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Authors: David B. Coe

Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (67 page)

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

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“I’m fairly certain that is all,” the minister said, facing Aindreas again. “Of course, there’s nothing to prevent a Qirsi from lying about his or her powers. Any Qirsi in the castle could be a shaper.”

“Including you.” Fotir.

Shurik forced a smile. “Yes, First Minister, including me. And you.”

“I’ve never concealed the fact that I am a shaper. But I was in your prison tower when the gates fell.”

“This is foolishness,” Aindreas said, sounding impatient. “I want to speak with those two underministers, if they’re still alive. Find them for me, Shurik.”

“Of course, my lord.”

He turned his horse away and started toward the nearer of the two inner gates, taking care not to appear to be in a hurry. There were things in his chamber that he wanted: a pouch filled with gold, several bound volumes, some articles of clothing, an ornate dagger that his father had given him years ago. But none of them mattered anymore. If the gleaner didn’t give him away, the Aneiran armsman would. Either way, his life would be forfeit before long. This might be his only chance to get away. None of the soldiers would think to stop him, and for once he had nothing to fear from the Aneirans guarding the far bank of the river, most of whom had probably gone back to Mertesse with Yaella and what remained of Rouel’s army.

It seemed an abrupt end to his years in Kentigern, he mused, passing through the north gate. He always knew this day would come, but still it felt strange to make his decision so quickly. But what choice did he have? He had done what he could to help the Weaver’s cause. Perhaps it wasn’t enough, and perhaps the Weaver would kill him for that. But he had no wish to die by Aindreas’s hand. The Eandi fool didn’t deserve that satisfaction.

It was Shurik. Grinsa had no doubt. His eyes met Fotir’s, and he could see immediately that the minister felt the same way. He couldn’t say anything about it here, of course, not in front of the Eandi, not without raising their suspicions about his own powers. But there was nothing stopping him from following Aindreas’s minister and questioning him somewhere more private.

Before he could make his excuses and ride after the man, however, the conversation among the dukes took a dark turn, forcing him to remain with them at least a few moments longer.

Aindreas had dismounted and was standing in front of Javan. Both of them bore cuts and welts, though the Curgh duke looked to be the far more battered of the two.

“It seems my prisons can’t manage to hold any of you,” Aindreas said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Why is that?”

Javan shrugged, though his blue eyes never strayed from Kentigern’s face. “I don’t know. I’ve heard it said that the gods won’t allow any prison to hold an innocent man. It seems as good an explanation as any.”

“You want me to accept a Qirsi plot to free your boy as a test of his innocence? Never!”

“Did you see Tavis fight today, Lord Kentigern?” Grinsa asked.

Both men looked his way.

“No,” the duke said. “Why?”

“Because if you had, you would have seen a young man—a child really—struggling to master his fear. And you would have seen that he was sickened by the act of killing a man, though that man had been intent on killing him. The boy’s no murderer; he’s not even a soldier yet. He hasn’t the stomach for it, or the courage.” The Qirsi glanced at Javan. “Forgive me, my lord, but I speak the truth.”

Tavis was looking down at his feet, the dried blood of the
Aneiran he had killed still staining his face and neck. Grinsa had no desire to humiliate him, but better to be thought a coward than a butcher. That at least was the choice the gleaner would have made. He couldn’t tell just then if Tavis agreed.

“You offer that as proof?” Aindreas asked. “It means nothing! Of course he was scared today! He wasn’t murdering a defenseless girl this time.” He glared at Tavis, flexing his sword hand. “I should have killed you that first day, boy. I never should have offered you the chance to confess.”

Tavis raised his eyes to look at him. “Is that what you were doing? In Curgh we call it torture.”

Aindreas drew his sword, growling like a wild beast. Javan raised his weapon to defend the boy, as did Fotir and Hagan MarCullet.

“Hold!” Kearney said from atop his mount. “Lord Tavis is still under my protection, Aindreas. Harm him and it means war with Glyndwr.”

“And Curgh,” Javan added.

“You have no place in this matter, Javan,” Kearney told him. “Your son has requested asylum from the House of Glyndwr. If you wish to protect him, I’ll withdraw my offer of protection. But since he can’t escape Kentigern’s justice in his own court, I’d suggest you leave this to me.”

The duke of Curgh’s face reddened and he opened his mouth. But the duchess laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“You’re right, of course, Lord Glyndwr,” she said. “Please accept our apologies.”

Kearney nodded to her, before facing Aindreas again.

After several moments, Kentigern sheathed his sword, looking off to the side. “Fine, Kearney. You win. But you’d best get him out of my castle, before one of my men decides to take matters into his own hands.”

“That, too, would be an act of war,” Kearney said, refusing to back down.

“Which is why you’d do well to get him away from here. You threaten war, Kearney, but we both know that Glyndwr’s army is no match for mine.”

Glyndwr’s swordmaster gave a harsh laugh. “I’m not so sure of that.”

“Quiet, Gershon,” Kearney said. He faced the duke again, taking a long breath. “Our threats serve no purpose, Aindreas. This land—this castle—has seen enough war for one day. We need to honor our dead and rebuild Kentigern. Having just fought as allies to drive the Aneirans from our kingdom, can’t we all agree to do those things?”

Aindreas and Javan glanced at each other, their eyes meeting for a moment. Both of them appeared to consider Kearney’s plea, and Grinsa believed he saw their expressions soften.

The gleaner wanted to believe that they could work together, at least for a time. Not only because the kingdom’s future depended upon it, but because he was anxious to leave them. A voice in his mind was screaming for him to go after Shurik. If the minister had betrayed Kentigern to the Aneirans, he wouldn’t be coming back from the errand on which Aindreas had sent him. The risks to the man were too great.

With every day that passed, with every new revelation, Grinsa grew more convinced that talk of a Qirsi conspiracy in the Forelands was more than just the idle prattle of frightened Eandi nobles. He had no real evidence; he was guessing, groping for answers to questions he only barely understood. But Cresenne—just thinking of her made his heart ache—Cresenne had sent an assassin to keep him from reaching Kentigern. Brienne had been killed and Tavis made to look guilty. And now Shurik had betrayed his duke and his castle to the Aneirans. These things had to be connected. He was sure of it.

He was just as certain that he would never find Cresenne again. Even if they found the assassin who murdered Brienne, the gleaner doubted that he would know any more about this conspiracy than the man Cresenne had sent for him. Shurik, though, was a different matter. He was first minister to one of Kentigern’s major houses. If he was involved, he would know a good deal. More than anything, Grinsa wanted to find the minister and question him, even if he had to beat the answers out of him.

But the three dukes standing before him had more to do than just honor their dead and mend the castle gates. The shadow of civil war still hung over the land, and at that moment he seemed to be the only one who realized it.

“With all respect, Lord Glyndwr,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the north gate for just a moment, as if he could will Shurik to remain in Kentigern a bit longer, “I’m afraid that you and
the other dukes have greater responsibilities than seeing to your fallen soldiers.”

Kearney narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your king is dead, and the land awaits his successor.”

“Javan of Curgh is his successor,” said Hagan MarCullet. “The Rules of Ascension are clear.”

“Damn the Rules of Ascension!” Aindreas leveled a rigid finger at Curgh’s duke. “I’ve told you before, Javan, you’ll not rule so long as I live! The boy is beyond my reach, but this isn’t. I will never consent to a Curgh king.”

“Even at the risk of war?” Kearney asked.

The duke nodded. “Even so.”

Glyndwr turned to the duke of Curgh. “Javan?”

“What?” the man said. “He’s threatening war, not me.”

“But you can avert this war by renouncing your claim to the throne.”

Javan stared at Kearney as if he thought the duke mad. “And give the crown to him? Never!”

“It seems, Lord Glyndwr,” Grinsa broke in, “that there’s only one solution. You must take the throne.”

“What?” It was Keziah, of all people, who in that instant spoke for all of them. “You can’t be serious.”

“There is no other choice,” the gleaner said. “Thorald and Galdasten are powerless in this matter. Not only do they lack legitimate heirs, they don’t even have the authority to go against the Rules of Ascension. If we take this to a council of the major houses, Curgh will prevail, regardless of how Glyndwr votes. If there’s a solution to be found, the three dukes you see before you must find it. Kentigern will not accede to a Curgh king, nor Curgh to one from Kentigern. That leaves Lord Glyndwr.”

Grinsa could see that he was hurting her, that she saw her life and her love crumbling before her eyes. It was one thing for a duke to take a Qirsi as his mistress. It was quite another for Eibithar’s king to do so.
I’m sorry,
he wanted to say.
It’s the only way.
But all he could do was gaze into his sister’s pale eyes and hope that she understood.

“I have no wish to be king,” Kearney said. “I never have.”

From any other man it would have sounded hollow and false. But Grinsa believed him.

The gleaner nodded and offered a small smile. “Which is why you’re such a fine choice, my lord.”

He looked at Javan, then Aindreas. “My lords?”

“Kentigern’s threats should not keep Lord Curgh from the throne!” Hagan said, shaking his head. “The Rules of Ascension—”

Javan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Hagan.” He pressed his lips together, looking first at Grinsa and then at Kearney. At last, his eyes came to rest on the duke of Kentigern. “I’ll consider this, Aindreas, if you will as well. We both lost good men today, and our houses have suffered a good deal more in the last turn. I don’t want another war.”

Aindreas gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll think on it.”

“Lord Glyndwr?” Grinsa asked.

Kearney was gazing at Keziah, as if he too realized what his ascension would mean for them. “If the other choice is civil war,” the duke said, “I can hardly refuse.” Grinsa sensed that he wasn’t answering the question. Rather, he was reasoning with Keziah, trying to make her understand. But the others couldn’t have known this, except perhaps Tavis, who was watching them both, his expression unreadable.

“We should see to the dead,” Javan said after a lengthy silence. “It’ll be dark before long.”

The others nodded and started to walk off, but Grinsa caught Fotir’s eye.

“A word?” he said.

The minister looked to his duke, who nodded before walking toward one of the towers, hand in hand with the duchess. Tavis watched them go, before joining Kearney, his expression like that of a lost babe.

“I want to find Shurik,” the gleaner said, lowering his voice so that only Fotir could hear him.

“Now?”

“I don’t think we’ll have another chance. If I were in his position, I’d be looking for the quickest route to the Tarbin.”

“Then let’s go,” the minister said.

Grinsa held out a hand. Fotir gripped it and swung himself onto the gleaner’s horse. They rode quickly through the north gate into the outer ward, then turned west toward the Tarbin gate. Grinsa saw no sign of Shurik. The minister had been on horseback, too. There was a chance he was already in Aneira, though Grinsa thought he would have ridden slowly, to keep from drawing attention to himself.

The two Qirsi crossed through the outer gate, past the twisted iron and wood of the ruined portcullises, and followed the winding road down toward the river. At the bottom of the tor, they turned south again, following the curving bank of the Tarbin toward the shallows. Only then did they spot Shurik. He was a good distance ahead of them and had already turned off the road and ridden down the bank to the water’s edge. There was no way they could reach him in time to keep him from crossing.

“Damn him!” Grinsa said, spurring his mount to a full gallop though he knew the effort would be in vain.

“Isn’t there some magic we could use?” Fotir asked.

“Not at this distance, not unless you think a wind would stop him.”

“It might.”

“Can you raise it while we ride?”

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

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