The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  Her voice had become hesitant, unteasing. "Did you destroy my captor?"

  For some reason the question eased his pain. "No," he replied. "I merely routed him."

  "Then he may return."

  Soft as her voice was, Ryel heard terror in it, resigned and desperate. He took both her hands in his, warming them against his chest. "I will prevent him from ever returning, Diara."

  "You cannot. I know you cannot. And you know it too." Tears jeweled her dark lashes. "You must continue to keep the promise you made me in the desert, Ryel Mirai. I cannot speak the words I used then, lest my tormenter hear. But surely you have not forgotten."

  The wysard blinked, too; but no tears eased the hurt. "I remember."

  "You must keep your word."

  He bent his head. "I will."

  One of her tears fell on his hand, scalding as molten silver. "I wish you did not have to."

  His heartbeat was bruising him. "So do I."

  She drew near him, resting her hands on his shoulders. "Hold me close, only for a moment. Warm away the terror and the pain, and make me forget them forever. I have felt so cold, for so long…"

  Her voice trembled as she spoke, and Ryel instantly complied, taking her in his arms, gently gathering her against him. He heard her give a little sob as she moved into his embrace, and he murmured her name into her heaven-scented hair as he wrapped her closer, and felt her body warming and calming. They stood entwined for what seemed at once an instant and eternity, and never had the wysard known such joy, or such sorrow, or such fear; and he felt those emotions wind about one another, meshing into bliss that sharpened beyond bearing when Diara slid her hands behind his neck, softly urging him down to her lips. But then she halted suddenly, her delicate touch first starting at the swelling at his neck's nape, then examining.

  "What is this?"

  He felt as if lightning again ran through him, white-cold, and it was far more than he could endure. He murmured a word that made Diara close her eyes and lose her balance. Her clean dark hair tumbled over his arm as he caught her, and he gasped at the feel of it. But as her head fell back against his shoulder he could no more keep his mouth from hers than he could his heart from beating. Her breath was fragrant with wine, and as if drinking drunk he kissed her again and yet again until he ached from her weight, slight as it was.

  He half-carried, half-dragged her out of the room. Priamnor awaited him, flanked by mail-clad soldiers. Eagerly but half in fear he took his sister into his embrace, searching her sleeping features.

  "Ryel. Is she—"

  The wysard nodded, brusque with fatigue. "She's safe, now." The air before him seemed to darken, and all his limbs began to melt. He fought to speak. "Listen. This is important. She must never return to that room. The best place for her now is in the Eastern Palace, among flowers and water. It will do her good to be near you."

  "I'll have her taken there at once," Priamnor said. He nodded to one of the guards, who at once drew near and lifted the Sovrena as lightly as a cloud, enfolding her reverently in gold and steel "But you're not well. Let me give order for—"

  "No. Listen." Ryel continued, fighting hard for what remained of his strength. "When your sister awakens tomorrow morning, she'll remember nothing of this night or the days of her torment. Let no one speak to her of them. Have music played for her, soft music with singing. She'll be hungry, but give her only fruit and milk and bread to eat for three days, and at evenings let her have wine to drink—enough to get her drunk if she wants it." He paused to catch his breath, and continued. "For too long she's been in darkness. She needs sunlight. And exercise, too—swimming would be best. She must wear no jewels until three days have passed, and her maidens must not bind up her hair in any way until then, or paint her face. And don't let a doctor near her. Promise me you'll see to these things."

  "I will, ilandrakis."

  The wysard bowed his head, unable to meet the Sovranel's eyes. "I only hope you will forget what you witnessed this night, Priam."

  "You witnessed worse, and neither of us will ever forget," the prince replied. "But we cannot stay here. My father has awakened, and although he is in great pain and very weak, he has asked for you. I pray you come with me, ilandrakis; but I hope there will be no further work for you."

  "Go, then. I'll follow."

  But Ryel did not follow at once. Unsteadily he walked out to the columned gallery, eager for the fresh night air. His body ached entirely, flesh and bone and nerve, and his head was afire, his eyes burning like live coals. Embracing one of the marble pillars, he pressed his cheek against its polished surface. But no sooner had he touched the sweet cool stone than the air blackened before him and he felt himself sliding, and he never knew when he hit the ground.

  Chapter Eight

  Music woke him, soft harps and lutes. Ryel struggled to sit up, and failed; but other arms came to his aid, swift and gentle in their strength.

  "Ilandrakis. They said you might never wake."

  The wysard opened his eyes with tentative blinks, finding Priam's. "They were quacks," he murmured, breathing deep of the clean breeze that stirred the sheer gauze of his bed-curtains, and another scent, exquisitely sweet, that was carried with it. The room vibrated with sunlight, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes, marveling at how thin his fingers seemed.

  "Greatly did I fear for you, Ryel Mirai," Priamnor said. "Tell me how you are."

  "Only a little weak." Ryel raised himself amid the pillows, and drank gratefully of the water Priamnor offered him. "That music is beautiful, almost as sweet as that perfume in the air."

  "You mean this." Priam reached into his robe's sleeve and brought forth the carnelian vial Ryel remembered well, unstoppering it to release that wonderful scent like all the flowers of the earth. Ryel breathed eagerly of it.

  Priamnor watched the wysard's reaction, and nodded in approval. "A good thing I thought of Transcendence—it did the work no doctor could."

  "Transcendence?"

  "Attar of a Thousand it's also called. Its use is forbidden to all save the Dranthene—although every perfumer in this city has tried to imitate it, with no success. Here." He handed the vial to Ryel.

  Nodding thanks, for a moment the wysard again admired the lovely banded stone and its exquisite carvings, then again breathed deeply of the fragrance. "It has life in it."

  "Meaning you feel better?"

  "Very much so," the wysard said, marveling as he spoke. "Completely well, in fact."

  The Sovran lifted a dark brow. "Strange. But not on second thought."

  "What do you mean?" Ryel asked. But he had from their first meeting sensed an answer. "You seem as much in need of it as I." And he would have returned the scent-cylinder, but Priam waved it away.

  "No. It's yours. As a remembrance." He rubbed his unshaven cheek. "Perhaps I've lost some rest from spending the nights of your illness here."

  "Nights?"

  "Three nights."

  The wysard stared. "Three? Your sister—is she—"

  Priamnor nodded swift reassurance. "She enjoys excellent health and spirits—and is more lovely than ever before, which is much. And yet…" When he spoke again, it was with much hesitation. "You saved her life, yet she refuses to see you. When I asked her why, she had no answer. But perhaps you could provide me with one."

  The wysard understood only too well. Were he and Diara to meet again, it would only make them fall more deeply in love, and put the Sovrena more deeply into danger. "Your sister knows that the sight of me would make her re-live the torments she was forced to endure," he said at last. "I understand her feelings, and will comply with her wishes."

  "Very well." Priamnor looked away toward the great windows that let in all the freshness of early afternoon, all the beauty of sculpted towers. "You have observed the color I wear, have you not?"

  "Yes," Ryel said, surprised by the question. "Complete white. But why—"

  "It is the mourning color of the royal house. The Sovran my fa
ther is dead."

  Ryel had expected as much. "I'm sorry, Priam."

  With visible effort the new Sovran of Almancar at last turned back to Ryel, his face more weary than sorrowing. "For your sympathy, my thanks. He died after the daimon struck him, the next night."

  "Does the Sovrena know?"

  "I have forbidden anyone to tell her, until she is well enough to take the shock. She loved her father dearly. She was his youngest, and his favorite."

  Ryel bit his lip. "I am to blame for his death."

  "You are not. You had already exerted yourself to the limit of your life, even as you said you would. And your life is precious to me, Ryel Mirai."

  The wysard felt the warmth of those words, and inwardly returned it. "The Sovran Agenor's life was far more so, most exalted."

  "Perhaps it should have been." Priamnor stood and went to the window, leaning against the embrasure as he looked out over his city. "My father was a hard man, and proud. My private apartments look out on gardens, and the green plains to the south, but my father's faced the Gray Sisterhood, where the jewel mines are; where he could take pleasure in the sight of his wealth increasing hour by hour, without the slightest regret for the ravages on the land, or the misery of the workers. My own mother always blamed Agenor for allowing me to fall into bad courses—or rather for pushing me into them. She accused him of encouraging my vices, the better to keep me helpless and enable him to reign unquestioned. As for myself, I had given no thought whatever at any time to the fact that I would inevitably become Sovran in my turn. I cared for nothing but my pleasures, and was the most vicious and spoiled young reprobate in a city famed for rakes and wastrels. But my illness changed me for the better, strange to say; thanks to it I distanced myself from my father's influence, and began to study Destimarian history and law, and to read deeply in all matters concerning right government, and to look more critically at those institutions I'd always considered indispensable—slavery, prostitution, usury and the like."

  "Such study will serve you well, now," Ryel replied.

  "I do not know how I could rule without it," Priam said. "Destimar is a realm uniting many peoples, a land possessed of great riches and strong friends; but our riches are widely coveted, and our friends manifestly envious. Very soon I will appoint new ministers from among the ablest men and women in the realm, regardless of rank—a considerable change from my father's policy."

  "Already you prove an able ruler."

  Priamnor wryly shrugged off the compliment. "Oh, I'm far more than that, if recent correspondence is any indication. All the kings of the earth seem to have daughters languishing for my sake, to judge from the many letters of mingled condolence and temptation I've received. Even the Domina of the Northern Barrier, vicious and debauched as she's said to be, is all sympathy and sweetness. What think you? Should I marry her?"

  "That is a question of state, most exalted."

  The young Sovran acknowledged Ryel's reply with a gesture of brusque dismissal. "It is a jest. A poor one." He fell silent, drumming his fingers along the wrought marble of the window-frame; and so drawn and wan had he become, with such silent despair trapped in his unblinking eyes, that the wysard sat up, and would have gone to him.

  "Priam, I—"

  The Sovran of Destimar shook his head fiercely, warding off the wysard's next words. "I know what you would say. I am ashamed to be thinking of myself, with my little sister returned from the brink of the grave and my father gone to his. But I now rule one of the world's great realms—one that must be administered justly, and bequeathed to able offspring. I am expected to marry and…beget. In the latter duty I run a strong risk of failure, and there are two people who not only know of this likelihood, but rejoice in it because they engineered it: my twin half-siblings, offspring of my father by his first wife. They live in exile with their mother, who was divorced for adultery, and they've long claimed that the throne of Destimar is theirs by right, but there's very strong reason to suspect that they're not of my father's siring. Still, that won't keep them from making an attempt sometime in the future, should I fail of an heir."

  "But what of your sister? Could she not rule?"

  "Yes, and she'd do so ably and well, I'm sure; but I'd have to die first. It's the law." The new Sovran stood and went to the window, leaning against the embrasure as he looked out over his city. So drawn and pale had he become, with such silent despair trapped in his unblinking eyes, that the wysard's heart went out to him.

  "Priam, you're exhausted."

  Priamnor's gentle voice held a sharp edge of strain. "I might be. These many days I have scarcely known water save to drink, nor touched food save with loathing in my disquiet for you."

  "For all your concern I am grateful," Ryel replied, immeasurably moved. "You have not slept either, it seems."

  Priamnor's fingers ceased drumming, and clenched about the stone. "Sleep has been impossible. Scarcely do I close my eyes than I dream of terrible things—of wars and battles, inhuman cruelties of man against man."

  "Let me help you."

  "I doubt any wysard arts can aid me, ilandrakis. But I would have you rise and join me, if you would. I most require sunlight, now."

  Strengthened by Transcendence, Ryel rose and went with the Sovran to the vine-shaded pool. The wysard dove at once into the silent gold and crystalline world he loved, hovering in breathless bliss. But he was troubled by Priamnor's restless shadow hurtling past as if fleeing some sea-born horror, wearing itself out against the water. Later at table, Ryel noted that the Sovran ate little or nothing, but drank much of the wine of Masir—far too much, until at last he shoved his glass aside and stood up, abruptly and unsteadily.

  "Am I intoxicated yet?"

  "To my certain knowledge, yes," Ryel carefully replied.

  "I hate it."

  "Then why did you?"

  Priamnor gulped and shuddered. "To poison the daimon."

  Ryel felt his blood icing up. "The what?"

  "Daimon. It's been within me for days," Priam said. "Three days. But I'd mastered it, I swear. Kept it captive—until now. I felt it steal over me as I swam. Tried to outdistance it, in vain. It has me."

  No, Ryel thought, his breath coming fast. No. "Priam. Is it the same daimon that possessed the Sovrena?"

  Priamnor shook his head in numb negation. "I think not. It isn't cruel. I don't think it wishes my harm. But I want free of it. I can feel it in my blood." He turned to Ryel, his eyes dazed and desperate. "It's killing me."

  "I won't let it," the wysard said. "Here, sit down again. Lean against me." And Ryel gently pushed the Sovran into his chair again and stood behind him, cradling and soothing the short-haired skull, murmuring comfort. "No, don't move. It's all right, I'll deal with it. Be still."

  Icily Priamnor's fingers gripped Ryel's. "I can't. I'm freezing cold. I don't know this place."

  Something indeed holds you, the wysard thought wonderingly. But not the daimon that tortured Diara. I would know by the heaviness of the air, by the breathless oppression, were you in its power.

  "Tell me where you are," he said aloud.

  His friend's voice came ever more dazed and hesitant. "I don't know. Here and not here." He pressed his cold cheek against Ryel's solar plexus; the wysard felt tears, searing as spilled wax on his bare skin, and a moment later the slight burning abrasion of beard-stubble. "I'm lost. Stranded in the midst of a void."

  "No." Ryel warmed Priamnor's hands with his own. "I'm with you. Look about, and tell me what you see."

  Priam's voice came ever more dazed and hesitant. "I'm on the wall of a city."

  "Almancar?"

  Priamnor frowned slightly. "No. No. A place shrouded by mist. Angled towers of green and purple and black and gray, roofed with bronze. Beautiful, but cold, so cold—" He shivered, then suddenly tensed. "I hear someone riding up to the gates."

  "Turn and look, and tell me who it is."

  For a moment Priamnor was silent. "A man. No, a boy. Slender and tall, w
ith long hair. Black hair. He has dismounted, and looks up at me."

  "What color are his eyes?" Ryel asked, his heart racing.

  "Blue." The Sovran paused. "Clear sea-blue touched with violet, like my sister's and my own, but slanted in the Steppes way."

  "Do you know him?"

  "Yes. Perfectly." A long silence. Then Priam's voice deepened and stilled. "I love him beyond my life. I would throw myself in fire for him."

  Ryel felt every flame of that fire behind his eyes. Because the voice was the voice of Edris, resonant and profound, speaking in Steppes dialect. The wysard's thoughts came in jolts, as if drugged with quiabintha. "Tell me who you are."

  "You tell me, whelp."

  "Ithradrakis. By every god—" Ryel brushed his lips against Priamnor's temple, and tasted sweat. Joy made him whisper. "I knew you weren't dead. I felt it. I always knew it."

  A sardonic rumble of laugh in reply. "You're happier about it than I am, lad."

  "Stay with me."

  "I can't. All I have is this bare moment."

  Ryel winced at his eyes' burning. "I'll bring you back," he said.

  Edris snorted. "You don't have the Art, brat."

  "I promise I will," Ryel said, desperate. "But don't go."

  "I have to. I'm taking a chance being here—and I'll suffer for it. But I had to find you. You're in danger."

  Ryel held Priamnor closer. "From Dagar? But I fought him, ithradrakis. Fought him and won."

  Edris could never have been less awed. "Don't think yourself so great, brat. Tonight was nothing."

  "But I'm strong. You know that…father."

  At Ryel's last word, more breathed than uttered, Priam's smooth wet brow furrowed. "You won't overcome Dagar alone," Edris said. "You'll need help."

  "Who is there to help me? Another like yourself?"

  Priamnor shook his head. His eyes were still shut hard, his voice still Edris'. "No Art can save you, lad. But one of the World might."

  "Who?"

  "One of two from the North. Soldiers. Captains of the wars to come."

  Ryel felt himself frowning. "Wars? I don't understand. Tell me more."