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Authors: David B. Coe

Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (74 page)

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Finally, walking behind the clerics, their expressions suitably grave, came Kearney and Leilia. Tavis had never seen the queen before, though he had heard stories of her beauty. Her hair was black and her eyes so dark that they might have been as well. She was dressed in a long blue gown, the train carried by two small girls dressed similarly. Jewels sparkled on her neck, her ears, her fingers. She even wore a glittering tiara, as if unwilling to be outdone by the crown to be placed that day on her husband’s brow. Yet rather than looking elegant, she merely looked sad. Tavis could see how she might have been beautiful as a younger woman. But she was heavy now, her face too fleshy for such delicate features, her figure too round for the close-fitting dress. She looked far older than her husband, though his hair was silver and hers had no grey at all.
Kearney wore a soldier’s clothes. His boots had been polished to a high shine and the hilt of his sword gleamed like gold. But there was something comforting about his simple attire. Here is a man, it seemed to say, who will rule without arrogance, just as he came to the throne without ambition. He wore the purple and gold of Eibithar, as a king should. But he also bore a second sword held in the silver, red, and black baldric worn for centuries by dukes of Glyndwr. The colors didn’t work, yet this only added to the impression of unaffected modesty. He was nothing at all like his queen, and Tavis was certain that everyone in the hall knew it.
Kearney and Leilia stopped before the throne. The prelate had halted there as well, turning to face the king and opening the volume. He began to read aloud and those in the hall fell silent. In the cloister such readings seemed endless to Tavis, and this one was no different. His eyes wandered the hall cautiously and he was glad to see that all were gazing at the new king. For now, at least, he had been forgotten.
After a time his own gaze was drawn back to the ceremony as well, though rather than looking at Kearney, he found himself
watching his own father. There was no bitterness on Javan’s face, no envy. But Tavis knew it had to be there, burning like a smith’s forge in the duke’s chest.
His father had told him it wasn’t his fault, and though Tavis still felt responsible, he truly believed that Javan did not blame him. But watching his father watch another man’s ascension, the boy vowed once more to find Brienne’s killer. It might not place his father on the throne, or even restore his own place in the House of Curgh. But at least it would prove to all who stood today in this castle that he had not forced Javan’s abdication.
Eventually, the prelate finished his reading. He closed the Book of Ean and handed it to one of the priests. Then he stepped around the throne to a small table Tavis hadn’t noticed before. On it sat a simple wooden box. The prelate opened it and carefully lifted from it a circlet of gold. It was completely unadorned, save for a gleaming violet jewel mounted in the center of its browpiece. The prelate walked back to Kearney, raising the crown over the king’s head.
“Repeat what I say,” the cleric commanded. “I, Kearney the First of Glyndwr …”
“I, Kearney the First of Glyndwr …”
“ … Pledge life and sword to the service of Eibithar, as the kingdom’s sovereign and champion …”
“ … Pledge life and sword to the service of Eibithar, as the kingdom’s sovereign and champion …”
“ … To lead her people and enforce her laws as provided by the Rules of Ascension …”
“ … To lead her people and enforce her laws as provided by the Rules of Ascension …”
“ … With the consent and for the glory of Ean.”
“ … With the consent and for the glory of Ean and all the gods.”
The prelate frowned, but after a moment’s hesitation he placed the crown on Kearney’s head. The king turned to face his subjects, who all dropped to one knee in obeisance.
“Please rise,” Kearney said, smiling at last.
They did, and as one they shouted, “Ean guard our king!,” again and again.
Servants appeared in the back of the hall, bearing great trays of food and flask after flask of wine. Musicians from the Revel began to play in the ward and Tavis caught sight of dancers leaping and spinning in the gardens.
“This will last all day and through the night,” Grinsa said. “Do you wish to stay?”
Tavis looked at him, searching for some sign that he was joking. But the Qirsi wore a mild expression and there was little mirth in his yellow eyes.
“Of course,” Tavis said. “Don’t you?”
Grinsa shrugged, but said nothing.
Kearney walked slowly toward the back of the hall, Leilia on his arm, both of them nodding and waving to the nobles who watched their every move.
After making certain that Aindreas had walked to another part of the hall, Tavis joined his father, and together they found Shonah, Fotir, Xaver, and Hagan, before making their way toward the tables of food. Grinsa, the boy noticed, was soon at his sister’s side.
For a time, Tavis was so glad to be among those who loved him that he paid little attention to anything or anyone else. But as the day wore on, he began to notice the stares again. He might as well have been wearing Aneiran colors, or worse, Brienne’s blood. Slowly he came to understand Grinsa’s question.
When the Qirsi found him again, he was almost relieved. “Enjoying yourself?” the gleaner asked, sipping some wine, his eyes wandering the hall.
“No. Just as you knew I wouldn’t.”
Grinsa turned to face him.
“I take no satisfaction in being right about this, Tavis. I hope you know that. They’re not ready to accept you, and you’re not yet able to be comfortable without their acceptance.”
“I guess. I’m ready to leave when you are.”
The Qirsi shrugged. “I’m ready now.”
“What about your—? What about the archminister”
“We’ve said our goodbyes.”
Tavis nodded. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this, but he had endured enough shame for one day. “Let me find my parents.”
Leaving his mother and father proved easier than he had expected. His mother cried, but he expected that. His father tried one last time to convince him to go to Glyndwr, but Tavis had made his decision. Seeing that his son could not be dissuaded, Javan gave him a pouch of gold pieces.
“I don’t know how long this will last,” the duke said. “But it should keep you fed and housed for a few turns at least.”
The young lord was most surprised by how hard it was to say goodbye to Xaver. There were tears in his friend’s eyes as they embraced, and Tavis would have teased him had he not been crying also.
“May the gods watch over you, Tavis,” Xaver whispered, still holding him tightly. “Whatever else you seek, I hope you find peace.”
Tavis stepped back, making himself smile, even as he blinked back his tears. “Gods keep you safe.” He should have said more, but nothing seemed sufficient. He could only hope that Xaver understood.
Fotir grasped his shoulder and wished him well, as did Hagan. And abruptly there was nothing holding him there any longer. Or almost nothing.
He and Grinsa had already started toward the rear doors when he thought of it.
“Wait for a moment,” Tavis said, laying a hand on the Qirsi’s arm.
Grinsa gave him a puzzled look, but Tavis didn’t stop to explain. Instead, he walked to the king, who was speaking with the dukes of Sussyn and Thorald.
“My pardon, Your Majesty,” Tavis said, bowing to Kearney. “With your leave, I feel it’s time I began my journey. Before I go, I wanted to offer you my most humble thanks for your kindness and your generosity.”
The king regarded him for a moment and then placed a hand on his shoulder. The conversations around them had ceased and Tavis was aware of others watching them. At that moment, though, he didn’t care.
“You have leave to go, Lord Tavis,” Kearney said. “And you do so with my friendship. I hope that you find what you seek, and I look forward to your return.”
It was more than Tavis could have asked, and perhaps more than a king new to his power should have offered. The boy bowed again and walked away. Grinsa joined him as they reached the doorway and stepped out into the sunlight.
“That took courage,” the Qirsi said. “And it might have been the wisest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”
Tavis looked at him and grinned. “You could at least try to say that without sounding so surprised.”
They returned to their chamber, gathered what few things they would need, and packed them in a traveler’s sack. Then they left the castle and made their way to the south gate of the city, the steppe gate as it was called. When they were outside the city walls, the sharp cliffs of the Caerissan Steppe loomed before them. In the distance, to the south and west, Tavis could see Blood Falls, where the Sussyn flowed off the highlands. If they followed the river to its source, they would be only a few leagues from the Caerissan border.
“Are you sure about this?” the Qirsi asked one last time. “It’s not too late to go to Glyndwr.”
“I’ve already told you: there’s nothing for me in Glyndwr.”
“And you won’t consider going after Shurik either? At least we know where he is.”
“Shurik didn’t kill Brienne, and finding him won’t help me prove my innocence.”
Grinsa opened his mouth, then stopped himself. The boy could see that he wasn’t pleased. He had promised Kearney that he would stay with Tavis and keep him from harm, but clearly he regretted making that pledge.
“I want to find him, Grinsa,” Tavis said, a plea in his voice. “I know you want to go after Shurik. But if we can find the assassin we may be able to learn who paid him. Wouldn’t that be helpful?”
The gleaner stared up at the falls, looking sadder than Tavis had ever seen him. “I think I know who paid him,” he said quietly. “But we’ll try to find him anyway. In time, he may lead us to Shurik.”
Noltierre, Aneira
H
e preferred the southern cities. He always had, he realized, sipping an ale in the garden court of the inn at which he was staying. Part of it was that they reminded him of his home in Caerisse. Not that Castle Nistaad could compare to the fortress here in Noltierre, but there were similarities. Even had there not been, though, Cadel simply preferred the architecture of the south. The castles of Eibithar and Wethyrn, as well as those in northern Aneira and Caerisse, had been designed for war and little else. They were ponderous and ugly, as if those who built them had hoped that brute force might compensate for what they lacked in elegance and subtlety.
Noltierre, on the other hand, managed to combine formidable strength with uncommon grace and beauty. The castle and its walled city sat nestled in the hills overlooking the east bank of the Black Sand River, within sight of the southern fringe of Aneira’s Great Forest. Its walls, carved from the same stone that had given the river its name, were black as pitch and easily as tall as those guarding the cities of Kentigern and Thorald. The towers were slender, almost delicate in their appearance, reaching high above the city and affording the bowmen who stood among the carved turrets a commanding view of the river, the hills, and the roads leading to the city gates. Even the shops that lined the narrow, curving lanes had been built with care and refinement. Doorways and windows were arched rather than square. The façades of the most common structures were sculpted, a luxury usually reserved in the north for only the highest
courts. The shared garden plots were bordered with flowers, and even the lowliest merchants displayed their wares with taste.
Cadel had been here for nearly a turn, and already he was trying to find ways to remain a while longer even after Jedrek joined him. Aneira’s Festival, while no match for the one in Sanbira or for Eibithar’s Revel, offered one possibility, though eventually it would take them back north to Mertesse and some of the other, less attractive cities. There were a few singing companies that remained in Noltierre throughout the year, but he and Jedrek sang too well for any of them. They would become too famous too quickly, something no assassin ever wanted.
Over the past few days, for the first time in his life, he had actually considered giving up completely the life he had led for so long. He could just remain in Noltierre and do nothing. They wouldn’t even have to sing. He and Jedrek had more gold than they could spend in a lifetime. Cadel grinned at the thought. He was sure that he had enough. Jedrek, however, was capable of spending a great deal.
The assassin shook his head at his own foolishness. Even if there were a way to stay, their Qirsi employers wouldn’t allow them to remain in any one place for very long. Certainly they wouldn’t let them stop working. They knew who Cadel was, where he came from, what he had done as a boy and as a man. They could make him do almost anything. For now, they continued to be generous, paying more than Cadel had ever dreamed anyone would. But he found the jobs increasingly distasteful. This last one had been the worst yet. He could still see the girl’s face, the smile she gave him in Kentigern’s great hall when he handed the wine to Tavis. She had haunted his dreams ever since, something that had never happened before in all his years as a hired killer.
He forced his mind past the image, draining his ale and signaling the serving girl for another. It would be another half turn before Jedrek arrived, perhaps a bit more. He could at least enjoy Noltierre until then.
Cadel couldn’t say what made him notice her from so great a distance. There were Qirsi in all the cities of southern Aneira, just as there were all through the Forelands. Sitting in the courtyard, he had seen literally dozens of white-hairs walk by, without stopping to look at any of them.
It might have been that she looked so familiar, or perhaps the
fact that she was staring at him. It might have been that she was the most beautiful Qirsi woman he had ever met, and that he remembered thinking the same thing on the rocky shore near Curgh. Whatever the reason, he could do nothing but gaze back at her as she approached him, her white hair falling loose about her shoulders, her pale yellow eyes looking almost white in the sunlight.
He felt his body growing tense, the way it did before a kill. Another job already. This had to stop.
She halted beside his table, glancing casually around the courtyard.
“May I join you?” she asked.
She looked younger than he remembered, and despite the lightness of her tone she wore a grim expression.
“I suppose,” he answered, trying to convey as little warmth as possible.
She sat, waving a hand at the server.
“I’ve been looking for you for several days. I had heard you were in Noltierre, but—”
“What is it you want?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice low. “I’m not ready to work again so soon. It’s too dangerous. You may be paying us well, but that doesn’t give you the right to put our lives at risk.”
He stopped himself as the serving girl arrived with another ale.
“I didn’t come to give you more work,” she said, once the girl was gone.
“Then why?”
She faltered, looking away. “I need to speak with your friend.”
“My friend?”
“Jedrek. There’s something I have to ask him.”
“He isn’t here yet. I don’t expect him before the waning begins.”
Her face blanched. “He should have been here long ago.”
“No. We agreed—”
“His plans changed. After you left the Revel, the gleaner who showed the Curgh boy his Fating followed you. I went to Jedrek and told him to go after this man, to keep him from reaching Kentigern. He was to join you here once he …” She swallowed. “Once he was finished.”
“What right do you have to give orders to my man?”
“You told me yourself that he was supposed to watch out for
you, to take care of the unexpected especially when it placed your life in danger. You even told me his name so that I could go to him if I thought it necessary. In this instance, I felt that it was.”
She was right. This was just the type of thing Jedrek was supposed to do.
I need you to guard my back.
He had said this to Jed more times than he could remember. Was it possible that Jedrek had gotten himself killed doing his job?
“Why would the gleaner go to Kentigern?” he asked, as much of himself as of her. “And how would he have managed to fight off Jedrek?”
Again she hesitated, staring at her ale. “I think the gleaner felt responsible for the boy in some way. I think that he saw what was going to happen in Kentigern and he wanted to stop it. As for your friend,” she said, looking up at Cadel again, “he told me that he had never killed a Qirsi before. Maybe his fear of our magic got the better of him.”
Jedrek had never killed a Qirsi? Cadel thought back on the jobs they had done together. As far as he could remember, he had taken care of all the white-hairs they had been hired to kill.
“But still,” he said, unwilling to accept any of this. “This was a gleaner.” Surely Jedrek couldn’t be dead.
“He might have been more,” the woman said, her voice dropping so low that Cadel wasn’t certain he had heard her correctly.
“What do you mean? More in what way?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. It’s not important.”
“It is important!” he said, far too loudly. People at other tables stared at them for a moment before resuming their conversations. “It is important,” he repeated, quietly this time. He grabbed hold of her arm, gripping it like the hilt of a blade. “My closest friend, the man I’ve worked with for sixteen years, may be dead. Now I want to know what you meant.”
“You’re hurting me!” she said through clenched teeth, wrenching her arm from his grasp. She rubbed her forearm, glaring at him. He could see red marks where his fingers had bruised her skin. “It’s possible that he had other powers,” she said at last. “Mists and winds, perhaps others. I honestly don’t know. But if your friend was expecting to face a man with only gleaning magic, he might have been surprised.”
Jedrek. Dead. “How long ago?” he asked.
“Two and a half turns.”
Long enough. He should have been in Noltierre long before this.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
It was this last job, the Kentigern job, Jedrek had called it. Nothing good had come of it. It didn’t matter how much they had paid him, not if the gold had Jed’s blood on it. Suddenly he wanted nothing to do with this woman, or any of her kind. They knew too much about him, so at some point he’d have to kill for them again. But until then, he’d stay as far away from sorcerers as possible. Except one.
“What’s the gleaner’s name?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Why?”
Because Jedrek had been his friend, practically his brother, and this was the only way Cadel knew to honor him.
“Because,” he told her, “if he knew enough to follow me to Kentigern, he’s a threat to all of us. And because you were eager enough for his death to send Jedrek after him. I owe it to Jedrek to finish his work.”
She seemed reluctant to answer, but after a moment she said, in what was barely more than a whisper, “Grinsa jal Arriet.”
He nodded, pushing himself out of his chair and reaching into his pocket. He threw a gold piece onto the table.
“That should pay for a few more ales,” he said, starting to walk away. “Enjoy them. And enjoy Noltierre. That’s what I was doing before you found me.”
Cresenne couldn’t take her eyes off the gold coin. For all she knew, it was one she had given the assassin in Curgh three turns before.
Twice now she had sent men to kill Grinsa. Or to be killed by him.
“He’s just a gleaner,” she had told Jedrek. And today she had said, “He might have been more.” But how much more? She had wondered ever since the Weaver came to her in a dream during Adriel’s Turn, demanding to know all she could tell him about Grinsa. The Revel was in Thorald at the time and Cresenne, hearing nothing more from Jedrek, assumed that Grinsa was dead.
As soon as the dream began that night, she had known that this encounter with the Weaver would be different from the others. Rather than having to walk across the dark, windswept landscape, she entered the dream atop the rise. She didn’t even have to wait for
the Weaver to show himself. She found him waiting for her beneath that strange black sky. Immediately he began to question her about the gleaner. What was his name? How long had he been in the Revel? Where had he lived before joining the festival? Had she ever learned what he saw in Lord Tavis’s Fating? Where was he now? When she told him about sending Jedrek to keep him from reaching Kentigern, his tone grew less urgent, but still the questions continued.
“Did he ever show signs of possessing more than just gleaning magic?” he asked her.
Because of who and what he was, she had resisted the urge to lie, knowing it would only bring her pain. “Yes,” she said. “He admitted that he had mists and winds, though he claimed his power was limited.”
“Anything else?”
“No.” Then, without thinking, she asked, “Why does this matter? I told you, he’s dead.”
He was silent for so long that Cresenne feared she had offended him.
But he didn’t hurt her. “You still love him.” A statement. A Weaver would know.
“Yes.”
“Yet you sent a man to kill him.”
“Yes.”
“This was before you knew, before you fully understood what you were doing?”
The question shocked her, made her shiver, even in her dream. Again she had to remind herself that he was a Weaver, that no secret lay beyond his reach.
“Yes,” she said. “It was before. It would have been harder had I known.”
“Of course it would have,” he said. “Still, I’m pleased. Qirsar was with me the night I chose you to be my chancellor. If others in this movement are like you, we cannot fail.”
When he finally left her, and she awoke to a room still dark with night, Cresenne was so shaken by the dream that it was all she could do to keep from being ill. But as her fear subsided and she was able to look back over their conversation, she began to wonder why the Weaver would be so interested in Grinsa. It was her first inkling that the gleaner might still be alive. But more than that, it forced her to
consider that his powers might go beyond gleaning, beyond even the small mist he had conjured for her in the bed they shared.
As the days passed she had tried to put the matter out of her mind. It was dangerous to show too much interest in the affairs of the Weaver. Everyone in the movement knew that. Besides, Grinsa was dead.
Still, the questions stayed with her. What if he wasn’t dead? What if the Weaver asked so many questions because he saw in Grinsa a potential rival? It made no sense, really. Who would a Weaver view as a rival except another Weaver? Which, she had realized at the time, brought her to the heart of the matter. Leaving the Revel to come south had been dangerous. The Weaver had not ordered her into Aneira, and he might be displeased. But she had to know if Grinsa was alive. Even the Weaver would understand that.
BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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