The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "I had thought Hryeland had no gods but the Unseen, and that the worship of Argane is no more than a cult."

  "Hryeland used once to have many gods, most of them cruel, centuries ago," Lord Jeral said. "And among them, Argane was foremost; but she and all the others were supplanted by the less savage religion of the Unseen. The folk of Hryeland are nonetheless still notorious for being the most belligerent people on the face of the earth, never happy unless there is some quarrel at hand. Still, even their truculence was exhausted by the Barbarian wars, which incurred great loss of life and drained the treasury for more than a decade. Only the fanaticism of the Sword Brotherhood kept the struggle afoot—its members being all of them great officers of the army, lords of the realm, and implacable warriors, with Roskerrek the greatest, highest and deadliest of them all. When the Earl of Anbren--Guyon Desrenaud as he's better known--successfully negotiated an end to the conflict, Roskerrek was furious, but it must be remembered that he lost his father and his eldest brother to the wars, and is by nature vindictive."

  "It's the daimon in his blood," Ryel said. "And he owes his strength to it. His power. Which reminds me—may I borrow that telescope over there?"

  "Only if you promise not to break it," said Lord Jeral. "But you won't find many stars this time of day."

  "Damn the stars." Ryel rested the telescope on the window-ledge, trained its sights on the headquarters of the army, and focused on a red knot of soldiers gathered in the courtyard.

  "By every god," he exclaimed under his breath. "Lord Jeral, what's the hour?"

  "Near two of the clock. What do you see?"

  "Something I almost forgot," Ryel said, pushing away from the window. "I'm late for something important."

  "In the name of All, what?"

  "A death, maybe." The wysard abruptly turned, oversetting the telescope, and without farewell left the room amid the crash of fine-ground lenses and the groans of the Tesbai adept.

  *****

  Clamor and riot met his eyes as he entered the headquarters courtyard. A swirling mass of red mingled with shouted curses, the ringing clash of steel against steel, the scuffle of boots, the grating of spurs against flagstones. Ryel elbowed aside the soldiers that blocked his view, and found Valrandin and Alleron hard at it in the chill drizzle. Alleron had wrapped his gray cloak about his left arm, but Valrandin fought bare-guarded to the elbows, scornful of precaution. Both were ruddily asweat, both mud-spattered, yet Ryel could see that the Domina's favorite had the better of the fight. Strong and quick though Alleron was, he could not match the speed and address that were Gabriel's. The girl seemed all air and fire; her tangled curls flew wildly about her flushed face, and her wet shirt clung to her slim strength. Alleron bled much from his left side and right forearm, and panted for breath, but Valrandin was unscathed and tireless; and it seemed that the duel would be decided in swift and fatal fashion.

  "The Captain's finished," one of the soldiers muttered to a comrade. "I give the poor devil one more minute to live, no longer."

  "Maybe not," Ryel said, only half to himself; and the second soldier heard him, and grunted a laugh.

  "So what's to save him? Magic? Use some if you have it."

  The wysard smiled. At that moment by malign chance the countess caught her heel in the paving-stones and lost her balance, reeling backward and falling with all her weight. A roar went up among the soldiers as Alleron kicked the sword from her hand.

  "Stay where you are, bitch." And the captain shoved her down, his booted muddy foot planted between her breasts, defiling the immaculate linen, tearing the precious lace. "It's over."

  Through unmoving lips Valrandin cursed foully. "The Domina will hear of this, stall-mucker. She'll have you gelded if you're not already."

  Alleron spat, not quite missing Valrandin's hair. "I'm fouling my breeches with fear, m'lady."

  The red rankers howled their laughter. Furious and desperate, Valrandin glanced wildly about her, seeking any help; found Ryel. But the stark appeal in her eyes affected the wysard no more than it affected the soldiers around him, and he awaited the event with the same impatience, even as he despised himself for his eagerness.

  Alleron pressed the blade's point to Valrandin's bloodless cheek. "I'll start here. And then … "

  "Jorn!"

  Roskerrek's voice, louder than Ryel had thought it capable, cut sharper than any sword, parting the soldiers at once; and the Count Palatine thrust through the red fissure. Although in uniform, he was bareheaded and uncloaked, as if come in haste from his apartments. Under the menacing sky his face held a deadly pallor, and his eyes were cruel winter's.

  "Equerry, if you so much as grazed her I'll have you racked." He lifted Valrandin to her feet, keeping her hands in his. "Gabriel. Did he hurt you?"

  "I hurt him, Redbane," the countess snapped, snatching her hands away. "Best have him looked to." She cast a glare at Ryel. "Thanks for your help. I'll remember it."

  The Count Palatine eyed Alleron coldly. "Explain this, Captain."

  Alleron shrugged, but uncomfortably. "The little bitch had been—"

  Roskerrek's voice was dangerous ice. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, equerry."

  Alleron bowed his head. "She'd been baiting me to a bout. We had one. That's all."

  "You know it isn't, dog-robber!" Valrandin cried. "Your life wouldn't have been worth a rat's arse had I not slipped on those filthy stones." She fixed her fury on Roskerrek, then. "What right had you to stop me, Redbane?"

  "You know the law," the Count Palatine replied, flinching a little at the name she'd called him. "It prohibits brawling in the public streets."

  She flung back her head. "This is a private courtyard, Redbane."

  He nodded sternly. "Yes. Mine. And now I request you to leave it."

  Valrandin's left upper lip leapt in a sneer. "Not until you finish what you started. Your stable-hand only warmed me, Essern. Now for us."

  The watching throng tensed, but Roskerrek only shrugged. "If you haven't yet noticed, I'm unarmed."

  "Have your dog-robber lend you his blade."

  Roskerrek shook his head. "I choose not to engage in street fighting with boys, or girls, or those who would be both." And he turned away as if the matter were settled; but over the redcoat roar Valrandin's shout snapped like a lash.

  "Afraid you might lose, Redbane?"

  In the absolute quiet that followed those words, Roskerrek slowly turned back again, and regarded Valrandin with a long, wonderfully calm stare; a look new to him perhaps, one that he could not have given in those days of pain now forever past. "Yes," he said finally. "I fear I might lose more than I could bear, my lady." And he would have spoken to Ryel next, but Valrandin raised her sword, slashing the air like hated flesh.

  "You're a craven coward, Redbane."

  The soldiers pressed forward, scenting more blood; Roskerrek stiffened, but did not turn round.

  "I think it would be better for us to go indoors," he said to the wysard. "It'll be much more quiet."

  Valrandin's wild shout drowned out his last word. "Defend yourself, you whey-faced son of a whore!"

  She bolted forward in a lunge, but quick as a great cat Roskerrek spun around, snatching Alleron's weapon from the equerry's hand at the same instant; intercepted the girl's furious thrust and beat it back as if lightly batting a shuttlecock.

  "That wasn't gentlemanly, Lieutenant," he said, tranquil as ever, even almost smilingly; but to the wysard he had never seemed more dangerous. "A moment, by your leave." And while Valrandin waited restless and breathless, Roskerrek stripped off his black coat and threw it to a sergeant standing by, and turned up the sleeves and loosened the collar of his shirt, revealing the arms and breast of a statue of white stone that scarce seemed human flesh at all save for the breast's rapid rise and fall, and the muscles' knotted tension.

  "Remember that you wanted this, my lady," he said. With smooth grace he saluted, but Valrandin thrust forward to swat his blade aside and the figh
t began in earnest, overjoying the soldiery.

  "They'll rip each other to pieces," said one.

  Another shook his head. "My money on the girl."

  Another laughed. "You'll lose. Redbane's playing with her."

  He is indeed, Ryel thought, half amazed at his detachment. Playing like a cat with something vicious, but small and tired. I wonder when he'll kill her.

  Against Valrandin's venomous assault Roskerrek did no more than parry and avoid, never taking advantage of the girl's ever-increasing recklessness. But it was clear that he was waiting until he saw his time. The moment came, inevitably. Again Valrandin struck, wild and unbalanced in a delirious lunge, and Roskerrek dropped his own sword to seize her wrist, wrenching it with a force that flung her clean over his arm and onto the paving-stones. Yet even before Valrandin struck the ground, the wysard had heard the grind and snap of bone, heard Gabriel's blurted scream.

  A savage cheer broke out among the redcoats. As if awaiting that moment, the rain began to fall in heavy earnest. Curled and quivering Gabriel lay clutching her wrist, her face hidden by her wild wet hair. Roskerrek stood over her, his face still calm as ever, though deathly pale; and now he addressed the soldiers.

  "You've seen enough. If any mention of this incident should reach the Domina, I'll have every man here horsewhipped to the bone. And now get out, all of you."

  The soldiers slunk away like a pack of red jackals, and Roskerrek knelt next to Valrandin, drawing the dagger at his side. Ryel wrapped his cloak tighter about him as he watched, yearning for yet more blood, heart-blood.

  But Roskerrek used the weapon only to cut off a strip from his shirt's hem, and then to use it as a splint as he bandaged Valrandin's wrist. The countess let him do what he would, giving over her arm as if it were no longer part of her, never moving from the muddy stones.

  "You must get up, my lady," Roskerrek said, gently as if she lay pillowed and asleep in a great white bed. Expressionless but with the tenderest care he raised her, patient with her limp weight; and she slumped in his embrace as if tied dead to a tree, her back against his chest, her head listless on his shoulder.

  "You broke me," she whispered behind the straggling curtain of her dark hair. "You killed me."

  Roskerrek gathered back her dripping tangles, baring her face; it was pale gray, drawn taut. "I saved your life," he said. "Someone had to."

  Her voice was a numb whisper. "I hate you."

  The Count Palatine only held her closer. "I understand."

  "I'll make you sorry," she murmured with her last strength. "I'll—" Her eyes rolled back, then fluttered shut as her head fell forward.

  "I know you'll make me sorry, Gabriel," he said, barely audible over the rain. "Be sure you do your worst." He turned to Alleron, then. "Go find doctors, at once."

  Heedless of his own bleeding hurts Alleron obeyed, clearly glad to be gone from there. Roskerrek next addressed Ryel, looking at him for the first time. "I have already asked much of you, my lord prince, but I needs must ask yet a little more, for this lady's sake. Pray you come with me."

  Disregarding his orderlies' offers of assistance Roskerrek carried Valrandin into the house and upstairs, and laid her on his own bed. He issued a series of sharp commands to his waiting servants, and soon the fire in the chamber was blazing afresh, with towels and fresh clothes warming at it. Medicines and Wycastrian brandy arrived as well, and Ryel took a long glassful of the latter, feeling his flesh start as the drink heated him through. Pouring some for Valrandin, he added some drops of opiate, and would have gone to the countess to administer it; but Roskerrek stopped him, taking the glass from his hand.

  "Let me."

  Seating himself on the bed at Valrandin's side, the Count Palatine slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her up, holding the glass to her lips. At first she grimaced at the taste of the spirits, but at last drank, resting her head against the Roskerrek's chest afterward. As if entranced he gazed down into her face that was so close to his; and then slowly he closed his eyes, and bent to her mouth. But in the same moment he abruptly halted and drew back.

  "I will never forgive myself for this," he said.

  Ryel smiled. "Oh, I think you might." He went to the other side of the bed, and less than gently he reached for Valrandin's splinted wrist, removing its swathings and examining the extent of its injury. Torn from her swoon she gasped and writhed, but the wysard muttered a word to still her again, less out of mercy than irritation.

  "Well?" Roskerrek asked, his impatience harsh. "Will it heal?"

  "Never completely," Ryel replied. "The bones are crushed to fragments." As he spoke, he studied Valrandin's face. Pain had eroded the braggart edges, the bold lines; had beaten down the free and mocking curve of the mouth, the challenging tilt of the brow. "You broke her," he said, taken aback by the total indifference in his voice.

  Roskerrek reached for a towel hanging near the fireside, and gently pillowed the lieutenant's dank curls with the warm folds. Lovely and sad the young countess lay, pale as a battered bride. "Yes, Countess. I broke you," he murmured, gazing sorrowingly but without regret upon her beautiful bloodless face. "And what would have happened had I not, Gabriel? Was I to allow a proud, vain, impudent girl to recklessly slaughter yet more fools, until she herself was at last cut down?"

  "Your solution was a stern one," Ryel said. "I wonder what the Domina will think of it."

  "She'll be furious, naturally, when she finds out, and matters might go hard with me, unless…" The Count Palatine fell silent, but it seemed some dark shadow hung in the air, formed by his unspoken words.

  Ryel broke the silence. "Since we now speak of the Domina, how was your meeting with her this morning?"

  "I'm not at liberty to divulge that information." Roskerrek lightly wound a tendriled tress of Valrandin's dark hair around his fingers, and seemed next to speak only to himself. "The Countess risks grave danger, now, from those she once bested in fight and who still rankle at their defeat and seek revenge. It is my duty to protect her from insult, and worse." Roskerrek shifted his gaze from Valrandin to the wysard, questioning now. "I marvel you do not heal her despite me."

  "I will not go against fate in this matter," Ryel said. "Let simple destiny suffice."

  Roskerrek did not reply for some time. "When first I met you, my lord prince, I did not think you cruel."

  Ryel felt a twinge of regret, but only barely. "When first I met you I was not, General." A sudden access of fever shook Ryel's blood, and a sickening migraine sunk its claws deep into his brain.

  The Count Palatine's strange eyes narrowed. "You are unwell. I observed it earlier."

  "It comes and goes," the wysard replied shortly. "I'll be in complete health by the time the Rites occur."

  "By all means rest. My orderly will look to your wants." He hesitated. "You are a difficult man to comprehend, Ryel Prince of Vrya."

  The wysard smiled, feeling the bitterness hard on his lips. "We are well matched, you and I."

  At that moment Alleron appeared at the door, leaning heavily against the jamb. "The doctors have arrived, my lord."

  Roskerrek did not look round. "Then send them up."

  The captain nodded, but did not at once obey; clearly he was in great pain of his wounds, the blood of which stained his shirt and his coat, and his next words came slurred and weary. "M'lord. If I might have freedom of leave for the rest of this day, I—"

  The Count Palatine shook his head in cold denial. "You forget that you are on duty until nightfall, equerry. And there is still the matter of our discussion of this late swordplay of yours."

  Alleron gulped a breath, wiped the riding-grime from his face; mortally pale he looked, his flaxen hair and mustache dark with sweat, but his steely eyes glinted. "Damn it, m'lord, I didn't harm her as you did, and well you know it!"

  The Count Palatine whirled about, furiously enraged; raised his hand to strike. Alleron lifted his chin to the blow, shutting his eyes and setting his teeth. But some
thing in the gesture—its resignation, perhaps, or its exhaustion, or its look of having been made many times before—caused Roskerrek to halt in mid-cuff. For the first time he seemed to notice the captain's injuries, and his next frown was one of concern.

  "You're cut worse than I thought, equerry. When the physicians have done what they can for the countess, I will have them see to you. Your wounds are cold; sit here by the fire and warm them, and take a glass of wine. And you are relieved from duty for the rest of the day, since I now observe you seem to need it."

  Alleron's astonished steel-blue eyes blinked hard. "My thanks, m'lord."

  Without replying to Alleron, Roskerrek turned to Ryel. "For all you have done for me I thank you, Ryel Mirai. Whatever else befalls us this night, I ask you to remember me as one who would have been your friend."

  He reached forth his hand, and Ryel took it. It was warm, which the wysard had not expected, and smooth as a luxurious woman's, and hard as iron; and in its uncompromising grip Ryel sensed fatal danger.

  He smiled. "Whatever befalls, Yvain Essern."

  *****

  "It's time, sir."

  Ryel reluctantly emerged from meditation, taking his eyes from the flames in the hearth, returning the stopper to his Transcendence-vial, and glancing up at Alleron. "Time?"

  Alleron stood in the doorway, a lamp in his hand. "It's near ten, and—and you look a great deal different."

  The wysard glanced down at the magnificent Almancarian silk in which he had robed himself after his bath. "In what way, Captain?"

  "Most noble," Alleron replied. "Like a great lord of Destimar, which is naught but truth."

  "My thanks. How are your wounds?"

  "Smarting still, but likely to mend." Entering the room, Alleron aimed a savage kick at a log in the fireplace, sending sparks flying. "How was I to know he held the little slut so dear?"

  "You're in disgrace, I take it," Ryel observed.

  "Deep and severe, sir, believe me," Alleron replied. "But it won't be the first time, nor the last."