"Your sister wishes to speak with you," he said to Priam. Then he left to seek out Nelora, and give her the stern brotherly admonishment she so richly merited.
*****
The battle over and order restored to Almancar, a series of ceremonies followed, which Ryel as a prince of the blood witnessed at Priamnor's side. The formal surrender of Catulk and Coamshi was first. Proud and savage the dark twins entered the great audience hall, both still in their battle array of jaguar-skins, tall feathers, savage jewels; tattered, dirty and weaponless now, but haughtily unrepentant. Agenor Dranthene would have doomed them both to slow and miserable death, but his son Priamnor contented himself with the exacting of ruinous tribute to be spent solely on the rebuilding of the city and the relief of the population.
Then came the entertainment of the Sovran's allies, a joyous celebration held on the rooftop garden of the central palace, where long ago the Sovran Agenor had held his great celebration. By now the hour was advanced and many of the guests had departed, happily exhausted by revelry. Only a few groups remained around the low tables, lounging among cushions and taking a last glass of wine, sharing some final moments of talk as the lamps and candles flickered their last light. Among them were Ryel and his blood-kin and Shiran, while nearby Lady Srin sat genially discoursing battle-strategy with the warlord Rodhri M'Klaren and some other officers mercenary or imperial; the court musicians were lazily playing compositions made up that moment, tunes that built on ancient measures and spun off into soft meandering rhapsody. Desrenaud had been among Lady Srin's company, but now joined the wysard's group. The Northerner wore Almancarian court attire, amply billowing save for the sash-cinched waist, less opulent than was usual with courtly style, yet more ornate than Priam's rich but plain-made garb—robes of dark gray and muted green brocade that suited his tawny highland looks, but that Desrenaud clearly found a hindrance.
"Good revels these, sorcerer. And I have to say this silken gear is something I could readily get used to." He looked about him yet again. "Many a memory's here where I never expected to return—I've never forgotten the Sovran Agenor's sindretin."
"Nor have I, my lord of Anbren."
Desrenaud smiled, acknowledging Priamnor's observation with a wry remembering nod. "But this is a deal more lavish than the sindretin was—and more peaceable. Even my old acquaintance the Rei of Zalla is behaving himself." And he gestured to another part of the rooftop, his gaze narrowing slightly as it fell upon the man he named. For Rei Akht Mgbata had demanded, as the sole reward for his crucial service to Destimar, the privilege of sitting at Belphira's right hand during the formal banquet, and of enjoying private conversation with her afterward. Now he and the lady half-reclined in cushioned intimacy some distance apart from the others. The Zallan ruler, once so formidably gorgeous in his battle dress, now luxuriated in the rich light garb of his hot land, naked to the waist and swathed in brilliant jewel-belted silk to the bare feet, the gems at his neck and arms and ears setting off the polished darkness of his rather sinister beauty.
Desrenaud eyed his rival with grudging esteem. "Our friend the Rei looks even braver and more bold than he did that night when he nearly speared me through and through. He's ten years my elder, but you'd never know it, save for that touch of silver above his ears. I daresay Belphira finds his homage small hardship." As he spoke, he and Belphira exchanged glances, and both smiled with the same memories. The ebon Rei lifted his golden cup in Desrenaud's direction, gravely pledging respect.
"He never married because of that woman," Nelora said, perhaps a little free-tongued with wine. "Look how he worships her—and how she welcomes it."
Shiran, dazzled and abashed amid so much splendor, at last ventured a remark. "It reminds me of a tale out of an epic. But everything seems that way in this place."
Priamnor, who had taken to Shiran from the first, smiled kindly. "With entire respect to Belphira Deva's beauties, the Rei of Zalla has a variety of concubines to keep him entertained at home. And even should he chance to bring up the subject of marriage to the lady, I feel fairly certain of her answer."
He and Desrenaud exchanged looks, briefly and silently, before turning their attention elsewhere. The talk continued, ever in a light joyous vein, but Ryel paid little heed to it. Across from the low table Diara sat next to her brother, their resemblance to one another more striking than ever.
I love you, Ryel thought. As if they'd heard him, both Dranthene siblings turned their wondrous sea-blue eyes on him, and both smiled; and both reached for the wine-ewer to fill his goblet, laughing as their hands met. I love you both. Both in the same way. Ilandrakis, kerandraka...
Priam would always be, for him, brother and dearer than brother. But Ryel could only wonder what had become of that first surge of near-unbearable passion he had felt for Diara when they met in the desert surrounding Almancar. That aching, trembling, agonizing desire, so overmasteringly, ineffably strong...where had it gone? Diara's beauty had not changed; indeed, if anything it was greater than ever before. Her charm had only increased the more he knew her.
Despite the warmth of both night and wine, a shiver of memory rustled up his back and into his hair like a sharp-toed scaly lizard, and he suddenly understood.
I'm enchanted, he thought in something akin to horror. The One Immortal has me in thrall, even as she had Desrenaud once, and Priam.
It was exactly as Riana had said: he had what he wished...but not as he wished it. And his long journey, undertaken with such unknowing, endured with such danger, was not yet over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Succeeding days brought rituals of thanksgiving. The temples of the gods were hastily cleansed and repaired, and their priests either freed or found in order that ceremonies as magnificent as was possible, given the disordered times, might be performed on behalf of a grateful citizenry. Every Almancarian had witnessed the marvelous apparition of Destimar's pantheon hovering over the city, as had the Zegry and mercenary forces. And while Ryel could not but acknowledge that Lady Riana's stratagem had been the most effective possible, nevertheless he regretted that the City of Gold would undoubtedly now become a place of religious pilgrimage for all the credulous in Destimar, and the World beside.
"I call that a clear gain," was Priamnor's calm judgment. "At least now the temple district will replace the Diamond Heaven as Almancar's most notable attraction."
He and Ryel were alone by the gold-mosaic pool, having just swum, and now they basked under the sunlight, glad to be together in the calm after so much turmoil. But the young Sovran's remark clouded the wysard's thoughts. "Far too much harm has been done to the World already by religion," Ryel said. "The cult of the Master did enough on its own."
"Wholeheartedly agreed," Priam said. "But the gods of Almancar are gentle and forgiving—and powerful, as many people saw with their own eyes during the struggle on the wall."
"That was a trick," Ryel said. "It wasn't real."
"Then never did trick come at a better time, ilandrakis—the Immortal Riana be forever thanked for it. And my thanks to you as well, for revealing to me the true identity of the Zinaphian enchantress, my first love." The young Sovran gave a short laugh. "I knew she was an older woman, but not that much older." He smiled again, savoringly reminiscent now. "I hope she retained the same fond memories of that time as I did."
Ryel nodded assent, but thought it best not to tell his kinsman how very friendly Riana had been with him, and with Guyon Desrenaud. "You won't require any help from the Art from now on," he said aloud. "Yours will be a great reign, one that poets will immortalize."
"They've already started, from what I hear." Priam glanced over at the wysard. "But I want them most to sing the praises of my chief minister. When will you take office?"
"As soon as I return from Markul." Even as he spoke Ryel arose from where he lay, reaching for his Steppes gear, no longer able to rest quietly. "I understand you have much to think of and attend to, but don't forget that you're invited to join th
e Steppes encampment for the celebration feast tomorrow night. They're making great preparations, from what Shiran tells me."
"I look forward to it very much, and I'll be bringing Diara with me, and your mother and sister. I wish you were joining us."
"If all goes as it should, I will be…and not alone."
Priam's eyes glinted. "I hope that dearly." He smiled, then. "I even have suitable garb to wear for the occasion, in plain strong cloth and leather, not silk. Your mother lent me one of your shirts that she'd made for you--I hope you don't mind."
Remembering the time-honored custom of his land, and Edris' cloak that had been Warraven's, the wysard returned the smile, but could say nothing because his heart was too full. Dressed and ready, he took his kinsman's hands, touching them to his brow. "I'll return soon."
"May all go as you wish it, ilandrakis."
Ryel winced inwardly, recalling the parting words of Riana. "Whatever awaits me, I cannot have come so far and risked so much for nothing."
"Was it nothing, to save a world?"
"I never meant to, if I did. Farewell, Priam."
"Wait." And the Sovran took Ryel around the shoulders, touching his lips to his kinsman's temple in the Steppes way. "There. Now go, and return to us as soon as you can." He tried hard to smile. "I look forward to meeting your father."
Immeasurably moved, Ryel seconded his friend's gesture. "Until our next, ilandrakis."
*****
Parting from his friend, Ryel went to his rooms to make ready for his journey, and found Srin Yan Tai sprawled at her ease in his favorite chair, riffling through a pricelessly illumined volume of Destimarian epics, manifestly unimpressed.
"Finally," she said, glancing up at him as she flung the book aside. "I was wondering when you'd return, if ever."
The wysard sighed, not in joy. "What are you doing here?"
"Such exquisite politeness. Waiting to add to your congratulations, obviously, in a more private way than up on the wall amid a crowd." She contemplated Ryel with immense gratification. "You really came through, lad Ry. You fulfilled all the prophecies, and more."
Ryel shook his head. "Not yet, Lady Srin."
"I assume you refer to the life of Edris. But you'll set that right, too. You've done everything else so far." She sobered, then. "It means very much to you."
"It means everything. I want to share the whole truth at last with him," the wysard said. "To bring him back to Almancar, for my mother's sake."
"Does she know of your plans?"
"I thought it best not to tell her."
Lady Srin inclined her jewel-braided head. "That's wise. But what excuse have you given out for returning to Markul?"
"I've told everyone that I'm going to Risma for awhile, to see if it requires my help."
"That'll work." The warrior-wysardess rose from the chair, her armorings and ornaments making a rich clatter. "I'll be leaving Almancar myself in a few days. I'm not especially fond of cities, and this one's in sad need of repair."
"Where will you go? Back to your tree-yat?"
Lady Srin swung her plaits in negation. "I'm getting a little too old for that. You and I haven't had much time for talk since the battle, but now I can tell you my news. For some time it's been revealed unto me that Riana the One Immortal wasn't just a figment of legend revered and enshrined. She's alive and well—amid a screeching plethora of monkeys, from the looks of things."
"How long have you known of her?"
"Long enough. She's had her hand in many matters where you're concerned, lad."
"As when you wrought the spell that sent me to Hallagh? And when Jinn re-appeared outside Markul's walls, a horse only in seeming? And—"
"You needn't name 'em all." Srin Yan mused a moment, somewhat enviously. "I must say she shows considerably less than her thousand years. She's suggested that I join her in that jungle realm of hers. Of course I'm going, since she possesses knowledge I wouldn't mind sharing; who knows, I might even end up looking younger. Make sure that you tell Serah Dalkith to come up and join us. She's getting too creaky for Markul."
Ryel had to smile. "I doubt she'd thank you for saying that."
"I lived a long time in that fog-smothered City, lad, and I can assure you the damp played the devil with my old bones. Well, I'll leave you to pack." Lady Serah rose from her chair, and for a moment stood regarding the wysard, the respect in her moonstone eyes no longer tinged with irony. "You've impressed me very much, young Ryel. Your father would be proud."
"I hope to hear him say so."
"Greet him for me. And bring him with you when you come to visit me and the other old girls." She grinned. "I daresay he wouldn't mind making Riana's acquaintance."
Ryel inwardly resolved never to bring that meeting about. "I'll be sure to, Lady Srin." The wysard put his hands on her mailed shoulders. "You gave me wise counsel when I most required it. I won't forget."
"You'd better never, lad." She embraced him with mankind strength, cheek against cheek in the warrior's way, and took her leave. Ryel stood silently awhile, memory overwhelming him. Then he slowly reached for his journeybag, and made ready for the final trek.
*****
Ryel left for Markul quietly in the dawn, passing through the southern gate that had been closed for so long, yet now swung open wide in well-guarded triumph. Although the dead and wounded had been carried away, the terrain was still littered with wreckage from the Zegry war, and he steered Jinn around the shattered siege-machines and other debris. But then something not of death, but of life caught the wysard's eye. Leaping down from the saddle he grabbed up a handful of earth, and examined it with wonder. Bright green blades sprouted from the rain-dampened once-barren dirt, stretching toward the sunlight, and in the midst was a tiny flower, its heaven-blue petals only just beginning to unfurl.
"In the name of All," Ryel murmured, his heart full and humble. He knelt to plant the grass safely in the earth again, and inwardly thanked Riana, glad to think of the City of Gold surrounded by lush fields and fruit-heavy orchards, and Diara and Priam walking among them.
Dusting off his hands, he looked to the city's walls, and their fair stonework now battered and defaced, all the gods and creatures reduced to fragments by the cruel weapons of the Zegry forces. He remembered his first sight of those walls, how the fair stone glowed in the warm dawn and the shadows of the deep reliefs shifted as the sun rose, bringing the graven shapes to life. Until the Zegry onslaught, those walls had never known harm in all their centuries of existence, and Ryel sorrowed to look upon such wanton, heedless destruction.
The birthing of the day gave him strength and guided his inspiration. Lifting his hand, he spoke a mantra and began to outline the wrecked shapes with his fingers, drawing them in the air. Little by little the great walls mended, the massive stone blocks returning to their former splendid state, all their ancient carvings once again bold and whole.
"For you," he whispered to those he loved still enwrapped in sleep. Wishing them the most soothing and wondrous of dreams in which he hopefully played some kindly part, the wysard remounted and pressed his heel to Jinn's flank, and the horse tore off like a meteor. But when Ryel could no longer see the towers of Almancar, he brought Jinn to a halt.
"You're fast, little one—but not fast enough. We'll do a little wind-riding now, by your leave."
He willed himself to forget the World he had dwelt in for the past near-year. To forget friends, enemies, adventures, lands and realms and cities, driving them all out of his mind awhile, giving his entire thought to Edris, again seeing him tall, spare and strong, hearing his mocks and curses, feeling the ferocious glint of those ironic eyes. A expectant thrill imbued Ryel, warming the ever-thickening, ever-chilling air around him. Reveling in his Art's strength he called out the mantras that would harness the elements of water and air, soon feeling wild rain surround him.
At last the storm abated, and tall shadows seemed to loom amid the mists. A sharp gust tore the haze to rags, reveali
ng vast gray-black walls and dark towers.
The wysard gazed at that familiar sight with rapt joy. "Markul," he breathed. "Best and Highest."
How often he had felt himself a prisoner within those walls, cut off from sunlight and freedom. But how often since his departure he had yearned for the peace of those cloud-wrapped citadels. I’m home, he thought, letting out a glad World-weary breath. Home.
He had expected to find watchers upon those walls, but none greeted him. The stark ramparts were empty.
Ryel only shrugged. Rain had begun to fall yet again, and the City's denizens were in all likelihood keeping dry within doors. He dismounted, shouldering his journeybag and stroking Jinn's damp mane.
"You'll have to stay here, little one. But I won't be long."
Standing before the huge iron-wrought portals he hesitated. How should he enter? To his knowledge, no one of the Art-brotherhood had ever returned to Markul after leaving it. Steppes prudery forever relinquished did not decide him, but the chill dank rain certainly did. Wrapping Edris' cloak more closely about him, he said the words that would cause the gates to open—and to his mild wonderment they did so without hesitation or noise, swinging wide to admit him. He entered amid silence broken only by the steady drip of rain, and for a time wandered in aimless disquiet among the wet still streets and stairways, seeking in vain for a sign of life.
"But this can't be," he murmured, his breath vaporing. "There's no one here."
The City was deserted. Neglect and abandonment dismally haunted the gaping doors and windows, the herbs and vines straggling and gone to seed in gardens and at casements. And now it occurred to Ryel that many of the little clumps of discarded belongings outside the walls had disappeared.
"They've left," he whispered.
"Or died."
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic Page 68