The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  The Count Palatine and the wysard parted, and Ryel followed Alleron down into the courtyard for his horse.

  "I should have known you for a lord, with a horse so fine," Alleron said in his dry way; and then he gave a sharp whistle, at which Jinn emerged from the stables led by a duly respectful groom, gleaming like fresh gold, her silken mane partly braided, her tail bright as a comet's.

  "I took the liberty of looking after your darling whilst you were working my lord's cure," Alleron continued, taking the reins from the groom and handing them over to Ryel. "A gentler sweeter creature I've never met. And I'll say this for her—she's a true lady in her ways. In fact, I've met many a lady considerably less refined."

  "What do you mean, Captain?" the wysard asked.

  "Well, she won't eat anything. And the straw beneath her has stayed clean and dry ever since she was stabled, if you take my meaning."

  Ryel smiled to hide his disquiet. "She always had good manners."

  "More than most humankind I've met. Permit me, doctor." And Alleron held Ryel's stirrup, humble as a stable-hand.

  "There's no need for that, Captain," Ryel said; but the captain insisted. Damp gratitude flickered in the corner of his blackened eye. "You saved my lord's life, sir. I don't know how to thank you."

  "I can think of a way," Ryel at once replied. "What do you know of a man named Guyon Desrenaud?"

  The wysard braced himself for the kind of reaction that question had elicited from Valrandin, and was surprised and relieved when Alleron seemed to consider a long moment, then swing into the saddle of his own horse before replying quietly.

  "I knew him better than most, doctor. I was his dispatch rider during the late wars, carrying letters between him and the Domina."

  "I thought you served the Count Palatine."

  "I carried my lord's messages as well. Some there are that might tell you I'm the best rider in the realm, and can get more speed out of a mount than any other. And those sayings may well be true—but that's neither here nor there. Starklander was a man whose greatness fully matched that of my lord's, although I admit it much differed in kind. It wrung me sore when he was exiled from this land, and my one desire is to have him back in the Domina's good graces again." He dealt Ryel a wary glance. "Do you wish him good, or ill?"

  "Neither as yet," the wysard answered. "But whatever you can tell me concerning him, I would be glad to hear."

  "Showing's better than telling," Alleron said. "Come on and you'll see what I mean."

  They rode from the headquarters to the bridge that joined the city to the promontory. Once across, they came to broader streets, cleaner air, and some beauty. The dwellings increased in magnificence and pretension, as did the liveried servants who lounged within doorways or self-importantly bustled past. Then came the boundaries of the palace itself, great smooth walls of stone interspersed with panels of wrought iron, through the tracery of which one might espy wide graveled walks leading to the white and gray-rose vastness of Grotherek. Here were no gilded towers, no heaven-seeking spires; the palace stood in a massive rectangle that branched out into wings of like design. Its air of heartless frivolity struck Ryel forcibly: perfect symmetry dominated, an exactitude enhanced rather than relieved by a bewildering multiplicity of columns and pilasters and swags. The gardens surrounding the palace exhibited a similar combination of restraint and opulence: trees took geometrical forms, their natural shapes contorted with such ingenuity that the eye turned away exhausted, and the first leaves of yet-unblooming flowers were marshaled and serried in tight ranks. Despite the leafless severity of the park, citizens strolled about the gravel-walks enjoying the rare appearance of the sun, which had just found a chink among the prevailing pall of cloud and was shining brightly.

  As they rode up to the palace, they passed a band of horsemen all in the height of Northern fashion, the most comely young men Ryel had seen since Almancar, all of them tall and delicately formed, their beardless faces lovely and bold, their long locks curling in minion ringlets. Booted and spurred they were all, with swords and daggers at their sides; but as they rode by, Ryel observed their rich jewels and their excellent lace, and breathed a mist of delicious perfume, and remembered the mistake he'd made earlier in the day.

  "The Companions of the Domina," Alleron said, noting the wysard's attention. "Officers of the royal guard, all of them. Duchesses, countesses and baronesses, every one—and all of them horsebreakers, hard drinkers, and stark deadly swordswomen, so be mindful. I marvel that Valrandin isn't with them."

  "You and she didn't seem friends."

  Alleron grunted a laugh. "Not much love lost between us, I'll admit. She and I have crossed blades in the past, but never as much as we'd like. Someday we'll have it out for good and all, and she'll get what's been coming to her."

  "I think the Domina might disapprove, Captain."

  "Indeed she might. There are tales abroad concerning those two, but I'll not repeat such greasy hearsay—especially since Valrandin's a devotee of Argane, and a high-ranking one at that."

  "Yes, I learned from the Count Palatine that she's a Swordbrother."

  "Well, a Swordsister to be exact, though we have other names for her. But here's what I wished to show you before we enter the palace grounds. A sorry sight, but needful for your instruction."

  They had come to one of the outbuildings of the palace, seemingly a garden-house ringed round by a thick hedge. Behind the hedge stood a number of statues, apparently discarded or awaiting repair. All were of life size, and they made a strange deformed assembly, silent under the cold leaden sky: undraped goddesses lacking noses and limbs, headless unarmed heroes. Alleron led Ryel to an entrance amid the shrubbery, and the two men dismounted and passed through the gateway.

  "Here. I once knew this statue when it stood at the Domina's very chamber-door. Now it's as discredited and abused as the man whose likeness it was meant to be—although none of the world's art could hope to come near Starklander's self."

  The statue Alleron indicated had been decapitated. The captain sought for a moment among the high weeds that surrounded the statues, gently cursing as he did so. Then he straightened up slowly, holding a bronze head in his hands. "Help me with this, if you would."

  When the head was balanced atop its body, Ryel looked upon the semblance of a warrior leaning on his sword, as if surveying a field of combat after a battle. Weariness sat on every limb, yet the head was as proudly upheld as if the trumpets were but now sounding the attack. Tawny bronze had been wrought to resemble life in proportion and gesture, while gold rubbed into the hair approximated the effects of sun and wind. Muted silver gleamed on breastplate and wrist-guards—its only armor—but the face needed no such embellishment. Such had Ryel envisioned the hero Drostal, in the epics he had read as a boy. He had to look well upward to fully admire the proud immobile face. "By every god," he breathed, marveling.

  "He was god enough for me," Alleron said, his voice suddenly rough. "Many a time I've seen him standing in that selfsame way, catching his breath after the fight was done. And if by chance you're wondering, he really and indeed resembled this image in looks and size, save that all the world's art is helpless to catch the way his eyes lit, whether in kindness or in anger."

  "It's truly a great work."

  Alleron nodded. "Randon Ithier's masterpiece, and the only known likeness of Guyon Desrenaud extant in all the Barrier—he forbade any artist to portray him whilst he dwelt here. Ithier was forced to disguise himself as one of the soldiery, the better to observe his subject. And he did well; made the resemblance faithful to a hair, save that Starklander never wore this much armor, only a breastplate and wrist-guards."

  "He seems a born leader."

  "A reckless one, however, without a thought of death for himself; but he had the tenderest care for his men, who'd have followed him through hell if he'd led them. It passes belief that he received no more hurt during the wars than some scratches and bruises, for he was always in the very center of
the fight. Great Argane loved him well."

  A voice issued from nearby. "Such a bootlicking dog-robber you are, Captain. If Redbane heard you, he'd be jealous."

  Instantly Alleron whirled about, hand on sword-hilt, eyes furious. "You're not wanted here, Valrandin."

  The Countess appeared from behind a statue, and tossed her dark curls. "As if I gave a rat's arse. The Domina sent me to escort your friend to her audience-chamber. She's now at leisure, having just driven away the Tyanian ambassador." To Ryel she swept off her plumed hat and bent in a deep bow, surprising him much. "The word's up all over the court that you've wrought Redbane's heal. I never thought you'd succeed."

  Alleron's glare would freeze fire. "Call my lord by his right name, vixen. I swear, if you weren't a Swordbrother…"

  "Sister. Give Redbane a kiss for me when you see him next, dog-robber, and be sure to use your tongue."

  With some of the foulest curses Ryel had ever heard, Alleron jerked his sword halfway out of the scabbard, but the wysard halted it from issuing further with a swift hand-grip and a quiet word of Art.

  "I'll not keep the Domina waiting. Captain," he said. "And I feel very sure that the Count Palatine wouldn't want you quarreling with this lady."

  "Lady." Alleron spat feelingly. "We'll finish this up another time, Countess." He deliberately and indecently mispronounced her title, but Valrandin only laughed.

  "The time will find itself, dog-robber. I look forward to it. Bannerman, come with me." But for a long moment she stood regarding Desrenaud's statue. "He looks a hero," she said softly. "Just as he should."

  Alleron ignored her, and addressed Ryel. "Shall I wait for you, m'lord? I'll be glad to."

  "I'll find my way back, Captain. But thank you."

  They parted, and Ryel followed Valrandin to the palace. The guards looked askance at Ryel's Steppes gear, but Valrandin's piercing glare and a very few words elicited instant deference. The Countess led the wysard through vast halls lined with travertine columns and ranks of statues in bronze and marble, halls thronged with courtiers and their hangers-on loitering to no apparent purpose. Heady, riotous richness belied the chill symmetry of the palace's exterior, for here every wall was glazed with gold-leaf or draped in tapestry and brocade, or paneled with mirrors that reflected the brilliant costumes, mannered demeanor and boredom of the court; every floor of inlaid stone or intricate parquet, polished to perilous smoothness; every ceiling thronged with fabulous beings sporting in nacreous billows of cloud; every statue caught in some ecstasy of violence, half the body lost in tumultuous drapery, half emerging naked-limbed and wild-eyed, gesturing in every variation of high emotion. Energy and impatience had been translated into architecture and ornament; everything seemed on the point of flowing or flying.

  The colors furthered the effect in their rich acidity of glowing crimson and flame-orange, cobalt and citron, peacock and magenta and hot violet. Yet in the presence of this superabundant richness and energy Ryel could not help a shiver of unease; the coldness he had sensed in the palace's exterior now seemed to penetrate his being. The sameness of the deformities, the unvarying elongations and distortions of the human forms and the mindless agitation of their facial expressions, the repetitious irregularity of decorative motif, were both wearisome and disturbing, as was the insistent emphasis on harsh light, unshadowed line, impossible attitude, perverse subject matter. It set his teeth on edge, unstrung his nerves; he remembered Markul's antique blacks, malachite greens and slate grays, the smooth and somber austerity softened by the uncertain misty light, and sighed at the recollection.

  Valrandin heard the sigh, and followed the wysard's glance to the ceiling, which was covered with an apotheosis boiling over with naked winged figures and gold-glowing clouds. The lieutenant grimaced in sympathy.

  "Trash of the last reign," she said. "That's Regnier, the Domina's brother who reigned last, being carried up to bliss in the arms of his catamite favorites—each a faithful portrait, I understand, even to the prick. The beasts … "

  They came at last to a pair of tall portals carved with the royal insignia. Two Companions stood without, swords drawn; Valrandin returned their salutes and smiles with offhand courtesy. Knocking thrice at the door she entered, Ryel following.

  "M'Domina, here's the man you wished to see."

  The figure at the end of the room looked up from the papers covering the work-table. The room was windowless, its darkness relieved only by a cluster of candles; their light fell full on Bradamaine, Domina of Hryeland. Coming as he had from the brilliance of the palace and the day, Ryel's eyes were unused to the sudden change; the Domina, at first a blur, took on form but gradually, as if surfacing from deep space, reminding the wysard eerily of his first encounter with Michael Essern. She wore complete black that melted into the shadows of the chamber; only her head was visible, and that only by slow degrees. Ryel saw the hair first of all: hair of pure silver, without curl as it was without color, falling unbound to her shoulders in straight heavy masses. The face next, its still-youthful features at odds with its silver frame; a marble mask, equivocal in feature, aquiline-nosed and deep-eyed, of that uncanny pallor that colors hot red at the least provocation and freezes white as suddenly. Then like a stab the mouth—brooding red, voluptuous, commanding, carnal, set in the marble and the silver like a living jewel part flower, part ruby, the bloom poisonous and the gem false. But the eyes, last of all to emerge clearly, held Ryel fixed: ice-eyes the blue of diamond-glitter, fringed with pale lashes. The image, slow to form, seemed to rest suspended in the darkness like an alien moon; and then the red lips parted, speaking in a voice low and a little rough, like the after-tang of honey.

  "Sir, tell me who you are."

  "I am Ryel Mirai, a physician," the wysard replied, bowing.

  The voice was unimpressed. "What else?"

  "A Rismai of the Inner Steppes."

  Again that harsh indifferent voice. "What else?"

  "Nothing else, most exalted."

  "Are you sure?" The woman rose from her work, coming around to join him and Valrandin, and the wysard saw that the Domina Bradamaine wore men's clothes, black velvet doublet slashed with crimson satin, black velvet breeches, and boots of supple black leather downturned at the knee. She had none of woman's superfluity in her flesh; all was hard, tight, planed smooth, sudden and strong. Save for the fullness of her mouth and the curve of her eyebrows, no woman showed in her face; yet her voice was that of an enchantress—a Northern one, speaking a form of Hryelesh more rugged and archaic than Ryel had yet heard. And she was very tall, so tall that she met Ryel's eyes levelly as she stood close to him and spoke again. "Naught else? I would think you something more. A wandering prince of Destimar, belike."

  Gabriel Valrandin laughed as Ryel did what he could to control his astonishment. "He must be a magic prince out of one of his people's epics," the lieutenant said, "for he appeared from nowhere, and undertook to cure Redbane of those ills he's had since birth."

  The Domina's ice-blue eyes arched their brows a moment before pierced the wysard to the quick. "And did you succeed, Ryel Mirai?"

  "I did, most exalted," the wysard replied.

  Bradamaine stared him through. "And how did you work his cure, when all other help has failed?"

  "My methods are confidential."

  Valrandin broke in. "However it's come about, I'm glad. I've always wanted a fair fight with Redbane, but always held back because of his sickness. Now I'll get my heart's content."

  Bradamaine laughed, rough and short. "And he'll have your heart's blood if he can, sweeting. Or perhaps he'll draw it from someplace else." She leaned to Valrandin's ear, burying her lips in those rich abundant curls, whispering something that made the Countess first start, then make a face of deepest disgust. "And with that happy thought you may leave us, Gabriel, for I wish to speak with this bannerman alone. Try to stay out of trouble until I see you again, and come gowned to the service."

  Valrandin made an impatient mout
h, but shrugged acquiescence. "As you wish, m'Domina."

  "Wear that new frock I sent you." And she took Valrandin in her arms, embracing her warmly.

  Valrandin winced, but nodded. "If I must, m'Domina."

  Bradamaine watched her favorite's departure for some time after the door had closed; then turned to Ryel.

  "Well. Sit you down, Prince Ryel of Destimar, for we've much to discuss. Nay, not that chair— 'twill hobnail my coat of arms all over your back. It's reserved for my treasurer. Take you the other." She poured two goblets full of wine from a table that stood near, handing one to the wysard. The drink was as red as her mouth, and fiery strong; Ryel took only a sip, but Bradamaine drained half of hers at once, then dropped into an armchair, stretching out her long booted legs, throwing back her head to fix her watchet stare on the wysard's face. "So. You are surprised that I knew you?"

  Ryel inclined his head as calmly as he might. Word of his elevation to imperial rank could not possibly have reached Hallagh in so short a time, even with the swiftest of messengers. "How did you come by your information, most exalted?"

  "That I've no way to tell you," the Domina replied. "The letter was upon my work-table this morning, gold-sealed with the crown of Destimar, writ by the new Sovran's own hand. From this same letter I've learnt that you wrought the cure of the Sovrena Diara, which argues you a doctor of skill. The Sovran also let fall that you quit Almancar abruptly, and some doubts he had as to whether you were still alive. No particulars did he give, nor will I trouble you for any. But I marvel much that you wander in search for a dead man, when the Sovran's letter makes plain that he desires your return to Almancar, as forthwith as may be."

  Ryel looked away. "I would prefer not to answer, m'Domina."

  "I'll not force you." Bradamaine poured and drank more wine. "So. Finding Guy Desrenaud is your aim."