Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Charter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  TOR BOOKS BY DAVID B. COE

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Once again, for Nancy,

  who is with me at the beginning of every new journey

  The Forelands

  Eibithar

  Chapter One

  Galdasten, Eibithar, year 872, Morna’s Moon waxing

  After the bright glare of the dirty road and sunbaked fields, it took Pytor’s eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the tavern. He stood at the door waiting for the familiar shapes to come into relief: the bar with its dark stained wood and tall wooden stools, the rough tables and low chairs, the thick, unfinished pillars that seemed to groan beneath the weight of the sagging ceiling, and, of course, Levan, stout and bald, standing behind the bar. The air was heavy with the scents of musty ale and roasting meat, but Pytor also smelled Mart’s pipe smoke. It seemed he wasn’t the first.

  “Starting a bit early today, aren’t you, Pytor?” Levan asked, filling a tankard with ale and setting it on the bar by his usual place.

  Pytor sat on his stool and took a long pull. “I’ll do without the commentary, Levan,” he said, tossing a silver piece onto the bar. “I’ll just thank you to keep the ale coming.”

  The barkeep held up his hands and shrugged. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Pytor frowned before draining the tankard with a second swallow. He set it down on the bar sharply and pushed it toward Levan, gesturing for more with one hand and wiping the sweet foam from his mustache with the other.

  “Got yourself a thirst today, do you, Pytor?” came a voice from behind him.

  He turned and saw Mart sitting at a table in the back, pipe smoke hanging like a storm cloud over his head and curling around his gaunt face.

  “Since when is my taste for ale the whole world’s concern?”

  Pytor glanced back at Levan and shook his head. The barkeep grinned like a ghoul and handed Pytor his ale.

  “Don’t be sore, Pytor,” Mart called. “I was just talking. Come back here and join me.”

  He took another drink and sat still for a moment. Mart wasn’t a bad sort. Back when Kara was still alive, she and Pytor had spent a good deal of time with him and Triss. Mart and his wife had been good to them when they lost Steffan. Better than most, if truths be told. They’d looked after Pytor’s crop and beasts while he cared for Kara, and even for some time after she finally died. And Mart had continued to be a reliable friend since, accepting of Pytor’s quick temper and rough manner.

  Still, Pytor wished that he had been the first to arrive that day. Since early morning he’d been restless and uneasy, the way he sometimes felt before a storm. Perhaps it’s only that. Morna knew they needed the water. But he knew better. Something was coming, something dark.

  Kara used to say that he had Qirsi blood in him, that he had the gleaning power, like the Qirsi sorcerers who traveled with Bohdan’s Revel. They always laughed about it, Pytor reminding her that he was much too fat to be Qirsi. Still, they both knew that he was usually right about these things. He didn’t doubt that he would be this time, too. He was in no mood to talk. But Mart was here, and it wouldn’t have been right to just leave him back there alone.

  “Come on, Pytor,” Mart called again. “Don’t be so stubborn.”

  Pytor tugged impatiently on his beard. There was nothing to be done. He pushed back from the bar, picked up his ale, and joined Mart at his table.

  “That’s it,” Mart said, as Pytor sat. He tapped out his pipe on the table and refilled it. Then he lit a tinder in the candle flame and held it over the bowl of his pipe, drawing deeply. The leaf glowed and crackled, filling the air with sweet smoke. “What’s new, Pytor?” Mart asked at last, his yellow teeth clenching the pipe stem.

  Pytor shrugged, not looking him in the eye. “Not much,” he mumbled. “Grain’s growing, beasts are getting fat.” He shrugged again and took another drink.

  “You seem troubled.”

  He looked up at that. Mart was watching him closely, pale blue eyes peering out from beneath wisps of steel grey hair.

  “Is something brewing?” Mart asked.

  Pytor held up his tankard and forced a smile. “Only this,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

  Mart just stared at him.

  “Nothing I can name,” Pytor finally admitted, looking away again. “Just a feeling.”

  The older man nodded calmly, but Pytor saw his jaw tighten.

  “It’s probably just my imagination,” he said a moment later, drinking some more ale. “We’ve been almost a fortnight without rain and I’m starting to fear for my land. It’s affecting my mood.”

  Mart nodded a second time and chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Yes,” he agreed after some time. “That’s probably it.”

  Pytor could see that Mart didn’t believe this either, but the man seemed as eager as he to let the matter drop. Draining his tankard again, Pytor motioned for Levan to bring him another.

  “Can I buy you one?” he asked Mart, noticing for the first time that his friend had no drink.

  Mart hesitated, but only for a moment. “No, thanks,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Triss will thrash me if she smells it on me. She’s stingy enough with my time without having to worry that I’m spending all of our money on ale.”

  Pytor looked at the man with genuine concern. That wasn’t Triss’s way, and they both knew it. Anyone who spent even a few minutes chatting with her could have seen that.

  “Things that bad then?” he asked.

  This time it was Mart’s turn to shrug. “They’ve been worse.” He paused, then gave a wan smile. “Though not in some time.”

  Levan walked over to their table and placed another ale in front of him, but Pytor hardly noticed, so great was his surprise at what Mart was telling him. True, they needed rain,
but things weren’t that bad. Not yet. Another turn of it would be a different story, but the planting season had been generous, and the ground still had a good deal of moisture in it.

  “What happened?” Pytor asked. “You’re not having trouble with mouth rot in your herd again, are you?”

  Mart shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stared at his hands. “Actually, we are,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But not ‘again,’ as you put it. It’s still the same problem.”

  Pytor narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry, Pytor,” Mart said, his eyes meeting Pytor’s briefly before flicking away again. “I should have told you at the time how bad it was.”

  Pytor just stared at him. He knew what was coming. He should have been used to it by now, but it still stung. “So?” he finally managed. “How bad?”

  “We’ve lost all but three of our beasts. Most of them died at the end of the planting, just as the grain was starting to sprout, but four more of them died during this past waning.”

  “Your crop’s all right though, isn’t it?” he asked dully. “You can get through the cold turns.”

  Mart nodded. “Barely, yes. The crop’s fine, and Brice has just sold me a half dozen of his beasts at a low price. It’s been a hard time, but we’ll get through.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Pytor demanded, struggling to keep the ire from his voice. He knew the answer, but he wanted to make the man say it. “Why didn’t you come to me? I’m doing fine; I could have helped you.”

  Mart looked away, his face reddening.

  “We would have, Pytor. Really. But after all you’d been through …” He trailed off, making a small helpless gesture with his hands.

  It didn’t matter. Pytor could finish the sentence for him. We didn’t want to trouble you. He could hear the words in a dozen different voices. It had been a constant refrain in his life since Kara’s death. His friends had been so considerate of his feelings that they’d made him an outcast.

  “The others know?” he asked.

  “By now, they do. They didn’t right off. At first I only told Brice. But now …” He shrugged.

  Pytor nodded and pressed his lips together. He wasn’t certain why he felt so angry. Mart hadn’t done anything wrong; certainly it was nothing the rest of them hadn’t done as well. Besides, the man’s herd was no business of his. He couldn’t fault him for going to Brice, either. Brice was a decent man, despite his bluster. He and Pytor spent much of their time together baiting each other, but even Pytor knew that he could be counted on when times got rough. And it was no secret that he was the most prosperous of them all. Had Pytor been in Mart’s place he might have turned to Brice too, in spite of their past quarrels.

  So why was he so offended?

  “Well, I’m glad it’s worked out for you,” Pytor said at last, breaking an awkward silence.

  “Thank you, Pytor.” Mart smiled, looking relieved.

  Pytor returned his smile, though he had a sour feeling in his stomach. He drank some ale and Mart puffed on his pipe, sending great billows of smoke up to the ceiling.

  They sat that way for some time, saying nothing. Mart filled his pipe a second time, and Pytor drained yet another tankard of ale, which Levan dutifully replaced with a full one. He wanted to leave, but it was early yet. The others hadn’t even arrived, and there was nothing back at his house except the beasts and his now-too-big bed. So instead the two of them just sat, keeping their silence and trying not to look at each other.

  When Brice and the rest finally walked into Levan’s tavern they both nearly jumped out of their chairs to greet them. The comfort Pytor took in their arrival was fleeting, though.

  “It doesn’t come at the best of times,” Eddya was saying as she walked in. She stepped to the bar, gave Levan a silver, and took her ale. “But it’s certainly not the worst either.”

  “There’s never a good time for it,” Jervis said sullenly, buying an ale of his own.

  The others got their drinks as well and all of them walked back to the table. None of them looked happy, but Davor least of all: He was the youngest of the group, and the most prone to worry. Brice, too, was easily disturbed, despite his money. If they had been the only ones who were upset, Pytor wouldn’t have been concerned. It was the others who had unnerved him. Eddya had been through four husbands, eleven childbirths, and more difficult times than he could count. Little bothered her anymore.

  Jervis and Segel were even tempered as well, Jervis and Pytor had often been mistaken for brothers. They had the same coloring—red hair, fair skin, green eyes—and though Jervis was far taller than Pytor and a good bit leaner, they had similar features. They also reacted to things the same way. They were quick to anger, but kept their wits about them in hard times. No matter the trouble, they always managed to muddle through.

  Segel was a stranger to Eibithar; no one who looked at him could have doubted that. He was small and wiry, with dark skin and darker eyes and hair. He even spoke with the hint of an accent, although not one that any of them could place. Some said that he was from Uulrann. Eddya was convinced that he came from the Southlands. Pytor had never asked him, though he’d often wondered. It had never really mattered. In the important ways he fit in just fine. He was quieter than the rest; he tended to listen more than he spoke, and he rarely worried unnecessarily.

  So when Pytor saw the dark expression on his face, and on Eddya’s and Jervis’s as well, he knew something had to be wrong. He felt his stomach tightening like a fist.

  “Looks like you shouldn’t have bothered with those beasts after all,” Brice said to Mart as he sat.

  Mart glanced at Pytor uncomfortably before answering. “It wasn’t a bother, Brice,” he said awkwardly. “Your price was more than fair.”

  “Price doesn’t matter anymore,” Eddya told him, with a chuckle. She always seemed to be laughing when she spoke, even when she didn’t mean it.

  Pytor frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “The timing couldn’t be worse for Bett and me,” Davor said to no one in particular. “What with having just put up the new shed and all.”

  “The timing of what?” Pytor demanded, his voice rising. “What’s happened?”

  Jervis looked at him for several moments, licking his lips. Then he shook his head.

  “We just saw a posting at the meeting hall,” Segel finally said in a low voice. “The duke has called for a Feast on the tenth night of the waxing.”

  Perhaps Pytor should have expected it. But the ale had begun to work on him, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or maybe that was just an excuse. Maybe on some level he had expected it, but didn’t want to admit it to himself. Here, after all, was confirmation of his premonitions. He could almost see Kara standing before him, nodding with that sad, knowing smile of hers. He had to clamp his teeth together against a wave of nausea.

  Davor was saying something else about his new shed and how many days it had taken him to build it, but Pytor was hardly listening. There was a noise like a windstorm in his ears, and his head had begun to throb. He wished he hadn’t drunk that last ale.

  A Feast, and on the tenth day no less. The duke had given them only four days to prepare, not that they could do much. This was the last thing they needed. With the weather working itself into a drought, mouth rot killing their animals, and the duke taking more than his share of what they managed to make, it was amazing that they got by at all. But a Feast, that was too much. Pytor had been through seven of them in his lifetime, including one the year he was born, but there were just some things a person couldn’t get used to.

  “Has it really been six years already?” he heard Eddya ask.

  “I believe so,” Jervis answered. Pytor heard surrender in his words, and he hated him for it. In certain ways, he and Jervis were nothing alike.

  “Hard to believe six years can go so fast,” Mart said softly. He would go meekly as well.

  “
It’s been five,” Pytor said, his voice cutting through their chatter.

  None of them argued with him. None of them dared. Steffan had died on the eve of the last Feast. Indeed, his death had prompted it.

  “Five years rather than six,” Segel said thoughtfully. “It may be that the duke’s Qirsi has gleaned something.”

  “I remember back some years we had an early Feast,” Eddya said, cackling. “Turned out there were people dead of the pestilence in Domnall.”

  Segel nodded. “That could be it as well.”

  “That doesn’t excuse it,” Pytor said, not bothering to mask his bitterness.

  “Come now, Pytor,” Brice said. “We all know how rough the last one was for you. But that doesn’t mean that we should abandon the whole practice.”

  “The Feasts are a barbarism! They always have been, and I’d be saying that no matter what!”

  Brice shook his head. “They’re a necessity,” he said. “And getting all riled up about it doesn’t do you or the rest of us a bit of good. There’s nothing that can be done.”

  “You have to admit,” Davor added. “It has worked.”

  “Davor’s right,” Eddya agreed, grinning like a madwoman. “Galdasten hasn’t had a full-blown outbreak of pestilence in my lifetime. And my father never saw an epidemic either. Say what you will, but it works.”

  “‘It works!’” Pytor mimicked angrily. “Of course it works! But at what price? They could kill us all with daggers beforehand and that would work too! ‘No pestilence there,’ they’d say. ‘Killing them ahead of time works just fine!’”

  “You’re being foolish, Pytor,” Brice said. “No one’s been killed. The Feasts are a far cry better than that.”

  Pytor took a breath, fighting to control his temper, struggling against the old grief. “And what about those the Feasts don’t save?” he asked in a lower voice. “What about them? The Feasts don’t always work.”

  “No, they don’t,” Brice said. “But that’s all the more reason for us to be thankful that the duke is being vigilant. Better we should do this a year early than wait and let someone else lose a child. The risks of doing nothing are just too great. And the Feasts aren’t nearly as awful as the fever itself. You of all people know what the pestilence can do. You and Kara were lucky to escape with your lives last time. All of us were.” He looked around the table and the others nodded their agreement. All, that is, except Segel.