Suddenly
there was light, ten blurry bits of it—the candles, now burnt
almost to nothing. Hard rain battered the windows. Ryel picked
himself up from the floor where he must have fallen. Other than a
bruise on his shoulder where he’d struck furniture, he’d
sustained no harm. Getting to his feet, he steadied his thoughts
awhile, then went over to the bed. Michael Essern lay as always,
motionless.
Motionless…save
for the rise and fall of his chest.
Ryel
caught his own breath. “You’re back. I brought you back!”
Tearing Michael’s silken robes open halfway to the waist, he
pressed his hand over the heart, searching out the pulse beneath
flesh that no more yielded to his touch than would white rock. Under
his palm surged a steady beating like a call to war, inexorable and
endless.
“I’m
good,” the wysard said softly, unable to resist a smile of purest
delight in his Art. But then came the everlasting sorrow. “And you
will never see it, ithradrakis.” He moved his hand to the Red
Essern’s brow, speaking ever quietly, but in a voice of command.
“Awake.”
Michael’s
deep-set eyelids twitched to disclose glinting slate-gray at first
unfocused. But then the eyes found Ryel, and blinked hard. His lips
parted after an effort or two, and he breathed deep; exhaled slowly.
His breath was, as always, inexplicably sweet, but his voice came out
gravelly and slow, with none of its wonted resonance. “Are we
dead?”
“Not
yet.”
He
coughed. “Then I could use some water.”
Ryel
brought some as Michael sat up very slowly, with many a cursing
groan. He drank greedily, then looked about him and frowned. “Where’s
this?”
“Markul.”
Michael
pushed back his hair, and with that gesture observed the egregious
length of his blood-colored locks. “Great Argane! How long was I in
the Void?”
Ryel
started, as much from the suddenly reverberant voice as its question.
“You knew you were there?”
“Of
course I knew,” Michael impatiently replied. “But for how long?”
“Your
rai has been separate from your body for more than half a year.”
Michael
murmured a stunned curse. “Half a year? But what’s become of the
World? What of Dagar?”
“Dagar
is destroyed.”
For
a time Michael was silent. “And Meschante?”
“He
died. Horribly.”
“Good.”
A longer hesitation. “And Destimar? The Dranthene princess?”
Ryel
glanced away momentarily. “I’ll tell you the whole story soon
enough. Are you well?”
“I’ll
live, since it looks as if I have to.” Michael rose from bed, but
no sooner stood than staggered, the waking color in his cheeks
suddenly draining white.
Alarmed,
Ryel caught him. “What is it? Are you in pain?”
Michael
seemed to consider, perplexedly. “Nothing hurts,” he said at
last. “I’m all right. You can let go of me.” And he stood
upright, although uncertainly. “Still, there’s something strange.
I feel...crowded.”
Ryel
sharply lifted his head. “Crowded?”
“More
than myself. I can’t explain it.” He glanced down at his Markulit
garb with surprised and profound distaste. “Robes. I can’t stand
them. Too cumbersome.” He rapped out a sharp air-command, and in
another moment the battle-dress of a Barrier colonel of horse
appeared in orderly array on the bed, fresh regimentals and snowy
linen, the exacting garb of the dread Black Dragons. “Good,”
Michael said, inspecting the garments with satisfaction. “My
servants haven’t deserted me—but they wouldn’t dare.” He
threw off his trailing layers of precious silk and began to dress.
“We’re in your house?”
“We
are.”
As
he arrayed himself Michael gave a summary glance about, and seemed to
approve. “Not bad—though somewhat spare. My own house in
Elecambron is more elaborately fitted. Books and pictures and the
like. But I don’t think I’ll be returning to my City any time
soon …if ever again.” He fastened the black breeches, pulled on
the tall riding-boots, and reached for the shirt. “Is there a house
empty hereabouts that will suit me?”
“As
many as you wish. We’re the only ones in the City.” And Ryel
explained why. Michael listened silently as he adjusted the various
items of his gear.
“So
Markul and Tesba are down,” he said when Ryel had ended. “Which
means the other Two are strong.”
“Not
all strength is in numbers,” Ryel replied. “No adept in either
Elecambron or Ormala is the match of us.”
“More
than likely,” Michael said, fastening his jacket’s many clasps
with practiced one-handed ease. “And I doubt that that truth will
be tested any time soon.” Having clothed himself, the Red Essern
went to Ryel’s mirror to behold his image, made a grimace at the
inordinate length of his hair, and drew the dagger at his side.
Wrapping his long red skeins around his right hand, he hacked them
away to shoulder length with the razor-edged blade.
“There,”
he said, throwing the severed tresses down upon the table and running
his hands through his shortened locks. “Now I’m right. But why
did my hair grow, and not my beard?”
“Because
of one of my Art-sister’s spells,” Ryel said. “She liked your
looks clean-shaven.”
“I
thought you said we were alone here.”
“We
are now.”
“Not
quite,” Michael said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To
see the one I killed,” Michael said, his deep voice’s music rough
and harsh. “She that lies in your death-tower. Take me there.”
“It
might be better if you waited until—”
“Shut
up and come on.”
The
roaring downpour of the night before had waned to mist, and the air
was sodden and chill, but Michael never seemed to notice. Feeling the
cold keenly himself, Ryel wrapped Edris’ mantle well about him as
he led the way to the Silent Citadel. Again he entered the dark
tower, again caused the torches to burn. In that radiance shimmered
the body of the Northern beauty who had almost been Ryel’s death,
lapped in rich robes of black and gold brocade that streamed down on
either side of the stone bed upon which she lay.
Michael
went to her side. His face showed no emotion save for an almost
imperceptible tremor around the stone-gray eyes. “You kept her
well,” he said to Ryel. His resonant voice barely shook at all.
“I’d swear she was alive and ready to wake. But you say she’s
dead.”
“Yes.”
“Dead,
and not in the place I was. Not in the Void.”
“No.”
“She
couldn’t be. Because I would have known, had she been there. I
would have felt her.” He took her hand and gazed into her face,
searching every feature. “I would have felt you,” he said softly.
He then addressed Ryel, although he never took his eyes from that
fair immobile visage. His words came slowly, although his deep voice
never faltered. “We met in Hallagh. She was the daughter of a great
scholar with whom I studied—fully as learned, and joyous and
gentle. It took all the self-command I possessed not to love her.
When I left Hallagh for Elecambron, I put her out of my thoughts and
gave all my being to the Art. But one day some years later I looked
down from the wall and saw her lying there in the snow, all but dead.
I took her into my house, and cared for her until she was well again.
Never until then had I observed the Art within her, and how strong it
was—but it had no place in that City of cold. It should have
flowered in Tesba under the sun, far from any thought of me—”
His
breathing had become labored, and his last words were barely audible.
He covered his face with his hands, and for a silent interval his
shoulders shook. But then he gasped, and jerked his hands away from
his face to find them wet with tears.
“It’s
been long,” he whispered. “So long…” Raising a finger to his
lips, he touched his tongue to the salt wetness there, and gave a
little start. But in another instant he’d roughly dashed his cheeks
dry, and become as stone again.
“I’ve
no right to mourn her. I will only remember, and that will be my
punishment, every hour that I live, until death gives me rest at
last.”
His
face never flinched, his voice never shook, but his gray eyes
glittered with a terrible light. “Come away a moment,” Ryel said,
unable to bear that look. “There is something I would show you.”
Michael
did not reply for a long time, did not look round. But at last he
nodded assent. They climbed the tower to its top, where the bodies of
the First of Markul once were kept in reverent state. Ryel led
Michael to the funeral bed of Lord Aubrel.
“This
was your kinsman,” Ryel said. “From this man came both Markul’s
greatness, and the curse of the Red Esserns.”
Silently,
with folded arms, Michael regarded his forebear. “I wish he’d
been stillborn.” Some time passed before he spoke again. “Many
believe the rai is deathless. But we who have Crossed know how
fragile the rai is, and how easily destroyed.”
Ryel
shivered, remembering his own shrieking fall, that burning up. “Yes.
We know.”
The
Red Essern lifted his head, meeting the wysard eye to eye. “The
Void that was Dagar’s prison was my freedom. There I transcended
both life and death.”
“Did
you sense anyone else there with you?”
“I
had no self left—but I sensed other emanations. One of them was
very strong.”
“The
rai of Edris.”
Michael
bent his head. “Yes. I could sense its restlessness. Its yearning
to escape. I had no such desire.”
“Edris’
rai has been delivered from pain,” Ryel replied, but he felt his
voice catch.
Michael
inclined his head again, not so much in assent as regret. “True.
But his body has been destroyed.”
“How
could you have known?” Ryel asked, amazed.
“Because
I was the one who sent plague to Markul.”
Ryel
froze, incapable of speech. Michael continued, slowly.
“Yes.
I sent it. I made sure that your father’s body was corrupted beyond
any healing.” He did not look up. “To make you suffer.”
It
was Ryel’s turn now to look away. He could barely breathe the red
dense dazing air around him. “You got what you wanted, Michael,”
he said somehow. “I have indeed suffered.”
“I’ll
never expect you to forgive.”
Ryel
could make no answer, and barely felt Michael’s hand upon his
shoulder.
“Ryel.”
The deep voice shook with remorse. “If I could do anything to
restore Edris’ body, I would.”
“You
cannot.” Ryel freed himself, though gently, and looked down
unseeingly into the face of Lord Aubrel. “It doesn’t matter. For
I am certain I have not lost Edris forever. There have been times
when his rai escaped, and I spoke with him.” Ryel studied the
pattern of Lord Aubrel’s robe. “Two rais can exist in one body,
Michael. I’ve witnessed it.”
“Where?”
Michael demanded, very suddenly.
“In
Almancar, when Dagar and Meschante shared the double of your form.”
Michael
frowned. “But surely one of them must eventually conquer, and one
die—”
He
halted choking on the last word, and clutched the edge of Lord
Aubrel’s bier. Ryel looked up, roused from his numb reverie by the
livid distortion overtaking Michael’s face.
“Brother!”
He reached out to him. “What…”
Michael
struggled to speak, uselessly, then swayed and collapsed, falling
across the body of his ancestor. Ryel seized him by the shoulders,
lifting him up, struggling with his dead weight.
“Brother—”
He caught Michael’s wrist, seeking the pulse; found none, and after
an eternal moment’s horror damned himself for his stupidity. “I
should never have let you come here. It was too soon.” He lowered
Michael’s body to the floor, kneeling next to it and trying all he
knew of both Art and World-lore to rouse the limp form to life ...
all to nothing. At last Ryel knew he was incapable of any further
effort, and bowed his head against the icy alabaster of the bier.
“Gone,”
he whispered. “Everything. Gone.” He sank down, taking the Red
Essern’s hand in his own, bowing his forehead to its back. “I
never thought to lose you again. Never this soon.” And his eyes
clenched in numb sick agony.
But
then he gave a cry, heart-stoppingly startled by a blow to his face,
a hard stinging smack athwart his cheek more stunning than any
full-fisted wallop. Staring wide-eyed down into Michael’s face, the
wysard felt his mouth fall open, and could not close it. The Red
Essern’s eyes were now open, and still cold storm-gray, but now it
seemed that Ryel looked past them, into eyes far different—brown
nearly to black, and longer, and aslant. The same eyes that had
pierced Ryel’s inmost soul that winter night on the Steppes, when
his entire life had changed forever. They turned him to stone, those
eyes, and strangled any possibility of speech. Then came the voice.
“You
needn’t look so goggle-eyed, whelp—and quit that idiot sniveling.
Yes, it’s me.”
Those
deep bass tones—less sonorous than Michael’s, but to Ryel’s
ears a thousandfold more sweet—dinned him back to life, and an
imperative shake like countless well-remembered others jolted out his
speech, word by gasping word.
“Edris.
Father. Ithradrakis. But how? How—”
“Easily
enough,” said Edris, letting him go with a grin. “I sneaked in
unbeknownst from the Void with the rai you’d summoned. There wasn’t
much other chance to get back, what with my body turned to stinking
ashes.”
“But
how could you—”
“I
slipped in during your spells—which you did very cleverly, I must
admit—and waited until I saw my time.”
“I
can’t believe it,” Ryel said. But he could, and never had he
known any joy like to this. “I can’t believe you’re back.”
“Better
than ever, I might add.” With supreme complacency Edris gazed down
at his tall muscular form in its military black. He tested his arms
and shoulders, stood to admire his legs, fingered the angles of his
face. “I feel downright handsome—that’s new. How old do I
look?”
“About
thirty-two.”
Edris
grinned. “Better and better.” Stripping back a sleeve, he less
cheerfully assessed his skin’s icy whiteness. “Hm. Rather on the
pale side.” Catching a strand of his hair, he held it in front of
his eyes, which instantly widened. “And this mop’s as red as a
monkey’s arse…” He comprehended, then, amazedly. “By every
god. Am I in the body of Michael of Elecambron?”
“You
are.”
A
fierce flash of laugh, nothing like Michael would ever give. “It’s
too good—the body of your bitterest rival, and I in it.
Unbelievable.”
“Michael
and I are no longer rivals,” Ryel said. Despite his joy, he could
not quiet a misgiving qualm. “What has become of Michael’s rai?”
“Oh,
it’s still here. We’re sharing this body, him and me. But I don’t
know how long I’ll have the uppermost, so let’s not waste time.
I’m perishing with hunger. Let’s get out of this tomb and find
some food—and drink.” Impatiently Edris seized Ryel’s wrist,
yanking him to his feet. “Come on, brat. Is my house still
standing?”
“It
is. But everyone’s gone from our City, father. No one’s—”
“No
one’s left but us? Good riddance, I say. Come on.”
They
left the Jade Tower, Edris descending the stairs at a run, Ryel
following. But as they traversed the dank streets, suddenly Edris
slid to a halt.
“Remember
this place, lad?”
They
had come to the courtyard where they once used to fight with swords.
A long time he and his father regarded one another. Ryel never saw
the form of Michael Essern, but only the long dark eyes and hulking
lengths and crags of the Steppes warrior, he that had fought Warraven
in the Temple of Argane, he that Ryel had dwelt with and learned from
for every day of twelve years.
“Call
me what I am,” Ryel said, each wrung syllable snagging in his
throat.
“I
did a long time ago.” Edris reached out, pulling Ryel into his
arms. “I said it when we first met, years ago in your mother’s
yat. You’re mine, Ry. Mine.”
Ryel
felt the embrace wrap him in all the serene wholeness of life finally
understood, all the deliverance of a great truth beautifully brought
to light. “Father,” he whispered. “Ithradrakis.”
Edris
touched his lips to Ryel’s temple. “I’ve always been proud of
you, little son. Always, since the day you were born.” He let go,
opening his eyes again, flashing that old fierce irony. “But I’m
still taking back this—and this, by your leave.” With a swift
jerk he stripped Ryel of his scarlet cloak, and in another moment had
slung the rune-strong Kaltiri tagh over his shoulder. “That’s
better.” Turning on his heel, he strode off into the mist, flinging
an irritable last word over his shoulder.
“Damn
it, are you coming or not?”
Overwhelmed
but obedient, Ryel followed.
Once
inside his house, Edris inspected its yatlike appointments with
tolerant disdain. “To think these walls were enough for me, more
years than I care to count. Well, I’ll try to endure them yet
another night.” Sharply he issued commands, and soon a plentiful
Steppes feast was smoking on the low table, before a hearth
brilliantly ablaze. Tossing his cloak where he always had, unslinging
his sword and throwing himself down upon the floor-cushions, Edris
motioned Ryel to join him, and without more words energetically
attacked the food, washing each ecstatic mouthful down with long
draughts of rich red wine. Ryel had never seen Edris so gluttonous
before, and hardly knew whether to show concern or smile. But the
smile won out, to see such greed seemingly exhibited by the
habitually stoic Red Essern.
“Don’t
kill yourself,” he said. “I only just got you back.”
Edris
wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaning back upon his cushions for a
moment’s respite. The drink had colored him ruddily, and his dark
eyes gleamed bright. “You’re not losing me any time soon, whelp.
Not when I’ve got this stalwart young soldier to live in. I know
you cured Michael of the Red Esserns’ blood-bane—I can feel it.
Has he any other ills I should worry about?”
“As
far as I know, Lord Michael now enjoys perfect bodily health,” Ryel
replied. “But tell me, do you sense his presence? Can you read his
thoughts?”
“I
don’t know. Let me try.” But after some moments’ concentration
Edris shrugged, defeated. “I can’t look into him—not that I
care to. He always struck me as a surly young beast. But though I
can’t say much for his mind, I’ll never quarrel with his body.”
And he turned a luxuriant stretch into a flex, jolting his biceps
into truculent bulk. “It’s not often an old codger like me gets a
chance like this.”
“You
weren’t old, father,” Ryel said, tasting the last word like
something indescribably sweet.
“Bah.
I was nearly sixty. Almost twice the age of this fellow.” And Edris
for the tenth time ran his hand over his smooth cheek, and traced his
eyes’ edges with a searching finger. “No crow’s feet here—but
my former carcass had them aplenty.” He poured out yet more wine.
“I’d forgotten what it was to know my full strength, the strength
of my prime.” His eyes shone with reverie. “You remember that
night we met?”
“As
if it were last minute.”
“When
Mira ran out of the yat to speak with me, I was sure Yorganar would
follow to drag her back. But he didn’t. What she and I said to each
other I can’t recall now. But never will I forget how it felt to
wrap her with me in my cloak to keep her warm, and kiss her until I
couldn’t stand it anymore, and curse myself for a fool. I want to
make it right. And I will, in Almancar. If you don’t object, I plan
to marry her.”
Ryel
smiled, but with strong reservations. “I have no quarrel whatever
with that; but Lord Michael well might. And I doubt my mother will
think it proper to wed you as you now look.”
“Bah.
She’ll like me all the better.” As if the matter were settled,
Edris reached for another skewer of meat. But hardly had he grasped
it than a trembling fit came over him, and he gave a gurgled cry.
Ryel
lunged forward, appalled. “Father! What—”
But
in that moment Edris grew calm again, looking about him in blinking
amazement increasingly wary and disgruntled.
“Where’s
this? A Steppes gypsy’s tent?”
Alike
as Edris’ voice was to Michael’s, Ryel nevertheless knew the
difference well. His heart sank to see those ice-gray eyes’
resentful stare examining the room. But before he could reply, the
Red Essern observed the table in front of him, and the food on it. He
lifted up the skewerful of meat Edris had dropped, eyeing it with
dislike, sniffing it first in suspicion, then in loathing. “Mutton,”
he growled under his breath. “Disgusting.”
“It
isn’t mutton, it’s lamb,” Ryel said, not a little indignant.
“Sheep’s
sheep. I detest it.” Throwing down the skewer, Michael lifted his
hand to his head, resentfully grimacing. “And why do I feel
so—strange?” But he found his answer in the golden cup. With
deepest revulsion he inspected the precious vintage glimmering in the
bright metal. “Wine? I’ve never touched wine in my life.” He
glared at Ryel. “Was I eating and drinking this vile stuff? What’s
happened to me?” Indignantly he glanced downward, discovering yet
another anomaly. “And why
am I
squatting on the floor like a savage?” Abruptly surging to his feet
he barked out an order, and at once a great chair took form. Into
this massive—and in its Steppes surroundings most
incongruous—furnishing Michael instantly dropped, gripping the
cushioned leather arms as if determined to keep his rai firmly
dominant in his body.
“Clear
that trash away,” he commanded with a glare and an Art-word toward
the table, and in a moment every atom of the Rismai banquet had
disappeared. But its savor only too apparently still lingered on
Michael’s palate. “Agh. I can still taste that greasy sheep-fat
and garlic.” Another word and a crystal goblet appeared, brimful of
clear water. Michael drank deep before he spoke again; and when he
spoke he looked, for the first time Ryel had ever observed, confused,
apprehensive, and utterly taken aback.
“It’s
your father that’s within me. His rai.”
“Yes,”
Ryel said; and his emotions were the complete opposite of Michael’s.
“He has returned to me.”
Michael
glowered at his Art-brother. “Not for long. I know the spell to
drive him out, and send him back to the Void.”
“In
which case I’d use the same spell on your rai, then bring Edris
back to take full possession of your bodily form, which I can assure
you he’d be well contented with.”
Michael
surged to his feet, unsteady and furious. “Just try it, Markulit!”
Ryel,
too, was standing now, equally irate and very much in control. “Don’t
be such an overbearing fool.” With not a push but a word he hurled
Michael back into his chair. “You might show a little gratitude.
Were it not for my Art, your body would have lain lifeless forever.
Just as without me, your blood would still be poisoned with the bane
that plagued your family for a thousand years. Your blood, and your
brother’s. But now you’re both free of it.”
Michael
stared up at him, hands frozen on the chair-arms. “What do you
mean?”
Ryel
told him of the cure he had wrought upon the Count Palatine, but said
nothing of the sickness he had taken upon himself, and how it had
tortured him; told him of the uprising that would have been Yvain
Essern’s unspeakable death. When he had made an end, Michael sank
back into his chair, leaning on one of the great arms, turning his
head so that Ryel could not see his face for a while. When he again
looked round, a faint trace of color humanized his harsh pallor, and
his voice though barely audible seemed to fill the air with resonant
warmth, and his gray eyes glittered harshly in the firelight.
“Yvain,”
he whispered. “They would have burnt Yvain ...” With a grimace he
averted his eyes from the leaping flames of the hearth. “So we both
owe you our lives, my brother and I. For his at least I thank you.”
Michael reached for the crystal goblet, holding it to the light,
seemingly absorbed in its faceted flame-bright scintillations. But
his eyes glinted more. “I’ve missed him,” he said quietly,
mostly to himself. “More than I can say, I’ve missed him. All my
desire is to return to Hallagh after these many years apart, and see
him again—and I will, at once.”
Ryel
reflected that Edris might not be in favor of Michael’s decision.
But before he could offer objections, Michael spoke again, seemingly
to himself.
“But
I’ll not stay there. I’ve done cruel murder, and untold wrong.
Were I coward enough, I’d wish my rai back in the Void, safe in the
nothingness, forever forgetful of the World I came into only to harm.
But my crimes require penance, harsh and unending.”
Ryel
felt his mouth falling open. “By every god! Haven’t you suffered
your entire life? You couldn’t help how you were born. You—”
Michael
shook his head. “I could have helped what I became. I should have
fought the Bane, not yielded to it. I should have been strong enough
to resist Dagar. I was weak in all things; weak, and vile. It will
take the rest of my life to make right the harm I did.”
“Then
you might as well begin in Almancar. More than enough needs to be
made right in that city.”
Michael
waved away the very notion. “I’ll never go back there. I never
want to see that place again, that I almost destroyed...or the
Dranthene princess, whose death I nearly caused.”
“Her
name’s Diara. And if you were a man, you’d go to her and ask her
forgiveness on your knees.”
A
long silence at that, and a barely audible reply. “Never.”
“And
what about my father’s wishes?”
The
Red Essern shrugged in scorn. “Let that Steppes gypsy Edris do what
he can to overcome my rai. He’s old, and his Art’s no match for
mine.”
Ryel
lifted his chin. “You only say that because you’re drunk from the
wine he made you drink.”
“I’m
not drunk! Although I admit I feel...strange. At any rate, I’m
damned if a mere graybeard Markulit is going to push me around.”
Propping both booted legs upon the table, the Red Essern settled
himself back in his chair in a posture defiantly immovable. In
another moment his scarlet-skeined head, unbalanced by drink, fell
upon his breast. His next sound was a muffled snore.
Ryel
sighed, knowing that Edris wouldn’t let Michael sleep for long.
“Rest while you can, brother mine,” he said in deepest sympathy,
endless vistas of new roads rising up before him as he spoke.
“Rest—while my father lets you. Because tomorrow we head for
Almancar...all three of us.”
END
A Guide To Names:
Many
of the names in The Ryel Saga are influenced by French and Greek, and
should be pronounced accordingly.
Agenor:
AGG-en-or
Bradamaine:
BRADA-main
Dranthene:
Dran-THEE-nay
Diara:
Dee-AR-ah (rhymes with “tiara”)
Edris:
EE-driss
Essern:
Accented on the last syllable
Guyon
de Grisainte Desrenaud: GUY-on deh GREE-zahnt DEZ-ren-aud (”aud”
rhyming with “lode)
Mira:
MEE-rah
Priamnor:
Pry-AM-nor
Roskerrek:
Ross-KERR-ek
Riana:
Ree-AHN-ah
Ryel:
Rye-EL
Srin
Yan Tai: “Tai” pronounced like “tie”
Valrandin:
Val-RAN-din
Yvain:
Ee-VAN
A
note on Steppes names: It is customary among males of the Steppes
phratri of Destimar to use a first name followed by a patronymic (the
father’s name, with the additional ending -em) and a matronynmic
(the mother’s name, with the additional ending -ai): thus, Ryel
Edrisem Mirai, Ryel son of Edris and Mira. Females upon marriage take
as a surname the first name of their husband, with the additional
ending -a. Upon the death of a parent, the patronymic or matronymic
is not used for some length of time—usually three to five years—as
a sign of mourning.
Glossary
Aliante:
(al’YANT): The lowest type of mercenary soldier, one that changes
loyalties at the slightest whim. Always an insult.
Chal
(rhymes with Hal): a hot drink relished by the folk of Destimar,
especially those of the Inner Steppes. It is green in color (dark
murky green in the Inner Steppes, where it is brewed very strong),
and is invigorating, warming, and nutritious. Among Steppe-dwellers,
chal is traditionally brewed in a chaltak―a wide-mouthed jar-shaped
vessel that can also double as a canteen―and drunk from the
close-fitting lid that serves as a cup. Chaltaks can be made of
simple fire-hardened porcelain or of precious enamel, depending on
the means of the owner.
Ilandrakis
(Ill-an-DRAK-is): Almancarian endearment, signifying “dearer than
brother.” Used by both sexes. The feminine equivalent is
kerandraka.
Ithradrakis
(Ith-rah-DRAK-is):: Almancarian term of respect, signifying “dearer
than father.” Used by both sexes.
Kerandraka
(Kerr-an-DRAK-ah): Almancarian term of respect, signifying “dearer
than sister.” Used solely by a man to a woman, and betokening a
deep platonic bond of the heart.
Keirai
(Keer-AYE): A High Almancarian greeting, used solely between blood
relations of the imperial house.
Kriy
(Kree): A Steppes game similar to polo.
Krusghan
(KROOS-gahn): The seven-holed transverse flute of the Steppes,
usually made of blackwood with joinings of carved stone.
Kulm
(Kool’m): A peat-like substance dug from the substrata of the wide
plains of the Steppes, lightweight and long-burning; used as fuel for
stoves or cooking fires throughout Destimar.
Lakh
(Lack): Sweets made with finely-ground almonds and sugar, enclosing a
filling of apricot conserve. A favorite delicacy of Destimar.
Silestra
(Sill-ESS-trah): An Almancarian term of endearment, meaning “as
fair within as without.” Used principally to describe women, but
can also be applied to men, in which case the word becomes Silestor.
Sindretin
(Sin-DRET-in): A Destimarian celebration commemorating one’s
fiftieth birthday, signalized by lavish revelry.
Sovran
(SOV-ran): The male ruler of the imperial house of Destimar. The
female equivalent is Sovrana, which also the title of the Sovran’s
consort. Male heirs apparent are given the title Sovranel; females,
Sovrena. Younger brothers to the titular ruler are styled Sovranet;
females, Sovranara.
Tiraktia
(tir-AK-tee-ah): A privileged member of the Diamond Heaven, whose
primary role is to entertain with music, dance, or song. Tiraktiai
are at liberty to choose their lovers as they wish.
Yat:
The traditional dwelling of the nomadic tribes of Destimar’s
steppes. Its form is similar to the yurt, with a hole in the roof to
provide escape for the hearth-ring’s smoke.
Carolyn
Kephart’s publications:
Wysard
and
Lord Brother,
Parts One and Two of the Ryel Saga duology, acclaimed epic fantasy
The
Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic,
combining the duology in a single volume
Queen
of Time,
contemporary magic realism that takes the Faust legend in new
directions
At
the Core of the Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved,
an essay on the inner workings of the popular 1970s Fisher Price
wobble toy
PenTangle:
Five Pointed Fables,
a collection of short stories previously published in ezines, plus a
bonus tale:
The
Kind Gods: Did the old gods really die? A warrior seeks answers at
the burial-mound of his greatest enemy in this Norse-themed elegy
first published in Bewildering
Stories.
The Heart’s Desire: A
government scryer's life is a prison until she and her bodyguard
discover the ultimate secret language.
Last
Laughter: A cautionary tale about a wicked court jester and his
comeuppance, first published in Silver
Blade Fantasy Quarterly.
Regenerated:
Cela always hoped she’d find Jorgen again someday...but was this
really Jorgen? A tenderly bitter tale of love and giant lizards,
first published in Quantum
Muse.
Everafter
Acres: Happily Ever After isn’t always perfect, but dark knights
can be illuminating. A wryly humorous fairy tale first published in
Luna
Station Quarterly.
© Carolyn Kephart 2013, 2022
