The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "On, my pretty sure-hoof," she crooned as she guided the mare down to the hard-packed sand of the shore. "On to my wee housie, for a bite of flowery hay and a sip of spring water. On to a dry stable, little goldcoat."

  Idly in his fever Ryel wondered what kind of madwoman den that housie might be—a dank sea-cave, or a haphazard hovel of beach logs? But he no longer cared.

  "I'm dying," he murmured, his voice inaudible over the roar of the waves. And he was happy. He leaned his head against the Markessa's unyielding back, and would have smiled had he strength. "Good. I will be at rest, Dagar powerless, and the World safe."

  But the voice he hated with all his blood only mocked him again, echoing endlessly.

  Fool and double fool. My servant Michael will find the Joining-spell, and will be more than glad to give over his body for my rai's use.

  Ryel tightened his clasp around the Markessa's waist. "No. Never that."

  The Markessa turned in the saddle. "Who is't thou mutterest at?"

  Shuddering with fever, Ryel coughed. "No one."

  She replied astoundingly. "Tell me no lie, Ryel Mirai—and excuse a bad rhyme, and don't fall off the horse. It was the hell-imp Dagar thou spokest to, am I right?"

  He all but toppled. "Lady Gwynned, how— "

  Matter-of-factly she prevented his fall with a strong steadying grip. "I knew thee at first sight, my young lord brother; but I'm a roundabout old body, fond of a jest no matter how scurvy," she chuckled. "Thinkst not I knew an Overreacher by his eyes, entirely black as a sea-eagle's? Doubt not that I have conferred by Glass with that wild woman Srin Yan Tai, and know only too well what's gone awry. But we'll speak of that in due season."

  Ryel would have replied, but at that moment the salt sea air choked his breath, crushed him to his inmost core.

  Kill that hag. She's already lived too long. You'll feel much better when you've done it, I promise you.

  Ryel tightened his clasp around the Markessa's waist. "No."

  Dagar's whine hardened. I command you.

  Ryel blurted a groan as a blinding flash of pain tore into his nape. Of all the agonies he'd endured since taking on Roskerrek's daimon-sickness, this was the worst. He had to end it or die. Desperate and far from his right mind, he fumbled for the knife at his side.

  The Markessa instantly reached behind her, clamping her hand on his wrist and forcing the dagger from his strengthless fingers. "Nay, Ry Mirai. We'll have no such tricks, in spite of Dagar's wiles." Matter-of-factly she prevented his fall with a strong steadying grip, and spoke some commanding words into the air. The air lightened around Ryel, and a little of the pain. "Only a daimon's arts could drive one like you to sneakingly murder up a great lady who only wishes thee well."

  Ryel trembled with shame. "Forgive me, Markessa."

  She patted his hand. "No harm done. Here we are at my dwelling—let me reach thee down."

  Lifting the wysard from Jinn's back as if he were a slender damsel, Dame Gwynned led him into a house of black stone hewn from the rocks of the strand, roofed with gray slate and seaweed. It was hardly the dwelling of a great lady of the land, nor yet the ragtag hut of a half-mad recluse—only a plain cottage, but one built to withstand every threat and onslaught of time, tide and mankind. The Markessa opened the door and led Ryel into utter darkness, her arm firmly about him to steady his steps.

  "Come in, tall gallant. Here's a chair will fit thee."

  Ryel gave himself up to the deep cushions with a groan of relief, inhaling the Transcendence vial with closed eyes as the Markessa bustled about him lighting lamps.

  "Dank as a tomb it ever is in here, until well warmed," she said peevishly, after waking the blaze to bright life with a few impatient Art-words. "There. Get thee closer to the fire. Thou seem'st in sore need of it."

  Ryel shuddered, but not from cold. "What I almost did was unthinkable, Markessa."

  "No matter, young brother. 'Twas not thy wish to have me dead, but that hell-daimon's."

  "I almost obeyed," the wysard whispered, grinding his teeth at his eyes' burning. "I thought I was stronger."

  "Thou'rt at thy strength's end, I fear. How long does that sweet drug thou'rt smelling at work for thee nowadays, tall Ryel?"

  "Mere minutes at a time, now," the wysard answered through set lips.

  "Hm. Th'art in a perilous case, brother. Thou found'st me just in the nick."

  "I didn't find you," Ryel said. "You materialized."

  She was amused, but complimented too. "Bah. I'm not a witch of that skill, Lord Ryel. Meditating I was. All day I had wandered gathering shellfish, my thoughts bent on thee. And when I sat down to rest thou didst appear according to my wish."

  Ryel felt renewed respect for his savior. "You've more skill than you know, Markessa."

  "I'm a better cook than witch," she said, with unexpected modesty. "And if that's all the Tesbai Art I ever learnt, 'tis enough."

  "You were of Tesba?"

  "Many a year ago. But the sensual frivolity of the place I could never abide. Imagine thee a City all of glass, in colors beyond those we can hope to envision in the World, set amid flowering forest deep as dreaming, and its dwellers given up entirely to pleasures of mind and body beyond all reach and power of unArted kenning—oh, I could tell thee tales, child, that would make thy wits swim were they not already so staringly awry." She gave the kettle a vigorous stir. "The browse begins to heat. Take that wee flask from thy nose and smell my kitchen-sorcery whilst I look after thy horse and our supper, and make myself somewhat more sightly to the eye."

  After a time Ryel sniffed with interest at the air now growing ever more redolent with the aroma of rich broth, and felt his stomach give a yearning growl. Opening his eyes, he looked about him. Fire burned brightly in the rustic hearth, and a heavy iron kettle warmed on the hob, yet between the two coarse benches of the inglenook a little farmhouse table had been laid with a cloth of the richest lace. His scrutiny whetted as much as his appetite, the wysard discovered a similar quaint inconsistency in all the room's appointments. A rough-hewn hutch cupboard's shelves gleamed with silver vessels. The flagstone floor glowed with bright rugs of opulent thickness and exquisite weaving. The tiny salt-rimed windows were curtained in silk damask, the rough dark walls covered with gold-framed mirrors and fantastic tapestries.

  The Markessa returned, entering from one of the side rooms with a wide basin in her hands. "Thy mare has been looked after like a wee queen, and our supper's well scrubbed. We'll dine royally, and forthwith." So speaking, she emptied the contents of the basin—all manner of shells and sea-creatures—into the broth. "Thou seem'st more in health now, my young lord."

  Ryel realized that ever since he'd entered this odd house, the worst of his torment had lessened. "I feel much better indeed, Markessa. Although I don't know why."

  "Th'art in a place of peace, young brother. Strong are the spells that guard this wee hut of mine. Art hungered now?"

  Bemused by what looked to him a perfect witches' brew simmering on the hob, Ryel nodded. "What in the name of All is that dish you're making?"

  "A repast fit for the highest blood of Ralnahr—which I happily am. Sit you here, young Lord Ryel." The Markessa had readied the table with white beeswax candles in holders of vermeil, two large shallow bowls of flower-painted eggshell-thin porcelain, two spoons and forks of heavy sterling, a pair of delicate crystal goblets sparkling starlike in the firelight, and fine linen napkins white as foam.

  She had put by her barnacled cloak, and now sat opposite the wysard in a black silk gown that fitted her with glassy smoothness, embellished with a falling collar of fair needlework, and chains of silver. Her sea-bleached hair she had combed free of flotsam and braided orderly, pinning it in a coil at the nape of her neck. She was somewhat past sixty years of age, Ryel now observed, but never in her life could she have been a beauty—not with that long large nose, that jutting jaw and those small scant-lashed eyes. But the eyes' color could not have been a more lively, intelligent
or humorous green, nor the mouth above the aggressive chin more delicately full and firm. Even the nose was well-shaped, however outsized. Her hair must have been glorious in younger days before its bright color faded, for even now it was exceedingly thick, with a rich gloss. Bodily she was of middle height, and more strongly built than a woman usually is or likes to be, with broad shoulders, a sturdy waist, and sinewy limbs powerfully apparent under the sleeves and skirts of the gleaming gown; but hers was a female strength all unlike the androgynous muscularity of Srin Yan Tai. Strangest was her voice— its timbre of neither sex, throatily deep but wonderfully melodious and warm.

  The voice gave a short laugh. "Surely thy mother who taught thee a gentleman's manners taught thee not to stare at folk, Ryel Mirai."

  He felt himself blush. "I trespass. Forgive me."

  "No need," she replied. "I myself have stared exceedingly at thee, and thy strange eyes so emptily black, that seem to look upon nothing, and see into everything—eyes that might well make pale one less firm of will and Art-hardened as myself. But enough of that; our dinner's ready."

  Dipping into the kettle she filled the bowls, then poured amber brew from a silver pitcher into the goblets, and passed Ryel a silver salver heaped with slices of new brown bread, thick-sliced cheese and fresh-churned butter.

  "Now taste my magic, young brother."

  Ryel looked down uneasily into his bowl, that brimmed with bumpy seashells and tendrilly tentacles. "I fear I'm not very hungry, Markessa."

  She smiled in amusement. "Only taste. 'Twill do thee good."

  Much in doubt the wysard tried a half-spoonful of the broth, then a brimming full one, and fell to hungrily after that. The Markessa watched approvingly as she daintily pried at her mussel-shells with strong brown fingers covered with silver rings. "Thou seest now what use the Art has in kitchen matters. Thou great ones of Markul have thy air-sprites to provide thee dainties, but we of humbler talents needs must make homelier shifts. Butter thy bread and wet it in the browse. Eat thee the shellfish, too; shuck them neatly, this way, and toss the hulls into this dish, so." Having instructed him, she watched him awhile, approvingly.

  "Plain it is that thou wert brought up to move high in the world, with good manners at table— though tables thy people have no use for, I now recall. Not a great deal of sea-fish they eat on the Steppes, I suppose."

  Ryel shook his head. "None whatsoever, I'm sorry to say. What are the things in this dish, Markessa?"

  "Whelks and mussels, shrimps and scallops, lobsterlets and squidlets, all thrown into a broth of my own devising, prinked with herbs and saffron and citron. Dost like sea-fare, my tall young brother?"

  "Very much. And this is excellent bread."

  "Kneaded and baked with my own hands this very morning, with the right words said to lighten it," the Markessa replied with a spark of pride. "The butter and cheese I buy of farmwives at the village market, however, and the drink too."

  The wysard took another sip of the tangy sweet brew. "What do they call this drink, Markessa?"

  "Scrumpy cider from fine ripe apples, made strong and stinging. T'will do thee good. Even now I see color returning to thy cheeks."

  After clearing the table for dessert, the Markessa brought in a warm apricot pastry so delicately crusted and spiced, its tartness so lusciously tempered with clotted cream, that the wysard asked for seconds, then thirds. Having eaten sufficiently and well for the first time in too many a day, Ryel took breath awhile, relaxing in the warmth of the fire. "I can't remember when I felt this good. Thank you, sister."

  "Would that my cookery might cure thee; but it cannot." Pushing aside her empty plate, the Markessa of Lanas Crin leaned her elbows on the table, regarding Ryel closely. "The Bane of the Red Esserns has weakened thee sore, young brother. Against that black daimon Dagar thou hast no more strength than a wee babe's. Thine Art has been weakened, leaving thee strengthless to combat the daimon-sickness thou tookst from the Count Palatine. And the sickness devours thee, because thou hast not that resistance to the disease which the Red Esserns possess, they that have battled and survived its ravages for centuries. Th'art pale as sand, thine eyes circled purple as a sheldrake's; thy fingers shake like white coral branches in a strong swell."

  Ryel met her eyes helplessly. "But Markessa, Lord Jeral told me that you were my best hope. That you could heal me."

  She sighed. "My skill is indeed celebrated hereabouts, but birthing babes and setting bones and easing fevers are not the same as curing a devil in the blood. My Art suffices for the help of mere World-folk, yet may prove too little for thy illness."

  The wysard felt his stomach cramp, his temples wring. Grabbing the scent-flask he took a panicked breath, trying desperately not to think of the strange sea-life he had so greedily consumed, terrified lest he disgrace himself all over the exquisite lace tablecloth. At once the Markessa rose and came to his side, putting her hands on his shoulders.

  "Calm, young brother, calm." Her fingers moved upward to his temples. "Alack, th'art fevered hotter than fire." Dipping into his water-glass, she wetted his brow, then breathed on it softly to cool the skin. Instantly, inexplicably, Ryel felt his pain abate. "All that I can, that will I do for thee. I'll help thee to a bath, and then a good bed for a night's rest, and on the morrow we'll see how thy cure has wrought."

  Ryel looked up at her, puzzled but hopeful. "Cure? What cure?"

  "One that I've studied on since our meeting at the shore," she replied. "A notable bed thou'lt lie in this night, tall brother Ryel—my grandson Guy's, where he slept every summer as a boy until young manhood."

  "Guy." Ryel swallowed, his wits aswim. "Guy Desrenaud?"

  The lady nodded amused assent. "The same. Guyon de Grisainte Desrenaud he's called in full. As for myself, I am Gwynned de Grisainte, styled Dame Gwynned in this land, and Guy is my only son's only child, and the last of our line. From Srin Yan Tai I have learned that Guy must play a part in thy help, and Dagar's destruction. I know not what that part may be, and I've had no word of my grandson for several years. But his spirit is strong in this house, and may work thy weal."

  "I don't need sleep, now. Tell me about your grandson, Markessa."

  Dame Gwynned resumed her seat at the table, pouring them each another glassful of strong cider. "To tell thee of young Guy, first I needs must speak somewhat of myself. Fear not, I'll be brief. I was born the Markessa of Lanas Crin in my own right, the sole legitimate issue of Colbrent Pharamond de Grisainte, Prince of Lettrek. If thou shouldst chance to read the history of Ralnahr, thou wilt learn how great his name is in my land, and how ancient and honored his lineage. When very young, scarce entered into my teens, I was wedded to the Jarl of the Dryven Marches— wedded against my will to a rammy fusty blockheaded old man. At seventeen I bore him an heir after three day's racking labor, and, that duty done, never again would I bed with the Jarl. It mattered little to the Jarl, for he had wed me for my fortune, which was great, and for a son, which in three marriages before he had never gotten. Thereafter he diverted himself with greasy kitchen-maids, whilst I mothered most unwillingly the brat I never wished to bear.

  "Ill-favored and brutish as his father did my son grow up, do what I might to better him. Then my husband the old Jarl dies, and my son the new Jarl decides at the age of twenty that he needs must marry Theranne the Duchess of Hantaigne, an overgrown orange-haired half-Wycastrian slut six years his elder, a rampant hoyden that loved nothing but hunting and fornication…and gold coin. My son being rich in his dead father's money and lands, the duchess was glad enough to wed with him, for no other man on earth would have her, such a shrew she was, and penniless, and a known whore—no man but my idiot son.

  "Like hogs they lived atop the rocks, them and their dirty pack of hangers-on, and never once did I visit them, nor did they ever darken my door, to my great content. Feeling the Art's pull, I journeyed to Tesba and spent ten years there; but while I learned many things useful in that glassy City that have served me well in the
World, I never could abide the sensual frivolity of the place. I returned to Ralnahr, and elected to live sparely, even roughly. As Markessa I had a little palace of my own near Dorellar not twenty miles inland from here, which I still dwell from time to time. But I had grown up along the Lettrek sea-strand, and missed the cry of the gulls, the lulling of the waves. Some miles of shoreline possessed, and whilst riding along it one day shortly after my return I found this house all empty and neglected—a witches' house men called it, and shunned it, but to me it spoke of home, and a home I made and have enjoyed ever since.

  "After settling into my new dwelling, I sent to Dryven to learn the news, and discovered that I had a grandson eight years old. In late springtime I rode up to see the brat, expecting to find either a carrot-haired halfwit— Theranne was no more famed for brains than my son her husband—or some stable-groom's get. Great was my surprise to behold a lovely well-grown child with eyes of sea-green, and hair of that tawny gold found nowhere but among the de Grisaintes—eyes and hair of my own color. But only too clear it was that no one cared for him. The dogs were better looked after, for they were fed well, and washed clean of fleas, and never beaten; but ragged and starved and snot-nosed and dirty as a beggar's bantling was little Guy, with a fresh welt on his cheek where Theranne had struck him— and I can tell from thy face so pale and amazed that thou never knew the like when young, lucky lad."

  "Never," Ryel said, blinking burning eyes.

  "Thou'st been blessed more than thou canst know, Ryel Mirai," the Markessa said. She smiled, then, kindly. "And it shows, I might add. But to continue. A weaker and less highborn child would have meekly borne his parents' cruelty, glad to avert blows with submission; but not my grandson, in whose veins the blood of the de Grisaintes ran pure and hot— not Guy, who never shed tear no matter how much he had the right, but grew ever more defiant and unruly and mutinous with the every evil word, every bruising cuff. With such upbringing it could only follow that his heart should harden, that his manners be coarse and vicious, that he should love to kill little birds and beasts. Filthy language he'd learned aplenty of grooms and scullions, but not one word whether fair nor foul could he read or write. Ignorant animal though he was, I felt something for him that I'd never felt for anyone before, and I made up my mind to take him back with me to Lanas Crin for the summer, and try what I could to make a gentleman of him. My son and Theranne opposed me not one whit, glad to be rid of the brat; but the brat himself kicked and squalled the whole way downmountain. Only when we reached the ocean side did he grow quiet, awed by the wonder of so much water.