Cutting off further communication with the wysard, Dagar made a sign to one of the Companions, who relayed the unspoken order to the others.
"Bind the heretic!"
The Companions seized upon Roskerrek, and would have fastened him to the irons hanging from the stake, but he fought against his captors with all the strength left him. Some of the redcoat soldiers cheered wildly for their former general, but hard blows felled him at last, and his unconscious body was wrapped in chains.
With curses and blows Valrandin tried to push through the cordon of redcoat soldiers, but to no avail. Her efforts were noticed by the Companions on the scaffold, who jeered at her and redoubled their abuse of Roskerrek.
"I'm damned if you'll sleep through the fun, Redbane," one of them cried, and she flung cold gutter-water upon him until he shuddered awake, causing the crowd to howl with joy. Finding himself bound beyond any escape, Roskerrek with pain-stunned eyes sought Alleron, giving his equerry a look that made the wysard's blood run colder yet—a look of the most desperate urgency, that made Alleron straighten in steely attention.
"I understand you, m'lord," he said through clenched teeth. "If this be my last service to you, I welcome it."
Ryel caught his coat-sleeve. "What would you do?"
"The only thing I can," the captain answered, low enough that Valrandin could not hear. "It'll take but a moment to leap that scaffold and drive my knife into his heart."
"You'd lose your own life."
"I expect it. But I'm damned if I'll stand by and watch him burn."
"You won't have to. Stay, and wait."
"Wait? Are you stark mad? Wait for what?"
Ryel made no reply, but dealt an Art-empowered glance at the countess, who at once swayed and crumpled in a swoon. Alleron caught her, and together with the wysard helped her back into the coach.
"Stay with her," Ryel said, his tone brooking no argument. Shutting the door behind them, he gave his full attention to Dagar.
But Dagar scorned to return it, having begun to harangue his rapt Servants and the gutter mob swarming outside the palisade. In a fury of exhortation the daimon jeered and abominated the Fraternity of the Sword, and the Unseen. He promised the followers of the Master dominion over all the world, and was only too evidently believed. Out of Theofanu's dry little body his voice shrilled, his savage oratory reverberating in the enclosure of the palace walls. The soldiers around the scaffold drew their swords at ready, to keep Roskerrek from being torn to pieces by the mob.
Ryel's thoughts raced to find a stratagem to foil his adversary. But suddenly he felt an imperative grip close over his shoulder, while before he could react he heard a voice at his ear that once heard could never be forgotten—a Ralnahrian voice with a highland tang. "I was thinking I might find you here, sorcerer. But you took your time."
Above his muffling scarf and beneath the wide brim of his hat Desrenaud's eyes glinted like glacier-ice. "Come here awhile, magus." He led Ryel behind the coach, and spoke swiftly.
"Some of your help I could have used long ere this, sorcerer. A bustling time I've had of it this half-year, cabaling with the Brotherhood and winning over the loyalty of the army against that yellow hag—no hard task, my past service in this land being well-remembered by most. There's been a plan in train for the past while. The Fraternity, some of the Snow-folk, most of the army's best—all here, and ready to play their parts. We'll have Roskerrek and the rest free, but our success hangs on you. It'd have been kindly done had you shown up straightway, but I'll admit you had strong distractions."
Ryel let that last remark pass, incalculably relieved by Desrenaud's news. "I couldn't be more glad to see you, Guy. But why doesn't Alleron know of your plot?"
"I wish he could have," Desrenaud replied. "Few men would have proven braver, or more useful. But far too closely was he watched by Theofanu's spies for any of us to reach him. Redbane will be surprised as well. He has no idea of the scheme to save him, any more than he knows that I'm back in the Barrier." He looked from Dagar toward the stake where Roskerrek stood fettered and insensible, his pale eyes unseeingly fixed. "I know that look," he murmured. "He's given up."
"But we won't," Ryel said. "Carry out your plan as you intended, and I'll cover for you."
"Be clever, warlock. Riana must have taught you a thing or two after all this time."
"She has. Trust me."
"You're going to have to be our luck, Ryel. May we all meet again safe after this day, and drink blind drunk." Desrenaud caught the wysard's hand hard in his own a moment, then was one of the crowd again, dissembling his height with a round-shouldered slouch.
By now the Companions had finished piling oil-drenched wood about the stake, and one of them stood by with a lighted torch awaiting Theofanu's word. Alleron had reappeared at the wysard's side.
"It's high time," the equerry said, his steely eyes deadly clear, his fingers drumming on his dagger-hilt. "I must to my lord's service--pray you look after the Countess, sir, for my sake. I'm glad she's still aswoon." And he started toward the platform.
"Hold still." The wysard caught Alleron from behind, pinioning his elbows. "Wait."
The captain struggled violently and cursed foully, but Ryel held fast. "I said be still, damn it." A word in Alleron's ear, and the captain froze immobile at the same moment Theofanu screamed for fire.
"Burn him!"
With a wild laugh the Companion threw the torch upon the eager wood, and a great roar went up from the watching throng.
In that moment Ryel shut his eyes and cleared his thoughts, willing all his mind to deep still white, forcing away fear and doubt, quelling his heart to calm slow beating. It seemed that time stretched before him like a long road, cutting a black swath through the soundless incandescence. And in the middle of that road stood Riana, laughing at him as she had that day when she first taught him the Mastery of Elements.
"Because you are nothing more than a little child compared to me in this, a childish rhyme I'll give you to remember: 'If there be doubt, the Art will find it out.' Remember it well, brother, because your life hangs on it. No doubt, ever."
"None," Ryel whispered. Within his deepest being he called upon his Art, and felt it flash like silent lightning. Then he smiled as something cold and small fluttered against his cheek and melted there.
He opened his eyes to the snow, and murmured a phrase. The white flakes began to fall thick, and a rising wind began to blow it about ever more violently, until in a minute's space the entire courtyard was engulfed in a raging storm. Amid the blizzard Ryel could only just discern staggering fleeing figures, and maddened horses. Upon and around the platform, battle reddened and trampled the fresh cold white into bloody slush. The air throbbed with shrieks and cries and sword-clangs, the howl of wind and hiss of storm-driven snow. But one noise rose above it. Out of the high balcony Dagar craned at full length, screaming in fury for Roskerrek's death—but he no longer had power to cause it. The fire swirled around an empty stake and broken chains.
The wysard felt a thrill of joy, sheer delight in the power of his Mastery. His heart beat wildly, and he laughed. In that instant, a great gust of white wind caught Theofanu's golden draperies and sucked her out of the window into the storm. Like some bright insect the helpless form fluttered and tossed and shrieked, until the tempest flung it against the stake with such force that it broke like a doll. Onto the fire Theofanu crumpled, and the flames ate up her dry little body as hungrily as it would a skinny bundle of sticks. And as the fire lapped and panted, Bradamaine watched with blank staring eyes.
Ryel stared at the eager blaze, suddenly sobered. Much though he had despised the Ormalan wysardess, his Art was in life's service. Surely he had not caused Theofanu's death…or had he, however inadvertently?
Forcing his thoughts from that possibility, he turned to Alleron and slapped the snow from his shoulders. At once the captain came to and stared about him, dazed and shivering. "Where am I?" The steely eyes blinked against the
snow, warily at first, then in baffled anger. "Damnation. What's happened here? How came this storm about, and where's my lord?"
"Never trust Northern weather," Ryel replied. "As for the Count Palatine, I'm fairly sure he's still alive."
"Then who's that burning in the fire?"
"Theofanu."
"Argane's be the glory." The captain shook himself fully awake. "I wouldn't mind warming my hands on that witch." Again Alleron peered through the snow toward the scaffold, then dashed at his eyes and stared again. "Blessed Unseen—that looks like the dead Starklander with my lord!"
"Not quite dead yet," Ryel replied. "But he'd welcome your help."
"With all my heart." In an instant Alleron was in the saddle, but in that same moment Valrandin rushed forward, her former pallor now flushed with cold and joy.
"I woke up just as the snow began, and looked from the window and saw everything, the entire miracle! Lend me your sword awhile, Ryel Mirai," she said, or rather demanded; and as she spoke, she snatched his blade from its sheath, and seized the bridle of an unwatched horse nearby. "You owe me a good turn, remember." With wild grace she leapt astride onto her stolen mount's back, her windblown skirts disclosing not the dainty shoes of a noblewoman, but the riding-boots of a cavalier. "Old habits die hard," she laughed as she noted Ryel's stare. "I'll only be as long as it takes to teach the Companions a lesson."
Alleron turned to stare at her. "But m'lady, you can't be using your left hand."
Valrandin met his amazement with a grin brimful of vengeance. "Can't I? Just watch." And giving a wild yell, she dashed toward the fray.
"Now there's a lass," Alleron said, his face lit by its rare smile. Then with an impatient boot-heel to his horse's side he followed her into the fight.
*****
Without his weapon Ryel felt a deep sense of loss, and the milling crowd kept him from seeing what had become of it. The battle, however, was soon over. Two of the Companions lay dead and three were perilously hurt, while some redcoats had likewise met with wounds or death; otherwise the platform was deserted. Desrenaud and Roskerrek were nowhere to be seen. But the guardroom door of the palace stood ajar, and just within it Ryel recognized Theron BanDalwys tying up a cut over Sir Payne de Sartriss's scalp. Dismounting, the wysard joined them, glad of the shelter, and even more glad that he was instantly recognized and welcomed.
"Why, my brother the Prince of Vrya!" Covencraig held out a fraternal hand. "Well met in a risky time--but you've missed all the fun. The Commander's safe, Argane be praised, and the sorceress burnt in his place."
Sir Payne, very wan and tired, shook his injured head. "Your notions of amusement are hardly mine, Theron. The fate of Hryeland hung on this day."
"And turned to the good, thanks to Starklander." The dark markess' eyes glowed. "After all those rumors of his death, to see him alive again, fighting like an angel--it was worth all the life I have left to battle at his side."
The wysard ran a covert healing hand over Sir Payne's wound. "Tell me what happened."
"Heroic things, brother. That mad unlooked-for storm must have been sent by Argane herself, for our Commander's aid. And out of the blast appeared Starklander, leaping upon the scaffold and cutting down any that dared strive against him, next striking off the Count Palatine's chains and lifting him clear of the fire, covering him with his cloak--I stood near, and observed how it angered him to see the cruel way the Commander had been tortured. Then while the rest of us finished the fight, and released the others of the Fraternity from the prisons beneath this place, Starklander took the Commander up before him on his horse, and conveyed him safe under cover of the snow, the Countess following."
"Where?"
"Into the palace stables, thence to the hidden passages that lead to the army headquarters and the Temple of the Sword--all of the Fraternity know that way. Even now our Commander should be warm abed, and doctors looking after him."
"But what of the Domina?"
"Still upstairs, where she'd stood with Theofanu," Sir Payne replied. "They expected resistance from her followers, but found none. Everyone thought the witch a thousand times stronger than she proved. She had no more power than a puppet."
"Which she was," Ryel murmured, feeling a chill creep down his back.
A little more talk and he bade farewell to his two Swordbrothers, making his way upstairs. Among the many guarding the Domina's door was Marin Dehald, who at once crushed the wysard in a hug.
"Rukht Avral! You've come even as Starklander said you would, and never more needed. The witch made the Domina drink some filthy philtre before they came out to watch the Commander burn, and now she's senseless from it."
"I'll see to her," Ryel said, and would have gone; but Dehald would not relinquish his arm.
"Drink to her deliverance first. Here's some of the best wine in the North, brought up from the palace cellars." And the Earl of Seldyr thrust a cobwebbed bottle at him. "To Theofanu's cinders."
Ryel could not resist a toast so pleasing, and drank deep. Then he entered the room where Bradamaine was, and found her still standing rigidly upon the balcony, snow swirling around her, her eyes staring senselessly downward at the charred stake and the blackened shreds of gold and bone scattered around it. The wysard tried to bring her indoors, but she would not move an inch; only when urged with whispered words of Art did she at last obey. When led to the fireside she followed silently, blankly insensible, and sat like an image in the chair offered her. The wysard tested her pulse; it flickered and stalled. Her breath reeked of quiabintha, feia, even xantal, but those perilous drugs were by no means the deadliest threat to her life.
"Is she dying?"
Ryel nodded in answer to Lord Hallor's question. "She's been dying for weeks, months perhaps, from slow poisons and worse." He could not reveal that Theofanu's Dagar-empowered Art had warped and subverted the Domina's selfhood to the point of annihilation.
"Then save her, if only for our Commander's sake."
"For his sake I will try. Leave me, and I will do what I can."
Alone with the Domina, Ryel employed his deepest Mastery to stir Bradamaine's senses, all to nothing. Thwarted, he sought to look into her thoughts, again in vain.
"Dagar's work," he muttered bitterly. "Argane's image would reveal more." But in those words he found inspiration. Striding to the door and throwing it open, he lifted his voice to be heard by the carousing Brotherhood.
"The Domina must be taken to the Temple of the Sword."
Those words evoked only startled outrage. "Argane's sanctuary? Never. No one save the Brotherhood has ever set foot there."
At Lord Hallor's indignation Ryel only shrugged, not patiently. "Her life depends upon it. Wrap her warmly and bring her there by the underground passage, and be quick. I'm going on ahead."
Returning to the courtyard and its smoldering pyre, Ryel found the place all but deserted, and Jinn still at her place beside Valrandin's coach, quietly communing with the other horses as if nothing of any note had occurred. "I'm glad Valrandin didn't decide to commandeer you, little sister," the wysard said, patting her neck before mounting to ride.
The storm had not ceased, and its fury had emptied the streets save for black-coated soldiers keeping close watch against any further uprisings. But if Theofanu had had any adherents among the citizenry, they seemed unanimously disinclined to fight for her. Already the bells of the city rang out in celebration, chime upon chime overcoming the roar and hiss of the snow. Ryel lifted his face to the clanging storm, at peace within. And when Dagar's mosquito sneer thrust its way into his meditations, he only smiled. Because now the air was free around him, and he had never breathed easier.
You must think yourself very clever, beauty.
Ryel shook his head. "No, Dagar. I only think you very stupid."
That wasn't kind of you, murdering Theofanu.
The wysard felt a pang of guilt. Dagar must have sensed it, because he laughed.
Kill whoever you like, youn
g blood. This isn't the end.
"You keep saying that. But you can't have Michael, you've lost Theofanu, you won't take Srin Yan Tai, and you'll never get me. You've run out of Overreachers."
I don't need one for what I plan. You've not trapped me yet, beauty. I'm still clear of the Void, here in the World. And I'll find a way to you, believe it. I've read the bitch Riana's little book, and know full well that you can't use the Mastery to send me back to the Emptiness until I'm re-embodied. Which I will be, soon. Count on it, young blood'.
For reply Ryel only uttered a spell-word of dismissal, and heard his enemy's curses fade, swept away by the driving snow. Again he smiled for the joy of his deliverance and the power of his Art, and urged Jinn more swiftly toward the residence of the Count Palatine.
*****
Alleron awaited Ryel at the headquarters gate. No sooner had the wysard entered than the guards locked the great iron portals after him.
"This place has been the Barrier's strongest fortress, many centuries gone," Alleron said. "If we've any enemies left, they'll never get past these walls. But come up with me this instant, for my lord's been asking earnestly after you." Anticipating Ryel's next question, the captain actually grinned. "Your sword's upstairs, along with the one who took it from you."
Within his chamber Roskerrek lay on his side half-covered by the bedclothes, his upper body wrapped in bandages visible beneath the nightshirt's open collar. Valrandin sat beside him, her hand in his, her eyes on his; but when Ryel entered she looked up through tears.
"They were so cruel," she said. "So inhumanly cruel. For months he has been starved, and beaten, and frozen."
Roskerrek rose up on an elbow, wincing only slightly. "It feels years ago, now. My orderlies have helped me to the bath I've needed for entirely too long, whilst Alleron's proven a notable doctor at need, and Verlande has distilled all the world's best nourishment into a single broth, and you--" he lightly pressed Valrandin's palm to his bruised cheek. "And your least touch is a cure, my lady." His pale eyes turned from her, then, and glanced into a grim distance; met Ryel's. "I've been apprized of what became of Theofanu. What news of the Domina?"
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 57