"She is perilously sick from Theofanu's drugs," the wysard replied. "I gave order for her to be taken to the Temple of the Sword, that I might try to heal her."
"I'll join you." Roskerrek began to sit up, and clenched his teeth over a groan. "Countess, be so kind as to have my orderly bring me some clothes, if you would."
Alleron, who had just entered the door, at once protested. "My lord, you're in killing pain, and your wounds not yet well looked to."
Roskerrek waved away his concern. "I'm better than I was, by far. Go, and take some rest; I can see you're in need of it."
"I'm neither hungry nor aweary, my lord."
"But you're more than a little difficult, Captain. Consider yourself commanded, and dismissed."
"I go only because ordered, and under protest." With an ill grace Alleron bowed low. "Keep you well, m'lord."
"With you to insist upon it I can hardly fail to." The Count Palatine was silent a moment, regarding his equerry with a look made up of many emotions. "I will never forget what you would have done for me this day, Jorn."
Fully and fairly Alleron returned that look, and gave his rare smile. "I'll not die, m'lord, until you do—and were that when I wished, I'd never fret about the fit of my winding-sheet. Good rest be yours."
"For the first time in too long it will be." He glanced over at Valrandin. "The Prince wants his sword back, by the way."
"And he'll have it," the Countess replied. "A sweet piece of steel it is, and I'm loath to let it go, since it proved the quick death of several this day."
Alleron nodded with evident approval. "Aye, they didn't suffer as they should have; but still, 'twas well worth the watching. It was as if you'd never been hurt…" Halting himself, he glanced at Roskerrek and colored up. "Well, I'll be going."
When the captain had departed, the Count Palatine turned to Valrandin, but dealt a sharp glance at Ryel as he did so. "Your wrist is mended, Countess?"
"Not a bit," she replied. "I used my left hand during the fight, and never dreamed it'd be so easy. I'd no idea I had that skill until then. I suppose I'm ambisomething, whatever they call it."
"Ambidextrous," Ryel said with a feeling sigh. "By every god…"
Instantly Valrandin rounded on him, her dark eyes flashing. "And just what do you intend by that?"
Roskerrek clasped her right hand, gently. "Never mind. You need sleep, Gabriel. The past few weeks have done you no good."
"I'll not lie in a bed until I've seen Bradamaine, and spoken with her. Don't try to keep me from it, Yvain."
He half laughed. "I know how useless that would be. Well, at least give me a moment with Prince Ryel, that he may see to whatever hurts I have."
"I will gladly. But this first." She came near, and rested her head on his shoulder. "I was so worried. I never slept…" her voice caught, and she hid her face against him.
Gently Roskerrek drew his bruised fingers through her dark curls, breathing their scent, touching his lips to their silk. "You didn't get all of me back, Countess. I never thought I'd regret my hair so much, but now--"
"Bah." Valrandin lifted her head again, dashed away her tears, and lightly stroked his shaven temple. "That red mane of yours will return blazing in a week's time, so fast and thick it grows. It's your skin I'm sorry for."
"What's left of it is entirely at your service, my lady."
Their eyes met, and long; but then Valrandin's sparked with their old mutiny. "Entirely? Does Bradamaine get nothing, then? But don't answer that."
When the countess had left, Roskerrek reached out to the wysard. "I wondered if I'd see you today."
The wysard joined his hand with the Count Palatine's, never thinking to have it carried to Roskerrek's forehead; the contact made him start and struggle. "There's no need for that."
"The custom of your land requires it, but even more does your greatness, and my gratitude." Another clasp, and Roskerrek released him. "I'd thank you more energetically, did my ribs allow it," the Count Palatine said. "I owe you everything, Ryel Mirai. Not only my own life, but that of my queen and her realm."
"You owe me nothing, Yvain," Ryel answered. "It was Guyon Desrenaud who brought about Theofanu's downfall."
Roskerrek only half-nodded assent. "His help was indeed great, as I have come to learn. But neither he nor any of the rest could have prevailed without your raising that storm. I had heard of weather-witching ere now, but nothing like to yours."
"Let me help you further," the wysard said. "Your wounds must be giving you great trouble."
Roskerrek attempted a shrug, fought a grimace. "I suffer less now than I did. Being battered by she-demons injured my pride far worse than my body. And it was nothing next to the anguish of my heart, never knowing whether Gabriel or Alleron or my brothers in Argane were alive or dead or in torment..." He sank down on his side. "It's everything to have my thoughts at rest. The rest of me will heal eventually."
"I prefer immediately." Ryel discovered and set right not only a great many bruises and cuts, but several raw burns inflicted by the fire, as well as a sprained wrist, three broken fingers and several cracked ribs, growing more appalled and impressed with each injury. "Your capacity for pain is really remarkable."
The Count Palatine waved away the compliment. "Compared to my trouble of mind, my captors' tender attentions were as nothing. Still…" He drew a deep breath, and stretched with clear pleasure. "I'm glad of yet another chance to thank you. The world owes you much as well, Ryel Marai."
"I ask nothing of it, Yvain Essern."
"You did great work for its sake."
"Unfinished work," the wysard replied. "Dagar has been routed, yes. But not destroyed."
Roskerrek met this news with consternation. "Not destroyed? But I thought—"
"I'm certain he's no longer near—I would feel him in the air if he were. But he still exists. And I'm certain that the next place he'll resurface will be Almancar."
Sorrow joined with anger in Roskerrek's face. "Because my brother his servant is there, glad to work whatever evil is required."
"Lord Michael is no longer in Almancar." As Ryel explained, the Count Palatine's eyes fixed upon the flames unblinkingly, but his teeth cruelly caught his underlip when Ryel finished telling of the fight in the ruined castle.
"My poor brother," Roskerrek whispered. "A black demon's pawn, even in death."
"He is not dead."
A bitter laugh. "Why, then he is alive."
"He is neither."
Accusing cold eyes met Ryel's. "I loved my brother dearly, wysard. You might remember that."
"I mean you no hurt, Yvain." And Ryel related how Michael's body lay in Markul, while his rai hovered in the Void. The Count Palatine listened without a word, without an eyeblink until the wysard made an end; and when he spoke, it was slowly, half in disbelief.
"Then it…it may be that Michael and I will meet again."
"I'll do whatever I can to bring it about. Where is Guyon Desrenaud?"
"Here, magus."
Ryel and Roskerrek both turned to the compelling new voice and the tall man it belonged to, who now came forward brushing the snow from the collar and folds of his long gray coat. "You might consider making and end to that squall of yours, warlock. Two feet thick's the snow in the streets, and has more than served its purpose, to my way of thinking." Desrenaud glanced at the Count Palatine, then away again. "I'm glad to see you well, my lord of Roskerrek."
"I have you to thank, my lord of Anbren," the Count Palatine replied. But his tone, too, was strained. "Still, I've yet to know what reasons could have made you risk you life for mine."
"I enjoy risk at times," said Desrenaud. "That is, when I consider it worth the taking."
He had turned toward Roskerrek as he spoke. By now day had ended and the room was dark save for the light of the fire, and neither man could have looked the other clearly in the eye from the distance they stood apart. But they read each other by glints.
The Count Palatine repli
ed after a considerable silence. "I wish us to be friends, Guyon Desrenaud. I hope you think it possible."
"I never wished you ill." Desrenaud came near and pulled off his gauntlet, reaching out to Roskerrek. "And at any rate, we have both of us been scarred, Yvain Essern."
The two linked hand to hand, and the fitful faint light silvered in the lower lids of their eyes. Deeply moved, the wysard watched. But then he stared past those two great men into the embers of the fire, his thoughts dark.
There's not yet an end to you, Dagar. Still you reach beyond annihilation to grasp and rend the World. Still you stand between me and my dearest hopes. And he sickened at heart as he remembered the horrors he had witnessed in Riana's glass. Only a little while longer, beloved , he thought, and he spoke not to one, but many. Only a little while, until all is made right and we are happy. But it seemed that his every inward-whispered word drifted into the fire like scraps of a page torn from a foolish tale, and burnt to flimsy black cinders.
With a banging knock Alleron was breathlessly back in the room, disregarding Roskerrek's frown to address the wysard. "M'lord prince, your help's required. On my way down I met my lords of Seldyr and Covencraig, asking for you. They've come with the Domina. The rest of the Brotherhood have been set free, and…" His eyes, now used to the darkness, all but leapt from their sockets as they recognized Desrenaud. "Starklander. By Argane's glory, it was you helping my lord!" Rushing forward he seized Desrenaud's hand and would have kissed it, but was prevented by a hard if perfunctory hug.
"I'll not allow that, Jorn Alleron. There's no time, for one thing. Roskerrek, get some clothes on if you're coming."
*****
Bradamaine had been placed on a camp bed before the statue of the Queen of Swords, and lay as still and cold as her likeness in the flickering glow of hastily-gathered torches, Valrandin kneeling beside her. The Brotherhood stood guard about them, and saluted their Commander as he appeared among them, then bowed to the wysard, and greeted Desrenaud with rejoicing smiles.
"Most warmly welcome, Starklander," said BanDalwys of Covencraig. This would have been a black day without you."
"It's still black, Theron," Desrenaud replied as he flung his coat aside and knelt down next to Valrandin, joined by Roskerrek on her other side. "How fares she, Countess?"
Valrandin turned to him, her eyes wet as she held Bradamaine's hand in both of hers. "I never hoped to see you again, Guy, and it joys me much; but I wish we might have met in better times. Her skin's cold as death."
Desrenaud wrapped his arm around Valrandin's shoulders a strengthening moment. "No fear, Lieutenant. We'll get her well again." He next addressed Ryel. "Sorcer--I mean, my lord of Vrya-- help her as best you can."
"This place will warm her." As he spoke, the wysard felt the Art radiating from every pier and shaft of stone—Art that he might bend in whatever way he would. Calling upon the power that impregnated every lance and fold of rock, he murmured words of Mastery that mingled with the uncanny harmonies rustling high above. Bradamaine's eyelids twinged and fluttered, opening to fix upon the icy image of Argane.
"Who is she?"
No authority or impatience rang in those honey-harsh syllables—only intense confusion, and fear. As she spoke, the Domina caught the Count Palatine's hand, and half taken aback by that gesture Roskerrek sought to reassure her.
"You look upon the goddess Argane, m'Domina—She that we worship, our Lady of War."
"I don't like her. She's cruel." Bradamaine looked from the statue to the Brotherhood surrounding her, and her eyes fell on Valrandin, but with no recognition. "Who are you?"
The Countess stared, stricken. "Ah, m'Domina. You ask that, when I love you more than life?"
Those words seemed to touch Bradamaine's memory, but barely. "Why am I here?"
"To save you."
Desrenaud had answered her, and at his words Bradamaine started, but too all appearances she no more recognized his face than she did his voice. She sought Roskerrek, clearly trusting him above all the others. "You know me. I can see it. Tell me who I am."
With the greatest respect the Count Palatine kissed the hand that so pleadingly clutched his own. "You are the great Domina of all Hryeland."
Bradamaine's confusion was desperate, now. "The what? Of…where?" But even as she spoke, her voice trailed away and her eyes fell shut, and only the wysard knew the cause.
"She's fainted," Desrenaud said to Ryel. "Now's the time to try your wiles on the Domina's wits, and make them whole again."
"I'll do all I can." Ryel knelt close to Bradamaine, and breathed a word into her ear, and she opened her eyes in a dreaming gaze that traveled far, deeply upward into the stone-draped darkness.
"How sweet that music is," she whispered. "How very beautiful."
Ryel recalled that in Theofanu's temple Bradamaine had been utterly unmoved by the music. Disquieted, he pressed his fingers to her temples, employing a Mastery of Lord Garnos to seek her inward light. "I can't find her," he whispered after a time. "She's… gone."
Valrandin's sudden grip hurt the wysard's arm. "What do you mean?"
"Her mind has been destroyed, Countess," Ryel answered. "It's been burnt away by Dagar's poisons as fire burns away the skin."
"Skin grows back, sorcerer," Desrenaud said.
"New skin, yes, and slowly," Ryel answered. "But some burns are too deep for healing. This woman cannot rule the Barrier." Amid stunned silence he addressed the Count Palatine. "Lord Roskerrek, I assume that you were the Domina's chief adviser."
"I was," he replied, his gaze never leaving Bradamaine's face. "Although she seldom heeded my counsel."
"And your family ruled Hryeland in time past."
"It did—long ago."
"And most if not all of Theofanu's followers among the court have had their brains all but erased thanks to her rituals. It would seem that the rule of Hryeland devolves upon you."
Roskerrek did not answer at first. When he did it was slowly, and almost too soft to hear among the moanings in the vault. "My fortunes are most strange. In a single day, almost burnt to death as a traitor to the realm, and then given the chance to be that realm's regent. If it is the will of the people, I'll act in the Domina's behalf for as long as is needful."
"Hryeland could do far worse," Desrenaud said. "Now that you're in health at last, you'll guide this land wisely and well."
All the assembled Brotherhood agreed most vocally, save for Valrandin whose thoughts were clearly elsewhere. With many demonstrations of thanks Roskerrek dismissed the officers, inviting them to take rest in his house and to call for whatever they wished from Verlande and his staff, assuring him that he would soon join them. As the brotherhood departed to celebrate, the remaining four turned their attention to Bradamaine, who had been drifting between sleep and waking.
A smile played about her lips, soft and dreaming, as her eyes found Roskerrek's. "That scent you wear on your shirt is so sweet."
The Count Palatine stared on her with something close to shock, then glanced at Ryel, questioning and perturbed. In answer the wysard took out Priamnor's carnelian vial and opened it. Immediately exquisite fragrance tinged the air, and Bradamaine started up from where she lay, drawing deep eager breaths.
"Ah, but that is even more wondrous," she whispered. "I could die of it." Giving a little sigh she fell back, her eyes closed and her face still.
"Bradamaine." Roskerrek took her into his arms, consternation in his look, then turned to Ryel. "She cannot be..."
"She isn't," the wysard replied. "No harm was done. The scent was merely too much for her, it would seem." He sealed the vial again. "But it's strange nonetheless. I'm aware that she never before had any love of music, nor enjoyment of perfumes. Truly she seems to have become someone else."
Roskerrek seemed not to wish to believe him. "I'll have her taken from this place to apartments in my quarters, where she'll be safe until the city's troubles are ended."
"She can share my rooms," Valr
andin said. "I'll watch over her tonight, and every day and night hereafter until she's well at last."
Roskerrek nodded assent. "And until she is herself again, the Temple's fire will be put out, and the image of its Goddess veiled, and the doors sealed, and the Brotherhood disbanded."
"The Domina will never be herself again," Ryel said.
A somber while Roskerrek reflected. "Then it may be that the uses of peace are of more consequence now than those of war, and that the worship of Argane has seen its day." He gave a faint bitter smile. "The Domina always called us a fanatical gang of bloody-minded bullies, and now I begin to understand her. How often have I read in philosophy that men get the gods they deserve; and perhaps the people of Hryeland now deserve deities more tranquil and less exigent than Argane and the Unseen."
"And somewhat less dangerous than the Master," Ryel said.
Desrenaud raised a skeptical brow. "So. Cobbling of idols, it's come to? I had thought you more devout, Roskerrek, than to cast aside your heartfelt servitude of the Sword-Goddess like a dirty coat."
Soldierly and upright Roskerrek faced his former enemy, stung but without rancor. "You were never a true believer, my lord. But I will admit that my past devotion too often erred in its excess of zeal. I am a different man than I was in those days, as I hope my regency of this realm will prove."
"I hope it, too." Desrenaud turned away, looking down at Bradamaine's sleeping form. "I confess I am far from understanding what you saw in this woman. What made you love her with such unswerving idolatry--you with your learning and your discernment, devoted to as stone-souled a termagant as ever breathed."
Perhaps he never expected a reply; but Roskerrek gave one. "She answered something in me, once. But I have changed almost as much as she has." He drew a deep breath, looking from Desrenaud to Ryel. " I hope you both will guest with me awhile. Surely you must be awearied from your journey North--and I have not yet thanked you sufficiently for the help you gave not only me, but the realm."
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 58