The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Don't plague me, whelp. There isn't time."

  "Tell me their names at least," Ryel implored.

  "Starklander," came the deep-toned answer. "Redbane. Beware of one of them."

  "Which one?"

  "You'll learn. Once you go North"

  Ryel's heart plummeted. "North? But—"

  "I said don't plague me, brat." Edris hesitated, stiffening as if in sudden wariness. "I can't stay."

  "Is it Dagar?" Ryel asked. "Has he done you harm?"

  "He does all he can. Don't worry about me. Look out for yourself."

  Desperate with impatience Ryel shook the unconscious cold body with Edris' voice. "But will we be together again? Can I bring you back?"

  "Find Srin Yan Tai, on the slope of Kalima," Edris replied. "She'll tell you."

  "But father—"

  Priamnor tensed and moaned, clutching Ryel's wrists. When he next spoke, it was in his own voice, now tight with pain. "It's so cold. I'll freeze to death."

  "No, Priam. You're going to sleep."

  Panic, dazed and thrashing. "I don't want to dream. Don't let me dream."

  "You won't." Ryel bent and breathed a word in Priamnor's ear. The prince slid downward, and would have fallen from his chair had not Ryel held him.

  You were here, the wysard thought numbly, grazing his cheek against the Sovran's cropped black hair. You were here, father. Truly Priam must have the Art within him, asleep but strong, to have embodied the emanations of your rai however briefly. If your rai is within the Void, and there exists a way to rejoin your body with your spirit, I will find it. But what dangers must I pass through first? And who are these Northern captains, and what is this talk of war?

  No answers came. A while the wysard reflected on what had passed, and arrived at the painful conclusion that he was choiceless. He would have to find Lady Srin Yan Tai as soon as might be, which meant the next day, at first light.

  The wysard looked down at Priamnor. "You won't want me to leave," he murmured. "So I won't tell you. But I'll return as soon as I can."

  As he spoke, Ryel took the carnelian scent-vial and opened it close to Priam's face. Ineffable sweetness overwhelmed the air. The Sovran murmured incoherently, then with a sudden start looked about him, wide awake.

  "What happened to me? Where was I?"

  Ryel drew his first deep breath for a long time, filling his lungs with fragrance, feeling it give him strength. "I wish I knew, Priam."

  "Did I say anything?"

  "Talk of strange cities and wars. Don't you remember?"

  Priamnor again shook his head. "Nothing." The Sovran appeared to consider a moment, then gave a tentative stretch. "Everything that gave me pain is gone. I was sick with wine, but now I'm well. And I was weary unto death, too, but now I'm as alive as if I'd slept a dozen hours. What magic did you work on me?"

  "None, I swear," Ryel replied. "It was Transcendence that restored you."

  Priamnor smiled from sheer deliverance. "That's exactly how I feel—restored. Returned to what I was. I'm still cold, but some of that sun will warm me again. Come, join me."

  In the delicious radiance they again lay side by side on silken rugs, basking in the cloudless heat. His chin resting on his folded arms, Priamnor gazed out at the rooftops and the towers of Almancar the Bright, now burning gold in the fullness of the late afternoon. "I have heard that Markul greatly differs from this city."

  You should know, Ryel thought. You have seen both. But aloud he said, "The richness of Markul rivals that of Almancar, but as night does day."

  "I have heard of its eternal mists, and its dark towers," Priam said. "What do they study there? Alchemy, I suppose, and raising of the dead, and the search for eternal youth."

  Ryel had to smile. "The citizens of Markul scorn all endeavors to use the Art in the service of gain, and have come to believe after many trials that death is final, and youth finite." But he did not speak of the place between death and life, and he remembered the voice of Edris, that still echoed in his heart.

  "And what of Elecambron?" prompted the Sovran.

  Ryel considered the right reply. "Its denizens share Markul's contempt for the world's riches and allurements, but they are most ardent in their attempts to probe the limits of death and see beyond."

  "Have any succeeded?"

  "None, so far as is known. But in other Arts they are most powerful, and dangerous."

  "Are not the wysards of Ormala the worst of all? I could tell those two were worthless, even before my father chose them."

  For the first time since their ghastly deaths Ryel remembered Smimir and Rickrasha. "The Ormalans are the most active in the World, and of the lowest order. They are the alchemists, and the casters of malignant and prurient spells. But their Art is base and simple, and they have no power to command the spirits of the air for their purposes, a capacity which only those of Elecambron and Markul possess."

  "What of Tesba?"

  "They employ the Art solely for art's sake—for idle things sometimes, like the creation of huge jewels and strange flowers, the concoction of fantastic drugs, and the continual quest for new heights of pleasure. But they also create wondrous music and paintings and books, which we of Markul greatly esteem. Unlike Markul and Elecambron they come to the Art young, and form unions and raise families like folk of the World; but unlike folk of the World, they live in harmony and peace."

  "I'd not object to such a life." Priamnor mused. Watching a butterfly float past in a shimmer of emerald and orange, he held out his hand, where the bright-winged insect settled like a quivering jewel. The delicate iridescence of its wings seemed to color his thoughts. "Now that we speak of pleasures, there's someplace I would take you—someplace I haven't been for a long time, and which I doubt has an analogue even in Tesba. But the clothes we've been wearing won't pass there. We'll need robes of the true Almancarian style, gorgeous and extravagant. I'll find some for you."

  Ryel remembered Lord Nestris' parting gift of rich garb, now carefully packed in Jinn's saddlebags. "I have them."

  "You should have worn them in my father's presence-chamber."

  "I wished to be seen as I am."

  "You would have been." Before Ryel could ask what those words meant, the young Sovran gently waved his finger, and the butterfly floated away. "We'll go and dress, and meet again as soon as I'm done conferring with the imperial archivist."

  "Some matter of state?" Ryel asked.

  Priamnor regarded the wysard steadily. "A matter that might interest you, as it happens. I may discuss it with you tonight, when we've reached our destination."

  "But where will you take me?"

  The Dranthene emperor smiled for the second time that day. "To worship," he replied.

  *****

  They scarcely recognized each other when they met again.

  Ryel found his voice first. "And I thought I was gaudy."

  The new Sovran of Almancar had swept in like another sunset, arrayed magnificently in trailing raiment of deep rose satin brocaded in emerald-blue. A light mantle fell in a rustling torrent of gold-silk mosaic, its collar framing his head, its folds rippling about his shoulders to the ground. Jeweled bracelets clasped his sun-darkened arms, and a rare pearl hung from his right ear, but he wore no rings save one, a fair cabochon spinel the color of his eyes. Ryel noted with astonishment that the Sovran's face was lightly painted in the manner of Almancar, with kohl-rimmed eyes and lips darkened with carmine, increasing his resemblance to Diara so forcefully that Ryel could do nothing else but stare.

  Priamnor adjusted a robe-fold, suddenly mindful of Ryel's wonderment, although wholly unaware of its depth. "I hope you weren't kept waiting long for me."

  "Not at all," Ryel finally replied. "How was your conference with the archivist?"

  "Enlightening." Distractedly the Sovran plucked at an encumbering sleeve. "These will take some getting used to." He rubbed his pearl-powdered cheek. "As will this paint. I would suggest that you use some yourself, did
I not know you a thoroughgoing Rismai." He in his turn studied the wysard's dress, critically approving. "So. Excellent, that robe of yours, and almost as gaudy as mine. But where could you have found it? That antique cut is the highest fashion at present. I'm half envious."

  "These are quite old," Ryel replied with a smile. "They belonged to one of my City."

  Chin in hand—a smooth-shaven chin, now—the Sovran surveyed Ryel. "He must have been notable in my city both for excess of riches and dearth of subtlety. But flame-orange is a color that suits you, fortunately."

  "My thanks—I think." Ryel did not mention that instead of the requisite under-robes he wore his Steppes gear, shirt and breeches and boots, beneath the light voluminous silk. He also thought it best not to divulge that he had visited the stables while Priam was with the archivist, and that now Jinn's saddlebags were ready packed for the secret departure he intended to take at first light, with his horseman's coat and Edris' cloak tightly rolled up and fitted easily and unobtrusively into the deep leather casings along with his journeybag. His weapons, however, he kept. Priam did not seem to notice, since he too was armed with a light rapier, quite clearly more for show than use.

  "We should be on our way at once," Priamnor said. "We have barely an hour."

  "But where are we going?" Ryel asked.

  "I told you—to worship. To one of the city's greatest temples."

  "When did you become religious?"

  "I didn't. Come, we're wasting time." A little while later, Ryel was holding a torch and leading Jinn down an underground corridor, following Priamnor who likewise held a burning brand against the dark as he guided a priceless Fang'an gelding.

  "This passage was built many hundreds of years ago," Priamnor said, his soft voice echoing against the walls. "As the cobwebs indicate, I haven't used it for some time."

  "Where does it emerge?"

  "You'll see."

  Uneasily Ryel studied his friend. "You appear very agitated within."

  At those words Priamnor suddenly halted and turned about, holding up his torch to Ryel's face, examining it with that piercing scrutiny he had shown at their first meeting. "Do I not have reason? Say you had by merest chance found a treasure beyond price, one upon which your life depended, only to learn that it had been yours for many years though all unknown to you—would you not greet that knowledge with emotion?" His beauty flickered in the torchlight, grave and searching. Then without staying for reply he turned again, and continued down the corridor. Baffled as to what Priam might mean, Ryel followed.

  They came at last to a great portal of solid iron, where two strong servants awaited them and opened the door with much effort. The men only with greatest reluctance accepted Priamnor's gift of gold, and wished to accompany their ruler for his greater safety, but were refused.

  "You've devoted slaves," Ryel remarked as they mounted and began to ride.

  Priamnor shook his head. "I keep no slaves. All my servants are free men and women, a custom I hope will someday be the rule in this city." He glanced at Ryel. "Would that change please you?"

  "Very much."

  "Good."

  He said nothing more. After a time Ryel spoke. "We're among gardens."

  "The city's loveliest," Priamnor said as he drew a fold of his cloak around his face. "They adjoin the temple grounds."

  Many others were out enjoying the evening air. Under flowering trees hung with lanterns, richly-garbed groups of revelers sang and played musical instruments and heralded the rising moon with lifted wine-cups. The canal along which Priamnor and Ryel rode was crowded with slim lamp-lit boats carrying passengers likewise rejoicing in the warm night.

  "This is beautiful," Ryel murmured.

  The Sovran laughed, though not with overmuch mirth. "It gets better. Look, and tell me where we are."

  Ryel followed Priamnor's indicating gesture, and found a vision made real. "But this is the Temple of Atlan!"

  Priamnor reined in, studying the gorgeous scene before him. "The very same. The temple's gates are the entrance to the Diamond Heaven. For the three days of your illness, the Heaven was in official mourning for the Sovran's passing; but now those strictures are lifted, and joy seems unconfined."

  "But what if you're recognized?"

  "The Diamond Heaven has not known me for five years, and in those days my hair was longer than yours, and my face bearded," Priam replied. "If anything, you will be mistaken for me—we resemble one another remarkably, as I observed earlier. But it hardly signifies, since we'll both be disguised with these." As the Sovran spoke, he took two silken half-masks from his saddlebag and handed Ryel one. They were exquisite and fantastic, hooded and owl-horned, glittering with jewels and precious embroidery. Priamnor donned his and turned to Ryel. "Tell me now if you know me."

  I will always know you, Ryel thought. "Won't you be recognized by your smooth face?"

  "I think not. The moment I shaved clean, it instantly became the fashion among the young bloods. But come, we're just in time for the night's first ceremony."

  Many others had left the park and the canal to ascend the temple steps. But there were some who did not climb the great marble stairs—not aristocrats or rich merchants, but laboring folk of the Fourth District come to marvel and envy. In their midst a compelling voice thundered forth.

  "Aye, gape upon them! There they go, the pampered slaves of the Whore-Goddess, to wallow like gilded swine in debauchery paid for with your brows' sweat and life's blood!"

  Priamnor and Ryel had been tying up their horses, but now they turned to that voice, which both of them knew well. The prophet Michael stood on a mounting-block nearby, glaring into the torchlit dark with burning black eyes. Already followers clustered about him, and some of the maskers halted on the stairs, to listen and jeer.

  "An hour of my instruction would teach you Atlan's mysteries, Michael!"

  The wysard monk's wolfish eyes darted to the masked woman who'd spoken, and blazed with devouring fire as they swept across the carnal snares revealed by her clinging satin. His deep voice snarled disdain.

  "There speaks some drug-sotted slut, or some drunken adulteress, come to pant at the lewd gyrations of the Golden Whore's slave priesthood, then tumble and roll in a brothel's bed! This is your aristocracy, O Almancar! This, your fabled greatness! This, the filth that the Master will wash clean, and soon!" With consummate scorn his glare swept the glittering maskers on the temple steps, from top to bottom, then fell upon Ryel and Priamnor. His cruel lips parted over his dazzling teeth, and he grinned like a daimon before turning his gaze upward to the pale towers and columned buildings.

  He lifted his bare hard arms, shut his eyes, raised his voice. "Yes, unhappy Almancar, this is your royalty, this your greatness, fallen at the feet of brazen strumpets and catamite minions! Even your new Sovran, the chaste Priamnor, comes here to revive his brute lust, his father not yet cold in the grave!" His cruel eyes opened again, raking the crowd like knives, finding Priam and narrowing like a beast of prey. "What brings you here, last of the Dranthene? Was it not enough, the clap that nearly killed you? What would you do with whores, impotent as you are? Or would you now play the woman, being unfit for anything else?"

  The listening crowd gasped as one, and Ryel would have spoken in fury had Priamnor not caught his wrist, gripping hard.

  "No words. Let him rave." But he was pale beneath his mask.

  One of the soldiers of the city guard turned furiously on Michael, half-drawing his sword. "Watch that gutter tongue of yours, ranting fool! The Sovran Priamnor forsook the Diamond Heaven years ago!"

  Michael eyes flashed like edged steel. "How can you be so certain, when Atlan's lechers go masked? How would you know if he were at this moment in your midst?" And as the crowd murmured among themselves, high and low alike, the wild prophet spoke again, his voice an echoing shout as his eyes darted from one mask to the next. "You are of Atlan's crew tonight, Priamnor Dranthene, you and your wysard favorite! May these good subjects that you s
corn bear witness to your love for a teller of the truth!" And he tore the ragged robe from his shoulders, and with damnable pride bared his scarred back to the crowd. A woman nearby screamed and fainted, and guards at once came forward and broke up the throng, driving Michael from the temple steps with blows and shoves that Ryel knew Elecambron's greatest adept would not bear for much longer. Priamnor would have to be warned of the prophet's real powers, and the terrible danger they threatened.

  But now was not the time. "Much as I pity the poor fanatic, I'm glad that's over," the Sovran murmured, regret mingling with revulsion in his voice. "Come, we're late for the service."

  Ryel followed Priamnor, forgetting the dirty black demagogue in the feel of the gently jostling crowd, of the soft stray impacts of rich fabric and the mingling of a hundred rare perfumes liberally applied to skin consummately well-washed, of bright laughter and the caressing accents of the city's sweet language. Without exception everyone was gorgeously and fantastically masked and robed, and Ryel wondered at it.

  "The laws require, for the better reputation of the city, that Atlan's adherents go richly disguised—a means of encouraging both expense and anonymity," Priam replied. "The worship of Atlan is more than a little costly, but I've come well provided for us both," the prince continued, smiling at the wysard's astonishment as he threw a double handful of gold into the vessel held out by a forbiddingly vast door-guard. "Here's something for you, too, ilandrakis." And he thrust a silken pouch heavy with coin into one of Ryel's hanging sleeves. "Now you'll be irresistible. Let's go in."

  Ryel hesitated. "But what if your identity is suspected, and your mask removed by force?"

  Under the mask's edge, Priamnor's mouth smiled again, this time somewhat tightly. "I doubt that will occur. The penalty for such transgression is death." As he spoke the last word, he and Ryel entered the temple.

  *****

  Often in time to come the wysard would remember the Temple of Atlan, and with each remembrance find his Rismaian upbringing and his Markulit training severely tested. He had grown up in a hard land, among a stern people distrustful of luxury. The vacillations of the flesh he had studied dutifully and with as much detachment as he could summon during his study of the Art, and had wondered at their power over mankind. But Atlan's worship made him fully understand the essential sanctity of pleasure, and he was awed and humbled by the depth of that comprehension. Every sense that might bring delight to the spirit was exalted, from the silken scented cushions whereon the worshippers reclined at their ease, to the music of ravishing sweetness, the sensual liturgy declaimed in clear lovely voices; to wine so heady that a single taste brought euphoria, passed hand to lingering hand in cups of gold; in gemmed censers exhaling the most precious of the earth's essences mingled with delicate drugs; in frescos and statuary of breathtaking beauty and unsparing eroticism, amid which the marble image of the Goddess smiled in imperial nudity. Ryel felt his eyes dazzle, his mouth dry.