Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “Perhaps it’s time we returned to the castle,” Fotir said at last.

  “What?” Shurik said looking up from his ale. “Oh, yes, soon.”

  “Is there something on your mind, cousin?”

  The minister appeared to hesitate. “Actually there is. Perhaps you’ve heard talk of growing unrest among our people, fed by their resentment toward Eandi rule of the Forelands.”

  Fotir felt himself growing tense. Word of the Qirsi conspiracy had indeed reached Curgh. That people knew of it in Kentigern as well shouldn’t have surprised him.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it,” he answered. “From all I’ve been told, it seems the southern kingdoms—Sanbira, Caerisse, and Aneira—are especially at risk. But if the tales are true, none of us will be immune for long.”

  “I’ve heard much the same,” the minister said. “I find it alarming to say the least.”

  “Of course,” Fotir said. “All of us do. Have you seen any evidence of the conspiracy here?”

  “Not yet. But like you, I worry that it won’t be long.” He paused again, as if he wished to say more, but was uncertain of whether to do so.

  Fotir waited, and after a few moments, the minister went on.

  “Living so close to the Tarbin, I’m used to contemplating all possible threats to Aindreas’s rule. But these rumors disturb me in ways that similar ones in the past have not.”

  “Because the threat comes from our people?”

  “Yes, there’s that.” He took a breath, swallowed. “But also because there’s a part of me that’s drawn to their cause.” He looked embarrassed, and just a bit fearful, but he kept his eyes fixed on Fotir’s face. “Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  Fotir wasn’t certain how to respond. Shurik had made a most extraordinary admission, one few Qirsi, and fewer ministers, would have risked. Perhaps he hoped to cement their friendship with such a confidence, or perhaps he intended it as a snare, a way to determine if Fotir was party to the conspiracy. Whatever the reason, the minister had placed him once again in an awkward position. If he claimed that he had no sympathy for the conspiracy, he might sound overly righteous, or worse, he might make himself seem every bit the Eandi pet that Trin claimed he was. On the other hand, if he said that he shared Shurik’s feelings on the matter, he might arouse the minister’s suspicions.

  “I know that many of our people feel as you do,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully.

  Shurik frowned. “But you don’t.”

  Fotir shook his head. “I didn’t say that. Our people’s history in the Forelands has been … difficult. Time heals some wounds slower than others.”

  Shurik raised an eyebrow. “Am I to gather then that you think time will heal this one as well?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I hope it will,” the minister said. “But hope is one thing. Believing it possible is another entirely.”

  They lapsed into another silence. Fotir eyed Shurik closely, trying to gauge the minister’s response to what he had said, but the man’s face revealed little.

  “So what of the boy?” Shurik asked abruptly, catching him off guard.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You admire the duke, but what about his son?”

  “I’m quite fond of Tavis as well.” He spoke the words forcefully enough, but he hadn’t been able to keep himself from faltering for just an instant. He heard the lie as it passed his own lips; he knew that Shurik wouldn’t miss it.

  “I’ve heard it said that the young lord is a disappointment to his father,” the minister said.

  “The young lord is just that,” Fotir answered. “Young. He’ll grow out of his faults, just as he grows out of the clothes of his youth or the smaller mounts our stablemaster must still find for him.”

  Shurik’s expression was grave. “Will he? Are you certain?”

  “I have faith in his breeding, and in the guidance he’ll get from his parents. He’s mastered swordplay and horsemanship, just as his father did. I have no doubt that, with time, he’ll master the finer crafts of running a dukedom and leading his people.”

  “But he hasn’t yet.” Shurik offered it as a statement.

  “No,” Fotir admitted. “He hasn’t.”

  He probably should have stopped there, lest he appear to be betraying his duke’s confidence. But Shurik had been open with him, and all the wine and ale had made him bold. “The boy has no discipline,” he said. “He cares only for himself, and he’s yet to realize that all he does reflects on his father and on their house. I speak of him growing beyond his faults, but he’s actually getting worse as he grows older. Just last turn, he arrived at a banquet more than an hour late and as drunk as your lord was tonight. He stayed only for a short while, though long enough to humiliate his parents. And when his liege man followed him from the hall to see that no harm should come to him, Tavis attacked him with his blade. Master MarCullet still bears the scar on his arm.”

  “Demons and fire!” Shurik said, a look of disbelief on his face. “I had no idea things were so bad, or I never would have presumed to ask.”

  Fotir waved off the apology. “You couldn’t have known. Even if you had heard such tales from another source, you probably wouldn’t have believed them. I wouldn’t have, had I not seen it all for myself.”

  “It’s hard to accept that Javan’s son could do such things.”

  “And no one is more disturbed than the duke by the boy’s behavior, except perhaps the duchess.”

  “So they are disappointed in him.”

  Fotir nodded. “Very. I believe their hope is that Brienne will have a calming influence on him.”

  “She is an extraordinary young woman,” Shurik said. “If anyone can help the boy, she can.”

  Shurik reached for his ale and Fotir chewed on his pipe for several moments, though the leaf had long since burned itself out. He had probably been wrong to say all that he had about Tavis—certainly Javan would be furious if he knew—but word of the boy’s failings had already spread through the kingdom. And perhaps it was time he built more friendships among his own people.

  “You must be tired, cousin,” the minister said after a time. “Perhaps we should return to the castle.”

  “Probably. I’ll be of no use to the duke if I don’t sleep soon.”

  They both rose, made their way out of their small room, and crossed the main chamber of the tavern. Shurik tossed three silver coins onto the bar and bid Tranda goodnight. Fotir offered to pay as well, but the minister dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

  “You’re a guest in Kentigern Castle,” he said as they stepped into the street. “The duke would insist, and so do I.”

  The night air was cool and still, and a light mist drifted through the city. Panya hung low in the western sky, her light angling sharply across the city wall and the low buildings, creating long, misshapen shadows. Ilias shone above her, giving a reddish cast to the hazy night sky.

  They said little as they returned to the castle. Only now that he was on his way to bed did Fotir fully realize how tired he was. It was all he could do to climb the winding road to the castle gate. Shurik seemed tired as well, and by the time they had reached the castle, he was badly winded, the sweat on his brow shining in the moonlight.

  “I never have gotten used to that climb,” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “If it weren’t for Tranda’s Uulranni leaf, I’d never venture into the city at all.”

  They walked together to the base of the tower nearest the castle’s guest quarters. There Shurik bade him goodnight and started back across the inner ward to his own chamber.

  Climbing the spiral stairs to the guest quarters, Fotir wondered briefly if the MarCullet boy had found Tavis. Not that there seemed to be any cause for worry. The tower was quiet, and there were guards posted at the top of the stairs. Even the young lord couldn’t have gotten himself into too much mischief.

  The guards stopped him for a moment, asking his name before wavi
ng him on. No doubt Aindreas had taken every precaution. True, Kentigern’s duke was next in line for the throne after Javan and Tavis, but for all his crude manners Aindreas was neither ruthless enough to try such a thing, nor foolish enough to do so while the men from Curgh were guests in his own castle.

  Fotir had a little trouble finding the room he was sharing with Xaver—all the doors looked the same and he was loath to open Javan’s door by accident. The first door he tried was locked. Probably Tavis’s. Which meant the next one was his. Xaver had been kind enough to leave a candle burning by the small window. Fotir undressed quietly and slipped into bed without waking the boy. Lying in the darkness, he tried to think back over his conversation with Shurik. He believed the man wanted to be his friend, but he sensed as well that the minister had a second purpose. Had he not been so weary, and had he not had so much to drink, he might have been able to figure out what it was. But his thoughts were clouded and he soon fell asleep.

  He couldn’t be sure how long he slept. It felt like no time at all, though he awoke to find the first silver strands of dawn lighting the sky.

  He thought he had heard something, though all was still when he opened his eyes. He glanced over at the other bed and saw that Xaver was awake as well, staring at him, his brow furrowed. Apparently he hadn’t imagined it.

  “Did you speak with lord Tavis?” the Qirsi asked.

  Before Xaver could answer they heard the noise again. Someone was pounding on the door next to theirs. Tavis’s door.

  Xaver and the Qirsi were out of their beds in the next instant, throwing on their clothes as quickly as they could. Before they could dress, however, they heard something else, something that made Fotir’s pulse race. A loud crash seemed to cause the stones of the castle to shudder, as if the earth itself were moving. Then there came a second, even louder than the first. They were breaking down Tavis’s door.

  A third jolt, and this time the Qirsi could tell that the door gave. Someone cried out, a woman screamed, and then the corridor outside their room echoed with shouts and footsteps and the ring of steel as swords were drawn.

  Fotir leaped to the door, not caring any longer that he was only half dressed. Xaver was just behind him, and as Fotir pulled the door open he heard the boy utter a quick prayer to Ean, the god of the Eandi. Perhaps he should have joined the boy in his invocation. But the Qirsi had their own god, and Fotir thought little of the Ean worshipers and their new faith. And he was certain that what awaited them in the corridor lay beyond the reach of any god or any prayer.

  Chapter Eleven

  Claris had barely slept at all. How could she be expected to? With all due respect to the duke and duchess, Lady Brienne was her responsibility; she had been since the day the girl stopped suckling at her mother’s breast. She dressed Brienne in the mornings when the girl was too young to choose her own clothes, and she sung her to sleep at night. She helped her with her lessons after the tutors were gone and played with her when the lessons got to be too much. As Brienne matured, Claris spoke to her of marriage and children and love, and she listened, holding the young lady’s hand, as Brienne spoke in turn of her dreams and fears. It was Claris who was there when the girl’s bleeding cycle began, to reassure her and quietly celebrate her first step into womanhood. And in recent years, when Brienne no longer needed a nurse, Claris continued to be the girl’s friend. In almost every way, she was the one who had taught Brienne to be a lady.

  No one knew the girl better than she. No one loved her as much, not even the duke and duchess, though she would never have said this to anyone. Actually, Ioanna seemed to understand the depth of her love for Brienne, for the duchess often consulted with her about decisions that would affect the girl: what course her lessons ought to take or who should be her travel companions when she ventured off the tor.

  It was only this last decision, arguably the most important one in Brienne’s life, in which Claris had been given no voice at all. She blamed the duke for that. This was a choice that had been guided by politics and ambition rather than by any concern for Brienne’s happiness. How else could one explain Aindreas’s willingness to marry his daughter to that spoiled boy from Curgh?

  Claris didn’t care that the boy’s father was to be king, nor that the boy himself would be someday as well. She didn’t like his looks or his reputation. And she certainly didn’t like the way he gaped at her lady. He wasn’t to be trusted. Anyone could see it. Except Brienne, of course. For all Claris had taught her, the girl remained an innocent. A cup or two of wine and some pretty words, and Brienne was ready to follow the boy out into the moonlight, where Adriel could work her dangerous magic.

  Apparently that was just what had happened, because Brienne did not return to her quarters at all that night. Claris tried to sleep, to put her lady out of her mind and so find some peace, but she could not.

  Brienne is a woman now, she tried to tell herself. She is betrothed. She has no need of a nurse anymore. She knows her own mind and is free to love and be loved as she chooses.

  But though she knew all of this to be true, she couldn’t keep herself from worrying. She lay in her bed, watching the candles burn down, listening for the girl’s footsteps in the chamber next to hers, growing more and more concerned with each passing hour.

  She must have dozed at last, for when she opened her eyes to the sound of the dawn bells ringing in the city, all but one of the candles had burned themselves out and the sky outside her window had started to lighten.

  She decided then that she had waited long enough. Yes, they were betrothed, but they weren’t husband and wife yet. She feared for the Lady Brienne’s honor, but there was little she could do now to guard it. Brienne’s reputation, however, she could still preserve.

  Climbing out of bed and putting on her dressing gown, she hurried to the duke’s chambers. She was met in the corridor by a pair of guards.

  “I need to speak with the duchess,” she said.

  The two men shared a look.

  “The duke and duchess are still asleep,” one of them said. “You’ll have to—”

  “It’s very important. It’s about the Lady Brienne.”

  Again they looked at each other. After a moment, the one who had spoken nodded, and the other entered the chamber.

  Several moments later, Ioanna appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a velvet robe, her face puffy with sleep and her hair tangled.

  “Yes, Claris,” she said in a flat voice. “What’s wrong?”

  Claris sketched a curtsy. “It’s the Lady Brienne, my lady. She hasn’t returned to her chambers. I haven’t seen her since she left the banquet with Lord Tavis.”

  The duchess frowned. “Are you certain? Did you check her bed?”

  “Yes, my lady.” A small lie, but she was certain. She would have heard her lady’s return.

  The woman’s frown deepened, so that a single crease appeared on her smooth brow, and she glanced over her shoulder back into the chamber. “I don’t want to wake Aindreas,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “Not so early, and certainly not with this.” She looked at Claris again. “Take some guards to Lord Tavis’s quarters and get her back to this side of the castle. Do it quietly, Claris. Try not to wake the duke of Curgh or any others in his company. Let’s keep this to ourselves.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Claris said, starting to turn away.

  “And Claris,” the duchess added, stopping her. “Be polite to Lord Tavis. You may not like him, but apparently Brienne does. Which is just as it should be. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, but she made little effort to hide her displeasure. “Yes, my lady.”

  Accompanied by the two guards from the corridor, Claris hurried to the other side of the inner keep. There she found two more guards near the rooms of the duke of Curgh and his company.

  “Which one is Lord Tavis’s chamber?” she demanded.

  “I’ll show you,” one of the men said, leading Claris and the other two guards down the hallway. He stopped in f
ront of one of the large wooden doors and held out a hand. “This is it.”

  They all looked the same to her, and she almost asked the guard if he was certain. Instead she tried the door handle. It turned, but the door was locked. She knocked, but no one answered. She tried again, louder this time, but still got no response.

  She looked at the guard who had shown her to the door. “Wake them!” she said.

  “Them?”

  “Him. Wake him.”

  The man stepped forward and pounded on the door with a gloved fist. Silence.

  Claris’s stomach felt like it had turned to stone.

  He beat on the door again. Nothing.

  “Something’s wrong!” she said. “Open that door!”

  The man stared at her. “But it’s locked.”

  “So unlock it!”

  “We haven’t the keys, Dame Claris. Only the lockmaster has the keys.”

  “And where is he?”

  The guard gave a shrug. “I doubt he’s even awake, my lady.”

  She was losing her patience. Something had happened to Brienne, and these men were too stupid to find out what it was.

  “Then you must break the door!”

  The three guards exchanged glances.

  “But Dame Claris,” one of them finally said, trying to sound reasonable, “we can’t just break into the room of a visiting lord. The duke—”

  She had to fight to keep from shouting at them. “Your duke’s daughter is in there!” Her hands were shaking and her voice sounded unsteady. “Now break down that door!”

  Once more the men looked at each other, and once more the guard who had first spoken to her nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Stand back, my lady.”

  The knocking seemed to come to him from a great distance, as if sleep had carried him far out to sea. He knew that the sound was coming from the door to his room, that he ought to open his eyes and answer, but he couldn’t. He was floating on gentle waters, his bed anchored leagues from shore. Sleep. All he wanted was to sleep. Again the knocking reached him, but slumber held him fast.