The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  With infinite thanks she regarded him. "You are kind, and good. It is a great power in you. But my captor knows of it, and will do all he can to warp it to his own uses. Have no fear for me at this time, however, for I enjoy a respite at dawn. During the hours of daylight my captor leaves me, and my entire being rests unconscious and free of torment until dusk. Tomorrow my father holds audience of physicians an hour after noon in his palace, and I would have you enjoy my city until then, for its beauty will give you strength; and should you by chance pass the temple of Demetropa, I pray you enter and ask the Mother to look with compassion upon her unhappy daughter."

  The wysard bowed. "I will not fail, most exalted."

  "Don't call me that. Call me by my name."

  "If you wish it…Diara." He tasted it on his lips like a kiss.

  She, too, seemed to feel it. "Until tomorrow…Ry."

  She faded until the night claimed her. Ryel stood unmoving for some time, sternly compelling his memory to blankness. But although with extremest effort he succeeded in blocking out every unique quality of spirit that had drawn him to Diara during their encounter, no effort of will could vanquish the desire aroused by beauty veiled only in a nebulous film of seeming silk. He ran his hands over his arms, cruelly gripping the bare flesh, but the pain only more sharply reminded him that he was male, and fully grown, and save for one terrible time entirely unknowing of pleasure with a woman. And it seemed to him that he had at last discovered the realm of joy only to stand on its threshold quivering and cold, longing for warm limbs yielding to his body's blind need, a mouth wet and searching under his—any limbs, any mouth. His sex oppressed him, and he reached downward not knowing whether he meant to chasten or assuage. But suddenly the night blackened about him, tightened in a strangling squeeze, laughed low and sly.

  Ah, young blood. We're hot tonight, aren't we.

  The wysard's arms fell to his sides, and he tried to swallow, uselessly. "Get away from me, daimon."

  Who were you thinking of, sweet eyes?

  "No one."

  Not even the delicious little Sovrena?

  "I have no feelings for her. You torture her for nothing."

  Oh, not for nothing, the voice snidely giggled. It's been most amusing. But if you care as little as you say, then why are you here?

  "Because I cannot stand idly by and witness suffering that only I can alleviate."

  So selfless. So heroic. Like your dead father.

  Ryel leaned against a broken pillar, dazed by comprehension. In the same moment he stood straight, and glared into the darkness. "Tell me how you killed him, Dagar."

  I will—after you and I meet.

  "You don't deny your name," Ryel breathed. "It is you. The scourge of Elecambron."

  And of the World, soon, the voice purred. No need for me to conceal my identity, now that I've brought you this far. Guess why you're here, sweet eyes.

  Ryel felt the night like solid ice around him, lightless and haunted like the most secret depths of the sea. It had all come together. The voice that had haunted him in Markul, Diara's torturer, Dagar—all one and the same entity, tripartite malignance. "I know what you want," he said.

  The daimon giggled again. Do you?

  Ryel stilled a tremor of revulsion. "You won't get it. You're not strong enough."

  But I will be, young blood. And you know it. This meeting is only meant to improve our acquaintance. I've been longing for you, beauty. We'll be together soon…very soon, now. Sweet dreams, beauty—sweet and wet.

  Before Ryel could reply, the dense air thinned, freeing the moon. Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, the wysard lifted his face to the silver light, forcing his breath to steady slow rises and falls, focusing his entire concentration on the white glow filling the desperate immensity behind his shut lids. When his pulse had at last slowed and his body warmed to the night, he seated himself again at his fire, and jabbed it back to life, and with fierce effort turned his thoughts to the Analects of Khiar.

  *****

  Great Almancar was walled high and strong in massive blocks of pale-rose granite carved in fantastic representations of men and beasts that told of the First Birth, when the gods dwelt on earth as brothers with the mortals they had created from air and water. Of these first people the Almancarians claimed descent, and considered themselves set apart from the lesser race of earth and fire that came after. Such had Ryel read while yet young in Markul, and now remembered as he approached the southern gate and watched the wall's carvings leap to life in the first rays of dawn. Never had an enemy army camped outside those walls, nor assaulted their massive ramparts, nor inflicted the slightest harm to their magnificent sculptures, for Destimar had always known peace, and had strong friends surrounding it.

  The city was far-famed as a place of wonder and delight. It gleamed in rich soft colors that caught the light of the sun and threw it back in pride: ivory and honey-yellow, pistachio and peach-bloom, new cream and ripe wheat, pure white and palest rose. A further contrast to mist-enmeshed Markul's sober austerity could not be envisioned, and Markul was a mere village in comparison. A hundred thousand people lived in Almancar, and in addition to the citizenry there came swarms of visitors from the world over, to barter and marvel.

  Although desert surrounded the city, great natural wells deep underground, fed by unseen rivers, provided Almancar with sweet, pure water—some of which was hot, and some cold. Even the lesser folk had both piped into their houses, a luxury unheard of elsewhere. Canals lined with mosaics served as streets for boat-traffic, and to cool the city—for Almancar's climate was a sweltering one. The loveliest of all these waterways flowed down the middle of the Diamond Heaven, Almancar's renowned pleasure quarter.

  In the midst of the city, their proud spires aglow in the never-clouded sunlight, were the palaces of the Dranthene, buildings proverbial for their beauty. The city's rich dwelt in the mansions of the First and Second Districts, and the nearby temple district was said to be the most splendid ever built by human hands. But Almancar's most noted sight was the Diamond Heaven, where the joys of the flesh were celebrated with religious fervor in the name of Atlan, goddess of desire. The only way to reach this licensed quarter was through the Temple of Atlan, which took up the entire end of the broad avenue lined with houses of worship dedicated to Destimar's many gods.

  The native denizens of the Bright City were in their appearance and manners remarkably different from all other folk who dwelt about them. Scholars deemed them descended of the White Barbarians that dwelt many hundreds of miles north past the realm of Hryeland in the Northern Barrier, whose rulers had been at war with that savage folk since the beginning of time. Eyes of such a peculiar live aquamarine were not common anywhere save far in the north, so claimed the savants; moreover, Almancarian eyes were not set aslant in the Steppes way, but deep and straight in northern wise. Uncommon, too, was that incandescent fairness of skin, which the citizens of Almancar shielded as much as they could from the endless unclouded sun, to further singularize themselves from the swarthy folk of the grasslands. Like others of the eastern realm, Almancarians were raven-haired, but more luxuriantly and lustrously than Steppe-dwellers. The women indulged in thousand different fashions of plaits and tresses with many ornaments and jeweled pins, while the men most often wore theirs partly gathered back, and confined with a rich wide headband around the brow.

  Other differences than physical separated the people of the Bright City from the plainsfolk, differences Ryel had observed as his mother's son in Rismai. Long use of luxury had instilled in Almancarian blood a refinement of spirit, suavity of speech, and quickness of sympathy which graced and favored love of learning and passion for the arts; and these conditions encouraged an equality of the sexes unknown in the surrounding lands. The Steppes bannermen affected to scorn their city brothers' softness of nature, and loudly condemned the use of slaves, but Ryel had well known even as a child that many a yat-wife enduring the privation of the Steppes sighed with unfe
igned envy for the happy lot of her Almancarian sisters.

  A fabled city, Almancar; but Ryel knew from talk around the Rismai fires that this paradise was governed with an iron hand, and not always wisely. Any theft exceeding the value of a gold piece was punished by death without trial at the hands of the Sovran's soldiers, and any quarrel put down by the same means. Moreover, the Sovran's ministers were exclusively nobles and merchants, and they made no secret of despising the folk of the Fourth District, who worked the jewel-mines of the mountains or toiled at every dirty chore within the city. Strict sumptuary laws permitted nobles and slaves and merchants to wear silk and gems and gold, but those luxuries were forbidden the Dog's Ward, as the Fourth District was commonly and contemptuously termed; nor were those citizens educated beyond the rudiments, lest they conceive ideas above their station.

  Nevertheless Ryel did not think of the dark side of Almancar's splendor as he entered the city gates with his senses calmed and open. Mindful of the instructions given him the night before, Ryel put aside all thought of coming trials and dangers, immersing himself instead in the beauty around him, loveliness that revealed itself facet by flawless facet as he passed through broad avenues paved with rich stone, lined with interlaced trees that gave shade from the burning sun, intersected by canals where mosaics of gold and every-colored glass glimmered beneath water clear and sweet as dawn air. Costly tapestries and fragrant flowering vines trailed from the marble galleries of fair houses. Poverty, squalor, meanness, misery seemed to have no existence here, where every citizen went dressed in fresh silk and precious ornaments; and the wysard became conscious of curious and not entirely approving glances directed at his road-weathered Steppes gear as he next entered the merchants' district, where intricate gold-woven brocades gleamed in soft jewel-colors, wine sparkled in bright bottles, rare perfumes made the air sweet for passers-by. Only the most inventive labors of Ryel's spirit-servants might rival the excess and splendor of this city, that gathered together the loveliest of the world's goods able to delight the senses to their highest pitch.

  What a wondrous place this is, Ryel thought, remembering the words of Diara as a surge of fresh energy filled him. What a beautiful, perfect place .

  Ryel progressed to the market district where spices, almonds, dates, figs, and other edibles spilled out of rough brown sacks under bright awnings, and heaps of fruit lay ripening in their own rich fragrance, and birds and animals both domestic and exotic were tethered and penned. He bought large sweet plums and grapes with the gold money given him by Lady Serah, and enjoyed them as he examined the wealth of goods. Exploring further, he came to the horse traders', where his practiced eye assessed the animals and found them excellent all, but none as good as his own mare, who attracted much attention.

  "That's a fine animal you've got there, bannerman," said one of the horse-dealers. "She deserves to be ridden only by one of imperial blood."

  Ryel ignored this veiled reflection on his appearance, his attention drawn to another market being held in a building uncommonly elaborate, with a clientele surpassingly bedizened. "What do they sell there, where so many rich folk go in and out?"

  "The most precious merchandise in all the city, bannerman," the other replied with a meaning smile. "Exclusive goods … for exclusive buyers, as you see. Not the sort of thing a Steppes brave of your sort would be interested in." The horse-merchant reached out to stroke Jinn's mane, a gesture the horse evaded. "Would you perhaps consider—"

  "Not for any gold," Ryel said, turning away. His curiosity piqued, he progressed to the magnificent building and dismounted at a sheltering corner. Opening his journeybag, he extracted one of Lord Nestris' parting gifts, a robe of emerald-green satin floridly embroidered, rich even by Almancarian standards. It enveloped his Steppes garb completely, cinched by a brilliant sash. His tagh he slung over his shoulder, having observed that many of the wealthiest-seeming young men of the city went armed, certainly more for show than for defense. Smoothing his hair, he donned the wide headband that matched the robe. "Now we'll see what's so extraordinary here," he murmured; and mounting the many steps at a run, he entered the open archway.

  The vast interior was dark as twilight after the brilliance outdoors. Light penetrated from windows only near the roof, falling in long gold lances. As his eyes adjusted, Ryel took a deep breath of flesh—but not the raw fresh blood-tang of the butchers' stalls, nor the acrid live reek of penned goats and sheep. Human flesh this was, hot under perfume; and the wysard choked on the smell.

  "By every god," he whispered. "I'm in the slave mart."

  Before he had time to choose between alarm or disgust, several traders even more garishly bedecked than himself converged upon him, all huckstering at once.

  "A fresh young maiden, worthy sir? Or perhaps two? I have twins newly arrived from Zinaph, two melting beauties —"

  Another dealer pushed forward. "Does the gentleman seek a door-guard, or maybe a scribe? A fine tall Falissian warrior I have just acquired, and a great scholar from Hatim Tilskar who speaks and writes twelve languages including—"

  He was shoved aside by a colleague even more insistent. "Such a boy I have for you, most honored young lord! So smooth, so fair and gentle! Never have the White Reaches produced so lovely a—"

  Ryel got away from them, meshing with the crowd circulating up and down the platformed rows of richly curtained booths. Only the most luxurious flesh was offered for sale: one might buy a musician but not an instrument-maker, a master-cook but not a scullion, a sculptor but not a stone-cutter, a scholar but not a paper-maker. In another section of the market, youth and beauty sought the highest bidder, and slaves displayed themselves to best advantage before backdrops of gleaming silk, while now and again other curtains would part and disclose nude glimpses as a prospective buyer emerged after a close inspection of a possible purchase. Almancarian rakes of both sexes clustered about especially interesting offerings, loudly critiquing charms and flaws. Sickened, Ryel went on; but suddenly his path was blocked by an armed guard, splendidly accoutered.

  "No further, sir, unless you're as rich as the prince you seem, or deal for the Diamond Heaven. Serious inquiries only, here."

  "I've seen more than enough," the wysard replied shortly, and would have turned away; but the guard prevented him.

  "Wait. How does one of the Dog's Ward dress so fine as that?" And he indicated Ryel's gleaming green robe with a suspicious finger.

  The wysard, uncomprehending, thought at first that he was being asked a riddle. "What is it you mean?"

  "From your half-blood looks, you can only be from the Fourth District," the guard half-sneered. "Where'd you get those clothes, and that weapon?" As he spoke he half-drew his sword; but Ryel did the same with his own, and readied himself in a stance that made his questioner step swiftly backward.

  "Nothing about me is any of your concern," the wysard said, his voice soft but edged. "What right have you to question me?"

  The guard bristled. "You know well enough that it's against the law for a toiler of the Dog's Ward to wear silk and bear arms. Go back to where you belong and I won't have you whipped—although you deserve it."

  Ryel lifted his chin. "My homeland is the Inner Steppes of Risma."

  The guard looked harder at Ryel's face, and then seemed to respect the wysard's answer, though grudgingly. "Well, bannerman, some of your blood at least is of this city—high blood, if your pride is any indication. Were you of the Dog's Ward, you'd not act so scornful, or even dare come here."

  "I only entered this vile place by mistake," Ryel said, not courteously. "And my only wish now is to leave—which I will, because I can."

  The guard, clearly of Turmaron from his yellow aspect, and a slave himself from his sudden flush and frown, answered snappishly. "You needn't talk so haughty, bannerman. Those who sell themselves here do so gladly. We're luxury goods, and prized accordingly. If you require drudges to haul and scrub, you'll have to hire them from the free rabble of the Fourth District.
Yes, wince and condemn, bannerman; but it's well known that the Rismai are slaves to their herds, and their women are slaves to the yat. Your horse would fetch a better price here than you would."

  Ryel would have spoken sharply in return, or used his Art to inflict some minor but malignant harm; but he deemed it wiser to turn on his heel instead, and find his way as quickly as might be out of that foul place.

  After that Ryel rode distraught and saddened, despite the beauty of the city and the fairness of the sun that lit its towers. His shift of mood made him sensitive to the disquiet among Almancar's citizens, and among the many visitors from foreign lands come to trade and marvel. For all the animation of the markets, gloom and misgiving hung like faint but acrid smoke over Almancar and its fabled magnificence, stinging the eyes, casting a pall over the constant sun.

  And as if in response to his mood, the wysard found the city's buildings diminishing in splendor, and the broad straight streets narrowing to tangled lanes. The deterioration seemed to affect even the people around him. The City of Gold's rich folk were of unalloyed Almancarian blood, while their slaves were of many lands. But now Ryel found himself amid a people of mixed heritage, whose traits mingled countless races. The city's wealthy and their slaves were sleekly groomed and magnificently arrayed, but the folk Ryel now found himself among wore plain garments of coarse stuff that only too fittingly set off bodies and faces marked by unremitting drudgery. No one seemed to be any way in want, but their sense of privation and their resentment were very real, to judge by the hostility with which they eyed Ryel's brilliant robe. Disliking the jealous attention he attracted, the wysard at his first opportunity urged Jinn into a quiet corner and slipped off his over-gorgeous outfit, rolling it up and thrusting it into his saddle-bag. He next looked to stop someone and ask directions, for clearly he had lost his way and wandered into the Fourth District, the so-called Dog's Ward. But all at once he heard an extraordinary voice cry out, deep and resonant, echoing from every wall.