Ryel sharply lifted his head. "Crowded?"
"More than myself. I can't explain it." He glanced down at his Markulit garb with surprised and profound distaste. "Robes. I can't stand them. Too cumbersome." He rapped out a sharp phrase, and in another moment the battle-dress of a Barrier colonel of horse appeared in orderly array on the bed, fresh regimentals of new black and silver and snowy linen, the jacket bearing the insignia of a black dragon. "Good," Michael said, inspecting the garments with satisfaction. "My servants haven't deserted me—but they wouldn't dare." He threw off his trailing layers of precious silk and began to dress. "We're in your house?"
"We are."
As he arrayed himself Michael gave a summary glance about, and seemed to approve. "Not bad—though somewhat spare. My own house in Elecambron is more elaborately fitted. More books and pictures and the like. But I don't think I'll be returning to my City any time soon …if ever again." He fastened the black breeches, pulled on the tall riding-boots, and reached for the shirt. "Is there a house empty hereabouts that will suit me?"
"As many as you wish. We're the only ones in the City." And Ryel explained why. Michael listened silently as he adjusted the various items of his gear.
"So Markul and Tesba are down," he said when Ryel had ended. "Which means the other Two are strong."
"Not all strength is in numbers," Ryel replied. "No adept in either Elecambron or Ormala is the match of us."
"More than likely," Michael said, fastening his jacket's many clasps with practiced one-handed ease. "And I doubt that that truth will be tested any time soon." Having clothed himself, the Red Essern went to Ryel's mirror to behold his image, made a grimace at the inordinate length of his hair, and drew the dagger at his side. Wrapping his long red skeins around his right hand, he hacked them away to shoulder length with the razor-edged blade.
"There," he said, throwing the severed tresses down upon the table and running his hands through his shortened locks. "Now I'm right. But why did my hair grow, and not my beard?"
"Because of one of my Art-sister's spells," Ryel said. "She liked your looks clean-shaven."
"I thought you said we were alone here."
"We are now."
"Not quite," Michael said. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"To see her," Michael said, his deep voice's music rough and harsh. "She that lies in your death-tower. Take me there."
"It might be better if you waited until—"
"Shut up and come on."
The roaring downpour of the night before had waned to mist, and the air was sodden and chill, but Michael never seemed to notice. Feeling the cold keenly himself, Ryel wrapped Edris' crimson mantle well about him as he led the way to the Silent Citadel. Again he entered the dark tower, again caused the torches to burn. In that radiance shimmered the body of the Northern beauty who had almost been Ryel's death, lapped in robes of gold-cloth that streamed down on either side of the stone bed upon which she lay.
Michael went to her side. His face showed no emotion save for an almost imperceptible tremor around the stone-gray eyes. "You kept her well," he said to Ryel. His resonant voice barely shook at all. "I'd swear she was alive and ready to wake. But you say she's dead."
"Yes."
"Dead, and not in the place I was. Not in the Void."
"No."
"She couldn't be. Because I would have known, had she been there. I would have felt her." He took her hand and gazed into her face, searching every feature. "I would have felt you," he said softly. He then addressed Ryel, although he never took his eyes from that fair still visage. His words came slowly, although his deep voice never faltered. "We met in Hallagh. She was the daughter of a great scholar with whom I studied—fully as learned, and joyous and gentle. It took all the self-command I possessed not to love her. When I left Hallagh for Elecambron, I put her out of my thoughts and gave all my being to the Art. But one day some years later I looked down from the wall and saw her lying there in the snow, all but dead. I took her into my house, and cared for her until she was well again. Never until then had I observed the Art within her, and how strong it was—but it had no place in that City of cold. It should have flowered in Tesba under the sun, far from any thought of me—"
His breathing had become labored, and his last words were barely audible. He covered his face with his hands, and for a silent interval his shoulders shook. But then he gasped, and jerked his hands away from his face to find them wet with tears.
"It's been long," he whispered. "So long…" Raising a finger to his lips, he touched his tongue to the salt wetness there, and gave a little start. But in another instant he'd roughly dashed his cheeks dry, and become as stone again.
"I've no right to mourn her. I will only remember, and that will be my punishment, every hour that I live, until death gives me rest at last."
His face never flinched, his voice never shook, but his gray eyes glittered with a terrible light. "Come away a moment," Ryel said, unable to bear that look. "There is something I would show you."
Michael did not reply for a long time, did not look round. But at last he nodded assent. They climbed the tower to its top, where the bodies of the First of Markul once were kept in reverent state. Ryel led Michael to the funeral bed of Lord Aubrel.
"This was your kinsman," Ryel said. "From this man came both Markul's greatness, and the curse of the Red Esserns."
Silently, with folded arms, Michael regarded his forebear. "I wish he'd been stillborn." Some time passed before Michael spoke again. "Many believe the rai is deathless. But we who have Crossed know how fragile the rai is, and how easily destroyed."
Ryel shivered, remembering his own shrieking fall, that burning up. "Yes. We know."
The Red Essern lifted his head, meeting the wysard eye to eye. "The Void that was Dagar's prison was my freedom. There I transcended both life and death."
"Did you sense anyone else there with you?"
"I had no self left—but I sensed other emanations. One of them was very strong."
"The rai of Edris."
Michael bent his head. "Yes. I could sense its restlessness. Its yearning to escape. I had no such desire."
"Edris' rai has been delivered from pain," Ryel replied, but he felt his voice catch.
Michael inclined his head again, not so much in assent as regret. "True. But his body has been destroyed."
"How could you have known?" Ryel asked, amazed.
"Because I was the one who sent plague to Markul."
Ryel froze, incapable of speech. Michael continued, slowly.
"Yes. I sent it. I made sure that your father's body was corrupted beyond any healing." He did not look up. "To make you suffer."
It was Ryel's turn now to look away. He could barely breathe the red dense dazing air around him. "You got what you wanted, Michael," he said somehow. "I have indeed suffered."
"I'll never expect you to forgive."
Ryel could make no answer, and barely felt Michael's hand upon his shoulder.
"Ryel." The deep voice shook with remorse. "If I could do anything to restore Edris' body, I would."
"You cannot." Ryel freed himself, though gently, and looked down unseeingly into the face of Lord Aubrel. "It doesn't matter. For I am certain I have not lost Edris forever. There have been times when his rai escaped, and I spoke with him." Ryel studied the pattern of Lord Aubrel's robe. "Two rais can exist in one body, Michael. I've witnessed it."
"Where?" Michael demanded, very suddenly.
"In Almancar, when Dagar and Meschante shared the double of your form."
Michael frowned. "But surely one of them must eventually conquer, and one die—"
He halted choking on the last word, and clutched the edge of Lord Aubrel's bier. Ryel looked up, roused from his numb revery by the livid distortion overtaking Michael's face.
"Brother!" He reached out to him. "What…"
Michael struggled to speak, uselessly, then swayed and collapsed, falling across the bo
dy of his ancestor. Ryel seized him by the shoulders, lifting him up, struggling with his dead weight.
"Brother—" He caught Michael's wrist, seeking the pulse; found none, and after an eternal moment's horror damned himself for his stupidity. "I should never have let you come here. It was too soon." He lowered Michael's body to the floor, kneeling next to it and trying all he knew of both Art and World-lore to rouse the limp form to life ... all to nothing. At last Ryel knew he was incapable of any further effort, and bowed his head against the icy alabaster of the bier.
"Gone," he whispered. "Everything. Gone." He sank down, taking the Red Essern's hand in his own, bowing his forehead to its back. "I never thought to lose you again. Never this soon." And his eyes clenched in numb sick agony.
But then he gave a cry, heart-stoppingly startled by a blow to his face, a hard stinging smack athwart his cheek more stunning than any full-fisted wallop. Staring wide-eyed down into Michael's face, the wysard felt his mouth fall open, and could not close it. The Red Essern's eyes were now open, and still cold storm-gray, but now it seemed that Ryel looked past them, into eyes far different—brown nearly to black, and longer, and aslant. The same eyes that had pierced Ryel's inmost soul that winter night on the Steppes, when his entire life had changed forever. They turned him to stone, those eyes, and strangled any possibility of speech. Then came the voice.
"You needn't look so goggle-eyed, whelp—and quit that idiot sniveling. Yes, it's me."
Those deep bass tones—less sonorous than Michael's, but to Ryel's ears a thousandfold more sweet—dinned him back to life, and an imperative shake like countless well-remembered others jolted out his speech, word by gasping word.
"Edris. Father. Ithradrakis. But how? How—"
"Easily enough," said Edris, letting him go with a grin. "I sneaked in unbeknownst from the Void with the rai you'd summoned. There wasn't much other chance to get back, what with my body turned to stinking ashes."
"But how could you—"
"It was easy. I slipped in during your spells—which you did very cleverly, I must admit—and waited until I saw my time."
"I can't believe it," Ryel said. But he could, and never had he known any joy like to this. "I can't believe you're back."
"Better than ever, I might add." With supreme complacency Edris gazed down at his tall muscular form in its military black. "Don't I look good." He tested his arms and shoulders, stood to admire his legs, fingered the angles of his face. "I feel downright handsome—that's new. How old do I look?"
"About thirty-two."
"Old enough to be your—brother." Stripping back a sleeve, he assessed his skin's icy whiteness. "Hm. Rather on the pale side." Catching a strand of his hair, he held it in front of his eyes. "And this mop's as red as a monkey's arse…" He comprehended, then, amazedly. "Am I in the body of Michael of Elecambron?"
"You are."
A fierce flash of laugh, nothing like Michael would ever give. "It's too good—the body of your bitterest rival, and I in it. Unbelievable."
"Michael and I are no longer rivals," Ryel said. Despite his joy, he could not quiet a misgiving qualm. "What has become of Michael's rai?"
"Oh, it's still here. We're sharing this body, him and me. But I don't know how long I'll have the uppermost, so let's not waste time. I'm perishing with hunger. Let's get out of this tomb and find some food—and drink." Impatiently Edris seized Ryel's wrist, yanking him to his feet. "Come on, brat. Is my house still standing?"
"It is. But everyone's gone from our City, father. No one's—"
"No one's left but us? Good riddance, I say. Come on."
They left the Jade Tower, Edris descending the stairs at a run, Ryel following. But as they traversed the dank streets, suddenly Edris slid to a halt.
"Remember this place, lad?"
They had come to the courtyard where they once used to fight with swords. A long time he and his father regarded one another. Ryel never saw the form of Michael Essern, but only the hulking lengths and crags of the Steppes warrior, he that had fought Warraven in the Temple of Argane, he that Ryel had dwelt with and learned from for every day of twelve years.
"Call me what I am," Ryel said, each wrung syllable snagging in his throat.
"I did a long time ago." Edris reached out, pulling Ryel into his arms. "I said it when we first met, years ago in your mother's yat. You're mine, Ry. Mine."
Ryel felt the embrace wrap him in all the serene wholeness of life finally understood, all the deliverance of a great truth beautifully brought to light. "Father," he whispered. "Ithradrakis."
Edris touched his lips to Ryel's temple. "I've always been proud of you, little son. Always, since the day you were born." He let go, opening his eyes, flashing that old fierce irony. "But I'm still taking back this—and this, by your leave." With a swift jerk he stripped Ryel of his scarlet cloak, and in another moment had slung the rune-strong Kaltiri tagh over his shoulder. "That's better." Turning on his heel, he strode off into the mist, flinging an irritable last word over his shoulder.
"Damn it, are you coming or not?"
Overwhelmed but obedient, Ryel followed.
Once inside his house, Edris inspected its yatlike appointments with tolerant disdain. "To think these walls were enough for me, more years than I care to count. Well, I'll try to endure them yet another night." Sharply he issued commands, and soon a plentiful Steppes feast was smoking on the low table, before a hearth brilliantly ablaze. Tossing his cloak where he always had, unslinging his sword and throwing himself down upon the floor-cushions, Edris motioned Ryel to join him, and without more words energetically attacked the food, washing each ecstatic mouthful down with long draughts of rich red wine. Ryel had never seen Edris so gluttonous before, and hardly knew whether to show concern or smile. But the smile won out, to see such greed seemingly exhibited by the habitually stoic Red Essern.
"Don't kill yourself," he said. "I only just got you back."
Edris wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaning back upon his cushions for a moment's respite. The drink had colored him ruddily, and his long dark eyes gleamed bright. "You're not losing me any time soon, whelp. Not when I've got this stalwart young soldier to live in. I know you cured Michael of the Red Esserns' blood-bane—I can feel it. Has he any other ills I should worry about?"
"As far as I know, Lord Michael now enjoys perfect bodily health," Ryel replied. "But tell me—do you sense his presence? Can you read his thoughts?"
"I don't know. Let me try." But after some moments' concentration Edris shrugged, defeated. "I can't look into him—not that I care to. He always struck me as a surly young beast. But though I can't say much for his mind, I'll never quarrel with his body." And he turned a luxuriant stretch into a flex, jolting his biceps into truculent bulk. "It's not often an old codger like me gets a chance like this."
"You weren't old, father," Ryel said, tasting the last word like something indescribably sweet.
"Bah. I was nearly sixty. Almost twice the age of this fellow." And Edris for the tenth time ran his hand over his smooth cheek, and traced his eyes' edges with a searching finger. "No crow's feet here—but my former carcass had them aplenty." He poured out yet more wine. "I'd forgotten what it was to know my full strength, the strength of my prime." His eyes shone with revery. "You remember that night we met?"
"As if it were last minute."
"When Mira ran out of the yat to speak with me, I was sure Yorganar would follow to drag her back. But he didn't. What she and I said to each other I can't recall now. But never will I forget how it felt to wrap her with me in my cloak to keep her warm, and kiss her until I couldn't stand it anymore, and curse myself for a fool. I want to make it right. And I will, in Almancar. If you don't object, I plan to marry her."
"I have no quarrel whatever with that; but Lord Michael well might. And I doubt my mother will think it proper to wed you as you now look."
"Bah. She'll like me all the better." As if the matter were settled, Edris reached for a
nother skewer of meat. But hardly had he grasped it than a trembling fit came over him, and he gave a gurgled cry.
Ryel lunged forward, appalled. "Father! What—"
But in that moment Edris grew calm again, looking about him in blinking amazement increasingly wary and disgruntled.
"Where's this? A Steppes gypsy's tent?"
Alike as Edris' voice was to Michael's, Ryel nevertheless knew the difference well. His heart sank to see those ice-gray eyes' resentful stare examining the room. But before he could reply, the Red Essern observed the table in front of him, and the food on it. He lifted up the skewerful of meat Edris had dropped, eyeing it with dislike, sniffing it first in suspicion, then in loathing. "Mutton," he growled under his breath. "Disgusting."
"It isn't mutton, it's lamb," Ryel said, not a little indignant.
"Sheep's sheep. I detest it." Throwing down the skewer, Michael lifted his hand to his head, resentfully grimacing. "And why do I feel so—strange?" But he found his answer in the golden cup. With deepest revulsion he inspected the precious vintage glimmering in the bright metal. "Wine? I've never touched wine in my life." He glared at Ryel. "Was I eating and drinking this vile stuff? What's happened to me?" Indignantly he glanced downward, discovering yet another anomaly. "And why am I squatting on the floor like a savage?" Abruptly surging to his feet he barked out an order, and at once a great chair took form. Into this massive—and in its Steppes surroundings most incongruous—furnishing Michael instantly dropped, gripping the cushioned leather arms as if determined to keep his rai firmly dominant in his body.
"Clear that trash away," he commanded with a glare and an Art-word toward the table, and in a moment every atom of the Rismai banquet had disappeared. But its savor only too apparently still lingered on Michael's palate. "Agh. I can still taste that greasy sheep-fat and garlic." Another word and a crystal goblet appeared, brimful of clear water. Michael drank deep before he spoke again; and when he spoke he looked, for the first time Ryel had ever observed, confused, apprehensive, and utterly taken aback.
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 70
