The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Not if I have anything to do with it," the wysard replied. He was silent a moment, observing Desrenaud's drawn sleepless face. "You don't look well, Guy."

  "I'm not. It's been a rough couple of days." The Northerner looked down at Meschante, his color coming angrily back. "But I'm going to make this scum's days rougher yet. Heal his wound, sorcerer."

  Ryel stared uncomprehending at Desrenaud. "You want him alive?"

  Desrenaud gave a curt nod. "He has much to answer for, and I'm damned if he's getting off this easily. If you've any kindness toward me and any sorcery left in you, do my asking."

  Bitterly reluctant, Ryel with his Art's surgery knit the wound's edges again, gradually restoring Meschante to wholeness of body. Desrenaud watched awhile, but then looked toward the next room. Instantly his eyes narrowed. "Who are those…things…with the Sovrena?"

  The wysard moved to block the sight. "I was going to tell you."

  "Tell me what? Stand away."

  "But Guy. I don't think you should—"

  "Who are they?" He read the wysard's face, and muttered a curse. "Get back." Shoving Ryel out of his way he looked about the chamber. "Damnation," he murmured, taking up a lamp for better viewing. "What black witchery's this? Who—or what—are these folk?" The light shook in his hand as he discerned the apelike thing squatting and snuffling under a table. "What is that monster?"

  Diara looked up with eyes full of tears, and answered. "My dear brother Priam, disfigured by Dagar's hatred."

  "Gods. Then who is…" Desrenaud fell silent. He had recognized Belphira. Hunched over and softly mumbling she sat oblivious, picking at her gown's pleats with trembling blotched knot-veined hands, her thin gray lusterless plaits and tresses shaking like sere willow-branches around her withered face, all of her former beauties so cruelly ravaged and destroyed by senescence that no one remembering the fair queen of the Diamond Heaven would know her now; no one save he that had loved her at first sight, in her young glory.

  He set down the lamp. "My lady."

  She made no sign. Falling to his knees, he took her hand. "Belphira. My white star."

  She did not know him, though he whispered to her the tenderest endearments, the dearest reminiscences. At last he gave up trying, and overmastered by his grief lay his head on her lap, hiding his face in the silken folds; Ryel heard him sob. Feebly Belphira's quivering fingers trembled in his hair, unfeeling; and the wysard felt his throat tighten.

  Desrenaud released Belphira and stood up. Never had the wysard seen more rage in his eyes.

  "Undo this black gramarye, Ryel."

  "I'll try what I can." Ryel considered his next move. Formidable Art had been used to transform his friends into their uncouth shapes, Mastery meant to create permanent changes. Undoing that thaumaturgy would require power that matched the One Immortal's own, summoned with all speed. His thoughts wind-quick, the wysard sifted the entirety of his Markulit learning for stratagems to save his friends; out of many evolved one that would have worked for all, had he but the strength.

  I've got it, he thought, his path suddenly bright before him. "Guy. You're going to have to help me."

  "Name the way."

  "You are double-handed, and I have more times than once been witness to the Art in your blood. But never have I called upon it until now. If all goes as it should, with your help Belphira and Priamnor will return to their true forms."

  Diara came to Ryel's side. "I, too, can be of use to you now."

  "You will be," Ryel said, after barely an instant's hesitation. "And if all goes as it should, I can promise you will both escape safely."

  Desrenaud glanced at Diara, his fear for her alone. "And if all doesn't?"

  "You need not answer him, Ryel Mirai," said the Sovrena of Destimar. "Only tell me what I must do to save these I love."

  The wysard gazed upon her as if admiring the rainbow after a storm, his heart enmeshed in her eyes. "You already know. In the last word you said lies the secret."

  He went to the portals and locked them fast, then lit every candle and lamp that did not yet burn.

  "It won't work," Meschante said, stirring from where he lay. "You've lost, Markulit."

  Desrenaud strode over to him, irked and virulent. "I warned you." A sharp kick to the head, and Meschante fell back unconscious.

  "You might have killed him," Ryel observed with no great concern.

  Desrenaud shrugged. "It'd take something more than that to crack his thick skull, and I'd already had too much of his mouth—but enough of him. Let's to work."

  "This very instant." From his lacquered case Ryel took the phials of feia and celorn, emptying them into a golden cup of blood-red wine; and then he held out the xantal-tube to Desrenaud.

  "You once said you're clever with these things. Open it."

  The Northerner flinched. "Magus, are you sure—"

  "Don't question me."

  With a practiced snap Desrenaud broke off the cylinder's top, releasing the smell of wet wood and rusting iron; equivocally hesitated, then handed the vial back to the wysard. "Be careful with that stuff. I know what it can do."

  Ryel quelled a memory-grimace. "I'm well aware of that." Drawing his dagger, the wysard gathered a drop of xantal on its point, setting the broken vial carefully aside; stirred the wine with the drugged blade, creating an elixir capable of loosing the spirit's shackles and setting free the rai to its highest endeavor, or blending a hell-brew beyond which a single sip was mortal poison.

  "There. My lady, I ask that you take your brother by the hand while you, Guy, do the same with Belphira. A drink will I give you; and then at my word I would have you fix your thoughts upon your loved one—as many joyful memories and hopes as you can bring to mind. We will counter hatred and darkness with love and light and every force we can summon from within us."

  With infinite tenderness Diara took Priamnor's flaccid stubby hand. "I am ready, Ry."

  Desrenaud gently held Belphira's thin quivering fingers, so cruelly mocked by their rich-gemmed rings. "Get on with it, sorcerer."

  Ryel held the cup first to Diara's lips, then to Desrenaud's, warning them to take but one taste only. Then he coaxed Belphira and Priam to take a sip, and at last he lifted the goblet and drank off the rest. Hardly had he swallowed the elixir than he felt the earth melting away beneath him and his rai floating free, seeking the stars.

  "It begins," he whispered, scarcely able to hear his own voice for its distance. Blindly he reached out, laying a hand on Diara's shoulder, another on Desrenaud's. "Close your eyes. Repeat every word I say. Remember these dear ones as they were, as you wish them. Now."

  He heard his incantation's echo, once by a voice never forgotten once heard, again by the sweetest music ever spoken; and then the entire force of his thought he turned to what had passed and what might be, seeing both as clear as truth. Priam rustling in night-purple silk, gliding through bright water, masked amid revelry, in every guise admirable, imperial, beloved; Priamnor Dranthene, Sovran of Destimar grown to greater strength and wider power, tenderly wedded to a fair queen, father to gifted sons and daughters, famous for the justness and peace of his reign. Belphira Deva, brilliant amid the sensual splendors of the Diamond Heaven, her voice imparting sweet wisdom, her singing surpassing all other music, her unmasking the revelation of a goddess; Belphira of Tesba, great in the Art, in later years bringing her skill and wisdom to the World for its beauty and its betterment.

  "We will be happy," the wysard said; and his words rang around him like soft slow peals of gold, ebbing out through infinity, even into the Void where Edris dwelt, and Michael. "All of us."

  He opened his eyes. The drugs were still strong in his veins, but he felt no disorientation; indeed, it seemed he had never looked upon life so clearly, nor felt it so keenly. Diara gazed upon him with eyes luminous and serene, still rapt in the exaltation of that secret realm.

  "Will we ever go back?"

  He nodded, smiling back at her. You were with me the entire t
ime, kerandraka, he thought. Even though we did not meet amid those worlds, you were there with me, warm and dear and essential to me as my blood. No matter where we are, it will always be the same. Always the same joy, the same sharing; always, always, that sense of the infinite.

  "Yes," she whispered, her eyes blue as Cyrinnis' seas, answering his thoughts. "Always."

  Desrenaud's eyes opened. "Always," he murmured, his voice overlapping with Diara's as the waves wash the land. He turned to Belphira, his face calm and glad, but in another moment rounded accusingly on Ryel, cruelly thwarted.

  "She's still bewitched, sorcerer."

  Belphira stood restored to her true semblance, but all unmoving, her eyes focused far. Priamnor was likewise transformed, but fully as fixed and stonelike.

  "Ah, Ryel." Diara's joy faded too. "I had thought them safe."

  "They are," the wysard said. "It takes a last spell to awaken them."

  "Then do it," Desrenaud said, far from patient.

  "Go out into the courtyard, Guy, and I will."

  "The courtyard? But why?"

  "For him," Ryel answered, significantly glancing at the enthralled form of Priam as he spoke; and Desrenaud understood.

  "I'll go. But make it quick, enchanter. I've waited a long weary time."

  "I know. I will."

  "My lord of Anbren." Diara touched Desrenaud's arm, and he lingered at that slight contact. "But a moment more. I only wish to thank you again, for you have saved many lives this night. Often has Lady Belphira spoken of you, and from all that she has said I have long learned to admire you."

  The Ralnahrian half-smiled. "She left a great deal out, then, and we've a long way to go before all's safe, most exalted. But all that I can do for you and yours, I will to my utmost." A long moment Desrenaud gave to revery; but then his gaze returned to Belphira. "I want everything I've missed. And I'll have it, if this magician's as clever as he thinks he is."

  He bowed farewell, and went out into the warm night; and Ryel said the words that would release his friends from the last of their enchantment. As if watching the sun come up, he saw live light return to the blank eyes, vital color to faces once masklike.

  Priamnor was first to speak. "Ryel. Sister. Belphira" He embraced them as one, drawing them close. "I never thought I'd get back. I thought it would be forever."

  "Then you remember? You saw everything that happened here?"

  At Ryel's question the Sovran shook his head. "Nothing. I was a prisoner, trapped in another body. I couldn't think a whole thought, or remember anything I once knew. I didn't know who you were. Even my sister and Belphira seemed as strangers."

  "There was another stranger here," Ryel said. "A Shrivrani aliante. Did you see him?"

  Priamnor thought a moment. "Yes. A man with his face covered. Who was he?"

  "You'll soon learn. My lady Belphira, I would have a word with you alone, if I might. Priam, I must request you to keep watch over Meschante."

  "With greatest pleasure," the Sovran replied, pulling down a curtain-tie and binding Meschante's wrists and ankles with strong knots before standing over his unconscious enemy with drawn sword. Diara reached again for her dagger and moved to join her brother.

  Ryel could only think of how fair they looked together, like twin gods of vengeance. "I'll return soon." Offering Belphira his arm, he guided her into the garden. The air was deliciously sweet, but above the fragrance rose the tumult of armed struggle.

  "How weary I am of that dreadful sound."

  At Belphira's faint toneless words, Ryel gently rounded his hand over hers. "It'll soon be over."

  "How can you know?"

  "The Shrivrani brigand told me."

  "Nothing will ever be over, Ryel." She drew a weary breath. "The longest night of my life this has been. And to think that Guy was here, and I never…"

  She stiffened and silenced, lifting her face to breathe the night as Ryel felt her grip his arm in a sudden clench.

  "My lady, what is wrong?"

  She let go of him, and clasped her hands over her heart as if to keep it in her body. "I must be going mad. I…I breathe him. I sense him."

  Ryel, too, had caught Desrenaud's emanation, unique to him as so many things were. "Yes, my lady."

  "Is it an illusion of yours? Would you make me believe that he is here?"

  "He doesn't have to." Some of the darkness solidified, assuming the form of a tall man cowled Shrivrani wise. "I'll convince you myself."

  That voice made Belphira start and tremble; slowly turning about she faced the apparition. They stood not five feet apart under the moon; like painted things they stood, wordless and still. But then Belphira spoke, every word strangled.

  "Ah, Ryel Mirai. I have been punished enough, believe me."

  "This is no illusion, my lady," the wysard said. "I swear it."

  Guyon Desrenaud said nothing, but gave the concealing headcloth a sharp yank that made it fall about his shoulders. Belphira cried out, but did not move; and with an impatient oath Desrenaud closed the gap between them, reaching out and catching Belphira's hands to draw her the rest of the way to him, lifting her off her feet into the air.

  "Call this mere seeming, lass." He rubbed her face with his unshaven chin, making her gasp; whirled her about in a sweep of jeweled braids and silken pleats. "Or this." He kissed her at random, neck and cheeks and forehead, and at first she resisted, beating her fists against him.

  "You can't be. You aren't!"

  "I am. You know it. And I know this is you at last." Still he kissed her, still mingled a hundred Northern endearments with her name, speaking in the wild tongue of Ralnahr, calling her his bright wave of the sea, his swift sweet-eyed deer, his white star, his flower of the forest; and at last she no longer struggled in his arms, but let herself be held and cherished, resting her head on his shoulder.

  "Guy. Ah, Guyon." And now she spoke not in Almancarian but in the Northern language they shared, haltingly, mingling words with tears. "I dreamed this so many times. Dreamed and woke and wept, so many times."

  "Dreaming and waking we'll share together from now on, lass," Desrenaud replied. "But as for weeping, we'll have no more of it, ever again." He bent to her even as she lifted her fact to his, and their mouths met in a kiss that made up for all the years of thirst.

  Ryel had not wished to be a witness to that encounter, but he found he wasn't alone. Turning away, he discovered Priam at his side, and could tell even by moonlight that the Sovran had grown pale. Diara too was watching, but at a distance, on the room's threshold.

  "Lord Guyon," Priam murmured, transfixed. "Guyon Desrenaud, here?"

  He was heard. Belphira and Desrenaud separated, she hastily, he entirely unwilling.

  Slowly Priamnor approached his mistress and her lover, facing Desrenaud as one honestly, albeit reluctantly, confronts a past mistake. "Most gladly met, my lord of Anbren—that is your title, as I recall. You did my realm a great service this night."

  Desrenaud bowed. "Many another had a hand in it, most exalted."

  Priam regarded Desrenaud silently awhile. "I must confess I was no great admirer of you in the past, Lord Guyon, but this night you have proven yourself more than a friend to me and mine. You have been the savior of Destimar."

  Desrenaud bent his head, partly in thanks, partly in contrition. "Not yet, most exalted, and probably never."

  "When we met at my father's sindretin I was still a boy, too ready to judge harshly without understanding," Priamnor said. "But that was long ago."

  "Sorry I am, most exalted, that I ever gave you reason for anger." The Northerner studied the young Sovran's proud yet gentle features, clearly remembering the past. "Whatever skill I have at arms is in your service. I only hope you find me deserving of it."

  You are deserving of much, Lord Guyon." And coming near to Desrenaud and Belphira, Priam took both their hands and joined them together. "I ask only that you marry here in Almancar, that I may be a guest at your wedding." He looked into Belphi
ra's eyes, that shone with tears of thanks; then lightly drew her near and kissed her on the forehead, gently and not long. "I have never wished anything but your happiness, silestra. You know that."

  "I always have," Belphira whispered.

  Priamnor looked upon her with infinite kindness. "This night has been long, and tomorrow will prove even longer, I fear. You and my sister require rest; I will take you to the Court of the Swan, where the others are. But one moment." He turned to Desrenaud. "When will the war begin?"

  "On the morrow, but not until darkness," Desrenaud replied, all soldier again, in a way that made Ryel marvel at his self-control. "There's nothing the Zegry relish so much as a night fight. And besides, their reinforcements are expected to arrive tomorrow morn, which will swell their army to many thousands more."

  This news visibly shook Priamnor, but he remained calm. "Tomorrow I will convene a council of war. I wish you present there, Guyon Desrenaud, and Srin Yan Tai, and the warlord Rodhri M'Klaren, and you too, Ryel Mirai. But for now, I will escort my sister and Lady Belphira to the Court of the Sun."

  They said farewell to one another with the calm of those who have undergone danger and would endure yet more. Many times did Belphira look back to Desrenaud as she left, nor did he take his eyes from her an instant until she was no longer in view. "Now for this beast," Desrenaud said, turning to the room where his enemy lay bound.

  Meschante had regained consciousness, and very evidently had been watching Belphira through the open doorway as she left, his eyes full of yearning before they shifted to the Northerner, and narrowed in hatred. Desrenaud said nothing, and drew his dagger in a way that seemed to intend nothing less than Meschante's death; but the razor-edged blade only sliced through the ropes. "Get up, you worthless miscreant."