Below is Chapter Twelve of THE RYEL SAGA, which combines both volumes of my WYSARD and LORD BROTHER duology. I plan to post a chapter every week (27 chapters total). Enjoy, with my compliments. For the first chapter visit here; links to succeeding chapters are given at the bottom of each entry, and can also be accessed via the Archive panel at the left of the screen. For links relating to my other writing either free to read or available for purchase, visit here.
THE RYEL SAGA:
A TALE OF LOVE AND MAGIC
(WYSARD and LORD BROTHER
Complete in One Volume)
By Carolyn Kephart
Revised 2013 Second Edition
“Intricately layered and exotic” ~Robin Hobb
Lord Adept Ryel Mirai leaves the great Art-citadel Markul to rediscover the long-lost spell that will release his mentor from the wraithworld of the Void, but a malignant sorcerer likewise imprisoned has enlisted the aid of Ryel’s strongest rival to find the spell first. Amid dangers, joys and temptations, Ryel encounters unlikely allies and unforeseen enemies, and learns that he may well gain all that he wishes...although perhaps not as he wished it.
Chapter Twelve
Bradamaine
Ryel
turned back with little regard for the streets and sights he passed
through, dazedly attempting to envision Valrandin as a woman, and to
imagine how he would have treated her had he known. No physical hints
had betrayed the Countess’ sex—no swell of breast or hip, no
softness whatever either in her semblance or her manners. The clear
timbre of her voice, pitched neither high nor low, had been very
pleasing, but without any hint of femininity. But there were the
diamonds in both her ears, contrary to the custom of Northern males
who wore only one ear-ornament, if any; and that rich pervasive
scent, and that superlative abundance of lace at her wrists and
throat.
“A
woman,” he murmured to himself. “And Roskerrek knows it well.”
Again he witnessed the savage eyeplay that had passed between the
Count Palatine and Valrandin, now realizing that beneath the seeming
disdain ran a current of unwilling esteem, and that under the
apparent loathing twisted something far to the contrary.
As
he considered those events and all the others that had befallen him
since his arrival in the North, a deafening peal of bells made him
start, and fight to keep in the saddle as Jinn reared in startlement.
Glancing around, he saw that the clanging din came from a great
temple; and he further noticed that he was on Crown Street. Recalling
the poet Dulard’s mention of Derain Meschante, Ryel paused to
consider the sacred building’s stark and unwelcoming exterior, and
then tied Jinn to a railing near the church door where other horses
were fastened.
Climbing
the steps, he entered into a long bare hall grudgingly illumined by
the wan Northern afternoon, where his appearance was uncordially
remarked by the congregation, most of it sober middle class, who from
long rows of hard benches eyed his Steppes gear askance and murmured
among themselves. Their faint noise was the only sound in the great
echoing room where meager shafts of pallid light glinted on the
dust-motes with chilly disapproval. At length a rustling at the end
of the room alerted the congregation to stand; and a skeletal
gray-robed priest ascended the steps of the pulpit in the midst of
the room’s end with slow steps, setting down with a reverberant
thud the great book he held, turning its pages with dry cracklings
and much coughing. At last he spoke, intoning a prayer through his
nose; and the congregation seconded it with the same pious nasality.
Fervorless was that orison, which chiefly requested the downfall of
unbelievers; and the rest of the service was fully as joyless and
perfunctory. At some point a pair of gray-swathed hangdog acolytes
circulated about the auditory with wide brass salvers, into which
those assembled were all but constrained, it appeared, to throw
considerable amounts of coin; the heaped vessels were then placed
upon the bare stone altar under the grim and unsatisfied eye of the
priest.
Next
followed a brief, bitter harangue eloquent only in its denunciation
of sin and assurance of eternal damnation were not certain precepts
of an exceptionally self-denying nature followed to the letter.
Distrust and loathing of the flesh seemed to be the key, indeed the
only, tenets of belief. Ryel listened amazed, wondering how anyone
could find spiritual comfort in dogma so basely bare of any uplifting
philosophy, any tenderness, forgiveness, love; and he could not help
but remember the Temple of Atlan and its passionate celebration of
pleasure, the jewel-sparked nudity of the dancers, the candlelight
and wine and color and music. The worship of Atlan might not be any
more profound in its intentions than that of the Unseen; but at least
Destimar had other deities—Demetropa, Divares, Aphrenalta—whereby
a believer’s higher faculties might find nourishment. Hryeland had
only this one unforgiving invisible god, to whom its worshipers were
no more than vermin, and the world a barren rock.
Bored
to disgust, Ryel had no wish to stay further. He was on the point of
leaving when at that moment a shiver went through the congregation,
an eager current of expectation. Turning his gaze back to the pulpit,
Ryel saw that a preacher was mounting the creaking steps with a
heavily resonant tread: a priest much younger than the first, his
years less than forty. He was almost as powerfully built as Michael
Essern, and nearly as tall despite his slack round-shouldered stance.
Unlike Michael he was meticulously washed, and immaculately clad in
severe gray robes, and all unlike Michael most disconcertingly
repulsive of visage. In a man of right mind and clean spirit, the
priest’s looks would have been unremarkable, and in a man of great
intellect and compassionate wisdom they might well have been deemed
attractive. But Ryel only saw the pebble-hard mud-colored eyes, and
the bitter-lipped mouth. Even the hair was joyless, hanging in thin
lusterless strands of dull brown. Nevertheless, at the sight of the
priest the congregation seemed as close to ecstasy as it was capable,
and pressed forward to hearken unto his teachings.
“Who
is he?” the wysard whisperingly demanded of the plump burgher’s
wife at his left elbow. When she did not reply, he asked again, more
insistently.
She
glared him up and down, her overfed cheeks wobbling with indignation.
“He is none other than the Reverend Prelate Derain Meschante, the
most eminent divine in the land,” she hissed. “And an outland
reprobate you must be, to intrude here with your idle askings!”
“So
that’s Meschante. By every god—”
He
must have said the last words too loudly, because appalled silence
sheer as ice caught their echo. Meschante stood upright at last,
darting a furious glare directly at the wysard.
“By
every god? None but a benighted heathen would swear so grossly—and
such you must be, from your outland looks. A slave to the dirty gods
of Destimar, most probably of that deceiving idol of whores and
wastrels, Atlan!”
Ryel
faced Meschante unperturbed, and only when the congregation’s
spiteful murmuring had died down did he speak, clearly and quietly.
“You once frequented Atlan’s temple, I believe. Not only the
temple, but the Diamond Heaven.”
“You
mean the brothel quarter. And I did indeed,” Meschante replied,
quelling his flock’s bleating horror with a lowering scowl. “And
there I preached the truth of the Unseen to the shameless denizens of
that filthy wallow. I saved souls there, outlander.”
Approving
murmurs met this declaration, but Ryel only lifted his chin in scorn.
“You basely insulted a woman of purer spirit than you could ever
begin to comprehend, and drove into exile a man you could never hope
to match.”
“I
worked the will of the Unseen,” Meschante said, sneeringly
self-righteous. “Mine is the triumph, and I glory in it.”
“The
Diamond Heaven still stands, for all your puritan ravings,” the
wysard replied. “And Belphira Deva is no less fair, despite your
bigoted insolence.”
At
the mention of Belphira, Meschante’s flaccid pallor colored dark
with rage and something more, and his voice rose over the
congregation’s hissing hubbub. “Never speak that slut’s name in
this sacred place! Her damnation will come at last—but not before
time claws to pieces her painted beauty and leaves her a broken
crone! As for that harlot’s rakehell paramour, he went from her
reeking bed to this realm, only to be driven forth in shame at last.”
“Driven
where?” Ryel demanded, fighting to contain his impatience.
Observing
that his congregation was dividing its attention between him and the
wysard, Meschante made a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. “To his
doom, I devoutly pray. But if I have any means to bring about
judgment on that braggart Desrenaud and his proud trollop, believe
that I will use them to their limit. Now get you gone, but know that
the Unseen will punish with eternal fire your impious invasion of Its
sanctuary.”
Revulsed
and disappointed, Ryel quitted the church under indignant glares,
glad to be back in the jostling muddy street. As he was considering a
quiet glass of ale in some snug tavern, he was surprised by the voice
of Jorn Alleron, its tone harsh and sharp.
“Damnation,
I’ve been looking for you everywhere, doctor. You’re to come with
me this instant.”
Ryel
turned and looked up at the mounted soldier, noting the drawn tension
around his steely eyes. “But I wasn’t to meet the Count Palatine
until—”
“He
requires you now. I’ve never seen him worse. He was nearly falling
off his horse when he got back from the Ministry, and we had to carry
him indoors. Come along, and be quick!”
***
Impatiently
led by Alleron, the wysard made his way to the headquarters and
Roskerrek’s apartments. The rooms of the lower floor were
designated for military business, and officers and soldiers came and
went, filling the air with the tread of boots, the rattle of swords,
and harsh peremptory commands. Upstairs in one wing of the great
building were Roskerrek’s private chambers, all deserted and
silent, chill as vaults, hung with faded tapestries and darkened by
ancient walnut paneling and heavy graceless furniture black with age.
It seemed as if the vast rooms lay under some heartless curse that
had banished all hope of pleasure, and that laughter had never
stirred the dank stony air.
Alleron
quietly pushed open a great door. “In through here,” he
whispered. “Be quiet as you go.”
The
chamber Ryel entered, ushered by a wordless orderly, was exceedingly
warm. A great fire burned in the hearth, throwing erratic shadows on
the walls, where beasts and birds and monsters carved in the wood
took sinister life from the wavering light. Heavy curtains muffled
the windows and partly surrounded the great tester-bed that stood
close to the mantelpiece.
“Over
here, physician.” Alleron’s voice, hushed and cautionary, led
Ryel to the bedside. By a branch of candles on a nearby table the
wysard saw that Roskerrek lay at length and seemingly asleep, but
muttering and tossing as if trapped in a nightmare. Alleron looked on
with disquiet clearly heart-wrung.
“I’ve
never known him worse,” the captain whispered hoarsely. “When he
came back from the Ministry he had a vomiting fit in the courtyard,
and then fainted; came to when we got him inside, and went mad almost
from the pain in his entrails and his head.”
Ryel
looked closer not at Roskerrek but Alleron, noting the equerry's cut
lip and blackened eye. “Was he the cause of your wounds, Captain?”
Alleron
nodded, but shrugged too. “Often my lord’s pain is so great that
he loses his wits almost, and lashes out not knowing what he does.
I’m used to it—and glad of it, because it always seems to soothe
him.”
“You
never give him calmants?”
“No
drugs avail him, doctor, nor ever have.” Turning, Alleron beckoned
to the waiting orderly. “Bring the basin—he’s about to have
another fit.”
Starting
up on an elbow, Roskerrek began to retch, racked with spasms; and
Alleron held his head, pulling back the heavy red skeins of hair
until the paroxysm was over.
The
silent servant brought fresh water and carried away the basin,
closing the door soundlessly behind him. “Ah, Yvain,” the captain
murmured brokenly, taking a moistened cloth and gently wiping
Roskerrek’s lips.
Roskerrek
gasped and thrashed, hissing a foul torrent of curses as he fought
the equerry’s care with the seeming last of his strength,
backhanding a vicious blow that made Alleron’s wounded mouth bleed
afresh. Then he gave an anguished moan, and lost consciousness.
Lifting Roskerrek up, Alleron gathered him into his arms, and for a
moment hid his face in the thick scarlet hair that absorbed his torn
lip’s blood like clear water. Then he regarded Ryel, his steely
eyes rusted.
“I
grew up by Yvain’s side,” he said, his voice unsteady. “If I
could take his suffering upon me, I would joyfully. Do everything you
can for him, doctor.”
“I
promise I will, captain,” Ryel replied, greatly moved. “Now go,
and if you would, inform the general’s servant that I’ll not need
his services.”
Alone
with Roskerrek, Ryel for some time contemplated the sick man who lay
immobile now, faint groans escaping through clenched teeth. Roskerrek
was only partially in uniform, his coat and hat and gloves carefully
arrayed on a nearby chair and his sword slung over its back.
Nevertheless his boots muddied the bedclothes, and his shirt was
still tautly belted into the black cavalry breeches. Ryel’s eye was
drawn to the lean strength of the overwrought form kept alive only by
iron will, and the perfection with which it was clothed. The
immaculate shirt was made of the finest linen Ryel had seen outside
of the Eastern Palace, and scented with a pleasing fragrance of
lavender and citron, but was wringing with sweat.
“Am
I dying, doctor?”
The
words were scarcely audible, uttered between parched lips that
scarcely moved. Ryel laid his hand on Roskerrek’s forehead, wincing
at the icy wetness against his palm, the battering throb of the
temples.
Roskerrek
stared into emptiness. Even in the near-darkness the pupils of his
eyes were contracted almost to invisibility, and between the red lids
glowed cold gray-yellow light. Again his hoarse whisper barely rose
above the crackling of the hearth. “My brain is about to burst in a
cloud of blood. My guts are crawling with envenomed snakes fanged in
fire.”
“You
are very sick,” the wysard said; and despite his misgivings he
pitied this man, whose being was tainted with inhuman bane.
“I
was born sick.” Seemingly with all the strength he had, the Count
Palatine continued after a long silence. “Sick and weak. All my
life I have forced this afflicted flesh to its limit.” He
swallowed. “But the pain worsens year by year. There are remissions
in which I almost know health; but far more frequent are the cruel
times. The times a demon takes me—”
He
groaned and panted, his entire body gripped by a raging chill; gave a
low half-animal cry, desperate with torture, and caught the wysard
about the throat to strangle him, stammering obscenities. But his icy
fingers were as weak as a child’s, now.
That’s
enough,
Ryel thought. Taking Roskerrek’s head in both his hands, he forced
his brow to the Count Palatine’s dripping one, and uttered a word.
At once Roskerrek fell back insensible, although still shuddering.
Seating
himself on the bed at Roskerrek’s side, Ryel contemplated his next
move. He required three spells: the first to take away the pain, the
second to rid the body of the daimon-blight, the third to heal the
ravages wrought by years of suffering. Having chosen the mantras he
deemed best, he drew a long clear breath and began to say the first
words, droning them in the back of his throat, sure of his Mastery.
The
spell took. Roskerrek ceased his writhing and lay still, his face’s
tics and twitches relaxed for the first time. Gently the wysard took
the Count Palatine’s wrist and turned back the cuff of the shirt,
and observed with consternation that the hard white flesh of the arm
was seamed to the elbow with scars, and with cuts both fresh and
mending. Pushing up the other sleeve, he found the same slashed
defacement.
“By
every...” Loathing the sight, he healed the worst of the wounds and
erased many of the scars with the Art’s aid, then turned the
sleeves down again.
Roskerrek
stirred and whispered, his eyes yet closed. “Bradamaine.”
Convulsively he seized Ryel’s hand. “Command me. Anything. Life,
death…”
Those
slim fingers had the grip of a great cat, and Ryel broke free only
with all his strength. Steeling himself, the wysard then slowly spoke
the next spell, leaning over Roskerrek to touch mouth to mouth,
breathing the last words into the sick man’s body.
At
that barely grazing contact Ryel felt a virulent sickness invade his
body and brain, dizzying him, making his gorge rise. For the first
time in his life the wysard envisioned what it would be like to kill
a man in cold blood, to cruelly force a woman to serve his pleasure,
to lay waste to cities. Shuddering, he banished those thoughts. But
he could not rid himself of the dull throbbing that bound his skull
with an ever-tightening crown of burning iron, or the qualms that
soured the pit of his throat.
The
air grew stifling, nearly strangling him, and then the fire in the
hearth leapt up in a burst of sparks. The voice Ryel loathed issued
from the flames, crackling with laughter.
Redbane’s
cure has cost you, young blood.
The
wysard doubled over in a throe. “Dagar?” he gasped. “But it’s
still daylight. How...”
My
strength grows ceaselessly, sucked from the spirits of the air. Not
even the Void can confine me now.
“What
did you do to me, monster?”
The
snide voice giggled. Nothing
but give your healing-spells a clever twist, and turn the Bane upon
you. Now it’s in your blood, sweet eyes. Now the pain that gives my
servant Michael his strength will prove your unending torment, Edris’
bastard. Now I’ll watch you crawl, and beg me to make you mine to
end the torture.
In
agony though he was, Ryel lifted his chin in defiance. “You’ll
never have me. I’ll find the Mastery of Joining—and I’ll bring
my father back from the Void, where you’ll stay chained forever.”
My
servant Michael is far more clever in those matters than you, young
blood. He’ll find it first, count on it. And oh, but I’ll be
ready. Changes are already awork, thanks to me. In Markul and Tesba
they wonder at the decline of their Art, and consult their great
Books; but in Ormala and Elecambron they smile at the uncommon
success of their spells. My side is
winning.
Ryel
answered through clenched teeth. “What is this talk of win and
loss? We of the Cities are brothers.”
Too
long have the Cities lived in balance, the
voice with a sneer replied.
Time for yours to topple. And I’ll have the World, too, and make it
suffer for bringing me into it. Destimar will fall, and then the
North, and then the rest. The World and the Four will be mine, the
voice purred. The World and the Four, and your sweet young body.
Ryel
spat into the flames and turned his back on them. The fire gave a
great burst, and the air lightened. Pushing his freezing hands
through his hair to ease the pain that racked his skull, the wysard
returned to Roskerrek’s bedside, and called upon every power of his
Art to accomplish the final spell.
When
it was done, he brought the candles closer. Their light stabbed to
the back of his brain. With unsteady fingertips he stroked
Roskerrek’s face, running them over the forehead, down the cheeks,
across the lips; lightly circled the closed eyes. Like yielding clay
the furrows and lines faded at the wysard’s touch, and a faint
flush overcame the chalk-like pallor. All the hard-angled beauty that
long pain had destroyed now returned to its right like a
long-thwarted ruler to his throne, compelling and noble; and now Ryel
observed a scar that ran in a straight faint crease across the top of
Roskerrek’s left cheek to the temple, as if the skin had been
seared by a fine red-hot wire.
“No
common mark,” the wysard murmured. “That I’ll leave you,
Redbane.”
He
uttered an Art-word, and Roskerrek opened his eyes. The dilation of
the pupils all but crowded out the gray of the iris, conferring a
dreaming visionary depth to his countenance.
“I
don’t know what I feel,” he said, his voice distant and
wondering.
“It’s
called health,” Ryel said, curtly and bitterly jealous.
Swiftly,
with the heedless grace of a great cat, Roskerrek rose and went to
the window, opening it wide, letting in the cold Northern noonday. He
drank in the chill radiance as if drinking delicious wine. A
wondering while he was silent, as if coming to terms with the
incredible possibility of a life free of continual suffering. “This
light would have all but killed me, before.” He turned to Ryel, not
yet daring to trust. “Never in my life have drugs had any effect on
me.”
“I
used no drugs, General,” the wysard replied. “My methods are
confidential.”
“But
can I dare trust, and hope? How long will the cure last?”
“As
long as you live. The sickness that consumed you has been routed
forever.”
Roskerrek
gazed eagerly into the white radiance the wysard shrank from.
“Forever?” He breathed in the chill air as if drinking delicious
wine. “With all my heart I would believe you, Ryel Mirai.”
“I
speak the truth, Yvain Essern.”
Ryel
must have spoken sharply, for Roskerrek turned from the window and
came to the wysard’s side, and silently took his hand, carrying it
to his forehead in the way of Destimar. “I will never forget this
deliverance.”
The
wysard flinched, barely able to keep from snatching his hand away.
“Neither will I.”
Releasing
him, the Count Palatine crossed the room, pulling aside another
curtain. This one concealed not a window, but a great mirror. Leaning
both hands lightly against the glass, Roskerrek stared at his
reflection, his features motionless in meditation, his voice still.
“Long
ago I vowed to Argane never to marry and beget, lest my blood’s
taint be perpetuated. But now…”
Ryel
said what the Count Palatine did not dare. “Now your offspring will
be free of the infection, as will their descendants.”
“At
last. After long centuries, at last. It seems far too much to
believe.” A long moment Roskerrek hesitated before speaking again.
“I cannot tell how many times in my life I sought death. How many
times in my agony I commanded Jorn Alleron to run me through and end
it forever...the only orders I ever gave him that he disobeyed.” As
if looking into the face of a stranger the Count Palatine studied his
transformed self. “So this is what I really was.”
“Yes,”
Ryel said, unable to quell his envy.
“I
look younger.” Impatiently Roskerrek dashed away the wetness rising
in his eyes, as one swiftly turns the page of a fascinating book
never read before. “I am but thirty-six. No graybeard yet.” He
tilted his face from side to side, appraisingly, with a tinge of a
smile. “Why, I’m half in love with myself.” Catching sight of
the scar, he traced it with his fingertips. “Yes. Half in love.”
Ryel
joined Roskerrek at the mirror, glanced at his own haggard
reflection, and turned away. “I congratulate you.”
“Name
what you will. Anything. I will triple whatever you ask.”
“I
wish only the answer to a single question, as I said before,” the
wysard replied.
“Very
well. You may ask it and welcome.” Roskerrek smiled, then. “But
only after we dine. I’m hungry for the first time in years.”
Ryel
felt a sickening twinge of impatience. “You had promised—”
“I
pray you accept of my entertainment, Ryel Mirai. You’ll not regret
it; my cook Verlande is the best in Hallagh, which is saying much.”
The
thought of food made the wysard’s gorge rise, but he quelled it
somehow, and resigned himself. “As you wish.”
“Excellent.
I’ll inform my orderly. But first come with me, if you would.”
Roskerrek
led Ryel into the next room, a large chamber closely draped and lit
by dozens of candles that made the wysard clench his teeth. The Count
Palatine swiftly uncurtained the windows, not noticing how Ryel
recoiled.
“Away
with this gloom! Sir, I am going to dress, and to tell Jorn Alleron
of my cure; I’ll not be long. I trust my library will help you
while away the time—or you may make use of the instrument there, if
you chance to be a musician.”
“I
do not play,” the wysard said through gritted teeth.
Roskerrek
seemed to notice Ryel's condition for the first time in a very long
while. “You’re pale.”
The
wysard turned away. “It’s nothing.”
“Sit
and rest. I shan’t be long.”
He
left, and Ryel at once yanked the curtains shut again. He was in
terrible pain, his eyes squinting with it, his stomach churning.
Another moment and he’d be sick. In blind panic he fumbled in his
pocket, not knowing why, and found the carnelian scent-cylinder;
still not knowing why unstoppered it and breathed of its perfume as
if drinking antidote to poison. Instant deliverance ensued, relief so
sweet that he dropped into a chair, unable to stand.
“My
infinite thanks, Priam,” he whispered.
After
a moment he rose, and began to look about the room. Now he could
appreciate that it was a fair large chamber excellently furnished,
and that every wall was covered floor to ceiling with books, save at
intervals where paintings or windows took their place. There were
thousands of volumes, Ryel observed, all of them indicating their
owner’s grave elevation of mind—books of history, music theory,
the arts; plays and novels, none of them frivolous; the lives of
notable men and women; many treatises on the waging of war, and the
science of weapons—especially the sword—and the manner of dealing
with princes; philosophy and astronomy and mathematics. A
double-ranked harpsichord took up the center of the room, and a great
desk covered with papers stood near it. On the harpsichord lay a
sheaf of manuscripts for sonatas, canons, inventions, swiftly yet
exquisitely penned; Ryel looked over some of the compositions,
spelled one or two of them out on the keyboard, and was moved by
their beauty. The papers on the desk had been written by the same
sharp symmetrical hand—Roskerrek’s, clearly. Here were drafts of
several poems, and the opening scene of the third act of a tragedy
entitled 'The Queene’s Generall.' Part of a soliloquy uttered by
the protagonist caught the wysard’s eye, and he read it murmuringly
aloud.
“’Hope
of Delighte to come, that never seemes
Nearer
than Fantasie or fever’d Thought;
Jewell
past price, more treasur’d than all Dreames
Of
gaine, though with deepe Sorrowe dearly bought;
Rose
of a bleeding Hearte, that never stayes
To
bloome, yet leaves its Thornes to know it by;
Mirrour
of every Joye, that to the gaze
A
false Reflection yields, and mocks the eye;
Islande
of Paradise, whose shelt’ring Baye—”
He
halted, aware of a door opening. The Count Palatine entered, freshly
and magnificently attired in muted shimmering sea-green velvet
embroidered in silver and set off by exquisite lace, and soft
fawn-colored boots and gauntlets. The hues of his garments sorted
well with his coloring, making it less strange to the sight;
moreover, the sharp scarlet growth that had exaggerated the
angularity of his face was now cut closer. Few would now deny that
the general of the Domina’s armies was an arrestingly well-favored
man, the hard-edged beauty of his face in striking harmony with the
lithe strength of his form. The face now faintly smiled, and the body
slightly bowed. “Island of paradise, whose sheltering bay/ No
stranger welcomes that it does not slay.’ I see you have a
tolerance for indifferent verses.”
Ryel
backed away from the desk, astonished by the transformation he
beheld. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”
“No
harm done,” Roskerrek smiled. “I’m sure you’ve written a
sonnet or two in your life.”
“I
never was so inspired,” the wysard replied. “But I would gladly
have composed any of that music.” And he indicated the manuscripts
on the harpsichord.
Roskerrek
closed the door behind him. “You tempt me, sir. I haven’t touched
the keys in weeks.” He started to draw off his gloves. “Would you
permit me to run over a passage or so before we dine?”
“With
all gladness.”
The
Count Palatine smiled. “You seem in much better spirits than you
were. I’m glad of it.”
Ryel
gave a relieved nod. “As, very much, am I.”
Seating
himself at the harpsichord, Roskerrek deftly tried some chords, and
the instrument spilled forth notes like sharp-cut diamonds.
“Alleron’s kept this in tune, I see. He’s an able executant; we
play duets sometimes.”
Ryel
would have attempted to envision that unlikely scene, but the Count
Palatine had chosen a sonata and begun to play, his first notes
driving out all else from the wysard’s mind. Roskerrek’s fingers,
enriched with rings of emerald and gold, touched the keys so lightly
that it seemed the music was wrought by spirits of the air, not the
agency of humankind; yet the harmony came clear and piercing sweet,
played with a masculine force that mingled in passionate union with
the delicate timbres of the instrument. It was exquisitely complex
music full of enrapturing invention, passionate in its reflective
intensity; and as he listened, the wysard thought of the house he was
now in, where one progressed from cold officialdom to colder
emptiness, only by great privilege passing into the private world of
warmth and security; and listening to Roskerrek’s music the wysard
realized that he had entered the innermost chamber of all, a secret
place incomparably rich and wondrous.
“You
are an artist, General,” the wysard said reverently when the piece
had ended.
Roskerrek
inclined his head in thanks, but only slightly. “I am most
fortunate to have benefited from the best instruction, early on. My
mother has great skill at the clavier, and when I was very young she
taught me to play, because she noted that music soothed my illness.
What you hear in my works is her influence.”
The
wysard inwardly commended that lady’s wisdom. Perhaps it implied
Art within her, to understand that demonic forces were repelled by
beauty. With greatest pleasure the wysard listened to the enthralling
harmonies, until a servant entered to announce that dinner was
readied. The Count Palatine led Ryel to a long large paneled room
whose table would readily seat twenty, one of its ends covered with
fine damask and laid for two with massy gleaming silver, nearest the
great marble hearth where a fire blazed brightly. The candle-branches
on the table had just been lighted, and wine had been poured, but
only in one of the glasses.
“I
from time to time entertain my staff officers here, and members of
the fellowship of Argane,” Roskerrek said. “My cook Verlande is
one of the most famous in the city, but of late he’s had little
employment. If I continue to give him insufficient scope for his
talents, I risk losing him to the Earl of Gledrim, whose fortune is
as fabulous as his palate is discerning—far more so than any of his
other tastes. Tonight I asked Verlande to surpass himself. Here, try
this wine; I’m told it’s quite good.”
It
was, in fact, excellent. “Will you not have some?” Ryel asked.
Roskerrek
shook his head. “I’ve never touched drink in all my life. No, I
take that back; when I was ten I stole a drink of my father’s
glass, and it nearly killed me.”
“It
would not harm you now.”
Roskerrek
hesitated a moment, then poured his goblet half full and lifted it.
“To your health, Ryel Mirai—which seems to have returned, I am
glad to observe.”
Ryel
returned the pledge. “To your health as well, my lord.”
“I
owe it entirely to you,” Roskerrek said. “My gratitude is not
only for myself. From now on my poor equerry will no longer have to
serve as my sick-nurse, and suffer from my mad fits.” His keenly
angled features clouded a moment. “I had no idea I’d blackened
Jorn’s eye. He tried to hide it from me when we met again, and when
he learned of my cure he wept like a child.”
Ryel
thought of his last meeting with that brave good man. “His devotion
is noble.”
The
Count Palatine smiled. “It is indeed. Let’s drink to it.” He
took first a tentative sip of the rich vintage, then another less
wary, then a long savoring mouthful. “But this is delicious.
Finally I realize why Verlande always seemed so sorry for me. Surely
he’s been exasperated too, since he chooses wines with great care
to compliment his dishes, from what everyone tells me. Speaking of
which, the the first course is coming in.”
Verlande’s
cuisine was both robust and subtle, concocted with elaboration and
splendidly presented. Ryel, who had expected insubstantial delicacies
fit for an invalid, ate almost with greed, and Roskerrek seconded
him. As if by tacit agreement the conversation was wide-ranging and
pleasant, inspired by the many subjects in the Count Palatine’s
library.
“It’s
luck that you have such a good command of Hryelesh,” the Count
Palatine said as the dessert came in. “My spoken Almancarian is
nonexistent beyond a few phrases, I’m sorry to say, although I can
read it well enough to enjoy the epic cycles of Destimar.”
“I’m
glad for you,” Ryel said. “They are extremely beautiful, and
don’t translate well.”
“May
I ask why you bothered to learn the language of this land, dwelling
in the Steppes as you were?”
“For
the same reasons you learned Almancarian,” the wysard replied.
“Much of the best literature in the world is written in Hryelesh,
and reading it has given me great pleasure. Besides, I didn’t dwell
all my life in Rismai.”
As
he said the last words, he inwardly cursed himself for his
carelessness brought on by the heady wine, but it was too late.
“Where else have you lived?” Roskerrek asked, clearly interested.
“You must be conversant in the ways of many a land, to judge from
your manners; from the first you’ve seemed far more than a mere
wandering healer.”
“You’re
kind, but I’ve found my manners sorely lacking in this city,”
Ryel said, glad of a chance to turn the talk. “I blundered grossly
soon after you and I parted at the headquarters, and inadvertently
insulted the Countess of Fayal by calling her a gentleman.”
Roskerrek’s
eyes widened. “Blest Argane. I wish I’d been there to see that.
I'm astonished she didn’t challenge you to a duel.”
“Luckily
for me, there wasn’t time.”
“I
should have warned you at the outset. My apologies.” Having poured
more wine for them both, Roskerrek sat back and seemed to ruminate
aloud as he held his glass to the candlelight. “A more quarrelsome
vixen I’ve never had the misfortune to contend with. A brawling
debauched hoyden, so ignorant and untaught that she can scarce write
her name, or read a sentence without stumbling, or find Hryeland on a
map…and the only female member of the Brotherhood of the Sword,
which makes her all the more prideful and arrogant.”
“By
every god,” the wysard said despite himself. “I never expected
that last bit of information.”
“It
hardly overjoys me, either,” the Count Palatine said, his tone
grim. “Many think that royal favor played a role and coerced her
joining, but I have to give Valrandin her due, and admit that she
passed the initiation solely on her own merits. Her adversary was the
Earl of Rothsaye, who has no love for her and showed no mercy during
their combat. Despite his advantage of size and years, she held her
own and got in the first cut.”
“Have
you ever dueled with her?”
“No.
I never will, no matter how much and loudly she petitions.”
Roskerrek reached for an apple, holding it up and admiring its
polished blush; and his frown faded. “Man’s garb becomes her
well. But you should see her gowned, with a touch of color to
heighten her looks. I recall one of her dresses—a plum-colored
satin that makes her shoulders and her neck seem white as a swan’s…
“ he broke off, coloring slightly, and hastily set the apple down
again. “I’m speaking foolishly. Perhaps I’m getting drunk.”
Ryel
had noted that the Count Palatine seemed in no adverse way affected
by the wine, despite now having drunk three glasses of it. “I’d
say that you’re speaking like a man in perfect health.”
Roskerrek
half smiled, and seemed to debate inwardly a moment. “There is
another who would benefit from your healing powers. Come with me, if
you would.”
Before
Ryel could reply, Roskerrek pushed away from the table and stood up.
Leading the wysard back to his study, he abruptly threw open the
doors of an inlaid cabinet set into the wall. A double portrait,
life-sized and half-length, of two young soldiers in rich black
uniforms and armor of gold-chased burnished steel, gazed back at Ryel
with proud challenging eyes. They were both of a height, although one
was perhaps twenty-five, the other just out of his teens. The eyes of
both were unsettling pale gray, their skin was all but bloodless, and
their hair was strange scarlet red, falling in long heavy skeins.
They stood side against side, the elder with his arm about the
younger man’s shoulders, the younger’s hand on the elder’s
waist.
“My
brother Michael and myself, when we first entered the army,” the
Count Palatine said.
“It
is a magnificent painting,” Ryel said, unable at first to note
anything but the workmanship.
“I
commissioned it. The artist is greatly famed, and I believe this work
to be her best. She never flatters her subjects, as should be
evident.” Roskerrek contemplated the painting awhile before
speaking again. “Save for his coloring, Michael had the good
fortune to resemble my father, who was considered one of the
handsomest men in the North. As you might have observed, my brother
wears the battle-jacket of the Ninth, famed as the Black Dragons, the
cavalry’s elite force of which he was colonel—a regiment that
neither gives nor accepts quarter in the field.”
Ryel
nodded slowly, remembering that encounter in Markul. It was as if he
stood at his Glass once more; as if the painted semblance would at
any moment glower a frown, and address him rudely.
“His
abilities were superior to those of officers twice his age,”
Roskerrek continued. “A braver soldier never held command.” He
glanced at Ryel. “You might have heard of my brother while you were
in Almancar.”
“I
saw him there.”
“I
envy you.” After another silence, Roskerrek spoke again. “We have
been apart many years, and I have missed him more than I have power
to express. We were devoted to one another as boys, and our shared
suffering only tightened the bond. We never quarreled, save when pain
drove us to violence we regretted immediately afterward. Because my
illness was graver than my brother’s, I was educated privately; but
Michael was able to attend the university of this city, where he
studied natural philosophy. He had a capacity approaching genius, but
his skepticism incurred much exasperation among the theological
faculty, who were plagued by his continual asking of questions to
which there were no ready answers. His was a great and restless
intellect that scorned all dogma.” The Count Palatine’s cold eyes
had warmed as they gazed upon the portrait, but now grew somber.
“They say my brother now goes about unwashed and in rags, with his
head shaven. Is this true?”
“I
regret to say it is.”
“How
that could come about I’ve no idea. He was always so cleanly in his
person, so elegant in his dress. But that was a long time ago,
before… “ Roskerrek turned to the wysard, suddenly. “What is
your City, Ryel Mirai?”
There
was no mistaking the implicit capitalization of the word. Taken aback
by the question, Ryel sought refuge in evasion. “I don’t
understand what—”
Roskerrek
made a fierce gesture like the tearing away of a veil. “Enough of
this dissembling, Lord Ryel—for such is the title by which your ilk
style themselves, I am aware. Both you and I know that Michael is an
adept of Elecambron. I have not his talents, but I assure you I know
a wysard’s work when I see it.” He pushed back his sleeve to
resentfully bare his now all but unmarked forearm. “Nothing less
than the Art could have healed my sickness, and nothing less could
have effaced the evidence of my sacrifices to Argane, Queen of
Swords. You are a Markulit, are you not?”
Ryel
lifted his chin. “I am.”
Ever
with his searching pale eyes on Ryel, Roskerrek slid the sleeve back
down to his wrist, settling the lace of the shirt-cuff. “You’re
very young to be of that City.”
“I
was born to the Art,” Ryel replied. “My father was a wysard.”
“What
was his name?”
“Edris
Desharem Alizai.”
The
name ensorcelled Roskerrek into white stone. But when he at last
could speak his voice rang with unprecedented warmth. “Edris was
your father, and a wysard? But when did he turn to the Art?”
“At
the age of thirty,” Ryel said.
“And
when did you?”
“At
fourteen,” the wysard replied. “I dwelt with him for twelve years
in Markul.”
The
pale eyes glinted. “But this is incredible! Did he ever tell you of
Warraven?”
“Only
in passing,” Ryel said. “But your father was a great fighter, as
I understand.”
Roskerrek
gave a wry half-laugh. “So was yours. Not once but often I heard my
father speak of his friend, the wild Steppes brave who in the thick
of battle had saved his life, and was one of the most honored of
Argane’s faithful.” Roskerrek’s expression, hitherto eagerly
alight, darkened again. “Yet I recall that you did not include his
name when you first told me yours. Was his passing recent?”
Ryel
swallowed. “Yes.”
“Ah.
That’s hard.”
“It
has been.”
They
were both silent, remembering and mourning. “That cloak of yours
was my father’s,” Roskerrek said at last. “I knew it from
first—and your wearing of it was the only reason I engaged you as a
physician. I had no hope whatsoever that you would cure me. There is
a tear near its hem, small, three-cornered, mended so neatly one can
scarcely find it—am I not right?”
Ryel
stared, surprised. “You are.”
“That
tear was mended by my mother’s hands,” Roskerrek said. “How did
your father come into possession of Warraven’s mantle?”
“Edris
used his Art to bring it to Markul,” Ryel replied. “It became my
own at his death.”
“By
rights it should have been mine. But I’ll not deprive you of it.”
“I
thank you, because I would sooner part with my skin.”
Another
silence, broken slowly. “Ask your question, Lord Ryel.”
The
wysard lost no time. “I believe you have knowledge of the
whereabouts of Guyon de Grisainte Desrenaud, Earl of Anbren. I wish
to find him.”
“Find
him? And why?”
“My
reasons are private,” Ryel replied.
“I
cannot tell you where he is.”
The
wysard felt a sharp jab at his brain’s core. “But I thought you
knew.”
“I
do know,” Roskerrek said, emotionless now. “But I cannot tell
you.”
Ryel
stared at him, fighting a cramp somewhere deep. “You would have
died without me, damn it.”
The
Count Palatine calmly nodded. “I am sure I would have, and very
soon.”
“And
out of your mind.”
“I
have no doubt of that.”
Ryel
struck the wall. “You gave me your word!”
“And
I deeply regret having to take it back; but I gave it first to Guyon
Desrenaud, who has no wish to be found. I cannot betray an oath I
swore in the Temple of the Sword.”
Ryel
turned away, bitter with frustration, as Roskerrek went over to the
table where they had both left their swords, reaching for the
wysard’s weapon. “May I look at this?”
“If
you must.”
The
Count Palatine carried the sword to the light. “I’ve always
admired the Steppes tagh, but have never fought against one.”
“I’d
be more than glad to give you a chance,” Ryel replied, with hard
irony.
Faintly
Roskerrek smiled. “Would you.” His pale gaze narrowed as he read
the runes on the blade. “This is a Brotherhood sword. Your
father’s, surely.”
“Yes.”
The
Count Palatine eyed the wysard keenly awhile before speaking. “You
well realize, I trust, that you have no right to wear this. But you
might earn that privilege. And were you a member of the Fraternity of
the Sword, I by the Brotherhood’s laws could keep no secret
whatsoever from you in the Temple of Argane.”
“Then
I ask to join the order.”
With
both hands Roskerrek swung the slim blade in a smooth arc, noting the
way its brilliant metal caught the light. “You must swear to abjure
all other gods.”
“I
swear it readily.”
The
Count Palatine lowered the blade level with his waist, trying a
difficult twisting sideways thrust, executing it to perfection. “And
you must promise to use no Art. This really is a remarkable weapon.”
“I
won’t need my Art,” Ryel said. But watching those trained and
expert movements, he was far from sure.
Roskerrek
continued to examine the tagh with calmly intent interest.
“Brotherhood swords are wrought not of steel, but of metal
infinitely stronger and signally rare, its chief component found only
in Argane’s temple. Surely you have observed the brilliant luster,
which never dims? The way the blade is always keen as death, and
never rusts? The way it weighs almost nothing? You’ll also find
that it can very quickly be brought to white heat, and hold that heat
for what seems a distressingly long time, without the least loss of
temper.” He swung the blade in a slow spin, trying its balance, his
stance and guard those of a Steppes tagh master. “The unique alloy
is forged and wrought by the ateliers of the two armorers of the
Order, men more jewelers than smiths, more artists than artisans. I
can tell which of them made this one by the lamination of the metal.
A Brotherhood sword is the work of many months and extreme expense,
and not until the aspirant passes the initiation can runes be
inscribed upon the blade.”
“And
in the case of failure?” Ryel asked.
“The
sword is hung in Argane’s sanctuary, there to remain forever.”
Ryel
gave a low whistle. “I daresay the aspirant feels some regret at
that.”
“One
is past regret when dead—a condition in which an aspirant now and
again finds himself,” Roskerrek answered with meaning irony. “The
ritual concludes with a combat in honor of the goddess, the
aspirant’s adversary being chosen by the chief priest; the bout is
fought stripped to the waist, and swords white from the fire can
inflict terrible brands early in the combat. Are you quite sure you
still wish to join?”
The
wysard smiled. “Quite.”
“Then
I’ll confer with the Brotherhood officers tonight regarding your
fitness to join the order. Such deliberations customarily span
months, but the singularity of your case merits an exception.”
“For
that consideration I thank you.” And Ryel held out his hand for his
weapon, but Roskerrek shook his head.
“This
is no longer yours. It will be kept in Argane’s care until such
time as you are worthy of it. If you require a sword, I’ll lend you
one of mine.”
“I’ll
wear none but my father’s,” Ryel replied, fighting down his
indignation. “My Steppes dagger will serve me in the meanwhile.”
“As
you wish,” said Roskerrek. “But one thing more. Did Lord Edris
ever tell you of his initiation into the Brotherhood?”
“He
never spoke of the Brotherhood,” Ryel replied, coolly now.
“I
see he kept his oath,” Roskerrek said, in the same tone. “Well,
perhaps you may have observed he bore a scar.”
Ryel
lifted his chin. “My father had scars all over his body.”
The
Count Palatine half-smiled. “But only one on his left side, a deep
diagonal running from under the arm nearly to the navel—I see you
remember it. Warraven gave him that.”
“And
how did Edris reciprocate?”
Roskerrek
regarded Ryel steadily. “My father had no scars save those he gave
himself, in Argane’s service.” As if to mitigate the severity of
that statement, he added, “I wish you to stay in my house as my
guest for as long as you wish, unless you have other obligations.”
“I
accept with thanks,” Ryel said, giving a slight bow, but both
chagrined and unsettled within. To be without his tagh was bad
enough; to have to deal with initiation into a Northern blood-cult
was still worse; and to have the demon-bane of the Red Esserns
throbbing in his veins was little short of live damnation.
At
that moment a sharp double knock sounded at the door, and Alleron
entered. Bowing low first to Roskerrek, the captain strode forward
and dropped to his knee before Ryel. “Physician, from this moment
on I worship you as a god.” And to the wysard’s astonished
embarrassment, Alleron grabbed his hand and kissed it.
Seeing
Ryel’s consternation, the Count Palatine spoke sharply. “Equerry,
get up this instant. I command you.”
“May
you always, m’lord,” Alleron said, obeying at once. His normally
impassive features glowed nevertheless. “I confess I’m still
amazed to see you in complete health, after these many years. It’s
news too green to digest yet.”
The
Count Palatine laughed for what the wysard realized was the first
time since their meeting, probably the first time in very long; a
sweet sound it was. “I’ll be forever grateful that I let you
force me into accepting the services of Ryel Mirai, who has truly
proven a great doctor.”
“He’s
further famed than you know, m’lord. And greater than either of us
might guess.”
“What
do you mean?”
Both
Ryel and Roskerrek asked that, almost in unison, both abruptly.
Alleron glanced from his master’s face to the wysard’s, plainly
taken aback. “Well, the physician has been summoned to Grotherek
Palace without delay, for a private interview with the Domina
Bradamaine.”
The
Count Palatine frowned. “Why?”
“I
don’t know, m’lord. But only this hour a messenger came from the
palace and gave the order.”
“If
word comes from that quarter, needs must comply,” said Roskerrek;
but he seemed perturbed. “I’ll not trespass by asking what
business the Domina might have with you, Lord Ryel, much though I’d
like to know. Nor will I detain you, for I have business at hand. My
equerry here will attend you in the meantime.”
The
Count Palatine and the wysard parted, and Ryel followed Alleron down
into the courtyard for his horse.
“I
should have known you for a lord, with a horse so fine,” Alleron
said in his wry way; and then he gave a sharp whistle, at which Jinn
emerged from the stables led by a duly respectful groom, gleaming
like fresh gold, her silken mane partly braided, her tail bright as a
comet’s.
“I
took the liberty of looking after your darling whilst you were
working my lord’s cure,” Alleron continued, taking the reins from
the groom and handing them over to Ryel. “A gentler sweeter
creature I’ve never met. And I’ll say this for her—she’s a
true lady in her ways. In fact, I’ve met many a lady considerably
less refined.”
“What
do you mean, Captain?” the wysard asked.
“Well,
she won’t eat anything. And the straw beneath her has stayed clean
and dry ever since she was stabled, if you take my meaning.”
Ryel
smiled to hide his disquiet. “She always had good manners.”
“More
than most humankind I’ve met. Permit me, doctor.” And Alleron
held Ryel’s stirrup, humble as a stable-hand.
“There’s
no need for that, Captain,” Ryel said; but the captain insisted.
Damp gratitude flickered in the corner of his blackened eye. “You
saved my lord’s life, sir. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I
can think of a way,” Ryel at once replied. “What do you know of a
man named Guyon Desrenaud?”
The
wysard braced himself for the kind of reaction that question had
elicited from Valrandin, and was surprised and relieved when Alleron
seemed to consider a long moment, then swing into the saddle of his
own horse before replying quietly.
“I
knew him better than most, doctor. I was his dispatch rider during
the late wars, carrying letters between him and the Domina.”
“I
thought you served the Count Palatine.”
“I
carried my lord’s messages as well. Some there are that might tell
you I’m the best rider in the realm, and can get more speed out of
a mount than any other. And those sayings may well be true—but
that’s neither here nor there. Starklander was a man whose
greatness fully matched that of my lord’s, although I admit it much
differed in kind. It wrung me sore when he was exiled from this land,
and my one desire is to have him back in the Domina’s good graces
again.” He dealt Ryel a wary glance. “Do you wish him good, or
ill?”
“Neither
as yet,” the wysard answered. “But whatever you can tell me
concerning him, I would be glad to hear.”
“Showing’s
better than telling,” Alleron said. “Come on and you’ll see
what I mean.”
They
rode from the headquarters to the bridge that joined the city to the
promontory. Once across, they came to broader streets, cleaner air,
and some beauty. The dwellings increased in magnificence and
pretension, as did the liveried servants who lounged within doorways
or self-importantly bustled past. Then came the boundaries of the
palace itself, great smooth walls of stone interspersed with panels
of wrought iron, through the tracery of which one might espy wide
graveled walks leading to the white and gray-rose vastness of
Grotherek. Here were no gilded towers, no heaven-seeking spires; the
palace stood in a massive rectangle that branched out into wings of
like design. Its air of heartless frivolity struck Ryel forcibly:
perfect symmetry dominated, an exactitude enhanced rather than
relieved by a bewildering multiplicity of columns and pilasters and
swags. The gardens surrounding the palace exhibited a similar
combination of restraint and opulence: trees took geometrical forms,
their natural shapes contorted with such ingenuity that the eye
turned away exhausted, and the first leaves of yet-unblooming flowers
were marshaled and serried in tight ranks. Despite the leafless
severity of the park, well-clad courtiers strolled about the
gravel-walks enjoying the rare appearance of the sun, which had just
found a chink among the prevailing pall of cloud and was shining
brightly.
As
they rode up to the palace, the wysard and his companion passed a
band of horsemen all in the height of Northern fashion, the most
comely young men Ryel had seen since Almancar, all of them tall and
delicately formed, their beardless faces lovely and bold, their long
locks curling in minion ringlets. Booted and spurred they were all,
with swords and daggers at their sides; but as they rode by, Ryel
observed their rich jewels and their excellent lace, and breathed a
mist of delicious perfume, and remembered the mistake he’d made
earlier in the day.
“The
Companions of the Domina,” Alleron said, noting the wysard’s
attention. “Officers of the royal guard, all of them. Duchesses,
countesses and baronesses, every one—and all of them horsebreakers,
hard drinkers, and stark deadly swordswomen, so be mindful. I marvel
that Valrandin isn’t with them.”
“You
two didn’t seem friends, as I recall.”
Alleron
grunted a laugh. “Not much love lost between us, I’ll admit. She
and I have crossed blades in the past, but never as much as we’d
like. Someday we’ll have it out for good and all, and she’ll get
what’s been coming to her.”
“I
think the Domina might disapprove, Captain.”
“Indeed
she might. There are tales abroad concerning those two, but I’ll
not repeat such greasy hearsay—especially since Valrandin’s a
devotee of Argane, and a high-ranking one at that.”
“Yes,
I learned from the Count Palatine that she’s a Swordbrother.”
“Well,
a Swordsister to be exact, though some of us have other names for her
rather more choice. But here’s what I wished to show you before we
enter the palace grounds. A sorry sight, but needful for your
instruction.”
They
had come to one of the outbuildings of the palace, seemingly a
garden-house ringed round by a thick hedge. Behind the hedge stood a
number of statues, apparently discarded or awaiting repair. All were
of life size, and they made a strange deformed assembly, silent under
the cold leaden sky: undraped goddesses lacking noses and limbs,
battered fallen heroes. Alleron led Ryel to an entrance amid the
shrubbery, and the two men dismounted and passed through the gateway.
“Here
it is,” Alleron said. “I once knew this statue when it stood at
the Domina’s very chamber-door. Now it’s as discredited and
abused as the man whose likeness it was meant to be—although none
of the world’s art could hope to come near Starklander’s self.”
The
statue Alleron indicated was still standing, but had been
decapitated. The equerry sought for a moment among the high weeds
that surrounded the statues, gently cursing as he did so. Then he
straightened up slowly, holding a bronze head in his hands. “Help
me with this, if you would.”
When
the head was balanced atop its body, Ryel looked upon the semblance
of a warrior leaning on his sword, as if surveying a field of combat
after a battle. Weariness sat on every limb, yet the head was as
proudly upheld as if the trumpets were but now sounding the attack.
Tawny bronze had been wrought to resemble life in proportion and
gesture, while gold rubbed into the hair approximated the effects of
sun and wind. Muted silver gleamed on breastplate and
wrist-guards—the statue's only armor—but the face needed no such
embellishment. Such had Ryel envisioned the hero Drostal in the epics
he had read as a boy. He had to look well upward to fully admire the
proud immobile face. “By every god,” he breathed, marveling.
“He
was god enough for me,” Alleron said, his voice suddenly rough.
“Many a time I’ve seen him standing in that selfsame way,
catching his breath after the fight was done. And if by chance you’re
wondering, he really and indeed resembled this image in looks and
size, save that all the world’s art is helpless to catch the way
his eyes lit, whether in kindness or in anger.”
“It’s
truly a great work.”
Alleron
nodded. “Randon Ithier’s masterpiece, and the only known likeness
of Guyon Desrenaud extant in all the Barrier—he forbade any artist
to portray him whilst he dwelt here. Ithier was forced to disguise
himself as one of the soldiery, the better to observe his subject.
And he did well; made the resemblance faithful to a hair.”
“A
born leader, from the looks of him,” Ryel said.
“True
indeed. A reckless one, however, without a thought of death for
himself; but he had the tenderest care for his men, who’d have
followed him through hell if he’d led them. It passes belief that
he received no more hurt during the wars than some scratches and
bruises, for he was always in the very center of the fight. Great
Argane loved him well.”
A
laugh issued from nearby, one Ryel knew. “Such a bootlicking
dog-robber you are, Captain. If Redbane heard you, he’d be
jealous.”
Instantly
Alleron whirled about, hand on sword-hilt, eyes furious. “You’re
not wanted here, Valrandin.”
The
Countess appeared from behind a statue, returning Alleron's anger
with cool scorn. “As if I gave a rat’s arse. The Domina sent me
to escort your friend to her audience-chamber. She’s now at
leisure, having just driven away the Tyanian ambassador.” To Ryel
she swept off her plumed hat and bent in a deep bow, surprising him
much. “The word’s up all over the court that you’ve wrought
Redbane’s cure. I never thought you’d succeed.”
Alleron’s
glare would freeze fire. “Call my lord by his right name, vixen. I
swear, if you weren’t a Swordbrother…”
“Sister.
Give Redbane a kiss for me when you see him next, dog-robber, and be
sure to use your tongue.”
With
some of the foulest curses Ryel had ever heard, Alleron jerked his
sword halfway out of the scabbard, but the wysard halted it from
issuing further with a swift hand-grip and a quiet word of Art.
“I’ll
not keep the Domina waiting. Captain,” he said. “And I feel very
sure that the Count Palatine wouldn’t want you quarreling with this
lady.”
“Lady,
you call her.” Alleron spat feelingly. “We’ll finish this up
another time, Countess.” He deliberately and indecently
mispronounced her title, but Valrandin only laughed.
“The
time will find itself, dog-robber. Tomorrow, say, at two of the clock
in the headquarters courtyard? “
“Accepted,”
Alleron replied. “And it can’t come soon enough to suit me.”
“I
too look forward to it,” Valrandin replied. “But I've had enough
of you for now. Bannerman, come with me.” She made as if to leave,
but then halted for a long moment before Desrenaud’s statue,
studying the image with reverence. “He looks a hero,” she said
softly. “Just as he should.”
Alleron
ignored her, and addressed Ryel. “Shall I wait for you, m’lord?
I’ll be glad to.”
“I’ll
find my way back, Captain. But thank you.”
They
parted, and Ryel followed Valrandin to the palace. The guards looked
askance at Ryel’s Steppes gear, but Valrandin’s piercing glare
and a very few words elicited instant deference. The Countess led the
wysard through vast halls lined with travertine columns and ranks of
statues in bronze and marble, halls thronged with courtiers and their
hangers-on loitering to no apparent purpose. Heady, riotous richness
belied the chill symmetry of the palace’s exterior, for here every
wall was glazed with gold-leaf or draped in tapestry and brocade, or
paneled with mirrors that reflected the brilliant costumes, mannered
demeanor and boredom of the court; every floor of inlaid stone or
intricate parquet, polished to perilous smoothness; every ceiling
thronged with fabulous beings sporting in nacreous billows of cloud;
every statue caught in some ecstasy of violence, half the body lost
in tumultuous drapery, half emerging naked-limbed and wild-eyed,
gesturing in every variation of high emotion. Energy and impatience
had been translated into architecture and ornament; everything seemed
on the point of flowing or flying.
The
colors furthered the effect in their rich acidity of glowing crimson
and flame-orange, cobalt and citron, peacock and magenta and hot
violet. Yet in the presence of this superabundant richness and energy
Ryel could not help a shiver of unease; the coldness he had sensed in
the palace’s exterior now seemed to penetrate his being. The
sameness of the deformities, the unvarying elongations and
distortions of the human forms and the mindless agitation of their
facial expressions, the repetitious irregularity of decorative motif,
were both wearisome and disturbing, as was the insistent emphasis on
harsh light, unshadowed line, impossible attitude, perverse subject
matter. It set his teeth on edge, unstrung his nerves; he remembered
Markul’s antique blacks, malachite greens and slate grays, the
smooth and somber austerity softened by the uncertain misty light,
and sighed at the recollection.
Valrandin
heard the sigh, and followed the wysard’s glance to the ceiling,
which was covered with an apotheosis boiling over with naked winged
figures and gold-glowing clouds. The lieutenant grimaced in sympathy.
“Trash
of the last reign,” she said. “That’s Regnier, the Domina’s
brother who reigned last, being carried up to bliss in the arms of
his catamite favorites—each a faithful portrait, I understand, even
to the prick. Ah well, each to his own taste.”
They
came at last to a pair of tall portals carved with the royal
insignia. Two Companions stood without, swords drawn; Valrandin
returned their salutes and smiles with offhand courtesy. Knocking
thrice at the door she entered, Ryel following.
“M’Domina,
here’s the man you wished to see.”
The
figure at the end of the room looked up from the papers covering the
work-table. The room was windowless, its darkness relieved only by a
cluster of candles; their light fell full on Bradamaine, Domina of
Hryeland. Coming as he had from the brilliance of the palace and the
day, Ryel’s eyes were unused to the sudden change; the Domina, at
first a blur, took on form but gradually, as if surfacing from deep
space, reminding the wysard eerily of his first encounter with
Michael Essern. She wore complete black that melted into the shadows
of the chamber; only her head was visible, and that only by slow
degrees. Ryel saw the hair first of all: hair of pure silver, without
curl as it was without color, falling unbound to her shoulders in
straight heavy masses. The face next, its still-youthful features at
odds with its silver frame; a marble mask, equivocal in feature,
aquiline-nosed and deep-eyed, of that uncanny pallor that colors hot
red at the least provocation and freezes white as suddenly. Then like
a stab the mouth—brooding red, voluptuous, commanding, carnal, set
in the marble and the silver like a living jewel part flower, part
ruby, the bloom poisonous and the gem false. But the eyes, last of
all to emerge clearly, held Ryel fixed: ice-eyes the blue of
diamond-glitter, fringed with pale lashes. The image, slow to form,
seemed to rest suspended in the darkness like an alien moon; and then
the red lips parted, speaking in a voice low and a little rough, like
the after-tang of honey.
“Sir,
tell me who you are.”
“I
am Ryel Mirai, a physician,” the wysard replied, bowing.
The
voice was unimpressed. “What else?”
“A
Rismai of the Inner Steppes.”
Again
that harsh indifferent voice. “What else?”
“Nothing
else, most exalted.”
“Are
you sure?” The woman rose from her work, coming around to join him
and Valrandin, and the wysard saw that the Domina Bradamaine wore
men’s clothes, black velvet doublet slashed with crimson satin,
black velvet breeches, and boots of supple black leather downturned
at the knee. She had none of woman’s superfluity in her flesh; all
was hard, tight, planed smooth, sudden and strong. Save for the
fullness of her mouth and the curve of her eyebrows, no woman showed
in her face; yet her voice was that of an enchantress—a Northern
one, speaking a form of Hryelesh more rugged and archaic than Ryel
had yet heard. And she was very tall, so tall that she met Ryel’s
eyes levelly as she stood close to him and spoke again. “Naught
else? I would think you something more. A wandering prince of
Destimar, belike.”
Gabriel
Valrandin laughed as Ryel did what he could to control his
astonishment. “He must be a magic prince out of one of his people’s
epics,” the lieutenant said, “for he appeared from nowhere, and
undertook to cure Redbane of those ills he’s had since birth.”
The
Domina’s ice-blue eyes arched their brows a moment before pierced
the wysard to the quick. “And did you succeed, Ryel Mirai?”
“I
did, most exalted,” the wysard replied.
Bradamaine
stared him through. “And how did you work his cure, when all other
help has failed?”
“My
methods are confidential.”
Valrandin
broke in. “However it’s come about, I’m glad. I’ve always
wanted a fair fight with Redbane, but always held back because of his
sickness. Now I’ll get my heart’s content.”
Bradamaine
laughed, rough and short. “And he’ll have your heart’s blood if
he can, sweeting. Or perhaps he’ll draw it from someplace else.”
She leaned to Valrandin’s ear, burying her lips in those rich
abundant curls, whispering something that made the Countess first
start, then make a face of deepest disgust. “And with that happy
thought you may leave us, Gabriel, for I wish to speak with this
bannerman alone. Try to stay out of trouble until I see you again,
and come gowned to the service.”
Valrandin
made an impatient mouth, but shrugged acquiescence. “As you wish,
m’Domina.”
“Wear
that new frock I sent you.” And she took Valrandin in her arms,
embracing her with a warmth Ryel had not thought her capable of, an
eager tenderness.
“If
I must, m’Domina.” The embrace was returned, but with less
fervor, and a slight wince at the command.
Bradamaine
watched her favorite’s departure for some time after the door had
closed; then turned to Ryel.
“Well.
Sit you down, Prince Ryel of Destimar, for we’ve much to discuss.
Nay, not that chair; ‛twill hobnail my coat of arms all over your
back. It’s reserved for my treasurer. Take you the other.” She
poured two goblets full of wine from a table that stood near, handing
one to the wysard. The drink was as red as her mouth, and fiery
strong; Bradamaine drained half of hers at once, then dropped into an
armchair, stretching out her long booted legs, throwing back her head
to fix her watchet stare on the wysard’s face. “So. You are
surprised that I knew you?”
Ryel
inclined his head as calmly as he might. Word of his elevation to
imperial rank could not possibly have reached Hallagh in so short a
time, even with the swiftest of messengers. “How did you come by
your information, most exalted?”
“That
I’ve no way to tell you,” the Domina replied. “The letter was
upon my work-table this morning, gold-sealed with the crown of
Destimar, writ by the new Sovran’s own hand. From this same missive
I’ve learnt that you wrought the cure of the Sovrena Diara, which
argues you a healer of skill. The Sovran also let fall that you quit
Almancar abruptly, and some doubts he had as to whether you were
still alive. No particulars did he give, nor will I trouble you for
any. But I marvel much that you wander in search for a dead man, when
the Sovran’s letter makes plain that he desires your return to
Almancar, as forthwith as may be.”
Ryel
looked away. “I would prefer not to answer, m’Domina.”
“I’ll
not force you.” Bradamaine poured and drank more wine. “So.
Finding Guy Desrenaud is your aim.”
“It
is.”
The
Domina’s mouth tightened. “You’ll not have an easy time of it,
I do assure you.”
Ryel
felt his insides cramping. “I realize that the earl is no longer in
this realm, but—”
“Neither
in this realm nor this world. Lord Guyon’s dead.” Bradamaine’s
last words came rougher than all the others, but her ice-eyes never
thawed. “He died as he lived. In battle. After fleeing the Barrier,
he sold his sword to Wycast, fighting in their unending war against
Munkira. In some border-skirmish or other he fell, ‛tis said. A
witless, worthless death.” Again she reached for her wine, and
drank deep.
Ryel
set his own glass down, rather too hard. “Who told you this?”
“Roskerrek,”
said the Domina, the word rough in her mouth.
“You
believe him?”
Bradamaine
nodded, although with manifest reluctance. “Whatever wrong he’s
wrought in his day, never has he lied to me.”
Fighting
to conceal his reaction, Ryel felt the daimon-sickness well outward
from his inmost spirit, cramping his entrails, savaging his brain.
Feverishly he reached for the scent-cylinder, opening it in sweating
haste. The exquisite essence overcame the air, and his pain. But
Bradamaine seemed not to notice it in the least.
“What’s
that? Some medicine?”
Ryel’s
astonishment overwhelmed his other emotions. “You can’t smell
it?”
She
shook her head. “Mine’s a blind nose for scents, Prince
Ryel—which I’ve been frequently glad of, what with all the
perfumes my courtiers reportedly soak themselves in.”
The
wysard thrust the scent-cylinder into his pocket again. The fragrance
had not only cleared his wits but sharpened them, and he sensed
deception; whether it was the Domina’s or Roskerrek’s he resolved
to learn, whatever the cost, in the Temple of the Sword. But he knew
the price would come high, for the daimonic blight was strong within
him, and the combat would take place at night, with Dagar there.
Bradamaine
was speaking, her tongue loosened by drink. “I never knew
Starklander,” she said, mostly to herself. “Never did he seem a
man of human making. I never learned him. Like something out of a
fable he came to me.” She opened her eyes not looking at Ryel but
far away. “Know you the story of how Starklander and I first met,
my lord prince? It’s a famous tale hereabouts.”
The
wysard leaned forward. “I would very much like to, m’Domina.”
“Very
well. It has long been Hryeland custom that whenever the ruler of the
land passes through the palace gates, folk may assemble there to beg
favors or offer petitions. One winter’s day some years ago as I
rode up to the gates, the people thrust forward as always with their
endless askings. But all of a sudden, one among the crowd, a great
strong Barbarian disguised, dragged me off my horse and pulled out a
dagger to run me through. I’d have been instantly spitted, had not
a tall ruffian in dusty black flung himself on the assassin and
knocked him down, wresting the knife away. Whilst some of the guard
dragged the assassin off for questioning—a soft word for torture
and execution—I had my savior brought before me. Reeking dirty he
was, his face bearded, his hair all unkempt. But anyone not stone
blind might tell that he was of no ordinary making, nor was I
surprised to learn that he was none other than the notoriously famed
Guyon Desrenaud. As it happened, in struggling for the Barbarian’s
knife Desrenaud took a hard cut on the forearm, and it further so
chanced, as too often it does in the North, that the blade was
poisoned. It was Desrenaud’s great good luck that Roskerrek had
experience in the treating of envenomed wounds; the Count Palatine is
more learned in the art of poison than any other in the North.”
Ryel
stared. “The Count Palatine healed Lord Guyon?”
Bradamaine
gave a harsh laugh. “Not of his own wishing, I can assure you;
‛twas at my express command. And thanks to Roskerrek’s care,
Desrenaud survived, and regained his health and all his looks. An
idle foolish romance-book might say that Desrenaud was formed by
nature to beguile. He had come to Hryeland to fight in my wars with
the Snow-folk, and he proved himself so able a soldier that in two
years he rose from mere captain to second in command only to
Roskerrek. But he overstepped his authority beyond forgiveness when
he made that treaty with the White Barbarians; he engineered it
himself, against my orders and Roskerrek’s opposition. Trekked
alone across the mountains through the snow to the camp of the
Barbarian chief, and effected what thirty years of struggle could
not—an end to the pillaging and rapine, and quiet at last.”
Ryel
listened enthralled, as to a tale of wonder. “Brave,” he
murmured.
Bradamaine
shook her head, her eyes focused far, into memories. “Witless,
rather. But ever since then, the peace has held. I was furious with
Starklander for taking matters into his own hands, and for putting
himself in so much danger, but when he returned to Hallagh in triumph
to the cheers of the entire populace, I could hardly punish him.”
She
had looked away from Ryel all the time she’d spoken, but for a bare
moment he caught her eye. Instantly he compelled his Mastery to hold
her gaze, fixing it immovably on his own.
“You
loved him, or thought you did.”
The
Domina’s pallor colored suddenly, startlingly. “I’d wanted him
from the first sight. But feelings for me he had none. Only a mere
soldier’s service he rendered me, and I craved all of him. When all
wiles failed, I besought Theofanu for a love-philtre that would bring
him to my bed.” At Ryel’s shocked astonishment she lifted her
hand, then let it drop again. “I had no choice. He would never have
lain with me otherwise, so besotted he was with that whore of his,
Belphira Deva. But I thought that if he could so lightly leave her
for no other excuse than the death of Prince Hylas, he could just as
lightly become mine.”
“And
then?”
Bradamaine
tried to look away, but could not. “It took strong drugs to sway
him. Soon he became fonder of them than of me. We quarreled, and I
commanded him to leave my realm at once. No sooner was he gone than I
learnt I was with child by him; but it was born before its time, and
born dead. No one knows of that but me. Would that I had Guy
Desrenaud’s cold corpse beneath my foot, and his traitor heart
bleeding in my hand...but now even that pleasure is denied me.”
Silence
fell awhile, and the wysard broke it slowly. “Might I know what
caused your brother’s death, m’Domina?”
She
would not look at him. “A fever.”
“You
do not sound entirely sure,” Ryel said.
“Regnier
lived a life of riot and excess. No one was surprised at his death.”
“Least
of all the Count Palatine, I have a feeling.” Those words made
Bradamaine look up, eyes narrowed, and once again the wysard locked
them with his own, and searched them with his Art. “Did Roskerrek
kill the Dominor on your orders?”
It
did not seem possible for the Domina to turn any paler, but she did;
and as she did she nodded an answer. “My brother more than merited
his death. But Roskerrek never asked reward for that service, and I
often wonder what he will demand of me someday.”
“His
devotion to you is spiritual, not carnal.”
“That’s
scarcely reassuring. ‛Tis said that the goddess Argane’s statue
in the Sword Brotherhood’s temple looks uncannily like me, and that
Redbane draws his own blood as offerings to it. I find
that…disgustful. No day goes by that I wish he and I had never
met.” Her eyes welled up wetly, and blinked hard once or twice. It
broke the Mastery-spell, and the mood, which turned so cold the
wysard shivered and drew away from her as she pushed back from her
chair, rising as she swiped her eyes with her doublet-sleeve. “That
wine’s damnably strong,” she said; and Ryel knew their interview
was over. “You’ll guest at Grotherek tonight, my lord prince?”
Her
tone held no cordiality, and the wysard was happy to decline. “I
thank you, most exalted, but I have already accepted the hospitality
of Lord Roskerrek.”
Bradamaine’s
eyes narrowed. “Ah. Have you. I've expressly commanded him to be
present with my court at the Temple of the Master tomorrow. Join us,
if you would. Even if we can make no believer of you, I’ve small
doubt you’ll find the rites of interest.”
“For
that invitation I thank you, most exalted,” Ryel replied, calmly
dissembling his surprise at this new bit of luck. “When do the
rites take place?”
Bradamaine
glanced at the cased clock by her work-table, that had accompanied
the conversation with sepulchral monotonous insistence. “Three
hours hence. If you have no other clothes than those you stand up in,
more suitable I’ll have sent to you at the Count Palatine’s
quarters.”
At
this less than veiled reflection on his dusty Steppes gear Ryel gave
a slight bow. “No need, most exalted, although I thank you. I have
better with me.”
“Good.
I’ll have a coach sent for you, that you may appear at the Temple
of the Master in a style befitting your rank.”
A
few more strained formalities and Ryel took his leave. But before
leaving the palace grounds, he stopped at the yard where the statues
stood in broken neglected disarray.
Despite
its having been created by an artist unquestionably great, the statue
of Lord Guyon Desrenaud had received rough treatment, scratches and
dents, and the pedestal’s inscription had been roughly chiseled
away. Alleron was no longer there, but at the base of the statue lay
a fresh little bouquet of the few flowers that grew wild around it.
You’ve
come down in the world, Starklander,
Ryel thought. I
only hope you’re still falling, and haven’t yet hit.
Chapter Thirteen is here.
© Carolyn Kephart 2013, 2022
