as corrupt as he is?"

  "Corrupt? Not corrupt, but deeply learned. I envy his knowledge. I wish it were mine." As Ryel spoke, he felt a thrust of yearning for those ice-white towers, an overmastering impatience that pulled him like a moon with a tide; and in his irritation he slapped at the orrery, sending Cyrinnis flying from its spindle. The rich spherelet bounced twice before smashing against the wall. But his vandalism gave the wysard neither regret, nor pleasure; only a strong desire to wreck something else. The room was full of fragile instruments, and Ryel reached out to seize a sextant, next; but Lord Jeral was at his side that same moment, catching his wrist in a gyrfalcon's grip.

  "The destruction of worlds is not enough for you? Mevanda ever told me of your gentle ways, your sweet spirit. What ails you, boy?"

  Shamed to the quick, Ryel pushed back the hair from his throbbing forehead. "There's nothing wrong with me." Even as he spoke, he searched his pocket for the Dranthene scent-flask; and Lord Jeral prevented him from opening it, snatching it away.

  "Hold hard a moment, my lord brother." The Tesbai adept examined the carnelian cylinder with a suspicious sniff, his eagle nostrils flaring in recognition. "So. Attar of a Thousand. If this eases your pain, you must be very sick indeed, young Lord Ryel—sick even to the last drop of your imperial blood."

  The wysard grabbed the perfume-vial away from Lord Jeral, unstoppering it with a wrench, breathing its fragrance like a drowning man, drawing at last an even deeper breath of relief. "How could you know that?"

  Jeral Colquhon inspected what was left of Cyrinnis, and clucked dismally at the wreckage before gathering the pieces and muttering something under his breath; replaced the planet, now whole and entire, in its wonted place in the array’s heavens. "Attar of a Thousand, or Transcendence, is a concoction of my City, compounded by a wysard of the Dranthene line hundreds of years gone. Its healing properties reach far beyond the flesh, and were originally intended to counteract the poisonous effects of daimonic infection."

  "I was not aware of its origins, but its powers have been my salvation."

  "Where did you acquire this drug? It is one of the earth's rarest, next to xantal."

  "In Almancar," the wysard replied. More he did not wish to say.

  The scholar's keen eyes met the wysard's in deepest sympathy. "And how did you contract your sickness?"

  Ryel drew and exhaled a tired breath. "By healing the Count Palatine Roskerrek of his."

  "That was a mad risk, Ryel Mirai."

  "I didn't know I was taking it."

  "What possessed you to help that evil man?"

  "His evil grew out of his illness, and I pitied him for it. And Dagar taunted me, daring me on. And then…"

  "Then?"

  "Then I attended the rites at the Temple of the Master, yesterday. I haven't been the same since."

  Lord Jeral grimaced in sympathy. "Theofanu's drugs are terrible, my lord brother. Added to the illness you already suffer, no wonder you're twisted by them."

  The wysard shivered as a crawling wave of fever seized his blood, and turned away to the window, breathing deeply of the scent-flask as he scanned the gray slate roofs, the darker lowering clouds. As he spoke, he felt his voice shake and stall. "Lord Jeral, I swear to you upon my Art that I take no pleasure in cruelty, none; I loathe it, and have done so all my life. But this sickness subverts my nature, fight it though I try. I cannot describe to you the shame I feel at being so compelled to destruction and malice—but compelled I am. Nor can I describe the pain; the Transcendence alone makes me able to bear it."

  Jeral Colquhon gazed on Ryel with raptor fixation. "It can allay only your bodily suffering. Inwardly you will worsen, and soon it will not be enough for you to smash little toy planets."

  Ryel gripped the carved cylinder tightly. "I fear that."

  "I am not ignorant of the danger enwrapping the World, my lord brother." Lord Jeral joined Ryel at the window. "All the Cities f
eel it; two welcome it. Tesba and Markul are now in constant communication regarding this menace—which is how I have learned of you, and your importance in the scheme of fate. Dagar of Elecambron will poison the World, even as the curse of the Red Esserns infects your being. And because you are destined for the World's help, it is imperative that you find your own cure as quickly as may be."

  "I am aware of that, Lord Jeral," Ryel said through his teeth.

  "Would that I might help you. But there are great healers not too far away, in Ralnahr. Of greatest help would be Gwenned de Grisainte, like myself formerly of Tesba—she and I were acquaintances there. She is a great lady, the Markessa of Lanas Crin; she dwells by the sea along the Dryven Marches."

  Ryel searched his memory. "De Grisainte. I know that name."

  "It was one of the names of Guyon Desrenaud, who was so famous here some years ago," Lord Jeral said. "The Markessa is his grandmother."

  Ryel's ears twitched. "You knew him? Do you know what became of him? I've been trying very hard to find out."

  "He quarreled with the Domina, left the Barrier without her leave, and got himself killed in Wycast, according to popular report."

  "Do you believe it?"

  "I would rather not, for I admired the man," the scholar replied. "But his grandame the Markessa has not heard from him since his departure from Hryeland, he that never failed to send letters to her fortnightly at least, so she says. That bodes ill. But it is your welfare that concerns me, my young lord brother."

  Ryel considered Lord Jeral's words. "If my path leads me to Ralnahr, I will find Lady Gwynned and seek her help in my cure."

  "What determines your path, Ryel Mirai?"

  "Information I hope to gather tonight from the Count Palatine of Roskerrek," Ryel answered. "I'm to be initiated into the Sword Brotherhood."

  Lord Jeral's bushy gray eyebrows leapt upward enough to lift the brim of his cap. "You'll be the first outlander ever to join, if that be the case."