The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  It was, in fact, excellent. "Will you not have some?" Ryel asked.

  Roskerrek shook his head. "I've never touched drink in all my life. No, I take that back; when I was ten I stole a drink of my father's glass, and it nearly killed me."

  "It would not harm you now."

  Roskerrek hesitated a moment, then poured his goblet half full and lifted it. "To your health, Ryel Mirai—which seems to have returned, I am glad to observe."

  Ryel returned the pledge. "To your health as well, my lord."

  "I owe it entirely to you," Roskerrek said. "My gratitude is not only for myself. From now on my poor equerry will no longer have to serve as my sick-nurse, and suffer from my mad fits." His keenly angled features clouded a moment. "I had no idea I'd blacked Jorn's eye. He tried to hide it from me when we met again, and when he learned of my cure he wept like a child."

  Ryel thought of his last meeting with that brave good man. "His devotion is noble."

  The Count Palatine smiled. "It is indeed. Let's drink to it." He took first a tentative sip of the rich vintage, then another less wary, then a long savoring mouthful. "But this is delicious. Finally I realize why Verlande always seemed so sorry for me; surely he's been exasperated too, since he chooses wines with great care to compliment his dishes, so everyone tells me. Speaking of which, they're bringing in the first course."

  Verlande's cuisine was both robust and subtle, concocted with elaboration and presented splendidly. Ryel, who had expected insubstantial delicacies fit for an invalid, ate almost with greed, and Roskerrek seconded him. As if by tacit agreement the conversation was wide-ranging and pleasant, inspired by the many subjects in the Count Palatine's library.

  "It's luck that you have such a good command of Hryelesh," the Count Palatine said as the dessert came in. "My speaking Almancarian is nonexistent beyond a few phrases, I'm sorry to say, although I can read it well enough to enjoy the epic cycles of Destimar."

  "I'm glad for you," Ryel said. "They are extremely beautiful, and don't translate well."

  "May I ask why you bothered to learn the language of this land, dwelling in the Steppes as you were?"

  "For the same reasons you learned Almancarian. Much of the best literature in the world is written in Hryelesh, and reading it has given me great pleasure. Besides, I didn't dwell all my life in Rismai."

  As he said the last words, he inwardly cursed himself for his carelessness brought on by the heady wine, but it was too late. "Where else have you lived?" Roskerrek asked, clearly interested. "You must be conversant in the ways of many a land, to judge from your manners; from the first you've seemed far more than a mere wandering healer."

  "You're kind, but I've found my manners sorely lacking in this city," Ryel said, glad of a chance to turn the talk. "I blundered grossly soon after you and I parted at the headquarters, and inadvertently insulted the Countess of Fayal by calling her a gentleman."

  Roskerrek's eyes widened. "Blest Argane. I wish I'd been there to see that. You're lucky she didn't challenge you to a duel."

  "Luckily for me, there wasn't time."

  "I should have warned you at the outset. My apologies." Having poured more wine for them both, Roskerrek sat back and seemed to ruminate aloud as he held his glass to the candlelight. "A more quarrelsome vixen I've never had the misfortune to contend with. A brawling debauched hoyden, so ignorant and untaught that she can scarce write her name, or read a sentence without stumbling, or find Hryeland on a map…and the only female member of the Brotherhood of the Sword, which makes her all the more prideful and arrogant."

  "By every god," the wysard said despite himself. "I never expected that last bit of information."

  "It hardly overjoys me, either," the Count Palatine said, his tone grim. "Many think that royal favor played a role and coerced her joining, but I have to give Valrandin her due, and admit that she passed the initiation solely on her own merits. Her adversary was the Earl of Rothsaye, who has no love for her and showed no mercy during their combat. Despite his advantage of size and years, she held her own and got in the first cut."

  "Have you ever dueled with her?"

  "No. I never will, no matter how much and loudly she petitions." Roskerrek reached for an apple, holding it up and admiring its polished blush; and his frown faded. "Man's garb becomes her well. But you should see her gowned, with a touch of color to heighten her looks. I recall one of her dresses—a plum-colored satin that makes her shoulders and her neck seem white as a swan's… " he broke off, coloring slightly, and hastily set the apple down again. "I'm speaking foolishly. Perhaps I'm getting drunk."

  Ryel had noted that the Count Palatine seemed in no way affected by the wine, despite now having drunk three glasses of it and more. "I'd say that you're speaking like a man in perfect health."

  Roskerrek half smiled, and seemed to debate inwardly a moment. "There is another who would benefit from your healing powers. Come with me, if you would."

  And before Ryel could reply, Roskerrek pushed away from the table and stood up. Leading the wysard back to his study, he abruptly threw open the doors of an inlaid cabinet set into the wall. A double portrait, life-sized and half-length, of two young soldiers in rich black uniforms and armor of gold-chased burnished steel, gazed back at Ryel with proud challenging eyes. They were both of a height, although one was perhaps twenty-five, the other just out of his teens. The eyes of both were unsettling pale gray, their skin was all but bloodless, and their hair was strange scarlet red, falling in long heavy skeins. They stood side against side, the elder with his arm about the younger man's shoulders, the younger's hand on the elder's waist.

  "My brother Michael and myself, when we first entered the army," the Count Palatine said.

  "It is a magnificent painting," Ryel said, unable at first to note anything but the workmanship.

  "I commissioned it. The artist is greatly famed, and I believe this work to be her best. She never flatters her subjects, as should be evident." Roskerrek contemplated the painting awhile before speaking again. "Save for his coloring, Michael had the good fortune to resemble my father, who was considered one of the handsomest men in the North. As you might have observed, my brother wears the battle-jacket of the Ninth, famed as the Black Dragons, the cavalry's elite force of which he was colonel—a regiment that neither gave nor accepted quarter in the field."

  Ryel nodded slowly, remembering that encounter in Markul. It was as if he stood at his Glass once more; as if the painted semblance would at any moment glower a frown, and address him rudely.

  "His abilities were superior to those of officers twice his age," Roskerrek continued. "A braver soldier never held command." He glanced at Ryel. "You might have heard of my brother while you were in Almancar."

  "I saw him there."

  "I envy you." After another silence, Roskerrek spoke again. "We have been apart many years, and I have missed him more than I have power to express. We were devoted to one another as boys, and our shared suffering only tightened the bond. We never quarreled, save when pain drove us to violence we regretted immediately afterward. Because my illness was graver than my brother's, I was educated privately; but Michael was able to attend the university of this city, where he studied natural philosophy, in which he had a capacity approaching genius. However, his skepticism incurred much exasperation among the theological faculty, who were plagued by his continual asking of questions to which there were no ready answers. His was a great and restless intellect that scorned all dogma." The Count Palatine's cold eyes had warmed as they gazed upon the portrait, but now grew somber. "They say my brother now goes about unwashed and in rags, with his head shaven. Is this true?"

  "I regret to say it is."

  "How that could come about I've no idea. He was always so cleanly in his person, so elegant in his dress. But that was a long time ago, before… " He turned to the wysard, suddenly. "What is your City, Ryel Mirai?"

  There was no mistaking the implicit capitalization of the word. Taken aback by th
e question, Ryel sought refuge in evasion. "I don't understand what—"

  Roskerrek made a fierce gesture like the tearing away of a veil. "Enough of this dissembling—Lord Ryel. Both you and I know that Michael is a lord adept of Elecambron. I have not his talents, but I assure you I know a wysard's work when I see it." He pushed back his sleeve to resentfully bare his now all but unmarked forearm. "Nothing less than the Art could have healed my sickness, and nothing less could have effaced the evidence of my sacrifices to Argane, Queen of Swords. You are a Markulit, are you not?"

  Ryel lifted his chin. "I am."

  Ever with his searching pale eyes on Ryel, Roskerrek slid the sleeve back down to his wrist, settling the lace of the shirt-cuff. "You're very young to be of that City."

  "I was born to the Art," Ryel replied. "My father was a wysard."

  "What was his name?"

  "Edris Desharem Alizai."

  The name ensorcelled Roskerrek into white stone. But when he at last could speak his voice rang with unprecedented warmth. "Edris was your father, and a wysard? But when did he turn to the Art?"

  "At the age of thirty," Ryel said.

  "And when did you?"

  "At fourteen," the wysard replied. "I dwelt with him for twelve years in Markul."

  The pale eyes glinted. "But this is incredible! Did he ever tell you of Warraven?"

  "Only in passing," Ryel said. "But your father was a great fighter, as I understand."

  Roskerrek gave a wry half-laugh. "So was yours. Not once but often I heard my father speak of his friend, the wild Steppes brave who in the thick of battle had saved his life, and was one of the most honored of Argane's faithful." Roskerrek's expression, hitherto eagerly alight, darkened again. "But I recall that you did not include his name when you first told me yours. Was his passing recent?"

  Ryel swallowed. "Yes."

  "Ah. That's hard."

  "It has been."

  They were both silent, remembering and mourning. "That cloak of yours was my father's," Roskerrek said at last. "I knew it from first—and your wearing of it was the only reason I engaged you as a physician. I had no hope whatsoever that you would cure me. There is a tear near its hem, small, three-cornered, mended so neatly one can scarcely find it—am I not right?"

  Ryel stared, surprised. "You are."

  "That tear was mended by my mother's hands," Roskerrek said. "How did your father come into possession of Warraven's mantle?"

  "Edris used his Art to bring it to Markul," Ryel replied. "It became my own at his death."

  "By rights it should have been mine. But I'll not deprive you of it."

  "I thank you, because I would sooner part with my skin."

  Another silence, broken slowly. "Ask your question, Lord Ryel."

  The wysard lost no time. "I believe you have knowledge of the whereabouts of Guyon de Grisainte Desrenaud, Earl of Anbren. I wish to find him."

  "Find him? And why?"

  "My reasons are private," Ryel replied.

  "I cannot tell you where he is."

  The wysard felt a sharp jab at his brain's core. "But I thought you knew."

  "I do know," Roskerrek said, emotionless now. "But I cannot tell you."

  Ryel stared at him, fighting a cramp somewhere deep. "You would have died without me, damn it."

  The Count Palatine calmly nodded. "I am sure I would have, and very soon."

  "And out of your mind."

  "I have no doubt of that."

  Ryel struck the wall. "You gave me your word!"

  "And I deeply regret having to take it back; but I gave it first to Guyon Desrenaud, who has no wish to be found. I cannot betray an oath I swore in the Temple of the Sword."

  Ryel turned away, bitter with frustration, as Roskerrek went over to the table where they had both left their swords, reaching for the wysard's weapon. "May I look at this?"

  "If you must."

  The Count Palatine carried the sword to the light. "I've always admired the Steppes tagh, but have never fought against one."

  "I'd be more than glad to give you a chance," Ryel replied, with hard irony.

  Faintly Roskerrek smiled. "Would you." His pale eyes narrowed as he read the runes on the blade. "This is a Brotherhood sword. Your father's, I take it?"

  "Yes."

  The Count Palatine eyed the wysard keenly awhile before speaking. "You well realize, I trust, that you have no right whatever to wear this. But you might earn that privilege. And were you a member of the Fraternity of the Sword, I by the Brotherhood's laws could keep no secret whatsoever from you in the Temple of Argane."

  "Then I ask to join the order."

  Roskerrek swung the slim blade in a smooth arc, noting the way its brilliant metal caught the light. "You must swear to abjure all other gods."

  "I swear it readily."

  The Count Palatine lowered the blade level with his waist, trying a difficult twisting sideways thrust, executing it to perfection. "And you must promise to use no Art. This really is a remarkable weapon."

  "I won't need my Art," Ryel said. But watching those trained and expert movements, he was far from sure.

  Roskerrek continued to examine the tagh with calmly intent interest. "Brotherhood swords are wrought not of steel, but of metal infinitely stronger and signally rare, its chief component found only in Argane's temple. Surely you have observed the brilliant luster, which never dims? The way the blade is always keen as death, and never rusts? The way it weighs almost nothing? You'll also find that it can very quickly be brought to white heat, and hold that heat for what seems a distressingly long time, without the least loss of temper." He gripped the hilt in both hands, trying its balance, his stance and guard those of a Steppes tagh master. "This unique alloy is forged and wrought by the ateliers of the two armorers of the Order, men more jewelers than smiths, more artists than artisans. I can tell which of them made this one by the lamination of the metal. A Brotherhood sword is the work of many months and extreme expense, and not until the aspirant passes the initiation can runes be inscribed upon the blade."

  "And in the case of failure?" Ryel asked.

  "The sword is hung in Argane's sanctuary, there to remain forever."

  Ryel gave a low whistle. "I daresay the aspirant feels some regret at that."

  "One is past regret when dead—a condition in which an aspirant now and again finds himself," Roskerrek answered with meaning irony. "The ritual concludes with a combat in honor of the goddess, the aspirant's adversary being chosen by the chief priest; the bout is fought stripped to the waist, and swords white from the fire can inflict terrible brands early in the combat. Are you quite sure you still wish to join?"

  The wysard smiled. "Quite."

  "Then I'll confer with the Brotherhood officers tonight regarding your fitness to join the order. Such deliberations customarily span months, but the singularity of your case merits an exception."

  "For that consideration I thank you." And Ryel held out his hand for his weapon, but Roskerrek shook his head.

  "This is no longer yours. It will be kept in Argane's care until such time as you are worthy of it. If you require a sword, I'll lend you one of mine."

  "I'll wear none but my father's," Ryel replied, fighting down his indignation. "My Steppes dagger will serve me in the meanwhile."

  "As you wish," said Roskerrek. "But one thing more. Did Lord Edris ever tell you of his initiation into the Brotherhood?"

  "He never spoke of the Brotherhood," Ryel replied, coolly now.

  "I see he kept his oath," Roskerrek said, in the same tone. "Well, perhaps you may have observed he bore a scar."

  Ryel lifted his chin. "My father had scars all over his body."

  The Count Palatine palely half-smiled. "But only one on his left side, a deep diagonal running from under the arm nearly to the navel—I see you remember it. Warraven gave him that."

  "And how did Edris reciprocate?"

  Roskerrek regarded Ryel steadily. "My father had no scars save thos
e he gave himself, in Argane's service." As if to mitigate the severity of that statement, he added, "I wish you to stay in my house as my guest for as long as you wish, unless you have other obligations."

  "I accept with thanks," Ryel said, giving a slight bow, but both chagrined and unsettled within. To be without his tagh was bad enough; to have to deal with initiation into a Northern blood-cult was still worse; and to have the demon-bane of the Red Esserns throbbing in his veins was little short of live damnation.

  At that moment a sharp double knock sounded at the door, and Alleron entered. Bowing low first to Roskerrek, the captain strode forward and dropped to his knee before Ryel. "Physician, from this moment on I worship you as a god." And to the wysard's astonished embarrassment, Alleron grabbed his hand and kissed it.

  Seeing Ryel's consternation, the Count Palatine spoke sharply. "Equerry, get up this instant. I command you."

  "May you always, m'lord," Alleron said, obeying at once. His normally impassive features glowed nevertheless. "I confess I'm still amazed to see you in complete health, after these many years. It's news too green to digest yet."

  The Count Palatine laughed for what the wysard realized was the first time since their meeting. "I'll be forever grateful that I let you force me into accepting the services of Ryel Mirai, who has truly proven a great doctor."

  "He's further famed than you know, m'lord. And greater than either of us might guess."

  "What do you mean?"

  Both Ryel and Roskerrek asked that, almost in unison, both abruptly. Alleron glanced from his master's face to the wysard's, plainly taken aback. "Well, the physician has been summoned to Grotherek Palace without delay, for a private interview with the Domina Bradamaine."

  The Count Palatine frowned. "Why?"

  "I don't know, m'lord. But only this hour a messenger came from the palace and gave the order."

  "If word comes from that quarter, needs must comply," said Roskerrek; but he seemed perturbed. "I'll not trespass by asking what business the Domina might have with you, Lord Ryel, much though I'd like to know. Nor will I detain you, for I have business at hand. My equerry here will attend you until our next."