The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  He turned and passed through the gate, naked as he had entered twelve years before. The endless mist felt suddenly and unbearably icy on his bare skin as the wysard stood outside his City for the first time in twelve years. But he at once went to the heap of clothes that had been his, and opened the saddlebags wherein were carefully folded other Steppes garments, larger than those he had cast off so long ago.

  "You will grow," his mother had told him when he left Risma as a boy of fourteen. "Therefore I have made these clothes to fit the tall man you will become." And she had embraced him, and he had dried his tears in her hair as he whispered that surely he would return to her someday …

  Shuddering with cold, Ryel dressed as quickly as he might in the clothes he found still fresh in the saddlebags. Shirt, leggings, long-skirted coat—everything fit as if made to his measure, even the riding-boots that had been so loose when he set out on his journey. Warmth of both home-loomed web and remembered love enveloped him, but nevertheless he could not help another twinge of chill. A Steppes bannerman of considerable means he now looked, but a true Rismai brave went armed and cloaked, and he was neither. His dagger lay yet unrusted in its sheath, and this he hung on his belt. But it seemed little protection against the predators of the Aqqar Plain, even as his coat seemed insufficient proof against the rawness of the cold, Art or no Art.

  Lady Serah, who for a time had left the wall, now reappeared and spoke, somewhat flushed and out of breath. "My lord Ryel! Among my goods nearby you is a purse full of gold coin and jewels, which is yours as my gift. You'll be needing them in the World, believe me." Then she gave that flashing grin of hers, the one that made her look so young. "And these things, too you may find use for, I'm thinking." She tossed a mulberry-colored bundle down from the wall. Ryel caught it, and with a thrill of joy found Edris' great cloak wrapped around his sword.

  "That was ill done, woman," Lord Wirgal snapped to Serah Dalkith. "You know the laws of Markul—the boy may take nothing of his from our City."

  She tossed her fox-haired head. "What I gave Lord Ryel were the erstwhile possessions of Lord Edris, beloved and mourned by us all—or nearly all."

  Lord Wirgal glowered under gray brows. "Equivocating female, how dare you—"

  "Let be, old fool," Serah snapped back. "Never will you leave this place, Wirgal, but die babbling in your bed."

  During their quarrel Ryel slung the tagh's belt baldric-wise over his shoulder in the Steppes way, then donned the cloak. Gazing up at Lady Serah, he bowed low in the brotherhood's most reverent obeisance. "I will never forget this kindness of yours, sister."

  "Thank yourself rather, for never locking your door," Serah replied smiling. But now her lips trembled.

  Suddenly others wished to give Ryel parting-gifts, perhaps stung by Serah's words to Lord Wirgal. "Young lord, over there is the baggage I left more than fifty years ago," cried Lord Nestris, "and it is full of Almancarian robes wonderfully rich, and of your measure, and still as fresh as the day they were made. I pray you take as many as please you."

  Lady Mevanda, too, raised up her voice. "And among my havings are a case of medicinal balms, and phials of healing essences—take them, and welcome!"

  Unwieldy Lord Ter spoke next. "Over yonder are my things—bottles of water and wine and brandy you will find, and food too, all unperished. Take them, and spare your Art's strength thereby."

  Many other lords and ladies of Markul offered Ryel whatever he wished to choose from the possessions they had been constrained to relinquish at the gates. Many other lords and ladies of Markul offered Ryel whatever he wished to choose from the possessions they had been constrained to relinquish at the gates; only Lord Wirgal played the churl.

  "Touch nothing of mine, Overreacher!" he screeched. But he was scorned by all for his meanness.

  Soon Ryel's saddlebags were laden with gifts, and his pockets as well, but one last thing of seemingly little use he also took—Jinn's halter of gold-embossed leather, that he wished to keep as a remembrance of his beloved mare now forever lost. Thanking his many benefactors once again and bowing a last time to Lady Serah, he shouldered his baggage and set forth. When he was some distance from the City he turned about, and saw that everyone still watched him, and he waved. Then he observed Lady Serah reach into the pouch hanging at her belt, and take out what seemed a ball of amber. Breathing on it, she threw it far from the wall. Midway in its flight the little sphere became a bright gold butterfly winging its way toward Ryel like a windblown flame-flicker amid the cobwebs of mist. As it flitted and played about him the wysard smiled, and waved a last time to his Art-sister. Then he faced westward again, and strode on.

  Chapter Three

  With Serah's butterfly playing about him Ryel trekked westward, until he knew that the City at his back would seem only a somber child's strange toy dropped and forgotten. But when he next looked round, he found that Markul had been completely engulfed by mist, and when he turned back again he discovered that the butterfly had vanished. Alone in the biting fog he stood for a time gazing about him, feeling most solitary and bereft. He thought of the contemplative tranquility he was forsaking, the long silent hours of study. Seen from the outside for the first time in a dozen years, the great walls of the City seemed no longer a prison as it all too often had in the past, but a sanctuary. Outside those walls and beyond the fog lay a World whose pleasures and dangers Ryel had read of in a hundred histories, and experienced barely at all, and longed for constantly. But now the pleasures seemed empty, and the dangers mortal.

  "I'm going back," he said, challenging the mist. But although he waited for the atmosphere to thicken and the voice to speak, nothing happened.

  "You lied," he said. "She is well."

  Complete silence in reply. Something in its inexorable density made Ryel murmur imprecations and once again turn west, and walk.

  No roads led to Markul, and too few aspirants came there year by year for their trails to mark the land. But those truly desiring to find the City never lost their way. Ryel well remembered his own first traversal of the Aqqar, and how much easier the actuality had seemed at fourteen than the very prospect did now.

  That was because I had Jinn with me, he thought. Jinn to talk to as I rode and to watch over me over me as I slept, and Edris, feared and beloved, awaiting me at the end of the journey. Now only unknowns draw me on.

  For a considerable while the wysard walked untired, following the path of the fogbound sun. But after several hours the saddlebags weighed heavy on his shoulder, and he stopped to rest. Sitting down on a slab of rock and opening a flask of brandy, he swigged and ruminated.

  "There's got to be an easier way," he said aloud, newly aware of how much deeper his voice had grown since that first Aqqar journey, and how it had never lost its Steppes tang despite all the years in Markul. Hearing it emboldened him. "It'll take me ages to reach Risma afoot. What if I tried that spell of Lord Garnos, the Mastery of Translation?"

  But even as he spoke, he laughed at himself. What if, indeed. Not until Ryel was very old in the Art would he dare to attempt anything so risky as a translation-spell. And at any rate, that spell of Garnos' was a lost one, like so many others of his. But a fool's trick for amusement's sake could do no harm—a trick such as Ryel was fond of trying in those days long past when he was a mere famulus…and Edris wasn't looking. Accordingly Ryel uttered the words to make his saddlebags dance for him, which they should have done with as much nimble alacrity as was possible in their packed state. But they only shuffled listlessly a moment before sinking down again like a fat skatefish on a sea-bottom. Feeling both sheepish and disquieted Ryel once more uttered the spell, this time with complete seriousness and concentration, but the saddlebags stayed sullenly put.

  Something, the wysard thought slowly, is very wrong.

  He hadn't packed that heavily. The problem was too much Sindrite brandy, no doubt; the drink which Lord Ter had given him was as good or better than any srih-servant could have procured for him, a
nd like all Steppes folk he had small tolerance for strong spirits. Moreover, he had walked for miles, and the day was beginning to darken; perhaps now was the time to make camp.

  The notion of building a fire and sleeping in the open had great charms for him. During his boyhood he would ride out with Shiran and his other play-brothers during the horse-gatherings, to join the grown men working hard in the saddle all the day, and resting around the fire at night before bedding down bone-weary to sleep unshakably until dawn—a blood-thrilling time for a lad eager for manhood and loving the feel of his muscles strained to breaking, the rough savors of charred meat roasted on dagger-point, and goatskin-bottled dark wine passed from hand to hand; the face-scorching heat of the fire, the talk of horses and heroes and women that he listened to silently, and the songs he took part in, the warmth of his mother-woven blankets cushioning him from the hard ground, his father's abrupt hand on his shoulder awaking him to a cold red dawn and a steaming bowlful of chal.

  How long ago that time was, Ryel thought, sensing his isolation to the full. And it can never come again, any more than I can now return to Markul. But chal-powder I have, and water, and the wherewithal for making fire, thanks to the gifts of my Art-brothers and sisters, and Edris' cloak to warm me and his sword to defend me. It should be a pleasant enough night, even if a lonely one.

  But the Aqqar Plain was not the Inner Steppes, as Ryel soon learned to his strong discomfort. Here was unfriendly emptiness, and continual damp, and nothing with which to keep kindled flame ablaze. Save for their scattering of extinct volcanoes, Rismai's steppes were fully as empty to the eye as the Aqqar, true; but amid their vastness one might readily find great deposits of concentrated plant matter, the remains of deep swamps dried up in ages past, providing fuel that burnt hot, steadily and long. A good-sized brick of kulm would warm a yat all night, Ryel remembered; and weakening under the pressure of that thought he spoke some command-words into the air.

  "A close tent with a dry floor; and a porch to the tent, with a large fire under the porch."

  The items appeared, but not quickly nor in such good trim as the wysard expected. The tent proved cramped, drafty and dank with a leaky porch; the fire was both meager and fitful. Used as he was to complete and lavish obedience to his requests, Ryel was too amazed to feel anger; and he remembered the poor success he had enjoyed with Lord Garnos' spell earlier, and sat ill at ease and baffled as he tried and failed to coax the flames higher while dodging water-drip.

  Surely mere distance from Markul cannot be causing this, he thought. Could it be that Dagar has drained the spirit-energy from the air around my City, as Serah Dalkith would certainly maintain? No, impossible; a wild fancy. My Art would be strong whether in Markul or at some inaccessible end of the World; no weakness of mine is to blame, surely. I can prove that.

  Gathering his saddlebags, he stood up and walked away from the tent into the persistent rain; lifted his face to its chill drip and yelled out a word that in less frustrating times he would have whispered, and that carefully. To the wysard's intense gratification a wisp of fog whirled into a spiral, and touched ground five feet from where he stood. The spiral eventually took on a wavering man-form, featureless save for long eyes like glowing amethyst, and spoke in a voice blurred and sullen, now running its words together, now stopping short.

  "Leavemea lone."

  Ryel ignored the request, and instead gestured to the empty ground. "Shelter. And make it comfortable."

  A great soundless flash lit the night, and subsided to reveal a yat fit for a wandering prince, with a porch large enough for ten people, and a blazing fire under it.

  Ryel at once installed himself amid the cushions heaped before the fire, and held his hands out to the warmth. "Good. Very good, Pukk. Quite close to my desire."

  The wraith quivered on the point of dissolution. "Iwillg onow."

  Ryel lifted his hand. "Wrong. Stay."

  A long hesitation. Then, "Un usualre quest."

  Pukk's tone was emotionless and distant, as ever, but its words sharpened the chill of the night. I am alone and outside my City for the first time , Ryel thought with a pang of disquiet. And my powers are not what they were in Markul—a temporary weakening without doubt, yet one that this daimon must not perceive.

  But Pukk's senses detected every uneasy emanation, every prickle of human flesh. "Youf ear. Andnowon der. I amstron ghere. May bestron gerthan you."

  Pukk was infallibly insolent, and Ryel had always taken a tense pleasure in their encounters. The most powerful of all the spirits of air, Pukk alone was capable of semi-speech and quasi-embodiment. It had been the death of at least a dozen lord adepts in both Markul and Elecambron. But Ryel had never allowed himself to fear Pukk—never until now. Steeling his self-command, he used all his Markulit training to keep his skin from sweating, his heart from racing.

  "You don't want to try me, Pukk. Since there's no one else fit to wait on me, I'll trouble you for some dinner —grilled lamb, say, and rice seasoned in the Rismai fashion, with a flagon of Wycastrian ale, in honor of my lady sister Serah Dalkith."

  Pukk shimmered in fury. "Ic ouldpoi sonyou."

  Ryel lifted his chin, meeting the srih's glowing eyes with its own empty ones. "I think not. I might destroy you first."

  Silence, save for the rain—far quieter, it seemed to Ryel, than his own breathing. Pukk's lambent violet eyes became slits, and then blinked. At that moment a steaming trayful of delicious-smelling food materialized at Ryel's side. "There. Eatitan dchoke."

  The palpitating moment had stilled, and the frisson of fear evaporated like a rag of mist. I have my own strength, the wysard thought as his blood warmed again. My inward Mastery, that owes nothing to the Outer World. Strong Mastery that this srih senses, and fears.

  "You'll never kill me with your cookery, Pukk," Ryel said aloud, quite coolly now. "You forgot the bones and the venom. My infinite thanks." Suddenly too hungry for fear, he turned all his attention to the tray.

  The amethyst eyes of the srih glowed disdain and injury. "Iwillg onow." And as Pukk spoke it started to fade.

  "Wait," Ryel said with his mouth full. "Tell me about Dagar first."

  With a furious smoky shudder Pukk intensified, but did not reply.

  Ryel, well pleased with preternaturally exquisite Steppes cuisine, urged without asperity. "He was a hard master?"

  Pukk replied with more than a shred of contempt. "Hard erthany ou."

  Ryel sat back, interested and amused. "Where is he now, communicative and garrulous servitor?"

  "Dagard well sinthe Void."

  "The void?"

  "TheVoid." Pukk's emphasis on the last syllable was both weary and contemptuous, but Ryel ignored the inflection in favor of the information, recalling the words of Kjal of Elecambron, and of his Art-sister Serah Dalkith.

  "Do you mean the shadow-realm of the Outer World, from whence come you and the other servants of the brotherhood?" the wysard prompted.

  "No."

  Startled by that rusky monosyllable, Ryel leaned forward. "Then it is a place apart from both the Outer World and this?"

  "Yes."

  "What else exists in the Void?"

  "Otherra is."

  "What other rais?" the wysard demanded, his vehemence stark. "Rais like Dagar's, bent on harm?"

  Pukk never admitted ignorance. It merely said nothing—as now.

  Unsettled as he was by his servant's silence, Ryel felt his blood heaten with hope never known until now. "The rai survives the body after death," he murmured. "It survives."

  Pukk heard, and replied almost immediately. "No." Observing Ryel's speechless infuriation, it continued grudgingly. "Abo dycanb eseparat edfromit srai. Bot hwills urv ive."

  "The body, separate from its rai? But how can that occur?" Ryel demanded.

  Pukk made no answer.

  "Dagar's body was destroyed," Ryel said, angrily now. "Burnt to ashes in Elecambron. I read it in the Books."

  Pukk seemed to incline i
ts head. "Yes. But therai ofDag arre mains." Then slowly, softly, alarmingly, Pukk whispered. "Dagar'sp ow erg rows. Hewill grows trong er. Indark nesshedr awsst rength."

  For once Ryel was confused by Pukk's idiosyncratic syntax. "Dagar draws strength in the darkness? Meaning that he is powerless during the day?"

  Pukk gave a reluctant quiver of assent. "Itwill notal waysb eso. Morew illcome. Soon."

  "Why has Dagar not taken you?"

  Pukk guttered under the insult. "Iamstr ong. Stron gestof myk ind. Nottobe take nuntilall elseistaken."

  Ryel felt his heart beating too fast, and could not calm it. "And what if all else is taken? What comes after?"

  The purple eyes blazed. "Itwill havey ou. As itss lave." In that last sneering syllable Pukk began to fade.

  Ryel leapt to his feet. "I command you stay! You feckless ectoplasm, if you dare—"

  But Pukk had vanished, all but its eyes. In another moment those eyes gave a malignant scornful flash, and were extinguished by the rain. A few minutes later the princely yat had dwindled to a miserable tent ubiquitously aleak, and the ardent blaze had shrunk to flickering smoke.

  "Damn," Ryel muttered, furious and alarmed. He hugged his cloak around him, and listened hard. Only the lulling fall of skywater came to his ears. At least he'd be able to sleep, if the rain held. The wolves and night-serpents for which the Aqqar was universally ill-famed kept to their lairs during wet weather.

  "I've roughed it worse," the wysard assured himself aloud. But he knew to his discomfiture that it had been very long since he last had. Sheltering in the folds of Edris' cloak he with great difficulty found a dry spot inside the tent and flung himself down, overmasteringly spent. But Pukk's words kept him restless where rain and cold could not.

  *****

  Uncertain sunlight woke him, and he rose on an elbow, blinking. The tent was gone, and the fire. Only a little heap of soggy cinders marked his erstwhile camp. But at least it wasn't raining.