The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic

by Carolyn Kephart

  "Would you really have cut her?"

  "Only a bit. All my lord gave her was a slap on the wrist…she'll live, I suppose?"

  "Not as dangerously as she once did," the wysard replied. "You needn't expect another challenge from her ever again."

  Alleron was briefly perplexed. "What do you mean?" A pause, during which his brows stiffened above a stare. "Don't tell me my lord's maimed her beyond cure."

  "I marvel that the news doesn't give you more pleasure, Captain," Ryel said.

  Alleron groaned an oath. "You can do nothing for her?"

  "Nothing. You should be grateful."

  "I hope I'll never be so base as to rejoice in the destruction of a gallant heart and brave, sir." The captain for a time turned his entire attention to the fire. "Damnation," he muttered at last. "The poor little…" Brusquely spurning another log, he cursed the exploding sparks. "Well. Tomorrow I'll look in on her, and see how she does."

  Surprised though he was by Alleron's sympathy, Ryel had other concerns. "Did the Count Palatine meet with the Domina earlier today, as she had wished?"

  "He did, and I wish he hadn't." Alleron seemed to ruminate reluctantly. "He got up this morning more cheerful than I've ever seen him, and arrayed himself brave as a bridegroom to ride to the palace—I've never seen him finer, all in purple. You'd think he ruled this land—which some indeed think he should, myself among that number. And he was as kindly as anyone might wish, too—far beyond what he's ever been to me before, which I most gratefully credit to your cure. But when he came back around noon, he was pale as death, and would speak to no one, and shut himself up in his study. I could hear him pacing up and down, as is his way when angrily moved, and now and then I could make out a few words."

  Ryel leaned forward. "What were they?"

  Alleron reflected. "Protests. Exclaimings that he would not, he could not, that it was too vile, too treacherous, and the like."

  "Do you have any idea what he might have meant?"

  The captain lifted his shoulders. "The Domina's commanded much of my lord in time past, whether for good or ill, and he's obeyed without question in every instance. But this time, whatever she wished of him he took hard. Were it not for that interview with the Domina, he'd never have been angry enough to fight with Valrandin, so we may blame her hurts on Bradamaine, in my way of thinking." He was silent awhile, his eyes fixed on the flames of the hearth. "Well, whatever her askings and his answerings, it's no concern of yours or mine. Time now to get you into uniform."

  Before Ryel could question, the captain issued another command, and an armful of garments was brought it and arrayed on the bed. They were clothes of a military cut, beautifully made and deepest black, accompanied by the finest, whitest linen.

  "Brotherhood regalia," Alleron said. "Tailored to your measure, and likely to become you well."

  It was battle-dress of the manner Lord Michael had worn in the double portrait with his brother—cavalry gear of a demanding cut, that made the most of broad shoulders, a slim waist, taut loins and straight legs. The only difference was the insignia: instead of curling dragons, the high collar bore silver circles in which four swords met in the center, point to point.

  Ryel examined the garments with some surprise. "I thought this sort of uniform was worn only by the elite forces."

  "And so we are, that pass the Brotherhood initiation," Alleron replied. "Letting you wear it now is an honor beyond any other in the realm."

  But once he'd donned the requisite garb, Ryel felt even more distanced from himself. Standing before the mirror—a tall glass that reflected his entire form—he saw a stranger. The unforgiving garments held him in, forced him to stand upright, strictured and hampered him where his Steppes garb had allowed him complete freedom. He felt chafed, squeezed, oppressed. It occurred to him, with a touch of envy, that Michael Essern had in both his Glass and in his portrait looked supremely at home in such gear.

  Alleron was considering the wysard with a doubtful eye, head cocked warily to one side. "Well, perhaps Steppes warriors can't be expected to be easy in Northern regimentals; but it's required for Argane's rites, and there's no getting around Her rules."

  At that moment a knock sounded at the door, and a soldier looked in toward Alleron, then departed. The captain stood up from his chair. "It's time, m'lord prince."

  With little pleasure Ryel began dressing. It occurred to him that Almancarian garb featured few or no buttons, whereas Northern clothes seemed to glory in them. "I'm looking forward to the Rites, if only to get out of uniform once they're ended."

  "Many another man would envy you that uniform, m'lord prince, even were he only to be buried in it."

  The wysard, irritated by the battle-jacket's high collar, gave up trying to fasten it, and Alleron reached to aid him, his fingers deft and light. "We'd best be on our way."

  "With all my heart. Lead on."

  Alleron gave a disbelieving impressed head-shake. "You've got nerve, m'lord prince, I'll give you that."

  "I've nothing to fear according to you, Captain."

  "Well, but I never said you'd emerge unscathed."

  They went downstairs, and then through a little dark passageway and down another flight of stairs, from thence through yet another door and yet another passageway lit with torches. At the end of the passage arched an iron-bound portal, squat and ancient, blocking the way; in its midst was set a timeworn plaque of silver arcanely wrought.

  "This is the last of the doors," Alleron said. "You may have observed that it has no lock—but open it if you can."

  None of the wysard's World-strength could budge that massive barrier, and after a time the captain motioned Ryel to stand aside.

  "Here's how it's done. Keep well away, my lord; you're not to be privy to this mystery until you've passed the initiation." And as Ryel watched, Alleron whispered something into the door, his lips almost grazing the burnished silver inset. With a cascading rattle of concealed tumblers the portal swung open.

  "They were clever, Argane's first worshippers," the captain remarked as he stood aside to let the wysard pass. "But they weren't nearly as tall as we, so watch your head as you go through."

  They entered a torch-lit landing enclosed by a balustrade like a screen of pierced stone. A long flight of stone steps led down from it, hewn out of the live rock. Alleron motioned Ryel to the screen. "Look here. Best that you see first what you're getting into."

  The wysard peered through one of the lace-like reticulations. Far below him opened a great circular chamber, in the center of which burned an ardent fire of massive coals red as fresh-spilled blood. A clutch of swords bristled in that fire, their blades aglow with heat. Around the fire seven men knelt with bared heads, their arms crossed over their chests. Naked to the waist were they all, and sweat gleamed on their skin.

  Ryel's eyes adjusted to the light, and began to discern that all about him were tall plinths and pinnacles of rock hanging in swordlike draperies, surging up in palisades and spear-shafts, meeting in slim-waisted columns and heavy pillars. "You didn't tell me we'd be in a cavern."

  Alleron half-smiled at Ryel's wonder. "I kept that for a surprise."

  "But all the formations are carved! Dragons, spirals, serpents …"

  "Demons aplenty, too," Alleron added.

  "What makes the designs glow?"

  "Some substance natural to these depths, that we call corpselight. Ancient work all of it, done by the First."

  Ryel started. "The first what?"

  "Why, devotees of Argane," the captain answered. "Who else might they be?"

  Who indeed, Ryel thought, astonished by the up-leap of his pulse, the sense of belonging to this strange place. The sense of fellowship he felt was not with the men who knelt about the fire. It went deeper, clear into the blood and beyond…

  His blood quivered and his rai flared within him like the throb of an exploding star, and he knew.

  This is wysard ground, his thoughts pounded. A sanctuary of the Art, do
ubtless built by adepts of Elecambron. And the Art is strong here, impregnating the stone, time-cleansed to its essence.

  Alleron's interrogatory elbow nudged him out of reverie. "What is it you stare at so hard, m'lord prince?"

  Ryel replied, but only after drawing a long breath. "Them." He gestured downward. "They're the Brotherhood core you spoke of?"

  "The very same. He with the yellow hair nearly to his waist is Marin Dehald, Earl of Seldyr; only thirty-two now, but Warraven himself gave him that burnt furrow athwart his cheek. A most bloodthirsty fighter, is Marin—and lover of half the easy shes at court, so talk goes. The great tall graybeard next to him is the redoubtable Duke of Raven Weald, near sixty now but still fearsome in battle; mark those hacks and seams all over his breast, dealt by Snow-folk, old enemies, and Brotherhood combat. And the young brave across from him with his black hair cut Ralnahrian and with the Munkira tattoos down his sword-arm is an especial friend of mine, the Markess Theron BanDalwys of Covencraig; I gave him that scar under his right forearm during Brotherhood combat a few years back, and he returned the favor by nearly lopping off one of my ears. Then there's the Count Palatine of Hallor, the Earls Falkengren and Rothsaye, and Sir Payne De Sartriss. All of them know you; last night they met with my lord to debate your fitness for the Order. Some disliked your descent from your mother's side, for Hallaghan nobility scorns the merchant class, but all admired your Steppes origins, and respected your rank as Prince of Vrya."

  "I'm glad it went well." The wysard looked harder at the men around the fire, and winced. "They're...they're all cut, up and down their arms." Cut exactly as Roskerrek had cut himself, fresh red seams mingling with livid scars.

  "Those are proud wounds, m'lord prince; blood-sacrifice to great Argane. You'll get your first one tonight, if you lose the combat—a forgone conclusion to my mind, I say with all due regret."

  Ryel felt an icy twinge, but it wasn't fear. "I hear something. Music, is it?"

  Alleron tilted an ear to the sound, that breathed down from above in slow sighing notes unordered yet harmonious, moving among the spiky stonegrowth like wordless disembodied singers. "The spirits of the slain, we call it," he replied. "But in truth it's the wind passing over and through airshafts sunk many years ago. As night falls the wind rises, and the music grows louder. It's a great aid to meditation, and celebrates the element of air. As for the other three, there's earth piled high above us, fire most hotly evident, and water adrip everywhere—that little cascade next to the sanctuary falls into a pool deeper than a man's height, and is cold as Bradamaine's heart. We of the Brotherhood take our names from the elements—something I neglected to tell you. Mine translates into Iron Rock. My lord's is Steel Ice. The Countess of Fayal's is Edged Inferno."

  "Frinàl Dras, Sivred Rikàn, and Hrithan Krôr," Ryel translated under his breath into the secret language of the Fraternity, the hidden tongue of Elecambron. Aloud he said, "That niche where the steps lead up—that's the sanctuary, I believe you said last night."

  Alleron bowed reverently toward the place so indicated. "Even so, now curtained by the Veil."

  The Veil was made not of cloth but chain mail, that made a chill rustling chime as the cave-breeze stirred its folds. Ryel could only just discern two human outlines beyond, one standing and one kneeling before it. "The Count Palatine's there now?"

  "Remember to call him the Commander, in this place," Alleron warned. "He's been for some time—the last hour, I doubt not—behind the Veil in meditation and prayer. When he emerges, the service begins—which should be soon, now."

  He led Ryel down the steps. With each stone tread the air grew warmer and more dense, with a salt musk of fresh sweat mingling with the sharper reek of hot steel—a dangerous yet fiercely intimate redolence, one that put the wysard at once on guard and at ease. And the deeper down he went, the more the Art of the place seemed to envelop him, wrapping him like Edris' cloak.

  Thirty steps later they had reached the chamber. The music of the winds had grown louder, more eerily sweet, the harsh scent of swords and bodies close as mist. At the foot of the stairs Alleron motioned Ryel to a lamp-lit recess cut into the rock, where the upper garments of the brotherhood hung in soldierly order. Alleron continued his instruction as he, too, took off his jacket and shirt. Chafed by the heat, Ryel reached to unfasten the top clasps of his jacket, but the captain prevented him.

  "No, m'lord prince. You're the initiate, so you stay dressed." As he spoke, Alleron drew his own shirt over his head, catching his breath at the pain of his pulled wounds.

  Ryel wiped sweat from his forehead, and tugged at his uniform's irritatingly high collar. "You have some terrible scars."

  Alleron nodded matter of factly as he glanced down at his lean muscled torso. "None from tavern brawls or brothel skirmishes, I can promise you. All of 'em gotten in wars, save for this one that I prize most." He indicated an ugly red rip above his left breast. "Four years ago, dealt by my lord in this very place."

  "And let's not forget Valrandin's little love-cuts." With the glancing tips of his fingers the wysard brushed the red-blotted bandages on Alleron's forearm and side. "They look as if they smart."

  "My lord's anger pained me worse," the captain said. "I strained the stitches, as usual—but I'm not in overmuch pain." A look of profound puzzlement crossed his face as he glanced down at his wounds. "None whatever, in fact." The bewilderment dissolved into suspicion, and fixed upon the wysard. "How did you—"

  "I didn't, Captain." But Ryel had; and he breathed easier for his victory over the evil brooding cruelly within him.

  Alleron gave Ryel a steely-eyed stare, then shook his head. "I wonder. But to continue. You must kneel before the Veil there, over the circle of swords."

  Ryel nodded. "I remember."

  "Then you're also mindful that as you kneel, you're to clear your thoughts of everything earthly, and await whatever visions are destined you. Then the Commander and the rest of the Brotherhood will put questions to you, none of them easy to answer."

  "What if I give the wrong replies?" Ryel asked.

  "I doubt you will," the captain replied. "And at any rate, everyone here will look kindly on you, since you healed the Commander of his sickness—I was glad to make that known to them all."

  Ryel nodded thanks. "And the combat takes place directly after that."

  "Instantly. At a given signal—which I've been assigned to confer—you'll both go for your swords. Remember, they'll be good and hot after their fire-bath, so have a care." A noise like the rippling of a hand over a harp made Alleron glance up at the hanging spikes of the cave-ceiling. "It's time. Argàna khreth sìnn —Argane have mercy on you."

  With a hard hand-clasp Alleron took leave of the wysard and joined the circle of the Fraternity. Once there he took the dagger at his side and gave his forearm a long fine slash. Holding his arm above the lambent fire, he let the blood drip onto the coals, feeding the swords that hissingly licked up the offering, watching with face utterly impassive; and then he took his place among the others. Neither he nor anyone else of the Brotherhood looked up from meditation as the wysard approached the initiate's circle, wherein four swords met point to bloody point, and slowly genuflected.

  At the meeting of the swords the wysard knelt, and crossed his arms, and bowed his head. But meditate he could not.

  You knelt in this place, ithradrakis, he thought. Tonight I will avenge that scar Warraven gave you, and win your sword. And in time I will raise you up from your bed of death...

  He drifted into the world of his most deep desires, for how long he was unaware until he heard the sudden faint clanging of chain mail, and felt something coldly hard touched him under the chin and made him lift his head, even as Edris' hand had done in front of the gates of Markul. Ryel opened distracted eyes to find Roskerrek standing before him with sword outstretched, the flat of its point delicately urging the wysard to consider the here and now.

  "Your contemplation is profound," the Commander said. "T
hat is well."

  The wysard regarded Roskerrek down the shining length of steel. Black, white, red—the cavalry breeches and boots, the bared skin, the scarlet hair… and a fresh sacrificial slash over the right wrist. At the appearance of their high priest the Swordbrothers rose as one, forming a semicircle behind Ryel. The wysard felt the shift of mood among them, and understood that although Yvain Essern might be hated and feared elsewhere, here he was esteemed, even loved. And here he was fully in his element, in this dark temple of blood and war.

  Manifestly secure in that knowledge, Roskerrek greeted his comrades with a faint smile before returning his attention to the wysard, coldly now. "Stranger, explain your presence here."

  "Ranor Argàna krân rin," Ryel replied in the secret tongue.

  One of Roskerrek's red brows lifted at those words, but otherwise he appeared unastonished. "Krân rin Sirth, Argàna n'raght," he replied. "The challenge is accepted." He turned to the sanctuary now unveiled, and Ryel saw that at the topmost tier of a marble dais a woman stood immobile under lamplight, a woman armed head to foot in gleaming silver, her features stern and pale—a warrior queen of chill alabaster with hair of white-gold wire hanging fine and thick from the helmet's edge to the elbows. The marble pedestal beneath her feet was covered with blood—dried purple smears, clotted gore, fresh bright splashes. Cradled like a child in her arms gleamed Ryel's Kaltiri tagh, bright as the lancing spark of a star.

  High in the stony recesses of the vault, the wind crooned and hummed. The Count Palatine's voice barely rose above it. "I ask of Argane Queen of Battles the sword of he that the Brotherhood called Rukht Travàdh, Blood Flame."

  Another word he spoke, that rose rough and guttural above the crooning air. The statue quivered as if alive, and slowly its folded arms unlocked until it stood with hands outstretched, Edris' sword now lying across its open palms. Taking the weapon reverently from the image, Roskerrek called upon Alleron, who carried both Ryel's sword and his lord's to the vessel of glowing coals, and plunged both blades therein. The Brotherhood watched in silence, awaiting the Commander's next words. Ryel could hear the blood-beat of each heart above the chill deliberation of Roskerrek's voice.