The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010, Carolyn Kephart

  Smashwords Edition License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting Carolyn Kephart’s work.

  Other works by Carolyn Kephart on Smashwords: ‘Regenerated’ and ‘The Kind Gods’ (short fiction). Visit the author’s website at http://carolynkephart.com.

  The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

  Foreword by the Author

  I had always intended that the story of Ryel Mirai should be contained in a single volume, but fate ordained that the tale was divided into two parts, Wysard and Lord Brother. Due to page constraints, fully half of the initial manuscript had to be excised. That, however, was in the age of paper. I’ve combined both volumes into one book and restored much of the original text. The current version is 40% larger than the original combined two-volume set.

  A map of the story's world will be appearing soon on my website.

  The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

  Chapter One

  Markul the Best and Highest rose in sharptoothed towers eternally enmeshed in mist, a bristling walled island of black and green and gray that surged up from the flat sweep of the Aqqar Plain as if the continual damps had spawned it overnight. In the skin-smooth, horizon-vast steppe this citadel was the sole interruption. It had dominated the plain for a thousand years, and Ryel had lived within its walls for nearly half of his birth-life. By the reckoning of Markul he was twelve years old, a mere child; by the reckoning of the World he was twice that and two years more.

  He stood on the western wall, scanning the gray-brown mist-obscured monotony of the land. Night was coming on, he knew, although in Markul one seldom perceived the transition from day to darkness, so thick were the fogs. One might never discern the sun was setting, but for the faintest hint of radiance on a horizon only guessed at. Far beyond the endless overcast lay the Inner Steppes, Ryel's homeland, and countless times he had stood at this place on the wall, remembering the World-years of his boyhood. But now though his eyes were again fixed on the uncertain dusk, Ryel's contemplation roamed not to vast lands and swift horses. His thoughts made his eyes burn, and his breath come painfully.

  Edris had been dead almost a month, now. In the reckoning of Markul he had died young, on the threshold of his thirtieth year. Even the World would have deemed him dead too soon at fifty-eight. His body had been carried in great state to the jade tower at the joining of the western and southern wall, where among the most illustrious of the City's lord adepts Edris lay as an equal.

  Ryel drew his cloak about him against the cold—Edris' great mantle of dark scarlet. You are great in death as you were in life, my teacher, he thought, his sorrow heavy within him. But I cut that life short. With my pride I killed you, dearer to me than father. All because overreaching ambition would not let me rest, driving me to seek knowledge beyond reason or my own desert. And now —

  A stifling oppression drove the thought from his mind and the breath out of his body, even as an alien voice arose from some chartless place within him, murmuring at the base of his brain, making him sweat. But though it answered his meditations, it was not the voice of Edris.

  Fool, it sneered. Fool, to mourn that lumbering botcher, and squander your sweet young life and limit your Art among these graybeard dotards. To have wasted your self's substance in this desolate place, when the World and all its pleasures has waited for you. To have never had a woman—

  Ryel put his hands to his temples as he labored to breathe. He stared about him, wildly. Uselessly. "Who are you?"

  An insinuating snicker in reply. You'll learn. But no enemy, young blood. Far from it.

  The air lightened, and Ryel could draw breath again. Sharp wind struck him full in the face, pushing back the hood of his cloak, chilling the sweat that had sprung upon his cheeks, prickling the nape of his shaven head, thrusting icy fingers into the rents of his robes. Those few who also stood on the wall had turned toward him in astonishment when he cried out to the air, and now they whispered among themselves. Hushed though their voices were, Ryel heard them.

  "No," Lord Ter," he said, resigned and weary, to the one who stared most fearfully at him. "I haven't gone mad…yet."

  Lord Ter paled yet more, and ran a trembling hand through his ragged white beard. "I never thought you might, my Lord Ryel. Lord Wirgal and Lady Haldwina and I were merely remarking our pleasure at seeing you in health, and unmarked by your late ordeal."

  "Unmarked. Yes. In every place but one." And Ryel turned to face them, meeting their eyes with his. They recoiled, huddling back against the stones of the wall.

  "Yes," Ryel continued. Every word he spoke came lead-heavy. "Mine were eyes you used to praise once, Lady Haldwina—a color that people who have seen the World call sea-blue." He gave a bitter smile. "You do not praise them now."

  "You looked upon forbidden things," the lady replied, veiling her face with a fold of her headdress. "For that you lost your eyes."

  "Not lost," Ryel said. His voice felt too tight for his throat, and each syllable came forced. "I still see. But it seems that all of you have gone blind. I assure you that I have not changed in any way since—"

  "Worse than blind you look," Lord Wirgal snarled. "All black. No white or color in those accursed eyes of yours—only continued black. It does not affright us, that have seen true horrors in our time; but it marks you forever as an Overreacher."

  Ryel smiled. It felt strange on his face, and probably looked so. "Is it not the aim of our Art, to learn all that may be learned?"

  "Our Art is in the service of life, and the aim of our Art is Mastery, not death-dealings," Lady Haldwina said, her glance still averted. "You attempted the cruel Art of Elecambron, and in forsaking the true path have been justly punished."

  Ryel shook his head in cool negation. "The adepts of Elecambron are our brothers, my lady. And do not forget that the First Ones of this City all attempted the Crossing, notably Lord Garnos who learned the secret of immortality thereby."

  "And died of it," old Wirgal hissed. "I will not speak of Lord Aubrel, who returned from the Outer World raving mad according to the Books, and committed the foulest crimes before his miserable end. And what did you gain from the folly that deformed you? Nothing, by your own past admission—nothing save the death of Lord Edris, rest be to his lost soul."

  The others shrank back in terror lest Ryel avenge Wirgal's hard words with some malign spell. But the wysard only abruptly turned and without reply moved to another part of the wall, flinching at the burning pain in his eyes, that no tears would now ever cool.

  Forcing his thoughts away from intruding voices and rancorous adepts, Ryel again drew his hood over his head and faced away from the night-blurred plain to survey the city of Markul with what was left of the light. Yet again he admired the straight tall sides of the myriad many-angled towers, the intricate mosaics of the streets, the great windows opening to the mist-veiled moon and nebulous sun—all of it wrought in black marble and muted green nephrite, gray basalt and imperial porphyry and dark gold, the cold stone softened by the lush redolent herbs that wreathed the balconies and windows and trailed down the walls. Before he had come to Markul, Ryel had never seen buildings of stone, and what had amazed hi
m at fourteen enthralled him still. He grew calm again, and breathed deeply of the herb-scented mist.

  "Of all the Cities you are fairest," he murmured. "Most high, and best."

  There were four strongholds of the Art, one at each quadrant of the compass: Markul to the east, Tesba south, Ormala west and Elecambron far, far to the north. Brilliant and gaudy Tesba was built of many-colored glass, drab dirty Ormala of wood and brick and plaster. Great Elecambron towered coldly pale as the icebound island it stood on in the eternal snows of the White Reaches, constructed all of adamantine rock that was neither marble nor alabaster, but something a hundredfold harder and utterly flawless. Tesba and Ormala were cities of the flesh, Markul and Elecambron those of the spirit; and Markul was deemed the strongest and best of the Four. Proud and haughty was Elecambron; but even Elecambron deferred to Markul, with a respect that was entire, however unloving.

  The Builders of Markul—Garnos of Almancar, Nilandor of Kursk, Aubrel of Hryeland, Riana of the Zinaph Isles, Khiar of Cosra, Sibylla of Margessen—had founded the first and greatest City of the Art. Shunned and persecuted by the World of men, they had sought refuge in the barren ruleless regions of the Aqqar Plain that drove a thin wedge between the realms of Turmaron and Shrivran and the wide empire of Destimar. Joining mind to mind as other men join hands, the Builders had created massive reality from mere imagination, their visions of peace and strong-walled security translated into the fortress of Markul.

  Elecambron the cruel had been created by malignant daimons of the Outer World, Ormala the vile by human slaves, Tesba the gentle by beneficent spirits; but great Markul had sprung solely from the psychic imagination of the First and Highest, and in a thousand years had suffered no harm whether from the passage of ages or the wrath of enemies. Such sublime Art as theirs was known and revered as the Mastery; and since the passing of the Builders none of the adepts of Markul had succeeded in equaling their forbears' glory.

  Ryel ran a reverent hand over the glass-smooth surface of the parapet, as with the same wonder and awe of his first days in the City he beheld the beauty of the place that had for almost half his life been his home. "Lovely you are indeed, Markul the Good. Lovely even now that I am alone within your walls." As he embraced a porphyry column with one arm, his robe's wide sleeve slipped down to his bicep. In that moment the air closed in around him, and the voice again intruded into his thoughts, its soft insinuation laced with a connoisseur's approval.

  Most impressive, it breathed. A warrior's muscles, yours; tall and strong you are amid these creeping hags and half-men. We're far from the paltry tents and stinking herds of the Inner Steppes, yes. But there are greater cities than this, young blood. Fair cities with women in them fairer still. And there's more. Far more.

  Ryel had at first stiffened in anger at this new intrusion, but temptation warred with anger, and won. The wysard pushed his sleeve down to his wrist and turned from the city to the voice, slowly. "Show me more, then."

  The voice laughed. And then it seemed that the nebulous gloom beyond the wall filled with white-flecked blue, a living burning blue such as Ryel had never known. The wind of the plain no longer howled and moaned, but calmed to a steady breathing, each breath deep and deliberate as a sleeper's. Ryel clutched at the parapet, leaning out. And it seemed then that the mists parted to reveal diamond-clear daylight, and the sun fell full on the infinite azure that now rippled and tossed in great waves, surrounding the city and dashing against the walls.

  Ryel winced at the brilliant light, his eyes burnt and smarting with salt. But only for a moment before darkness again closed around him in drizzling mist, and a harsh wind tried to claw away his cloak.

  "Again," Ryel whispered, imploring the air. "Show me again."

  No voice's reply, no sea's resurgence. Chilled and weary, Ryel pulled his hood forward against the damp, then slowly descended the wall. As he made his way through the several levels of the town to his dwelling, he passed here and there small knots of mages in discussion, witches trading lore on lamp-lit doorsteps. As he passed, they all greeted him with mumbled formalities, low bows and downcast eyes, and fell silent until he had gone. Reaching his house after many courses of stone steps, Ryel entered and shut the door tightly.

  Here was peace, and warmth, and silence. The clutter and paraphernalia usual with a wysard's apartments were absent here, for Ryel's learning had long surpassed the necessity for outward Art-trappings. Thick-piled jewel-colored carpets covered the dark stone floors, and deep cushions of soft leather and figured velvet served as seats, for Ryel still used the custom of his yat-dwelling people. Low tables displayed objects chosen for their beauty, long shelves contained books and scrolls. Flowers sprang from vessels of jade and crystal: straight slender irises, purple-blue; crimson lilies whose petals curled like clever tongues; the poppy of sleep with its pallid bloom scenting the air with lazy fragrance, and other blossoms of rarer shape and hue that Ryel's caprice had formed and brought to life. The east room was a chamber of repose, all soft browns and violets and greens, its walls heavily draped with tapestries so worn by time that it was difficult to discern their subjects, that kept out the equivocal half-light and damp wind of the Aqqar Plain. Its wide bed was curtained with thick silk, and the pillows were filled with fragrant herbs to induce slumber, needful for Ryel who often spent entire nights and days rapt in his study of the Art, until exhausted he fell on his bed unable to sleep for the fevered racing of his thoughts; here he was lured into a spice-scented oblivion, deep and dreamless.

  He lay down and waited for that deliverance which had never failed—until now. Sleep he could not, and he dreamed with his eyes open.

  *****

  In the winter of Ryel's thirteenth World-year, Edris came to Risma. As the snow fell in the night had Edris come, and as quietly.

  "The only problem with a yat is that there's no door to knock on."

  At the sound of that voice, so deep and ironic, Ryel started about. A stranger stood framed in the yat's inner portal, without a trace of snow upon his great scarlet mantle, although yet another blizzard howled outside. The mantle's hood shrouded his face save for a white gleam of teeth, a keen glint of eye.

  Ryel's father leapt to his feet at the sight of him, his hand on the knife at his side. "Who are you? How did you get past my guards?"

  A laugh, warmly resonant, in reply. The stranger threw off his cloak and now spoke in the dialect of the Inner Steppes, although his first words had been in Almancarian. "Well met in this rough weather, twin-sib."

  Yorganar took a step backward. "By every god."

  The newcomer was clad not in Steppes gear, but in rich outland robes of somber colors. Hulking tall he was, with dark hair cropped short around his head, skin strangely pale, and shaven face; yet Ryel saw that were his hair long and his skin sunbrowned and his face lined and bearded, he would be the exact image of Yorganar. But the greatest difference lay in his eyes and his expression, both wonderfully subtle and acute. At the sight of him Ryel had heard his mother give a soft half-terrified cry, and felt her shrink close to his side; and he had put his arm about her shoulders and held her as a grown man would, proud and strong. Yet he too was afraid of the stranger in the yat-door, whose long dark eyes burned his face as they studied him.

  "By every god," Yorganar said again. His voice trembled for the first time in Ryel's memory. "Edris."

  The stranger nodded, unperturbed. "You live well in this weather, brother. I had forgotten how warm are the yats of the Triple Star when the wind blows wild." He gazed around him, noting everything with cool approval. "You've done well. Rich in goods you always were—richer still now, in a fair wife and a strong young son."

  "I do not know you," Ryel's father at last replied, rough and harsh.

  Edris smiled. Shrugged. "Then give me welcome as your people do for the least of wanderers. That much is mine by right."

  Ryel's mother rose and came to them. She looked up into Edris' face as Ryel had never seen her look into Yorganar
's, and it troubled him.

  "Enter and rest, my husband's brother," she whispered. Yorganar glared at her, but she withstood his displeasure unflinchingly, and spoke ever in her soft way, but now with an edge of defiance. "Whatever else our guest may be, husband, he is your closest kin, and was at one time your dearest. Let him enter."

  Ryel's father frowned. "Woman, this is not your concern."

  Mira put her hand on Yorganar's arm, lightly but urgently. "He has traveled far. The night is cold. I pray you let him warm himself by our fire."

  Yorganar did not look at her. "You know what he is."

  Her voice was always gentle, but never with this pleading note. "Whatever else he may be, he is your closest kin, and at one time your dearest; I well know that you loved each other, once. Let him enter."

  Yorganar said nothing; but after a long moment he moved aside, and let his brother pass.

  Together they sat on the floor's carpets, amid cushions. Edris looked about him and smiled. "I've missed being in a yat. And it's warm in here, thanks to that stove; far warmer than it'd be with a hearth-ring, and cleaner too."

  "Yes," Mira murmured. "Many other households do the same, now, in Risma."

  Edris nodded. "I remember how greatly you disliked the smoke and grime of the hearth. This is a pleasant change."

  Yorganar grunted. "Almancarian nonsense. I prefer fire, as do all men of my people."

  Following Steppes custom, Ryel's mother poured out wine for her guest, choosing the finest vintage she had, pouring it brimful into a bowl of gold. Edris took the wine with a nod of thanks, and his hand for an instant closed over hers. Slight and brief as the contact was, Ryel noted it and was angered. Mira saw that anger, and her smile faded.

  "I'll leave you now," she said, and would have stood up to depart. But Edris' deep voice stayed her.

  "Wait. I have not yet drunk your health, Mira. Nor would I have you withdraw as a Rismai yat-wife feels she must, but keep the custom of Almancar, and remain to grace a stranger's welcome. Yet in truth we were not always strangers to one another, you and I."