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Authors: David B. Coe

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BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“I’m concerned about you,” he said in a voice that only Pytor could hear.
“Concerned?” Pytor replied lightly.
“I like you, my friend. I think I understand you. I’d hate to see you come to harm.”
Levan arrived with Segel’s ale and placed it on the table. The barkeep pointed at Pytor’s empty tankard and raised an eyebrow. Pytor shook his head and watched the barkeep return to the bar before speaking again.
“I like you, too, Segel. I respect you.” He turned to face the man. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you or your family.”
Segel’s eyes widened slightly, but otherwise he offered no response. When he reached for his ale, Pytor saw that his hand remained steady. After another few moments, Segel turned his attention to what the others were saying.
Pytor left the tavern a short time later. He was tired, he told the others. He wanted to check on his beasts before nightfall. But all the way home he could only think about Segel and their brief exchange. He hoped that he had made the dark man understand.
The next several days dragged by, like days spent waiting for sown seeds to sprout. Pytor didn’t change his mind about the decision he had made, though given time to think about it, he felt fear gnawing at his mind like mice in a grain bin. He tried to keep himself busy by tending to his beasts and his fields, but knowing what was coming, he couldn’t help but wonder why he bothered. Occasionally he would pause in the fields and stare beyond the pasture and the low roof of his own house to the towers of Galdasten, which rose like a thundercloud above the farms and the low, gnarled trees.
He didn’t return to Levan’s tavern. After what he had decided, he couldn’t bring himself to face the others again. He should have known that they wouldn’t let him off so easy. The day before the Feast, Mart stopped by.
“I was concerned about you,” the man said, sitting atop his wagon and chewing on his pipe, even though it wasn’t lit. “We all have been.”
“I’m fine,” Pytor said. He was putting out grain for the animals, and he avoided Mart’s gaze. “I’ve just been busy.”
“You shouldn’t listen to Brice, Pytor,” Mart said, no doubt trying to be kind. “He’s an old fool. I can say that even after all he’s done for me. He had no business saying what he did.”
Pytor glanced at him briefly, making himself smile. “Don’t worry about me, Mart. I’ve already forgotten it. As I said, I’ve just been busy.”
Mart nodded. “All right. I’ll leave you. We’ll see you at the Feast though, right? Triss has been asking after you.”
“I’ll be there,” Pytor said. “Right along with you and the others.”
Mart had picked up his reins and was preparing to leave, but he stopped now. “Not all of us,” he said.
Pytor froze, his heart suddenly pounding like the hooves of a Sanbiri mount. “What do you mean?”
“Segel told us yesterday that he’s heading south for a while. He says he’s going to see his sister in Sussyn.”
Pytor felt himself go pale, in spite of his relief. Apparently the dark man had understood well enough. “Well, the rest of you then,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow.”
Mart smiled. “Good.” He whistled at his ox and the animal started forward. “Good night, Pytor,” he called as his cart rolled away, raising a thin haze of dust.
Pytor lifted his hand in farewell, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
The day of the Feast dawned clear and warm. Pytor rose with the sun and started out into the fields without bothering to eat. Now that this day had finally come, his fear had vanished, to be replaced with a sense of grim satisfaction. At least he was doing something. At least he was proving Brice wrong. Indeed, he thought with an inward smile, Brice was to be wrong about a good many things.
Pytor didn’t line up outside the castle gates with the rest of the horde. He spent nearly the entire day in his fields, and though his arms and hands were covered with bites from vermin by midday, it took him several more hours to find what he had been searching for.
As he approached Galdasten Castle, the prior’s bells tolling in the city and the sun hanging low to the west, he had to keep himself from scratching his arms. He wasn’t certain which had been the
killing bite—there were rashes around several of them—but it didn’t really matter. All he cared about now was getting past the guards before delirium set in. He had his sleeves rolled all the way down and his hands thrust in his pockets to hide the red welts on his skin. But the day had grown uncommonly hot, and with the fever coming on, he was sweating like an overworked horse by the time he reached the great golden walls of the castle. If it hadn’t been for Pytor’s girth, and the fact that the guards could see him hurrying up the path that led to the gates, they might have suspected something and not let him inside. As it was, he felt rather unsteady on his feet as he walked by them.
This at least he had anticipated. He had forced down some ale on the way to the castle, and now he endured the guards’ snide comments about his drinking with a good-natured smile and a deferential bob of his head. It was a small price to pay. Once he was past them he had nothing to fear.
Pytor made his way slowly through the outer ward to the great hall. The illness was fully upon him now. He had hoped that the pestilence would attack his lungs—that was said to be the quicker death. But it was not to be. He had to close his throat hard against the bile rising from his gut, and he stumbled through the doorway into the hall, barely able to keep his balance.
This is what Steffan went through
, he thought, bracing himself against the open door. And one last time he thanked the gods for allowing his boy to slip into unconsciousness before the illness was at its worst.
He shook his head violently, as if the motion itself could rid him of such thoughts. He needed to concentrate. He had come for a reason.
Still leaning on the door, Pytor surveyed the scene before him. It was early still, but already there was food on all the tables and empty wine flasks everywhere. Though his vision was beginning to blur, he could see that the duke and duchess had arrived and were dancing near the front of the room. That was all he needed to know. It would have been nice to see Brice’s face as well, but he didn’t have the strength to look for him. He could feel himself starting to fall. It was all he could do to reach into the small pouch that was strapped to his belt, pull out the three mice he had found in his fields, and throw them into the middle of the room.
He fell to the floor retching, his body racked by convulsions. But he heard the music stop. He heard the incredulous silence and he could imagine the look on all of their faces as they stared at the tiny creatures who had brought the pestilence to their Feast. And then, just before another wave of illness carried Pytor toward his own death, he heard the screaming begin.
Thorald, Eibithar, year 877, Adriel’s Moon waning
T
hey had been in the king’s tower since midday, as far from the city marketplace as they could be. The lone window in the duke’s private chamber looked out over Amon’s Ocean and its rocky coastline, and Filib could hear breakers pounding endlessly at the base of the dark cliffs. Gulls called raucously as they wheeled above the ramparts of the castle, and the sea wind keened in the stone like Bian’s spirits.
Yet, with all this, and with his uncle droning on yet again about the proper method for keeping account of the thanes’ fee payments, Filib could still hear music coming from the city. He toyed absently with the gold signet ring on his right hand, wondering where Renelle was at that moment. In the city, no doubt, enjoying the Revel with everyone else.
“Filib!”
The young lord looked up. His uncle sat across from him at the broad oak table, anger in his grey eyes, his mouth set in a thin line.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“You could at least do me the courtesy of pretending to listen. This may not be as fascinating as whatever you’re dreaming about, but I’m sure it’s every bit as important.”
Filib grinned. “Important, yes. But as I’ve told you, it’s not necessary.”
The duke frowned, gesturing at the scrolls before him. “This method—”
“Is not mine, Uncle,” Filib broke in. “I know that you like it. I
know that you feel my method isn’t as orderly or as clear as yours. But it works for me. If you really intend to give me control of the fee accounting, you’re going to have to let me do it my way.”
“This isn’t just my method, Filib,” Tobbar said, his voice softening. “It was your father’s as well. And the king’s before him. Dukes of Thorald have been accounting this way since before the Queen’s War. Do you really think it’s your place to abandon the practice?”
Filib closed his eyes. His father. How was he supposed to argue with that?
“All right,” he said, opening his eyes again and passing a hand through his hair in a gesture his mother would have recognized. “But can we do this later? Please? The Revel—”
“The Revel?” Tobbar repeated, sounding cross again. He gestured impatiently at the door, as if the musicians, sorcerers, tumblers, and peddlers who traveled with Bohdan’s Revel stood outside the chamber. “You’re nearly two years past your Fating, Filib. You should know by now that dukes and lords don’t have time for the Revel. We’ve more important things to do. Besides, the Revel will be here for another five or six days. You’ll have plenty of time for all that later, after we’re done.” He picked up one of the scrolls again and began to study it. “The Revel,” he muttered once more, shaking his head. “Do you think your father would have been more interested in what’s going on in the city than in the thanes’ fees?”
Filib had been expecting this. “Actually, yes.”
Tobbar looked up again. Filib could see that he was fighting to keep the grin from his face.
His uncle sighed, then smiled. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m not sure I see the point of giving me control of the accounting anyway,” Filib said. “I’ll be king before long. And then it will fall back to you. Why bother with all this?”
“Maybe I want a respite from it,” the duke said. “As you say, this will be mine to do for the rest of my life. I’d like someone else to do it, even for just a short while. And I don’t want that person ruining my scrolls with poor work. Besides,” he went on after a brief pause, “as I’ve told you before, kings have accounting to do as well. Where do you think our tithe goes every fourth turn?”
“A king has ministers to do this. Certainly Grandfather does.”
Tobbar shook his head. “Only recently. When he was younger he did it all himself.”
Filib let out a long breath. “Fine, you win. I promise to learn
your method. But not today. Not until the Revel leaves for Eardley. Please.”
The duke put the scroll down and leaned back in his chair, a grin on his face, much as Filib’s father might have done. “It is good this year, isn’t it?”
“The best I can remember,” Filib said, grinning as well. “It seems a shame to miss any of it.” He sensed his uncle’s hesitation and he pressed his advantage. “The fee accounting will still be here long after the Revel is gone.”
“True,” Tobbar said, the smile lingering. “I suppose that girl of yours is down there as well?”
Filib felt something tighten in his chest. He had no doubt that she was still angry with him about last night. It had been the Night of Two Moons in Adriel’s Turn. Lovers’ Night. They should have been together, she would tell him. Of all the nights of the year, this was theirs. That’s what she would say, her dark eyes flashing, or worse, brimming with tears. As if he didn’t know. As if he had any choice in the matter. She knew the limits of what they shared, he’d have to tell her. Again. She knew that certain things lay beyond his control, that this was one of them. But still, she’d be angry and hurt. Who could blame her?
“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “She’s probably there.”
“You’ve grown quite fond of her, haven’t you?”
Filib shrugged, looked away. “I care about her. Shouldn’t I?”
“Of course you should. As long as you remember who she is, and who you are.”
Filib kept his eyes trained on the window, but he nodded.
“What you said earlier about becoming king soon is true, Filib. I expect your grandfather to abdicate within the year. It’s time you started thinking about a wife and heirs. We’ve been lucky. The king’s long life has ensured the continuation of Thorald control of the crown, despite your father’s death. It’s time now that you did your part.”
“Has Mother put you up to this, Uncle?” Filib asked, meeting Tobbar’s gaze.
His uncle gave a small smile. “Not directly, no. But she has mentioned her concerns to me. She fears you’ve grown too attached to the girl.”
“Her name is Renelle.”
Tobbar’s expression hardened. “Comments like that concern me as well. Her name isn’t important. In the larger scheme of things, neither is she. If you wish to keep her as a mistress, I’m sure that can be arranged. But I don’t want you—”
He stopped suddenly, a stricken expression on his ruddy face. “Last night!” he breathed. “You didn’t …”
Filib looked to the window again. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “We didn’t.”
His uncle let out a sigh. “Good. That would have been a terrible mistake, Filib. You need to be building ties to the other houses right now. And what better way to do so than with a good match.”
“I know all this, Uncle!” Filib said, his voice rising. “I don’t need to hear it again from you!”
Tobbar fell silent. Filib looked away once more, but he could feel his uncle’s eyes upon him.
“I’m not even sure the legend applies in this case,” the young lord said after a lengthy silence. “It says only that a love consummated on the Night of Two Moons in Adriel’s Turn will last forever. My …” He swallowed. “My affair with Renelle was consummated long ago. Last night probably wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Perhaps not,” Tobbar said softly. “But you were right not to take the chance.”
Filib nodded again. A lone gull glided past the window, its cries echoing off the castle walls.
Tonight
, he promised himself.
I’ll be with her tonight. After I ride.
The two of them sat without speaking for some time, Filib staring out the window, the duke, no doubt, watching him. His uncle deserved better than his tantrums. In the five years—five years!—since the death of Filib’s father, Tobbar had done everything in his power to prepare Filib for the throne. Where a lesser man might have allowed jealousy and resentment to keep him from such duties, Tobbar had embraced them. In Aneira, Caerisse, and every other kingdom in the Forelands, Filib knew, a man in Tobbar’s position would have been next in line for the throne, with his heirs inheriting the crown after him. Only in Eibithar, with its ancient Rules of Ascension, did the line of succession pass over the younger brother in favor of the eldest son of the deceased king. The rules had been established by the leaders of Eibithar’s twelve houses after the death of King Ouray the Second, the last of the early Thorald kings. By creating a peaceful process for sharing royal power among Eibithar’s five
major houses, the dukes sought to give the land some stability, while preventing one house from establishing an absolute dynasty.
Under the Rules of Ascension, only the king’s eldest son or eldest grandson, if he had come of age, could inherit the throne. If the king had no heir, power passed to the duke of the highest-ranking house not in power. Thorald had always ranked highest of all the houses, for it was the house of Binthar, Eibithar’s first great leader. After Thorald came Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr. Thus, if Filib’s grandfather, Aylyn the Second, had died in the interim between the death of Filib’s father and Filib’s Fating, the duke of Galdasten would have taken the crown. Or rather, the duke of Curgh, Filib realized, remembering with a shudder the dreadful incident at Galdasten that killed the duke and his family several years before.
Because Thorald was the preeminent house in Eibithar, and because power always reverted to the highest-ranking house, Filib’s house had held the throne for more years than any other. Filib’s father would have been pleased to know that his death would not keep Filib from taking his place in Thorald’s pantheon of kings.
A knock on the duke’s door broke a lengthy silence. Tobbar and Filib exchanged a look; then the older man called for whoever had come to enter.
The door opened and Enid ja Kovar, the duke’s first minister, stepped into the chamber.
“Sire,” the Qirsi woman said as she entered. “I was just—” Seeing the younger man, she stopped. “Lord Filib, I didn’t know you were here. Forgive me for interrupting.”
“It’s all right, Enid,” Tobbar said. He glanced at his nephew. “I think we’re done.”
Filib stood. “Thank you, Uncle.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise, though. When the Revel leaves, you’re going to learn the old method.”
“You have my word,” Filib said, grinning.
“You’re off to the Revel, my lord?” the first minister asked, her yellow eyes reflecting the light from the window. Like all the men and women of the sorcerer race, she had white hair and skin so pale that it was almost translucent. Enid wore her hair pulled back from her face, making her appear even more frail than most Qirsi. Filib sometimes found it hard to remember that she wielded such powerful magic. Yet just two years before, when a late-night fire threatened
to sweep through the center of the walled city below the castle, he had seen this wisp of a woman raise a dense mist that dampened the flames, and a stiff wind that blew against the prevailing natural gale to keep the fire from spreading. Without her magic the townsfolk might not have been able to put the fire out before it claimed the entire city.
“Yes,” Filib told her. “I’m heading to the Revel now. Have you been?”
She gave an indulgent smile, as if he were still a child. “I find the Revel … tiresome. However, I will be at the banquet tonight. I trust I’ll see you there?”
The banquet. He had forgotten. He had no choice really; he had to be there. He was hosting it, along with his mother and Tobbar. But how would he explain this to Renelle? She’d be there as well, though not at his table, of course, and she’d expect to be with him after. But he needed to ride. It was going to be a very late night.
His uncle was watching him closely, awaiting his reply to Enid’s question.
He made himself smile. “Yes, of course I’ll be there.”
Tobbar continued to stare at him, as if expecting him to say more.
“I give you my word, Uncle,” Filib told him. “I’ll be there.”
Still, his uncle did not look satisfied. “Then why are you behaving as though it’s the last place you intended to be? Is this about that—?” He stopped himself. “Is this about Renelle again?”
“No, it’s not.” He exhaled heavily. “I had planned to ride tonight,” he said at last. “That’s all. It’s not important. I’ll just do it after the banquet.”
Tobbar paled. “I’m sorry, Filib. My memory is not what it once was.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” Enid said, looking from Filib to the duke.
“My father was killed during a hunt the night of Panya’s full,” Filib said. Just speaking the words made him shiver. He still remembered being awakened by the tolling of the guardhouse bells and hearing his mother wailing in the next chamber.
“Forgive me,” the Qirsi woman said. “I hadn’t come to Thorald yet. But it was my understanding that this happened in Kebb’s Turn.”
Filib nodded, playing with the ring again. “It did. But each turn, on this night, I honor my father by riding to the place of his death.
And on this night in Kebb’s Turn, after leading the hunt as he once did, I remain there until dawn.”
“It seems a fine way to remember him, my lord,” Enid said.
“Thank you.”
BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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