The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "And if it doesn't?"

  "Then the World's perdition will be your fault, whelp, and no one else's. Let's go up to that tower I like, and look out over the wall."

  It was the tower Desrenaud had chosen, at the southern wall; and Lady Srin surveyed the Zegry army along with Priamnor and Ryel. The wysard fixed his gaze far. "We arrived at a good time. There's Catulk and Coamshi, coming out to harangue the troops."

  Priamnor leaned out, his blue eyes squinting. "I wish I had your sight, ilandrakis."

  "You do, Priam," Ryel said, giving his kinsman's shoulder an encouraging pat. "Only try, and say this word."

  Priamnor narrowed his eyes, said the word, and gave a start. "I…I see them now, clearly. Russet of skin both of them, with green eyes—both very tall, clad in jeweled chain-mail. Their teeth are filed to points, their cheeks scarified, their ears pierced each a dozen times and studded with bright gems. They wear crowns of feathers upon their heads, long plumes of a hundred hues."

  Lady Srin nodded. "Coamshi has been the death of five husbands so far, I hear, and numberless lovers; they say she can never get enough either of men or riches. Regarding the men, I believe it; the Azm Chak has a tender custom of making sure that its women never get to scratch their itch."

  Ryel recalled Theofanu's words regarding infibulation, and winced. "Coamshi looks to this city's walls most lustfully—as does her brother."

  "We'll rebuff her embraces as well as we can," Priam said, with a faint smile. "Lady Srin has been training the courtiers since her arrival."

  The wysardess half laughed. "Gods know they need it. All of the young nobility have no end of good weapons inlaid with gold—and not so much as a scratch on any of them, meant as they were only for making a swaggering show in the Diamond Heaven. None of the dashing counts and princes were ever taught the use of a blade, and most of them were as soft as girls to start with—and looked like girls in those long silk robes of theirs. But now that they've hardened up and become warlike, they've begun wearing Steppes gear like to yours, Ryel, although still silken—as much in flattery of the Sovran as for easier swordplay, I've no doubt. Which reminds me--it's time for afternoon drill. Farewell, lads."

  When Srin Yan Tai had left, Ryel and Priamnor remained, silently looking out over the Zegry encampment. At last Priam spoke, his voice hushed.

  "In a way, I am glad that Michael Essern was not stopped early on. Had this insurrection not occurred, I might have lived out my life unaware of these people's misery."

  "You learned of it the very day you gave up your life of seclusion, and went with me to the Diamond Heaven," Ryel replied.

  "And had you not come to me, kinsman, I might still have never left the palace."

  "Had I not been drawn into the World by Dagar's lures, these horrors would have never been."

  "And we would have never met."

  Silently Ryel considered the weight of those words, each syllable thudding against his naked heart like edged flints, so loudly he at first could barely hear Priam's next words.

  "I want very much for matters to turn out well, ilandrakis. You and I must live to travel to Vrya, that you may see what manner of land you are prince of. It's not so very grand, I'm afraid—merely a little parcel of ground very far to the south, bordering on Zalla. No riches of gold or jewels, but excellent fruit and mandragora sought after far and wide, and as a result a comfortable and uncantankerous citizenry. You might even rule the place if you like, but it's been in capable hands for decades. I look forward to visiting it; I've never been to the sea."

  Ryel's ears twitched. "Vrya is on the sea?"

  "Quite a bit of it is, from the maps I've seen. We'll explore it together, I hope."

  "I hope so, too. Very much." The wysard had averted his eyes from Priam's, and now found it impossible to look back. "The sun's started downward," he said at last. "It won't be long now."

  Priamnor rose, and offered Ryel his hand. "Come, let's join the ladies for dinner. I'm looking forward to trying Steppes food."

  The wysard closed with that steady grip, drawing an infinity of strength from it; but he shook his head. "This will be no night for revelry, Priam. We must all of us stay close together tonight, against Dagar's appearance. Dagar will seek every means to strike at me, and will no doubt try to harm those I most care for. But he shares the body of Meschante, who will very likely try to seek out Belphira."

  At that instant a servant appeared, his breathing labored from climbing, and approached the Sovran, murmuring a message. Dismissing him, Priam turned to Ryel.

  "My sister wishes to see you."

  Ryel felt his blood dry up, along with his tongue. "The Sovrena Diara? But why? She doesn't remember me."

  "Unhappily true. But she wants to thank you for saving her life."

  "Then I ask you to do this for me. Gather together everyone in the Court of the Swan--my mother and yours, my sister, Belphira, Lady Srin--everyone you and I hold dear. Make sure many lamps are lit; there must be no darkness. Revel and enjoy yourselves. I'll bring the Sovrena after she and I talk together."

  "Very well. I'll find Belphira, and take her to the others. " Priam put his hand on Ryel's shoulder, his touch light but urgent. "Go to my sister, ilandrakis. The night draws on."

  *****

  As he followed the servant assigned him through the mosaic corridors and sun-spangled courtyards of the Eastern Palace, Ryel had time to consider that he had never met the Sovrena of Destimar according to the forms prescribed by imperial protocol. The Diara he had seen in his father's Glass had been a girl in her teens, dressed in boyish Steppes riding-gear; the Diara he had encountered in the desert outside Almancar was her unbodied rai; the Diara of the dream-realm had been careless of outward proprieties, forgetful of those strictures that normally ruled her movements in her waking life. Now, for the first time, he would meet the Diara known to the World, most exalted lady of the sovereign house Dranthene.

  He felt the true distance between them when the great doors of her presence-chamber opened and he was met by soldiers armed in gold and steel, who stood at either side of the portal with drawn swords. At the servant's word Ryel was allowed to pass, but only into a world even more forbidding than that of armed sentinels. Between ranks of court ladies, all magnificently garbed in the opulent Almancarian fashion of myriad-pleated gowns laden with jewels, the Sovrena sat enthroned on a high dais, more gorgeously arrayed than any of the others and crowned with the imperial diadem.

  Ryel heard music, heavenly sweet—ceremonial music of the imperial court. It might have been playing ever since he'd entered; he couldn't remember. Before this meeting he had taken the time to dress and otherwise ready himself for an imperial audience, but his simply-cut robes, fresh and new at Priam's order, seemed far too plain despite their lustrous silk and fine making. He felt like what he had grown up as, what Edris had called him long ago—a churl stinking of stable-reek. Not at all like a lord adept of the Best and Highest.

  But whatever he was, Diara seemed not to know. She watched him as he advanced past the long files of ladies up to the place where she sat; watched him calm-eyed behind her diadem's seed-pearl veil, with no apparent emotion. When he had finally—it seemed a straight-backed, even-paced eternity—arrived at the foot of her throne, she eyed him up and down with a serenity so detached that he felt complete dismay.

  "Most exalted." He half felt as if full prostration should be his next move, but Steppes rearing, Markulit training, and most of all the remembrance that this woman was not one to be bowed down to, but one to stand at his side, made him climb the first two steps of the dais. At this height, his gaze and the Sovrena's met evenly. The ladies in waiting disapproved in a flurry of indignant whisperings that for a moment rose above the music, then subsided at a gesture of Diara's.

  "At last I have the chance to thank you, Ryel Mirai." She held out her hand, and he bowed to touch its back to his forehead. Her fingers were covered with gems, and he felt cold diamonds sting his brow. "My broth
er has told me who you are, and what you are. The city is fortunate indeed that your friendship for Priamnor has brought you here."

  "That was a great reason, most exalted. But not the only one."

  She regarded him calmly, with cool distance. "I understand completely. Your mother and your sister are guests in the palace, and your greatest concern must of course be for them."

  He didn't know what to say. Her absolute composure astounded him. This was the woman for whom he had braved and daunted the most horrific of menaces, and she sat there calmly in her silks and jewels—sat easily, leaning back with her gemmed petal-nailed fingers idly playing on the arms of her ivory throne, regarding him with curiosity so mild that it might as well have been outright indifference. Sat like a goddess, impossibly remote—as if this chamber were a shrine, and she receiving homage, mutely tolerant as a beautiful image wrought of purest, coldest marble. Painted marble, at that. Ryel noted with mixed feelings her pearl-dusted cheeks, carmined lips, kohl-rimmed eyes.

  He drew a long breath. "Most exalted, is it permitted that I speak with you a moment alone?"

  His question set off a flurry of shocked whisperings among the ladies in waiting, which grew louder when Diara rose from where she sat and joined Ryel. Now she had to look upward to meet his eyes, but nevertheless she still seemed impossibly above him, unreachably remote.

  "Two of my guard must attend me," she said.

  He did what he could, which wasn't much, to conceal his impatience. "Why?"

  "I rule this realm together with my brother. My life is precious to Destimar."

  "It is even more precious to me, most exalted."

  He'd startled her. "What do you mean?"

  "I wish you knew. But no matter. I have information meant only for your ears, information crucial to not only this city and this land, but the world."

  A while she stood undecided, but then nodded assent. "I doubt that the man who healed me of my sickness will harm me in my health. Come with me, this way."

  The Court of the Swan's graceful colonnades enclosed thick plantings of flowers and trees that glowed in the gilded light of the late afternoon, bewitching the air with fragrance. Ryel took a deep strengthening inhalation of the warm perfume. But Diara's scent imbued the air, overcoming all others despite its faintness—Transcendence warmed by her dear body, so piercing sweet that he could scarcely bear to breathe it.

  He took her hand in his, and was dismayed at her attempt to free herself. Tightening his grip as much as he could without harming those delicate fingers, he looked into her eyes, deep, Art-deep, clear into the realm of dreams. "Diara," he whispered, his voice breaking almost as much as his heart. "Remember me. I pray you remember me."

  During an aching few seconds of infinity he held his breath, never letting her eyes leave hers; and during that interval her unwilling indignant stare softened, widened, comprehended. The most beautiful eyes in the world gazed into his.

  "Ry?"

  That whispered syllable proved the strength of his Art. She knew him at last. She knew him. Knew him as they had been together, after the horrors of that ghastly night; knew him as he was when she lay back indolent with exhaustion in her bath, giving herself up to his hands that had healed the Dagar-wrought wounds, soothed away the pain, restored her to the beauty for which she was famed in lands many leagues distant from Destimar.

  At last, she knew him. His heart flailed, his blood dried in his veins, his body burnt away from his soul. She was less than an arm's length from him, but as far away as the moon; and he looked upon her helplessly, too rapt for any other act. One of her pale gem-gleaming hands she held out to him, but he could no more take it in his than touch the rays of a star.

  "Ah, Ry. I missed you." Trembling and hesitant she reached out to rest her hand upon his shoulder, and as if by some unbinding Art the wysard came to life again. He seized her hands in his, dropping to his knees as he clutched them to his brow; and then in another instant he was standing again, holding her, enwrapping her desperately lest she ebb out of his arms into the air. It was as if he held his own existence against his other self; as if all the love he had ever known in his life had embodied itself here, now.

  Her voice was another fragrance in the air. "I owe my life to you. Ask anything you will of me."

  He carried her hand to his heart, became one with her eyes. "I ask nothing but this moment, kerandraka."

  His last word made him catch his breath. Of all the endearments he might have called her, this one came to his lips quicker than thought, out of that part of his mind where only the deepest emotions dwelt, unknown and voiceless. To call this woman kerandraka, dearer than sister, was to acknowledge a bond stronger than any union of the flesh. He would never be able to take that word back, never be able to change that bond save to its detriment. To call Diara kerandraka was to acknowledge, in his innermost heart, that she was destined be the one object of adoration in his life. The enormity of what he had implied and vowed in that single word made his heart ache with an emotion he had never known before, and could only be described as an agony of joy.

  She felt it; felt his attempt to let go of her, and instantly wreathed her arms around his neck. He felt her tears on his neck, burning hot.

  "Ah, Ry. Ilandrakis."

  "Diara. Silestra."

  They stood together a long time in one another's arms, motionless. But night was drawing on. "You must go join Nelora and my mother," Ryel said, suddenly mindful of the black-winged peril hovering near; but his attempts to free himself from those slim arms lacing his neck were unsuccessful, despite all his strength of body and Art.

  He felt her lips against his cheek, whispering. "I'm not leaving you."

  Gently he took her wrists, urging her clear of him. "You have to. Srin Yan Tai will guard you tonight—you, my mother and sister, Priam, Belphira."

  "Srin Yan Tai, the Kugglaitai captain? Then she is like you? A wysard?"

  "Wysardess. She's great in the Art, and Dagar won't want to wear out his strength on her. It's me he wants."

  "And what if..."

  Ryel touched his fingers to her lips, very lightly. "He won't."

  "He can't." She kissed his fingertips, burning him clear to his core. "Because I'm not leaving you. Never."

  She would be as good as her word, Ryel knew. He cradled her face in his hands, compelling her eyes into his; and as he did so he murmured a word.

  She pulled away from him, her eyes flashing in amazement and not a little indignation, drawing herself up to her full height. Even while looking up at him, she was looking down on him, so icily that he almost gasped for cold.

  "You forget yourself, physician, wysard, whatever you be." She pushed away his hands, to Ryel's mingled agony and relief. "What was it you said—that some danger threatens this night?"

  "Yes. I was sent to take you to safety. Your brother has gone to find Belphira Deva."

  "Belphira dwells in the Court of the Sun, not far from here. Let us go there; it's on the way to the Court of the Swan."

  "We have little time. Show me the way."

  She refused to take the hand he offered her. "Four of my ladies must accompany me."

  "Protocol be damned, most exalted."

  She looked on him with perfect amazement. "How dare you address me in such—"

  "There's no time, Dia—I mean, most exalted. Take me there, now! "

  The Sovrena knew the shortest way to Belphira's apartments, having often been a visitor there, and led Ryel through a vine-hidden gate of the courtyard and through a private arcade that opened onto the courtyard. For a moment they stood there. "No music," Diara said at last. "No voices. The doors are all closed. I don't think they'll welcome this intrusion. Let go of my hand, if you would."

  Ryel didn't. "Your brother knows what is to happen tonight, as does—"

  A horrific shriek rent the air. "Belphira," Diara breathed, her fingers icy in Ryel's.

  Ryel froze, too, but only an instant. "I'll see to her. Stay here."


  But Diara followed him. Together they pushed open the portal that led to Belphira's rooms. In the middle of the fair great chamber with its brilliant carpets and gold-woven silken hangings and rich appointments Dagar stood ghastly foul in the guise of Michael Essern, reeking in black rags and bedrabbled with clotted blood the color of his stringy skeins of hair. He clutched at Belphira with filthy hands, but was unable to reach past Priamnor, who stood between them with drawn sword.

  At the sight of Ryel the monster grinned. "You've come rather too early, beauty," he said to the wysard, in his mocking ugly whine. "But rest assured you're welcome—you and your little princess. Your pretty friend here has been amusing me with his Art-attempts."

  Priam glanced at Ryel, then Diara. "They've been enough to keep this—this thing away from Belphira, ilandrakis. You can see I wounded him. Sister, leave this place, and go to the Court of the Swan."

  "I will not," Diara said, hastening to Belphira's side. "Not until this--this monster dies."

  The daimon's face had been slashed, and still bled; his tongue darted out and licked some of the blood, and he grinned. "By all means stay, little princess. But you'll have to wait your turn with me. The whore's first."

  Priam leveled his sword at Dagar, eyes gleaming with fury. "You'll never touch them while I live."

  Dagar knocked aside the blade, baring his teeth in impatient scorn. "I could have at any time, fool." A spat word of his, and Priam was hurled against the wall, where he sank unconscious between Diara and Belphira, who caught him in their arms, terrified.

  Ryel in an instant was at the Sovran's side, cold with horror. To his unhoped-for joy, his friend still lived. Leaving Priamnor to the ladies' care, furiously he turned on Dagar, shouting a spell that should have reduced the daimon to dust, but Dagar only screeched with laughter.

  "You'll have to do better than that, young blood. But I wouldn't harm your lovely lad. Not when I've made such interesting plans for him." His empty eyes changed to Meschante's mud-color then, in a pebble-hard stare that fixed on Belphira and would have stripped her to the skin, had it that power. "So, whore. I vowed someday to have you, and I will. This very night I will. Scream for your stallion Desrenaud as much as you like—he's been dead and stinking since yesterday."