by DAVID B. COE
Curgh pride. Small wonder Tavis had said nothing of his concerns, even to Xaver.
“Our fates can change,” Xaver said at last, searching for any words that might comfort his friend. “When we were twelve, Filib was still alive. Ean himself couldn’t have known that he’d be murdered. Your Fating will be different, Tavis. I’m sure of it.”
The young lord nodded, his dark blue eyes still fixed on the narrow strip of water before them. “I know.” A moment later he looked at Xaver, an unconvincing smile on his lips. “Of course it will.”
Tavis stood and began to dress. Xaver did the same. Their breeches were dry now, warm from the sun and stiff with sweat. So were their hose and shirts, but these they carried rather than put on. They would have to change clothes anyway before going to explore the Revel.
They made their way back into the castle and started toward the personal quarters of the duke’s ward at the northern end of the stronghold. As they crossed through the inner gatehouse, however, one of the guards stopped them.
“The duke’s waiting for you, my lord,” he told Tavis. “In his chambers.”
“Tell him I’ll be there shortly,” Tavis said, turning to walk away.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but from what I was told, he wants you sooner rather than later.”
The young lord stopped and regarded the man coldly. “What did you say?”
“I was just saying that I was given to understand that the duke wanted you as soon as you could get there.”
Tavis walked back to where the guard was standing. “Do you know who I am?”
The guard shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Of course, my lord.”
“I’m Tavis of Curgh. I’m not some stablehand who you can order about like a child. I’m the duke’s son. I’m to be king someday.”
One of the other guards standing by the gate whispered something to the man next to him and they both snickered.
“I know that, my lord,” the first guard said evenly. “I was just conveying a message.”
“Well the next time—”
“Let it go, Tavis,” Xaver said in a low voice.
Tavis spun toward him, his mouth open to berate Xaver as well. But after a moment he appeared to think better of it.
“You’re right,” he said, stalking away once more. “He’s not worth the effort.”
Xaver glanced at the guard, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch. The man’s name was Olin, though Tavis wouldn’t have known that. Nor would he have known that Olin lost a wife and daughter in the last outbreak of pestilence in the surrounding baronies. Xaver’s father was captain of the guard. That was why Xaver knew. But somehow, he thought, the duke’s son should know such things as well.
“Thank you, young master,” Olin said.
Xaver shook his head and started after his friend. “It was nothing,” he said over his shoulder.
“I wonder what Father wants,” Tavis said as Xaver caught up with him once more.
“Why do you do that?” Xaver demanded.
The lord stared at him blankly. “Do what?”
“Treat the guards that way. These are to be your men someday, Tavis. Sooner rather than later, if the rumors about the king are true.”
“I know that, Xaver. That’s why I speak to them as I do. I have to teach them to respect me, as they do my father. I can’t have them talking to me like I’m a child, telling me where to go and how fast to get there. They’ll never learn to respect me that way.”
“There must be a way to earn their respect without humiliating them.”
Tavis laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re not going to be king, Stinger. You’d coddle your soldiers so, they wouldn’t even be able to hold off the Wethy army.”
Xaver thought about saying more, but there was nothing to be gained from it. If he pushed Tavis hard enough, the lord would turn on him, too, and he didn’t want to ruin the first day of the Revel by fighting with his friend.
“Well, the duke will want to speak with you in private,” Xaver said instead. “I think I’ll go get dressed. I’ll find you later at the Revel.”
“No,” Tavis said, a bit too quickly. “Come with me. Whatever it is my father wants won’t take too long. Then we can get dressed at the same time and go to the Revel together.”
He had witnessed more than his share of these meetings between the duke and his son. He had no desire to become entangled in yet another one. “I got the feeling that your father wants to see you alone.”
“Nonsense. It’s probably nothing at all.”
Xaver gestured at himself—the dirty breeches, his bare chest and feet. “I shouldn’t go before the duke like this. It may be all right for you, but I’m not his son.”
“He knows we’ve been training. He’s probably spoken to your father, so he also knows we were running the towers.”
And he knows why. Tavis didn’t have to say it. Xaver knew that was why the lord wanted him there, just as he knew that Tavis wouldn’t give up until he agreed.
He stood there looking at his friend. Tavis was built like his father, with a lean, muscular frame, and he had his father’s eyes as well. Even with a youthful face, he already had the air of a leader about him. When Javan left for Audun’s Castle and Tavis became duke, he would at least look the part. But at that moment, dressed like a farm child, with his fine wheat colored hair matted and stuck to his brow, and the expression in his eyes an odd mix of mischief and fear, he looked far too young for his Fating.
“All right,” Xaver said at last, sighing like a smith’s bellows. He gestured toward Javan’s chambers. “Lead the way.”
Tavis grinned. “You’ll see, Stinger. This will only take a moment. Then we can go down to the city and watch them set up the Revel.”
He said nothing; he refused to give Tavis the satisfaction. After a moment, the young lord fell silent as well, and they walked slowly to the duke’s chambers. Xaver couldn’t have said which of them was dreading the encounter more.
Stepping into the cool shadows of the castle from the warmth of the ward, Xaver shivered, feeling bumps on his skin. Their feet slapping on the stone floor, the two of them made their way through the torchlit corridor and soon came to the dark oak door of the duke’s chambers.
Tavis tried to smile. Then he knocked.
“Enter,” came a voice from inside.
The young lord pushed open the door and stepped into the room, with Xaver following close behind.
Javan was seated by one of the chamber’s large windows before a broad wooden table covered with parchment scrolls. He held one, reading by the sunlight streaming into the chamber. He was dressed simply in a cream-colored shirt and a black doublet emblazoned with the brown and gold crest of Curgh. The sun shining on his head seemed to make the grey in his hair stand out more, but his face was still youthful, despite his dark beard with its flecks of silver.
Off to the side, also by one of the windows, stood Fotir jal Salene, the duke’s Qirsi advisor. He wore a simple white shirt and light breeches so that, with his pale skin and long white hair, the only color on him came from his bright yellow eyes, and the yellow gold ring on his left hand.
“Good day, Lord Tavis, Master MarCullet,” the Qirsi said, nodding to each of them in turn.
“First Minister,” Tavis said, directing a small bow at the sorcerer. “Please excuse our appearance. We’ve just come from training.”
The duke glanced at his son with a dour expression. But he said nothing and quickly returned to his reading.
“Yes, we had heard as much,” Fotir said. “Perhaps Master MarCullet and I should retire to another room so that you and the duke can speak.”
Xaver was about to agree, but Tavis was too fast for him.
“You’re free to remain or leave as you choose, Fotir, but Xaver is staying. He and I have plans for what’s left of the day.”
Javan threw the scroll onto his table and shook his head.
“That’s sheer cowardice, Tavis,”
he said. “I had hoped to teach you better than that.”
Tavis paled, but managed a smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Father.”
The duke looked at Xaver. “You may go if you wish, Xaver. Or you can stay. It’s your choice, not Tavis’s.”
More than anything, he wanted to leave. But he had told Tavis that he would remain.
“I’ll stay, my lord.”
“Very well.” The duke nodded once to Fotir, who bowed in response and then left the chamber, closing the door behind him.
The duke rose and stepped around the table to stand directly in front of his son. He was not much taller than Tavis anymore—no more than half a span—but at that moment, the young lord looked like a babe beside him.
“Hagan tells me that you nearly killed a man today,” Javan said, “for no reason at all.”
“Hagan is mistaken.”
“Are you calling him a liar?”
Tavis’s eyes flicked toward Xaver for just an instant. “Of course not, Father. But to say that I nearly killed him is an exaggeration. And as to whether I had cause …” He shrugged. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion.”
“Hagan has been swordmaster here since you were still sucking at your mother’s breast. Why should I trust your opinion over his?”
“Because I was the one doing the fighting. But you don’t have to trust me. Just ask Xaver.”
The duke regarded Xaver for several moments before shaking his head again. “I’ll spare him that, if you don’t mind.”
“So you’re just going to take Hagan’s word over mine?”
“The man has a lump on the back of his neck the size of an apple, Tavis. Hagan says he was on his knees when you hit him. How much of a threat could he be?”
“In a real battle—”
“In a real battle you would have been justified. Hagan said so himself. But this was a probationer, holding a wooden sword, who you’d already knocked to the ground.”
“He’s going to be all right though?” It came out as a question, and Tavis cast a furtive look in Xaver’s direction once more. The duke didn’t seem to notice, however.
“That’s not the point. The healers were able to help him, but even their magic couldn’t heal his injury entirely. It will be at least a half turn before this man is ready to resume his training.”
“He wasn’t much of a fighter, Father. If you ask me, the new men recruited from the baronies seem even more inept—”
“That’s enough!” Javan said.
Tavis appeared to flinch at what he saw in his father’s eyes.
“When you’re duke you can oversee the training of the probationers yourself! But until then, these are my men! You will treat them with respect! Abusing one of them is no different from abusing my sword or my mount, and I’ll have none of it! Do you understand?”
Tavis swallowed, but he continued to meet his father’s gaze. “Yes, sire. I understand.”
The duke nodded. “Good.” He stepped back around the table once more and lowered himself into his chair. “The Revel arrived a short while ago,” he said. The harsh tone he had used a moment before was gone. “I was assured by Yegor and Aurea that the gleaning tent would be up and ready by the prior’s bells.” He offered a thin smile to his son and then to Xaver. “I imagine you’re both eager for your Fatings.”
That was their cue to leave. Xaver recognized it instantly. It seemed Tavis did as well.
“Yes, Father, thank you,” he said. “Will you be coming to the city at all?”
“I’m sure your mother and I will get there at some point. She’s busy with preparations for the banquet right now. But once that’s finished, I expect we’ll spend an evening or two in the streets. Aurea tells me that they have some marvelous singers this year.” He smiled again, as if to remind Tavis and Xaver that their conversation was over.
“Is that all, Father?” Tavis asked, putting on a smile of his own. In some ways they were so much alike.
“Yes. Go put on some clothes.”
The two of them turned and walked to the door.
“I look forward to hearing about your Fating, Tavis,” the duke said, just as the young lord pulled the door open.
Tavis didn’t turn, but he did pause on the threshold. “Of course, sire.”
Fotir was standing in the corridor just outside the door, the torchlight making his eyes shine like those of a great owl. Tavis nodded to him, but said nothing as they walked past.
“May the stone glow with the glory of your fates, young masters,” the Qirsi said.
Xaver glanced back at him. “Thank you.”
They were back outside a moment later, crossing the inner ward to their quarters. Tavis muttered to himself as he walked, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. Xaver knew how angry his friend was, how humiliated, but he couldn’t keep his own anger in check.
“You really would have asked me to lie for you, wouldn’t you?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the ward.
Tavis stopped as well, but at first he didn’t reply. When he finally did he looked puzzled. “What?”
“In there, with the duke. You tried to pull me into your fight, even though it meant pitting me against my father.”
The young lord sagged. “Not you, too.”
“I’m sorry, Tavis. But you can’t treat people this way, at least not your friends.”
“I wasn’t asking you to lie,” he said. “But you saw what happened. The man wasn’t down yet, and he was still armed.”
Xaver shook his head. “Stop it. This isn’t about the probationer or our training, and you know it.”
Tavis looked away, staring over Xaver’s shoulder back toward his father’s chamber. “What is it about then, Xaver? You and me? Me and my father? You and your father? I can’t tell anymore.”
“It’s mostly about you.” It always is. “It’s about what kind of duke you’re going to be. What kind of king.”
“I suppose we’ll find that out soon enough,” he said. “The Qirsi gleaner can put all your fears to rest. And my father’s.”
So that’s what it is, Xaver thought. His Fating. “It’s going to be fine, Tavis,” he said, trying without success to smile.
“Of course.”
For several moments they stood there saying nothing, Xaver watching the young lord, Tavis’s eyes still fixed on the windows of his father’s chamber.
“I suppose we should get dressed then.”
“Yes,” Tavis said, starting once more toward his quarters. “Let’s get this over with.”
It was hot under the tent, despite the open flaps at either end and the steady ocean breeze that blew through the city of Curgh. Most of the performers in the Revel preferred the growing turns. They enjoyed singing or dancing or juggling in the streets on warm nights when flame flies lit the air and the infrequent rains brought immediate relief from the heat. Certainly they all preferred traveling when it was warm and the skies were clear.
But for Grinsa and the other Qirsi gleaners, the growing season meant not warm nights and cool breezes, but rather stifling days spent in the still air of the gleaning tent. Determinings and Fatings were intensely private matters—there could be no denying the necessity of the tent. There were even some gleaners who felt that the discomfort actually added to the mystery and gravity of the event, although Grinsa was not one of them. But all of them complained about it, usually to each other, occasionally to Aurea and Yegor.
The boy seated on a simple wooden chair across the table from him had yet to say a word. His name was Malvin Thanpole. He lived here in Curgh City with his mother, a seamstress in the castle, and his father, a wheelwright. He had come for his Determining, of course, but like so many of the younger ones, he had lost his nerve upon entering the tent. By custom, until the boy made his request with the ritual words, Grinsa could not begin. It didn’t matter that Malvin had nothing to fear from the vision he would see in the Qiran, and even if such reassurances would have helped, they were not Grinsa
’s to give. The Determining was supposed to be an act of magic. Had Malvin seen the list of names and future occupations that Grinsa kept hidden beneath his own chair, he would have been shocked and, probably, deeply disappointed. Cities and towns had needs. If every boy and girl in the land realized their dreams of fighting in the king’s army or dancing in the Revel, who would shoe the horses and plow the fields and fix wheels for peddlers’ carts? There was magic enough in the Fatings. But apprenticeships had to start in the twelfth year and sometimes children needed to be steered toward their talents and their fates.
“If we sit here too long,” Grinsa said gently, “your naming day will come again, and you’ll be too old to look in the stone.”
Malvin still refused to look him in the eye, but at least he smiled.
“Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?” In the fear and excitement of the moment, some of them actually forgot, despite practicing day after day in the turns leading up to the Revel’s arrival.
But Malvin nodded. “I remember,” he said, the words coming out as little more than a whisper.
“Good. Why don’t you give it a try. I don’t think you have any reason to be scared, a strong, intelligent boy like you.”
He smiled again, glancing up for just an instant before staring down at his hands once more. He swallowed. And then in that same low voice, he began at last.
“In this, the year of my Determining, I beseech you, Qirsar, lay your hands upon this stone. Let my life unfold before my eyes. Let these mysteries be revealed in the light of the Qiran. Show me my fate.”
It was supposed to be “Let the mysteries of time be revealed,” but Grinsa wasn’t about to make him say it again.
“Very good, Malvin,” he said. “Now look into the stone.”
The boy leaned forward, his eyes wide as he stared at the Qiran. The stone was glowing as it always did, and now Grinsa melded his own magic with that of the Qiran.
Qirsi power was double-edged, like an Uulranni blade. Every act of magic—every conjured flame, every image coaxed from the tone—shortened a sorcerer’s life just a little bit. Gleaning was a simple magic; the power it required was nothing compared with the effort necessary to summon mists and winds, or shatter a sword. But unlike other Qirsi, who might use their magic only occasionally, a gleaner laid his or her hands on the stone dozens of times each day. “Gleaning,” it was said among the Revel Qirsi, “is like bleeding one’s life away from a thousand tiny wounds.” And perhaps this was true. Grinsa’s people already lived far shorter lives than the Eandi, and Revel gleaners tended to die younger than most.
