The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "You cannot prevail," Ryel murmured. "Not alone."

  The reek and din of battle had made his head ache terribly, and brought painfully to mind his Art-brother Michael Essern, tormented all his life by the daimon-bane in his blood. Ryel would have given serious consideration to trying the Art of Elecambron, Art in the service of death, had his attention not been drawn to a young soldier in the uniform of the imperial guard fighting at Priam's side, loosing arrow after arrow into the Zegry swarm: a beardless stripling, very slender and slight among the grown men, his long tresses streaming past his helmets' edge to his waist. And now the wysard noted that this bold strange youth had a companion equally slim, but with hair of a color most unAlmancarian.

  "Blond," Ryel said, musing in pain-distracted wonderment. "Blond, and thick. So thick I could hide an egg in it." Then the hectic firelight caught the gleam of a golden bow-guard on the slim wrist, and the wysard stiffened in recognition. "Nelora?"

  He raced down the tower-steps back to the wall, half-falling in his haste. Pushing his way to the wall's top, he struggled to reach the place where Priam stood. But before he could, an imperative hand caught him hard by the shoulder and wrenched him about.

  "Not so fast, whelp. I need a word with you."

  Ryel struggled against Lady Srin's unbudgeable grip. "What do you want now?"

  "Catulk and Coamshi are standing over there, side by side, in plain sight." She thrust out her steel-clad arm to indicate the Zegry twins on the plain below, who were shrieking orders to their army. "Strike them dead."

  Priamnor heard her. "I forbid it. They're my brother and sister."

  Lady Srin's teeth and eyes flashed with rage. "Only half—if at all. And I much doubt they'll shed any tears at your death, boy." She cast a furious glance at Ryel. "If you won't do it, whelp, I will."

  She stretched forth her hand to begin the death-Art, but Ryel seized it and forced it down. "No. We're Markulit. We serve the forces of life, and there's already been too much destruction."

  Srin Yan Tai broke free of his grip, furiously. "Damn it, whelp, can't you see that the Zegry are on the point of destroying us? When they get into the city they'll put everyone to the sword, or worse. Look at them—they're beginning the end."

  Catulk and Coamshi had called a retreat, and the Zegry forces had regrouped some little distance from the wall, readying for another assault, this one sure to be the last. They had ceased their shrieks and whoopings, and in tense eager near-silence were readying for an all-out battering of the gate and storming of the walls. The dawn had begun to diminish the blackness of the night, and in that murky semi-darkness the enemy's multitude spread across the land like a gray galaxy of steel, infinite and unconquerable.

  Priam had come to Ryel's side. He put his arm around his kinsman's shoulders, wearily resigned. "It comes, ilandrakis," he said, his voice hoarsened to a whisper. "The last."

  "Not yet." And wrapping Priam around the waist as he closed his eyes, the wysard summoned all the strength of his Mastery. In the dread silence a noise began to swell, a great rhythmic roar afar off, like the ocean's waves. At his side Ryel heard Srin Yan Tai give a cry of wonder and hope, and he felt Priam's hand tighten on his shoulder.

  "Look! Look up!"

  It seemed that every ear on either side heard the wysardess' shout, every eye followed her arm's upward thrust; and everyone on both sides of the struggle silenced motionless. For now great clouds were massing in the gray interval between earth and heaven, night and day; clouds rushing and scudding out of nowhere, in a sky whose moon and stars had only a moment before shone undimmed on the battle. Low-hovering clouds boiling and surging, heavily a-rumble, that first encircled, then utterly covered the sky above the city…and then broke in an earth-shaking storm of deafening thunder and blinding downpour.

  So wholly unlooked-for was that tempest, so unknown to dry bright Almancar, that the imperial guards on the wall stared dumbfounded up at the torrent, sputtering and blinking and swearing as the rain flooded their wide-open mouths and eyes, but laughing too. Because so fast and thick the rain fell that it pushed the Zegry invaders clean off their siege-ladders into the mire below where they slipped and writhed, and made their engines and ordinance useless. Soon the field was ankle-deep in flood. Pushing back his streaming hair, Ryel closed his eyes and felt tears of relief and joy mingling with the rain that pelted his face.

  Then a great flash of light broke forth with a deafening roar swelled by the cries of enemy and defender alike. Opening his eyes again, the wysard looked up to the heavens, and felt his mouth fall open. "But it can't be," he said, hearing his voice shake. "There are no gods."

  Priamnor's reply was clear. Clear and joyful. "There are now."

  The immortal protectors of Destimar tread the blast, gods whose temples Ryel had passed on his first day in the City of Gold; gods armed for war in the heights of the air, their chariots and armies rumbling and clashing among the highest tops of Almancar's golden towers. Lion-headed Biskris, many-handed Aphrenalta, hawk-winged Divares, even soft Atlan and chaste Demetropa wore battle-harness flashing with jewels, and helmet-crowns upon their heads, and carried terrible weapons. They were joined by other uncanny deities, and warriors too strong and fair for humankind. The gods of immemorial epic teemed amid the heavens in defense of their beloved land—gods, and more. In a daze of joy Ryel recognized by their aspect and their armor the demi-deities Ghenris, Bahalin, Drostal, Diomenor, Redestens. At that incredible epiphany the forces of Almancar gazed transfixed, every face turned upward in adoration and awe.

  Amid the downpour sounded great peals of thunder wrought by celestial chariot-wheels, as shafts of lightning hurled by immortal hands streaked down to shatter the siege machines and destroy the encampment and drive shrieking mad the forces of Catulk and Coamshi. Many were trampled in the mud, or consumed by the bolts of fire; many fought to the death with one another, too crazed to distinguish between friend or foe; very many scattered at a mad run across the plain. But none died at the hands of the Almancarians, whose ecstasy at their divine deliverance had made them drop their weapons and fall to their knees, lifting up their hands and voices in adoration.

  Then suddenly the rain stopped, the clouds dispersed, and the gods vanished with them. From afar off the sun broke free of the world-rim from under a black mantle of cloud, and its flaring red brilliance seemed to ignite the ground, that blazed up in a glitter of silver sparks. And those sparks seemed to advance with the spreading of the light, as the sun throws its radiance upon the sea, and forked streaks of blue fire darted from the gleam.

  Priamnor gave an amazed, ecstatic cry. "It's Zalla!"

  The great azure banners of the advancing host unfurled, snapping in the fresh breeze of the new day; then the drums began, thudding like a high proud heartbeat. The flickering sparks proved to be the razored points of spears held aloft and battle-ready. The Sovran's exclamation tore along the wall, carried from one soldier to the next, and the wondering rejoicing uproar increased as a rainbow born of the bright shower-spangled dawn took form over the land, arching from the Zallan banners to Almancar's gilded tower-tops. Sweeping toward the city in the pure sweet morning light rode a proud host splendidly horsed and armed—many hundreds of soldiers, led by a magnificent tall officer blazing in bright mail, his skin black as night—the Rei of Zalla himself, his voice resounding as he urged on his forces.

  "Beautiful," Ryel whispered, feeding his eyes with the splendor.

  Lady Srin's attention moved elsewhere, and more practically. "Better yet, there's a whole long line of wagons following the troops--cartloads of provisions, that this place is in dire need of. I like the Rei all the more for that." Leaning out from the wall Lady Srin laughed, catching a wholly bewildered Ryel around the neck in a rapturous clinch. "You did it, lad. You saved us all. It could only be you—although I admit that at first sight of that vision I nearly became religious. Look at those Zegry dogs down there." And the wysardess indicated the remains of the rebel army,
now panicking at the approach of the Zallan force and paying no heed whatever to the frantic orders shouted by Coamshi and Catulk. "They can't flee to the west because of the mountains, nor north because of the wall."

  "Nor east any longer," Priam said, new life ringing in his voice, shining in his eyes. "Look who comes there—warriors of your homeland, ilandrakis."

  Far different from the Rei of Zalla's gleaming serried ranks were the hundreds of horsemen now racing up to close the only open edge of the Zegry force: wild nomads armed to the teeth, shouting the names of their phratri. Ryel's blood stirred to hear the war-cry of the Elhin Gazal, and to his joy he recognized his boyhood friend Shiran among the leaders of the allied cohort. All of the clans and tribes had set aside their differences to join in the relief of Almancar and the defense of the realm. Never had the wysard felt more proud of the great green land that had birthed him; and as the warriors struck their shields with their daggers, sending up a clanging din that mingled with their shouts, he felt his eyes stinging with tears.

  Glad to admit defeat, the ragged remnant of the enemy force threw down its arms and groveled in the mud in abject surrender. Soon Catulk and Coamshi were in chains, and the armies of the Rei and the Steppes contingent were greeted by the city's defenders, who threw open the gates wide in welcome.

  "It's over," Ryel murmured. But even as he spoke, the air darkened to total blackness. He stared, seeing nothing, and the din of exultation faded, leaving only silence soft and warm and dark as deep velvet. Fragrant velvet clinging to seductive swells. Laughing cinnamon velvet with dark mocking eyes.

  "Such a boy you are, Ryel."

  Stupidly he beheld the One Immortal. "Riana?"

  She hovered in the blackness before him, laughing the more. Gradually that blackness took on color and light, becoming dense jungle spattered with a thousand hues of green and diamond-flash. "I like the armor. You could ravish me in it."

  Ryel's sex twinged, to his exasperation, and with a mental slap he stilled it. "That vision of the gods—it was yours?"

  "Only to embellish your own excellent work." She smiled. "if you looked closely, you might have seen how interestingly the demigods Drostal and Redestens and Diomenor resembled three of my most memorable lovers—Guyon Desrenaud, Priamnor Dranthene, and yourself. Did I not tell you I'd be worshipped someday—didn't you recognize me as Atlan? For a moment I think you almost became a believer."

  Ryel could only stare. "You were the salvation of Destimar. But why? What made you care?"

  She smiled at him, very gently and sweetly, all unlike her. "You did, my lord brother. You, who risked your life for this foolish World out of your simple love for it. Feelings I had not felt for a millennium, you brought back to me. This little god-show of mine was meant to thank you. Well, until our next, Ryel Mirai—and there will be a next, and a next, believe me."

  Ryel raised a pleading hand. "Wait. Don't go. Will I have what I want at last? The life of Edris?"

  Riana's beautiful almond eyes blinked slowly, her luscious fruit-sweet smile faded. "Ah, Ryel. You always ask so much." And as she spoke, the dense hot tropics darkened and chilled around her, and she herself began to wane. "You will get what you desire, but not as you desired it."

  "But Riana—"

  "Wake up. Everyone around you thinks you mad."

  He started out of his trance to find his friends' eyes all wide as they wondered at him.

  "Ryel." Priamnor must have been saying that often, but now it was with relief. "Are you well?"

  "Yes. Never better." Instinctively the wysard turned to the east, where far beyond the horizon Markul lay wrapped in mist. Where Edris lay on a bed of porphyry in a tower of jade, waiting.

  "Soon," he whispered; and his heart rose with the sun. "Very soon now, ithradrakis."

  But then he remembered Nelora, still upon the wall, and his rage rekindled. Nel had already glimpsed her brother and would have fled from him, but the press of soldiers was too thick. The wysard caught her by the shoulder, dragging her back.

  "You little fool. How dared you come here? I'll—" But before he could finish his threat, Nelora's young companion threw himself between them.

  "Stop. I command you." Brilliantly and defiantly blue the youth's eyes met his, and the wysard felt his mouth fall open.

  "No," he choked. "Not you, too."

  Never had Diara seemed more beautiful, her night-hued hair streaming rain-wet down the glistening silver that armed her like the statue of Argane. Never more serene, or more maddening. "I was in no danger, Ryel Mirai. The gods of my city protected me."

  Nelora broke in. "And they watched over me too, because I was saving Priam's life! I was at his side, where I belong." She glanced at the Sovran as if expecting him to agree with her, but he was mute with amazement and doubtless many emotions more.

  Ryel, however, had all of his voice. "Diara, what madness brought you here? How could you?"

  She gazed on him with haughty surprise. "Who are you to question me? I rule this land at my brother's side, and will fight at his side if need be—and I know the warrior's art as well as any man, having learned from Lady Srin Yan Tai ever since her coming here."

  Lady Srin coughed. "I forgot to tell you about that, lad Ry."

  Diara stared at the wysardess. "Why would you tell this man anything?"

  "You'll learn in time, child," Lady Srin said with a tolerant smile. "After matters have settled down a bit."

  At that moment Desrenaud came up to catch Ryel around the neck in a great hug, and many other things of a wildly celebratory nature took place in the next minutes. But at some point in the general clamor Ryel managed to find himself alone with Diara. Morning was in its young glory, its fresh rain-laden breezes driving away the battle-smoke and reek, and the wysard found the Sovrena at an embrasure of the wall, gazing out over the plain, scanning the wreckage and ruin of the war dry-eyed and undismayed.

  "Most exalted."

  At Ryel's voice she turned to him, and their eyes met. An Art-word of Ryel's and her cool regard warmed and softened, and she held out her hand to him.

  "Ry. Come, sit by me."

  He had never felt more spent, nor more joyful, than here feeling her warmth against his side. But he still could not forgive her for putting herself in such danger, and would have spoken in reproach had she not forestalled him.

  "This is my city, Ryel. My land. And I knew I could defend it as well as any of you. Priam understood."

  "That doesn't mean I have to."

  "Why should that matter to me? I am, after all, the Sovrena of Destimar." She gave a prideful little smile. "I can't count how many of those Zegry devils I drove back."

  "But you could have been—"

  She only laughed. "Did I not have the gods on my side?"

  He had no answer for that—at least not one she'd welcome. But even as that thought flickered in his mind and was instantly extinguished, she detected it. She had lightly put her head on his shoulder, but now drew back.

  "You smell strangely."

  The realm of dreams allowed a wide latitude of expression, but this of hers was entirely unexpected, and not pleasantly so. "Small wonder, since I've been all day in battle," he reminded her. "If I've offended ..."

  She shook her head. "It's not that. It's some kind of perfume." Her face came close to his neck, breathed deep, frowned. "Sweet as Transcendence, but different—not like flowers, but spices. You smell like—like Zinaph."

  Ryel fought the impulse to pull away. "So you don't approve?"

  "No. If you were a woman, I'd think you shameless." But she exacted no explanation, and did not move away from him, although her gaze fixed again on the land beyond the city walls, resting on the horizon-line. She seemed perturbed, but from another cause this time. "Ry. Is Lord Michael Essern dead?"

  Ryel let out a hard-pent breath. "Not quite."

  She kept her eyes on the line that divided earth from heaven, now very clear in the fresh daylight. "I dreamed of him. Only once, but
..."

  "I know."

  Her arm slipped around his shoulders at the same moment that his did her waist. Silently they leaned against one another, each reliving that vision of the temple beneath the waves.

  "He had hated me so much," she whispered. "But in my dream he was gentle."

  "Yes. I remember."

  "And though he brought such terrible harm to the world, I cannot do otherwise than sorrow for him, because he was so deeply in thrall to that black demon. So horribly enslaved ..."

  Ryel took her into his arms as she wept, and let her tears flow freely awhile, knowing that the release would only do her good. But then he murmured a word that made her sleep with her eyes open, sitting as she had with her gaze fixed on the plain, and leaving her thus went to that part of the wall where his friends were still gathered.