The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

"Get rid of it." She hesitated. "Please."

  Ryel did so. Nelora watched, ever more impressed, as the air cleared. "That's quite a trick, brother. Could you teach me how to be a witch?"

  He smiled at the thought, wryly. "You don't need lessons."

  She smiled too, but it faded fast. "I'd use some wicked spells on that dirty rabble, if I could. How dare they rise up against Priamnor, who has done all he can for them? How dare they listen to that ugly ragged villain?"

  Ryel started. "You've seen Michael, then?"

  "From a window, when at the very foot of the palace he preached his hateful nonsense to the scum that follow him. He looked right up at me—a look that stripped me to my skin, the lewdest look—if I'd had my bow handy I've had shot an arrow into one of those nasty eyes of his. I've gotten good with a bow, brother, since you and I last met. I practice every day, even here."

  "In Steppes gear, I hope--not the gown you're in now." Admiringly the wysard ran his fingers through her straw-pale mingled braids and tresses. "It's a lovely gown, by the way. Pale green is a color that suits you." But he'd stopped smiling. "Still, you shouldn't lace it so tightly."

  She thrust out an indignant lower lip—a painted one, the wysard disapprovingly observed. "I'm a grown woman if you hadn't noticed, fully fifteen years old. I only wish the Sovran saw as much, but he cares most for that old trollop Bel—"

  Suddenly and angrily reminded, Ryel frowned. "Belphira Deva is a good and noble lady," he said, very sternly. "If you had any—"

  "She was a common prostitute, brother, for as many years as I am old." Nelora turned away from him. "I cannot bear the way Priamnor looks at her. He never looks at me that way."

  "He'd better not. You're still a child."

  She spun about, and her hard little gem-studded fist thumped his solar plexus again. "I don't mean that kind of look. Not a lusting ogle, but what the poets call a conjuncture of souls. But how can he love her? A strumpet who has rolled in bed with countless men—"

  "Lady Belphira was a tiraktia--a musician and a singer, not one that sold herself for money."

  "Still, I'm sure she had many a man in her younger days, chosen solely for his wealth."

  "I'll not permit such talk from you. I'll wager our mother is friends with her."

  "That means nothing," Nelora said, making a petulant face that only looked adorable, to the wysard's chagrin. "She's friends with everyone. Oh, don't preach at me. Come here." And Nelora gave Ryel a great hug, kissing both his cheeks, then laid her head against his chest, her arms wrapped around him. "I missed you, missed you, missed you. We all have—except for Diara, of course, but it isn't her fault."

  Ryel returned the embrace tenderly, but felt as if one of Nelora's emphatic little fists had driven clean through him, grinding its rings against his spine. "She doesn't remember me?"

  Nelora nodded, quite matter-of-factly. "But she wants to meet you, very much, after all the things Priam and I have told her. But you can see her later. For now, I'm taking you to our mother. We'll have chal. Remember how we drank it together, you and I, out in the dawn? I only wish we had some lakh now, but there's none left and no way to get any more, thanks to the siege." She looked up at him, impishly quizzical. "Perhaps you could conjure up some?"

  "I'll see what I can do, you greedy brat," Ryel said, exasperated but smiling too.

  "Then come on."

  She took his hand, leading him up the steps, flinging open a door. At first Mira seemed puzzled at the Sovran's early visit, but in another moment she comprehended, and rushed forward rejoicing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As was usual with Almancarian custom—even in times as desperate as now, Ryel saw to his disbelief—the palace rested in the afternoon, seeking refuge from the cloudless scorch of the sun. Much against her will Nelora had also gone off for a nap, her emotions overwrought as much from the joy of seeing her brother again as from the wine she'd drunk to celebrate his return—rather to excess, Ryel noted with small approval. He and his mother were now alone in the garden-cloister that adjoined Mira's apartments, a place shaded by vine-trellises and palms, strolling among the paths and quietly talking, learning each other again, rejoicing in their communion.

  "So now you believe the tales," Ryel said.

  Mira nodded. "The imperial archives give me no other choice. When first the twins and I came to this city, Priamnor summoned us to the palace and welcomed us with the greatest kindness, and showed us the writings that prove our kinship to him. From that moment until the troubles we have lived magnificently here, happy in the mansion my grandmother left me; all the court visited us. Priamnor's mother and I became especial friends."

  "Ah." Ryel remembered the kind woman with the unhappy eyes, her gold ornaments glittering in the myriad votive lights of Demetropa's altar. "Then Lady Calantha Diaskiros left the temple of Demetropa, and returned here."

  "She broke all precedent to do so, but no longer regrets it. For now she lives again as she was meant to, sharing the Eastern Palace with the children she loves. "

  Ryel considered his mother's words. "You, too, came back to the life you were meant to live. I hope that way returns." Reaching toward a stand of flowers, Ryel gathered a pale golden lily that matched his mother's gown, and slipped it into her night-hued tresses. "Flowers such as these never grew in Risma."

  Mira's smile waned. "But all of Almancar's gardens have been destroyed by Michael's followers. The palace is the only place left where they safely thrive, now; but even here they are so few. It's as if they knew the danger threatening the city—even the roses are suffering, the flowers I love most. Life on the Steppes was hard enough without having to coax my roses into growing at all, until you came home at last and made them flourish—with your magic, I now know."

  "Call it my Art." Ryel turned to a marble vase where only dry twigs stuck out of the parched dirt. Putting his hand on the vase, he spoke a word, and then another; and as he and his mother watched, the twigs became green and pliant stems. Eager green leaves sprouted from the stems, and then buds. The buds swelled, opening into roses of every color. At the beginning of the metamorphosis Mira had drawn back half in fear, but when the rosebuds were half-open she caught Ryel's wrist. "It is enough. Stop."

  Ryel halted the spell. Slowly Mira reached out to the flowers, her hand hovering over the blooms but touching none of them. "They have no thorns."

  "Had I my wish, they never would for you."

  Emboldened, she bent closer, breathed deep. "Sweeter than Transcendence." Her delicate fingers reached toward a rose-stem they held, and the petals trembled. "The danger around us is great, little son. I am glad your Art is greater."

  Ryel bit his lip. "I hope it will be."

  Mira's delicate ring-bright fingers tightly gripped the rose-stem, stilling the petals' trembling. "I had so much longed to see my home again. So many years of yearning and dreaming—and so little time to enjoy my return. From the windows of this palace I have witnessed cruelties beyond belief, appalling atrocities; my nights are endless watches, black with fear."

  "I can see as much in your face."

  "Then you must think me greatly aged since we parted last."

  "Not even a day."

  "Some terrible thing is coming. I can see it behind your eyes. This morning you spoke to me of Michael's powers, and how you hope to overcome him with the knowledge you acquired in the last half-year. But something worse than Michael confronts you; I feel it."

  She must have felt it in his pulse, because she had taken him by the wrist to turn him toward her. And he turned; but he regretted having to meet her eyes, because she saw clear into him, this woman to whom he was bound by a thousand ties of blood and love and loyalty, she who had made him with the seed of Edris Desharem Alizai, lord adept of Markul.

  Her voice was hushed and slow. "Tell me what you fear."

  Ryel turned his gaze to the flowers, seeking their sweetness, their bright life. "I had great hopes when I left Risma for Almancar. Now I
wonder if any of them will be fulfilled. Any at all."

  "What hopes are those?"

  "Fantastic ones, my mother. Foolish ones, they seem now to me."

  "You are your father's son, Ry. Your father's son, and mine. The bravest blood of the Steppes and a tincture of the imperial line run in your veins. You will not fail."

  "I'll do my utmost not to. But…"

  "Do not think of that now. Tonight the Sovrana Dowager Calantha and the Sovrena Diara come to dine with Nelora and me; join us. Besides palace dishes we'll have Steppes fare—all the things you like, or at least as much as the siege will permit." She smiled. "I wish that might include the lakh you love."

  He took her hands, and bent his brow to them; then straightened to gaze upon her with admiration and disbelief. "Almancar is on the brink of falling, silestra, and you can think of entertainment?"

  His mother lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with proud defiance. "We have lived in danger long enough to scorn it. I'll never let a fanatic and his rabble dismay me. What are the poet's words—

  'And when the fight like fire raged, Redestens' heart blazed bright,

  And burnt away his fear and doubt as sun drives forth the night;

  No moment to him sweeter seemed than this where he drew breath,

  Nor life more balanced than when poised upon the edge of death.'"

  Ryel said the last line with her. "I remember when we first read those lines together. Surely there can be no greater tale of heroes than the final canto of The Siege of Kasrinagal."

  "Yes. Where all the demigods do battle for the World's sake against the armies of the Demon-king—and win."

  Ryel's smile faded. "But their victory is a dear one. It costs the lives of Bahalin and Ghenris … and Drostal." Again he thought of Guyon Desrenaud, perhaps at that moment enduring torture in the mercenary camp.

  His mother seemed to sense his thoughts. Reaching up, she smoothed back his hair as she had when he was a boy. "Those heroes do not die forever, Ryel. The great goddess Demetropa saves them. And she will look after us, too—even after you, unbeliever though you are."

  Unwilling to argue, Ryel let the matter drop. "You're a brave lady, Mira Silestra." He took her in his arms and nuzzled her under both her ears, as was his way when very little; and she laughed as she always had.

  *****

  Ryel parted from his mother, promising a swift return, and made his way to the quadrant of the palace where Priam dwelt. Awhile he stood in the deserted Court of the Diver, giving his entire being over to the peace and beauty of the place he was. But the evil unleashed in the World could not be shut out or willed away.

  I don't want this night to come, he thought. He wished he could stop the sun in the heavens, as the old gods of Risma used to do—stop it at this lovely bright time, and give him space to grow warm again.

  He sat at the pool's edge and for a long time stared into the jeweled water, that glittered and shimmered like a silken robe—like the trailing golden mantle Priamnor Dranthene had worn in the Diamond Heaven.

  "I have never forgotten that night, Priam," he murmured.

  "Neither have I."

  The Sovran's voice made Ryel's nape prickle, but nevertheless the wysard did not look about. He heard the rustle of his friend's garments, breathed Transcendence.

  "Did you sleep well?" the wysard asked.

  "Better than I have in all my life before."

  Ryel turned to Priamnor, then, and saw that the Sovran had greatly changed. "Priam. You're as you were— "

  "When we first met?" Priamnor Dranthene's night-colored hair was now shorn close and his face shaven smooth, once again revealing the subtle yet commanding perfection of feature that had drawn every eye in Agenor's presence-chamber. Instead of silken Steppes gear he wore robes of deep blue-violet, very like the ones he'd worn at that first meeting. "I wanted us to remember that time."

  As if I could ever forget, Ryel thought. He had averted his eyes from Priam's, and now found it impossible to look back. "This will be no night for revelry. Dagar will seek every means to strike at me, and will no doubt try to harm those I most care for. But he shares Michael's form with Meschante, who will very likely try to seek out Belphira. Neither she nor your sister should be left alone once night falls. I don't know what will be demanded of you. I can only hope— "

  "I can only hope I'll be of more assistance than I was the last time," the Sovran said, with a slight flinch at the memory. "At least I'll try not to faint."

  "Make damned sure you don't, lad. The last thing we need is people flopping down in a swoon."

  Ryel and Priam started about in the same instant, both in recognition, at the sound of that deep yet womanly voice. Priam frowned when he saw who the voice belonged to, but Ryel leapt to his feet, even more relieved than amazed.

  "Lady Srin?"

  The wysardess, dazzlingly clad in the rich warlike uniform of the imperial guard, grinned. "The same, lad."

  "But how did you get here?" The wysard turned to the Sovran. "Do you know who this is?"

  "Of course," Priam said a little shortly as he joined them. "She's commander of the Kugglaitai warriors who came to the city just before the siege. Why do you call her Lady? And Srin Yan Tai, what is your business here? My conversation with my kinsman was meant to be private."

  The wysardess waved an impatient ring-heavy hand. "High time you were enlightened—and at last you can be, now that Ryel's here. It's good to see you again, lad Ry; I worried about you. I want you to tell me everything that happened to you in the North, but first I'd like you to inform the Sovran who he's dealing with when he deals with me."

  Ryel informed Priamnor as briefly as he might, with many interruptions and emendations from Lady Srin. The Sovran stared from Ryel's face to Srin's, blankly amazed, and when the explanations came to an end he fixed his gaze on the wysardess.

  "Then you were the one who healed me, five years ago?"

  Lady Srin nodded, her martial headgear jangling. "The same."

  "Why did you? Who was I to you?"

  The Steppes wysardess grinned. "A very sick, very pretty boy. But you've grown to be far more than that, and you'll have to be much more, very soon."

  Priam frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "There's matters awork in the world, lad. Big ones." Turning from the Sovran, she addressed Ryel. "I've done what I could here. Kept Dagar, Meschante, Michael Essern, whoever it calls itself at bay, or at least away from the palace, with the Art's aid. The armed bands I led here from Kugglaita are on the walls of the city, awaiting the war and sinking arrows into any of the enemy stupid enough to get within range. But it won't be enough." Srin Yan Tai looked from Ryel to Priam again. "Most exalted, the night to come will be no easy one. Every bit of Art we can muster, the better. Thus you must play a part in the fight against Dagar."

  Priam appeared confused, and incredulous. "But I'm no—no sorcerer. I have no powers."

  Lady Srin almost glared at him. "You mean you're no wysard, and you don't know the Art. Twice wrong, lad. You've the Art within you, believe me."

  "Then why did you not tell me of it before? You've been here for months."

  "I didn't want to draw Dagar's attention to you. Had you learned anything of the Art, he might well have considered your body a very pleasant habitation for his rai. I can't say I cared for the notion."

  The young Sovran didn't flinch from the wysardess' look, which impressed Ryel very much. "You infer my capacity for sor—for the Art because of my ambidexterity. But I've never done anything resembling wysardry. Never."

  "You mean you've never tried," Lady Srin said. "Try now. We'll start you out on the simplest of baby-tricks. I don't know why this one's the perennial favorite, but no matter." She took off one of her many rings, and held it out gleaming on her outstretched palm. "There. Now make it move."

  Priam shook his head, rather irritably. "Impossible."

  "Don't be such a blockhead—sorry, most exalted. I only ask you to try."


  Clearly Priam didn't relish being called the name Lady Srin assigned him; it was undoubtedly the first time anyone had ever dared. And perhaps his anger awakened the Art within him, because he dealt the wysardess' ring a sharp glare, and the ring shuddered.

  "Good, lad, good," Lady Srin murmured, her attention as rapt as Ryel's, fixed entirely on the glittering jewel. "Now give me more."

  Priam's eyes never left the ring. "More?"

  "You know what I mean, you pampered dolt," the Steppes wysardess snapped. "Do it!"

  Ryel reflected that this was not the way to address the Sovran of great Destimar, and that anger was an emotion Priamnor seldom was called upon to feel, therefore strong when it occurred; he could remember how much. Quick as the wysard's thoughts, the bright-gemmed ring on Lady Srin's palm trembled violently, then suddenly shot up into the air perhaps three inches above the callused dark many-lined flesh. A long moment it stayed suspended, ever trembling, then dropped back down.

  Lady Srin clenched her hand around the ring. "Remarkable, for a first try. How do you feel, most exalted?"

  "Well enough, for a pampered dolt." But Priam was gray under his sun-bestowed bronze. "I can't believe I did that."

  The wysardess half-laughed. "Believe it, and do more."

  "How do you feel?" Ryel asked Priam.

  "Odd." Priam blinked, rolled his shoulders. "As if my brain had been struck from the inside by a little bolt of lightning."

  Lady Srin and Ryel looked at each other. "Sounds right," the wysardess said. "Doesn't it, whelp?"

  Ryel nodded. "That's how it felt with me. But I was made to Art-lift an egg." He recalled that the egg had indeed levitated, but had burst as it did so, spattering Edris and drawing forth a barrage of curses, but relieved delighted laughter too.

  Lady Srin sniffed. "In my day, we started with bricks. Big ones. Ah, well..." She turned to Ryel. "I'll look after everyone. All you have to do is draw Dagar to you and get rid of him."

  Ryel felt tired. "Easily said. But he knows the same spells I do, and if—"

  "Then make up your own. What a dullard you are sometimes. It'll come to you."