The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Thirty years ago this man's father and mine strove in combat to give pleasure to great Argane. This night Ryel Mirai son of Edris seeks to win the weapon of his sire, and the Queen of Swords will decide between him and me."

  Sir Payne de Sartriss' quick dark eyes glanced from face to face. "Who seconds him?"

  Jorn Alleron stood forth. "I do."

  Coldly Roskerrek inclined his head. "And I will have Tebran Koskàth, Blade Rain, for mine."

  The Swordbrother so named—the wild young Markess of Covencraig—came forward to stand beside Alleron. Ryel wiped the sweat from his face with his bare forearm, and blinked it off his eyelashes; but the Commander was dry as desert stone, hard as trust betrayed, cold as love denied.

  The ritual commenced, stern and unadorned as a court martial. In the middle of the circle of swords Ryel stood, facing the Brotherhood that flanked their Commander on either side before the statue of Argane. A lengthy interrogation began, with many questions put to the initiate wysard, nearly all of them oblique and obscure; but Ryel had endured far more searching catechisms in Markul, and answered the Brotherhood's inquiries with a smooth readiness clearly unexpected by any save the Commander. At the conclusion of the inquest profound silence fell, save for the strange near-music breathing in the heights of the cave; and then Roskerrek spoke.

  "Give me your judgment on this man, my brothers. Is he fit servant for the Queen of Battles?"

  With one voice assent was given. Motioning Ryel to stand beside him, Roskerrek turned toward the image of Argane, bowing low; and the rest of the Fraternity did the same as their Commander reverently addressed the armored deity.

  "Strongest and most fair, You that love the clash of sword and the cry of battle, look with favor upon this man and me, that fight in Your name for Your honor. Accept the blood of combat that we offer as our highest worship, and crown he that serves You best with victory."

  All the time he spoke, Roskerrek's eyes fixed upon those of the idol; but though that fair statue gave back stare for stare, its gaze was cold and far, its eyes of blue topaz further chilled by glints of gray. The Count Palatine regarded his goddess-image with adoration fervent as a lover's; but the statue could not have been less moved had it been Bradamaine herself.

  His orisons done, Roskerrek turned slowly about, and with Ryel at his side descended the dais-steps and stood before the fire wherein their swords shimmered white. Amid tension that snarled the air like snakes, Alleron gave the word.

  "Sivred Rikàn, you are challenged. Ryel Mirai, claim your weapon if you can."

  Shoulder to strained shoulder the two men stood before the bristling vessel of burning coals. Then Jorn Alleron shouted the signal.

  "Argàna drakh nâl! In the service of Argane!"

  Roskerrek caught up his sword, snatching it forth from the coals even as Ryel grabbed for his Kaltiri tagh and leapt clear to dodge his adversary's white-hot steel. Amid the stern silence of the watching Brotherhood the combat began.

  But it didn't seem like combat. Not when Redbane came on like a driving blast of ice, sending the wysard stumbling backward, barely escaping a searing slash across the chest. The ice that was Yvain Essern filled the whole of the cave, and Ryel shrank back shuddering even though he could feel his sweat trickling down his ribs underneath his stifling uniform-jacket. All of his concentration converged on staying clear of that glowing death-edged steel, knocking it away again and again with both hands wet and desperate on his sword's scalding hilt. And in time—seeming hours drawn out like racked sinews—Ryel felt his patience tiring even faster than his body.

  You're good, Redbane , he thought. I didn't dream you'd be this good. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were trying to—

  Into his thoughts a daimon-whisper slipped like a covert stab.

  Very true, young blood. He seeks your death this night. And he'll have it, unless you finish him first. That knife at your side is well within your reach—use it.

  "Get out," Ryel hissed between set lips as he staggered up the dais-steps to block yet another blow.

  He's been ordered to destroy you. Kill him.

  "Damn you, no!"

  Allow me to persuade you.

  A blinding jolt seared the wysard's brain-core, and he grunted a cry as he crashed backward into the stiff-spread arms of cold Argane. At once the goddess enwrapped him with inexorable silver and stone. Caught and struggling, Ryel watched in pain-bleared impotence as Roskerrek leapt the dais-steps like a red panther, his feral eyes gleaming deathlust. The watching faces faded, the shouts silenced. Existence shrank to a pair of poisoned eyes, a lethal length of steel.

  "Now I have you." Seizing Ryel by the hair, Roskerrek jerked the wysard's head back, baring the throat. "Now it ends."

  Ryel shut his eyes, ready for the gash, panting for it. "Go on. Make it stop."

  But no release came; and the wysard opened his eyes to meet not ice-gray, but complete black. Horror transfixed his pain.

  "You," his thoughts whispered.

  All of me, beauty, the loathed voice of Dagar sneered behind Roskerrek's lips. And no weak girl, now.

  "But still too weak to take me, worm-lord," Ryel panted. "The Art of this place is my protection."

  Enjoy it, then, the voice sneered. I will have you later, at my leisure. You might thank me for saving your life a second time; I will accept as payment the body of this redhair. You can reach your dagger easily—one upward thrust and it's done.

  Fiercely Ryel shook his head. "Never."

  The voice snickered. Such a proud young warrior. So defiant. Get on with it, fool .

  A rending excruciation seemed to tear Ryel's heart in half, too agonizing for any outcry. Frantic to be free of that pain, the wysard clutched at his dagger-hilt. But before he could strip the blade free of its sheath and drive it into his enemy's body, Dagar's black glare shimmered and altered in Roskerrek's set face, dissolving to reveal long eyes of clear dark brown, the whites of them dazzling. The Count Palatine's fingers suddenly gentled in Ryel's hair, and Dagar's thin sneer deepened and roughened as the cruel lips relented into a well-remembered grin.

  "Fight it, whelp. Don't give that hell-daimon a chance."

  Ryel stared in half-idiot amazement, his grip convulsed around the knife-hilt. "Edris. Ithradrakis," he gasped. "You, here. But how—"

  "You acquitted yourself well enough in Almancar, lad. And you're not doing so badly now. But this is nothing next to what's to come. Keep fighting."

  Ryel tried to seize Edris' hand, but the imprisoning arms of the statue prevented him. "Stay with me, father."

  "You know I can't, brat. You'll have to go it on your own."

  Ryel struggled. "Ithradrakis, don't—"

  "There was smart swordplay here, that night Warraven cut me up," Edris said. "Give his son a nick for me."

  The moment—the space of a few seconds beaten thin enough to cover an hour at least—dissolved. The dark eyes paled and hardened, the voice iced over. "No," Roskerrek whispered, jerking his sword-blade from the wysard's throat. "Not this way. Not in Her arms."

  With an infuriate shove the Count Palatine released Ryel, knocking the wysard's head against Argane's silver-clad breast. A concealed spring clicked, and the image's arms unlocked, and Ryel pushed free. The combat resumed furiously, but it lasted only a moment longer. His Steppes blood up and his strength renewed and vengeful, Ryel hurled himself at Roskerrek, attacking for the first time. Between his clenched teeth he hissed a single word, inaudible amid the clash of swords and the sigh of winds. One word was all it took. In the half-second that Redbane dropped his guard, Ryel seized the moment with a gasping lunge, shearing high into his enemy's left shoulder. The Kaltiri blade hardly seemed to graze Roskerrek's skin, but the blood gushed forth out of a gash riven clear to the bone. Reeling away with a cry as his sword dropped clanging to the paving-stones, the Commander fell against the impassive image, smearing the gleaming silver from breastplate to ankle with hot wet red.

  Appalled s
ilence ensued, but only for a moment before the Brotherhood crowded to their Commander's help. Some raised him up while others brought water from the pool, or ransacked the vestibule-recess to for bandages and staunching-salves and pain-allays; in mere minutes the Earl of Rothsaye had found needle and suture, and expertly stitched the wound shut. The wysard looked on numbly alone, drawing long breaths to ease the racking ache in his chest, wishing he could do as much for his agony of mind; but then he felt a sweaty arm wrap his shoulders and pull him against a slippery set of rockbound ribs.

  "Damnation take me, but that was a sweet bout," said Marin Dehald. "Never before have I seen a two-handed blade wielded so light. We none of us ever doubted that the Commander would make cat's meat of you, but—"

  The Count Palatine of Hallor, lean and dour, broke in far less jovially. "You have well avenged your father, Ryel Edrisson. Lucky for our Commander that your blade was cool when you cut him; but it's a cruel bad wound nonetheless, and may cost him the use of his arm."

  "No, Rân Hràkor." Roskerrek, now on his feet again although ghastly with torment and blood-loss, his left arm swathed and slung, waved away his Swordbrother's concern with a wan right hand. "I'll survive to make you sorry, our next bout." He fixed his drained gaze upon Ryel, seeming to call upon all the strength he had left. "Come… brother. As Argane's latest champion, you must be presented fittingly." Seizing the wysard hard by the wrist, Roskerrek led him to the dais-steps and knelt before the image, roughly pulling Ryel down beside him as he lifted his voice to the goddess-image.

  "Queen of Battle and War, in Your wisdom You have deemed Ryel son of Rukht Travàdh worthy of Your worship and his father's sword. And since he has fought with the wind's swiftness for Your sake, I give him the name Rukht Avràl, Blood Storm, sealing him as my brother and Your servant."

  Drenching his fingers with his own fresh blood that lay spattered about the feet of the goddess, the Count Palatine marked the wysard's forehead with four lateral smears, not gently. Then neither long nor lovingly he embraced Ryel with his unhurt arm; his body against the wysard's was cold as any succubus.

  With far more warmth the Brotherhood greeted Ryel as one of their own, beginning with Alleron, who hugged him hard. "Rare work," he muttered in the wysard's ear. "I'd given you up for gone."

  Mindful of their new brother's origins and conversant with outland customs, several greeted Ryel in the Steppes warrior's way, cheek against cheek; and all praised his skill. "I had thought only witchcraft could prevail against the Commander," said the lord of Raven Weald. "You have surpassed your father, my lord prince; for despite his address, which was brilliant, the dread Warraven cut him shrewdly—I was witness to that combat, the memory of which no passage of time will ever steal so much as an instant. I pray you tell me of your father's passing; was he fortunate enough to die in battle?"

  "He was," Ryel said; and the words made his temples throb. "In mortal struggle, with his most hated enemy."

  Theron BanDalwys pushed forward, all eagerly. "Tell us how he won."

  Sick and wincing, the wysard pressed his hand to his forehead. "He didn't win."

  "Then you will avenge him, with his sword," said Marin Dehald, breaking a tense silence.

  "I will try," Ryel said. "But he is strong, that enemy. You have no idea how strong—"

  Jorn Alleron's voice crackled through the haze of pain. "Throw some water on him. He's fainting."

  Ryel came to his senses wet and shivering, lying against the serpent-coils of a carved mound of stone, the Count Palatine looming above him.

  "Help him stand," the Commander of the Sword Brotherhood said, colder than any water, harder than any rock; and Alleron and BanDalwys took each an arm and lifted the wysard up.

  "You are not used to this heat," the Count Palatine said to Ryel. "It oppresses you. But you will not be kept long in it; the time has come for dismissal."

  After profoundest obeisance to the goddess, the Brotherhood joined their Commander at the cascade, where Roskerrek drew their white-glowing swords one by one from the fire and quenched them in the deep water of the cave-pool, then gave them back still vaporing to their owners, who one by one stood before Argane and recited aloud the verses inscribed upon the blades, proud in their reverence. Then as a final rite Roskerrek filled a silver goblet with the sword-tinged water, which was passed from hand to hand and drunk deeply of. When the cup returned to Roskerrek, he filled it again and lifted it toward the wysard, his eyes more piercing than splinters of steel.

  "To you…brother."

  He drank barely a sip, then thrust the cup at Ryel. Exhausted, the wysard drank greedily, savoring the tang of steel, the coldness made bearable by the late heat of hissing metal. With every swallow he felt the Art-imbued water revive his strength and clear his wits.

  After this last ritual the Fraternity reverently took their leave, withdrawing to the anteroom where Ryel heard them as they resumed their upper garments and murmuringly discussed the combat they'd witnessed. Alleron, however, stayed behind.

  "M'lord, you must be suffering much. Let me help you up the stairs."

  Roskerrek declined Alleron's offered arm. "I'm feeling no hurt whatsoever, Captain. And besides, the Prince of Vrya and I have some matters still to discuss."

  "But m'lord—"

  "You need rest, Jorn." After a tentative instant, the Count Palatine held out his hand. "I treated you badly this day; I always have. Forgive me. And may this be the last time you ever have to."

  After an uncertain moment's hesitation, Alleron took the Count Palatine's hand; and it seemed he recalled a time long past, when they were both boys growing up together. "Yvain… " His voice trailed off roughly, and he would have let go, but Roskerrek held fast, drawing Alleron to him. Hard they clung to one another, cheek against cheek like Rismaian warriors; then the Count Palatine let go, his haste unwilling.

  "I fear to worsen your wounds, Jorn." He reached out, testing Alleron's brow. "You're overweary, and fevered. Get you to bed, and don't report for duty until you find yourself fully healed."

  Clearly unable to reply for emotion, Alleron only bowed low, first to Roskerrek, then to the wysard, heedless of his bandaged wounds; then he took his leave slowly up the stone flight of stairs.

  Roskerrek watched his equerry's departure with visible regret; but when he turned back again to the wysard, the ice had returned to his eyes, more cruel than ever. Across the fire-pit they faced each other, wysard and soldier, and Roskerrek's face in the hell-light was like some exquisite demon's, and his voice rose above the fire like smoke, soft and lethal.

  "You swore to use no Art."

  Ryel never blinked. "Yes. I did. Now give me the answer to my question, my lord—the answer you promised me. For I know that you cannot refuse me the truth, now, in this place."

  Roskerrek shook his head as he wearily seated himself on a fallen cave-pier. "I'm in extreme pain of the wound you dealt me, and would rest."

  "I don't have time for that." Ryel circled the fire and rounded his hand on the linen that wrapped Roskerrek's injured shoulder. The Count Palatine fetched a sharp breath at the wysard's touch, and would have pushed Ryel's hand away. "Let go."

  Ryel caught Roskerrek's wrist. "Not just yet." With his free hand he ripped away Alleron's field dressing, and with the tips of the fingers he traced the stitches. "Good sewing. I don't doubt all the Brotherhood is deft with a needle."

  Roskerrek stiffened and clenched his teeth at Ryel's ungentle exploration. "When first we met, you said you took no pleasure in giving pain."

  "I did?" The wysard grinned. "Yes, I believe I did. But—"

  He grabbed the wounded shoulder, squeezing hard. Convulsed, the Count Palatine gave a wrung cry and struggled violently, but Ryel got behind him and held him fast. Strong and desperate though Roskerrek was, the wysard mastered him easily; and he remembered the gates of Almancar, the resistless cruelty of Lord Michael Essern.

  "Be still," he hissed, fighting the desire to clutch the wound ye
t harder. "Shut up. I'm helping you, fool."

  Finished, he let Roskerrek struggle free. Snatching up the dagger that had splinted Valrandin's wrist, the Captain-General backed away to the wall, coldly enraged and combat-ready, Desrenaud's scar burning scarlet across his bloodless cheek now glistening with a film of sweat.

  "Keep away from me," he hissed.

  Ryel only laughed. "Why, what's the matter?"

  "Matter?" Roskerrek demanded, outraged. "Did you not try to kill me?"

  "I healed you. That's twice."

  Roskerrek glanced at his shoulder, unbelieving and still very much on his guard; saw his skin smooth and whole, all unmarked, the stitches vanished. "This can't be possible. Nothing. Not even a scar."

  "And no pain, very probably," Ryel said dryly. "You might thank me." Returning to the other side of the fire, the wysard improvised a chair from the shattered trunk of a stalagmite. "And you might have tried a little less hard to kill me for your idol's sake, there on the combat-floor."

  Hard-bent flame-dark brows at that. "I never sought your life."

  "Not for yourself, perhaps. But in the service of the Domina…"

  Across the trembling red of the glowing coals Roskerrek glared wraithlike. "I will not suffer my queen to be so grossly maligned."

  "It doesn't matter," the wysard said. "Neither you nor the Domina have any power over my life, or my death. Now tell me what I wish to know about Guyon Desrenaud."

  Only after a long silence did Roskerrek reply. “He went West.”

  “How far?”

  “Ormala.”

  Of all the answers he'd awaited, for Ryel this was the least expected, and the worst. “Ormala ? What would Lord Guyon do there?”

  “Learn the Art,” Roskerrek said, looking away again.

  “But why there, in that filthy sty? How do you know he made for that City?”

  “Desrenaud himself so informed me, on the eve of his departure from Hryeland,” Roskerrek said. “Or rather his flight, for he was a hunted man after he offended the Domina as he did, in a quarrel needless to discuss here. Although I bore no love for him, I could not refuse a fellow Swordbrother my help. I assisted him in his safe escape, and have kept his whereabouts my secret ever since.”