The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Were you here, ithradrakis?" he asked aloud. "Was it you that saved me?"

  He had never asked Edris that question while his kinsman lived. It couldn't have been possible, at any rate—not possible, that Edris should have materialized for his help. Still, when he had come to Markul and learned a little of the Art, Ryel often recalled his encounter with the lightning and the whirlwind at the age of twelve. Often he wished he might experience it again, and through his Art derive some use or knowledge from it. But Markul's weather was unchangeably dull, year upon year of fog-bound damp, and none of Ryel's Mastery might change it, for weather-witching was a lost Art. Only the Highest had ever possessed it. Folk of the World believed that power over the weather was the commonest wysardry of all, even as they deemed shape-changing and thought-reading and mind-moving to be likewise common attainments among lord adepts of the Four Cities. Nothing could have been less true.

  But now Ryel stood again on the lip of that epiphanic fire-hill, under a dark sky close enough almost for touching, and never had he felt more strong, or more sure of his Art. He raised his face to the boiling black clouds, and felt first one huge cold drop hit his cheek, then another his eyelid, and then too many more to count, masking his face with dripping chill. He spread his arms to the storm, called it to him.

  And it came.

  Roaring and crashing it came, enveloping him in wind and lightning and torrent. He knew no spells to harness the wild power of that tempest, but made up a Mastery of his own, crying it into the downpour—mere meaningless syllables, mantras that pulled his Art's strength into a blinding white ball and hurled it into the storm. And the storm wrapped around it, and became a whirlwind.

  Ryel never stopped to consider what he'd wrought. Still shouting mantras he felt himself being lifted and taken, but this time he directed his course with his thoughts. The storm's blackness engulfed him wholly then, and he very probably lost consciousness at some point, because when he next became aware of the world around him he was standing within sight of his mother's yat, even as he had wished. The first thing he did was ascertain if he were still clothed, and unhurt. He was both, to his more than mild astonishment.

  A steady rain still fell, and no one was outside. He hadn't been seen, thank—

  "Ry! Where in the name of All did you come from?"

  Turning about, Ryel felt yet another shock as he beheld Shiran very close by on horseback, fully cloaked and hooded against the downpour. Despite so much water pelting around him, the wysard's throat dried up. Had Shiran seen…

  Apparently, wonderfully, he had not. Ryel's boyhood friend rode closer, shaking his head in bafflement. "I've never seen a storm blow up this fast, out of nowhere. Then I looked around and there you were, as if the winds had tossed and planted you."

  Not knowing how to reply, Ryel made an attempt at a shrug. But he was concerned about Jinn. He'd paid no attention to her once he'd begun climbing the fire-hill. What had happened to her since? What if she'd—

  "I found your horse," Shiran said, as if answering his thoughts. "She was wandering out in the fields there." And he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "What happened? Did she throw you?"

  Ryel nodded. It was easier than an explanation. "Where's Jinn now?"

  "Tied up behind my yat. Come on over and get dry. I'll give you some chal—or better yet, frangin. You look as groggy as if you just dropped from the skies."

  The wysard pushed back his wet hair, glanced up at the pelting clouds, and just barely smiled. "Next time I'll work harder on my landing."

  But that night, alone in the quiet yat of his mother's home, he meditated upon the storm, feeling its reverberations deep in his bones, comprehending his affinity for water and air. He had not conjured the tempest, true; he had not commanded it, nor dismissed it. What mattered was that he had become one with it, part of it. Never had he felt so connected to the World, harbored in the heart of chaos.

  Then his thoughts shifted to his first encounter with Michael Essern, who with few and terrible words had imparted the torture inflicted upon him during the Barrier wars. He had been thrown into a pit destined to be his grave, full of flames that should have been his winding-sheet; but the pit had been his womb, and the blaze his birthing.

  "Fire and earth," the wysard whispered; and a thrill of premonition flared through him like a bolt, of affinities destined to converge.

  *****

  The next day, as they had arranged, the wysard accompanied Shiran to the fields where the Yorganarem horses grazed. The herds had long been looked after by some of Rismai's most expert horse-breeders, men who had been Yorganar's comrades for many years, and nearly all of whom Ryel remembered from boyhood. For two days the wysard lived among horses and men, spending the day in the saddle, the evening at the communal fireside, and the night fast asleep in blankets on the grass-cushioned ground. He greatly enjoyed himself, and much admired the best of the Yorganarem herd, in particular the great buff-colored stallion Suragh.

  "He's Windskimmer's handsomest grandson, Suragh is," said Belar, a Kaltiri warrior who had served with Yorganar in his youth, during the Shrivrani wars. "A fit suitor he'd make for that pretty little mare of yours, Ryel Mirai. I've seen him ogling her, believe me."

  "Jinn's somewhat young yet for a lover," Ryel replied.

  Belar shook his head in emphatic denial. "Their offspring would be priceless. Your Jinn has the blood of Windskimmer in her veins, that much is clear to see. From their looks she and Suragh could be brother and sister."

  "Rather close kinship for mating," Ryel said, more than a little doubtful.

  Belar smiled forgivingly. "Not a bit of it. Look at the royal house of Destimar, if you care to see how incest improves the blood line. Be mindful that the Sovran Agenor's parents were brother and sister. The Rismai would punish such mating with death, but I am an old soldier, and have seen--and experienced--somewhat more of the world than your yat-folk. The Dranthene line is purebred, and merits praise."

  Shiran frowned, scandalized. "It is against the law of kind."

  Belar only chuckled in answer. "Some laws were meant to be broken. And from the manner in which the Sovrena Diara is sung of and languished over, I think many would agree with me."

  Again Shiran's brows bent. "I'm glad Almancar's ways aren't ours."

  "I sometimes wish they were," Belar said. "Once you've seen the Diamond Heaven, the memories stay with you…or so I hear. Had I been rich enough, I'd have found out firsthand."

  Shiran made a scorning face at the mention of Almancar's far-famed pleasure quarter. "All that hell-pit's denizens are slaves, and not only its women but its men will commit any fleshly act for gold. I'd rather seek delight under a free woman's linen than a slave's silk."

  Belar rolled his eyes. "You Rismai are so self-righteous. But it's common knowledge that the Fourth District has its whores of both sexes, too, and worse yet, children are sold for filthy uses. No wonder the place is called the Dog's Ward. "

  Ryel knew Shiran's temper, and made an attempt to calm it. "The courtesans of the Diamond Heaven are the most beautiful women in all the world, so I've heard."

  Shiran turned his head and spat. "Any woman can seem a goddess, given enough face-paint and borrowed hair and gaudy finery. And every Almancarian not afraid of the knife or the cost may buy beauty from the skin-surgeons, who they say can shorten long noses, excise the fat of over-feeding, and erase even the deepest wrinkles. Who knows how many of the city's pampered harlots owe their charms to the scalpel?"

  "You'll never have a chance to find out," Belar scoffed. "It takes fine robes and a rich mask to get past the Heaven's guards, and they have sharp eyes for shoddy goods, believe me."

  "And how might you know that?" Shiran demanded. "Were you perhaps turned away, once?"

  Belar sighed. "It was a long time ago."

  Shiran laughed at him, but Ryel was silent, thinking not of women bought for money, but of a maiden beyond price.

  At that moment a horseman approached,
galloping hard. Belar's quick eyes squinted in recognition. "Aha. There's my kinsman Mirib, just back from Almancar. I hope Count Tesandrion paid our price." He lifted his voice in greeting to the newcomer. "What word from the City of Gold, cousin? Are we rich?"

  Mirib dismounted wearily. "Richer than ever. Every horse was sold, and the Count paid all we wished and more."

  Belar's joy grew bewildered. "Then why look so glum?"

  Mirib drew a long breath. "The Sovrena is ill. It's worse than mere sickness. They say that a demon torments her." Amid black silence he addressed Ryel. "No one knows how to cure the girl. The Sovran has called in the realm's best doctors, all to nothing. They say she'll die soon if no help comes."

  Proud though the Steppes folk were, they shared a deep loyalty to the imperial house, and the Sovrena was all but worshipped among the Rismai, as Ryel had amply learned in the short time of his return to the phratri. Mirib's news brought concern to every face, but Ryel knew with helpless certainty that no pain could be sharper than his own.

  "I have to get back to the encampment," the wysard said. "At once."

  Belar divined Ryel's intention, and shook his head. "You're a good healer, Ry. But if you think to journey to Almancar for the Sovrena's sake, surely you'll lose your labor."

  "Or your life," Mirib added. "The Sovran Agenor has punished with death some of those doctors who've failed to heal his daughter. And—" he lowered his voice—"it's said that he has begun to welcome sorcerers and warlocks to use their black arts upon her."

  Everyone listening murmured in revulsion and made warding-off gestures, save for Ryel.

  "I can't stay," he said, barely able to bring out the words. Whistling Jinn, he vaulted onto her back.

  Shiran scrambled for his own horse. "Wait! I'm coming, too."

  But Jinn far outstripped Shiran's mount, and reached the encampment even as the caravan from Almancar was telling its news. As the wysard leapt from the saddle, his mother hastened to him.

  "Ryel, they've said that the Sovrena—"

  "I know," the wysard said. "I must leave for Almancar as soon as may be."

  Mira put her hand to her heart, close to where the cancer had been. "I fear for you. Surely your enemy means you harm, and lures you onward."

  Ryel let out a resigned breath. "No doubt it does."

  She took his arm. "Don't go."

  Gently he freed himself. "I must. Every moment the poor girl endures as a captive is more than I can bear."

  She understood, or thought she did. "Ah, Ry. If you are enamoured of her--"

  "I'm not." He glanced at the sun. "If I leave now, I'll have six hours of daylight."

  But the wysard could not leave until his gear was gathered, and his mother had filled Jinn's saddlebags with more than enough provisions for his journey, and Nel had begged to ride with him. Only an hour later, every minute of it grudged, was Ryel mounted and ready. During that time Shiran had arrived to add his farewells to the others'.

  "The trade-road lies nearly straight southeast to Almancar, as you know," he said. "Good luck to you, play-brother. I only wish you weren't going alone."

  "I myself wish it," the wysard replied. "But no one could keep up with Jinn."

  "I'd try," Nelora muttered. Smiling, Ryel reached out and ruffled her long light locks.

  Mira lay a light hand upon Ryel's knee. "So. I lose you yet again."

  He felt her trembling. "Not for long," he said gently. "I promise you."

  "When will you return?"

  Ryel caught her hand, warming it in his, and bent his brow to its back. "Soon. Very soon."

  "Not too soon," Shiran said with a brave attempt at a grin. "Almancar's beauties will take up at least a little of your time—but best beware those of the Diamond Heaven."

  Nelora shot him a glance of purest scorn. "As if you'd ever be allowed in that harlot's haunt." While Shiran looked foolish, Nel reached out and drew Ryel down from the saddle until her lips touched his ear. "When you see the Sovranel Priamnor, tell him of me, brother Ry. And give him this." She kissed his cheek, close to the mouth. Before Ryel could reprove her, Shiran dealt Jinn a smart slap on the rump that sent the mare flying.

  Chapter Five

  The moon had come up full on the second night of Ryel's journey, bright enough to ride by. But the wysard had elected from the first to travel only by night, that Jinn's preternatural speed might be less observed. He only halted at his own desire—as now, to draw breath awhile and calm his thoughts. The perfect silvered silence was broken only by a messenger in Turmaronian livery galloping breakneck past him, and later by a troop of imperial soldiers heading in the opposite direction—toward the Cosran border, their captain had let fall as he courteously but thoroughly informed himself as to Ryel's departure-point and eventual destination.

  Ryel obliged the captain with equal grace, aware that such questionings were usual on the great trade-road, and secure in the knowledge that his looks attracted more esteem than suspicion. Anyone beholding him with World-eyes beheld a young Rismai brave superbly mounted and armed, dressed with that warlike elegance for which the Steppes was famed, and enviably unencumbered. Of the many possessions the wysard had brought from Markul, he'd taken only a few on this journey—medicines and drugs bottled up in carved crystal and jade, ranged in a neat sectioned box of finely inlaid lacquer-work, the gift of Lord Katen; a leather pouchful of Destimarian gold coin; and Almancarian robes with their attendant finery, gifts of Lord Nestris that despite surpassing opulence could be folded into a packet no larger or heavier than a slim brick of kulm, so fine was their silk and so supple their embroidery. Other items included his chaltak, and provisions more than adequate. All these things readily fit into Jinn's saddlepacks and the journeybag that a Steppes horseman customarily slung across his saddle-bow while riding, and over his shoulder when afoot. But one thing Ryel much regretted having left behind: his krusghan, the music of which would have given him solace at this moment, and offered thanks to the moon-bright loveliness of the World around him.

  Ryel stretched, shrugging off his coat, whistling a Kugglaitai air between his teeth. The night was warm—the first real warmth Ryel had known in a dozen years. Long silver-rimmed shreds of cloud fleeted northward over the dark land, casting wraiths of shadow on the slight rise and fall of the treeless hills. Ryel rode to the top of one of these and looked about. At the limit of the southeast distance he discerned a faint irregular line, gleaming white—the Gray Sisterhood, that divided the plains of eastern Destimar from the savanna and seacoast of the Zalla. He knew their names: Tanwen the Maiden. Willful and untrusty Dolgash. Winlowen, hardly more tender, and her twin Tryphene. Baltaigor the Kind, with the pass that was clear even at winter's worst. And in their midst Kalima, eldest, tallest, most murderous—and dwelling somewhere among her crags, Lady Srin Yan Tai.

  Long did Ryel regard the world around him, from the wondrous sky to the distant peaks to the rolling moonlit land. But as he looked, his thoughts began to take him elsewhere, far from the road to Almancar.

  *****

  It was his seventh Markulit year, and his twenty-first in World-reckoning. He had parted from Edris and returned to his house to bathe away the grit and sweat of their latest duel. Hard exercise and a tall glassful of his kinsman's Sindrite brandy had loosened him to the blood, and he sank into the vaporing water with a long sigh, closing his eyes.

  He was not by nature fond of luxury, but had always loved the small rituals that accompanied the body's cleanliness. His first command, once he had learned to suborn the spirits of the Outer World, was to cause his servants to create a mass of rock crystal veined with subtle flaws, hewn smoothly and hollowed deeply to twice the size of his body; this great vessel was set into a well of slow fire, that traced the crystal's flaws in burning red. The water was all but seething, and would remain so until he said a cooling-word; hot as the steaming springs of his homeland, Risma of the Fire-Mountains.

  He breathed deeply. The water was scented with sweet o
ils, their fragrance like that of the flowers that covered the Inner Steppes during high summer. Closing his eyes, he remembered how it felt to lie on soft grass under a constant sun.

  "Shall I scrub your back?"

  At that voice and its question, both startling, Ryel bolted up, sending water flying. A woman stood silhouetted in the doorway, her hair a silken gold corolla, her body's outline exquisitely visible under the near-transparent folds of her gown.

  She laughed. "I've startled you."

  Beautiful though she was, her voice was grating and shrill, and her laugh set Ryel's teeth on edge. The wysard said the words that banished malignant daimons of the Outer World, but she did not disappear.

  "How did you get in here?" he demanded.

  "Your door was unlocked."

  "What do you want?" he asked angrily. But his anger was for himself, because his voice wouldn't stop breaking and his pulse wouldn't calm.

  She laughed again. "I'm but newly arrived in Markul. I was told that you were the greatest of this City's adepts, and I have come to learn of you. But it seems I've not chosen my time well." She turned as if to leave, silhouetting her side view. At that sight Ryel felt his mouth go dry.

  "Wait. Stay." Reaching for a vial on a nearby table, Ryel poured some of its contents into the water, which instantly turned the opaque turquoise of a mountain lake, hiding his nakedness. "Come in."

  With deliberate grace she entered the many-mirrored chamber, increasing her beauty sixfold. She was formed for rare pleasure, tall and lusciously yet slenderly fleshed; her ice-blue gown bared her arms and neck, that were wreathed in electrum and sapphires. Her face was of the fine-cut Northern cast, betokening high blood; it did not fit the ugly voice that issued from its full, firm lips.

  She unfastened her belt, and the gown dropped to the floor. Then she slowly turned about, admiring her refracted selves as she took the pins from her hair and let it flow like white molten gold down her back. And as Ryel watched, tranced with amazement and desire and drink, she slipped into the water, supple as an otter, and pressed close to him.