Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  A great fire burned in the hearth of the court hall, warming the room. Many of the duke’s guests had already arrived. His three children were seated at the main table at the far end of the room, and minor lords and lesser ministers sat at tables throughout the hall. Keziah was to sit at the duke’s table as well, as their guest would expect of the duke’s first minister. But Leilia had made the seating arrangements, and the minister had no doubt that she would be as far from both the duke and duchess as possible. Last time the duchess had put her at the very end of the table, beside Gershon Trasker, Kearney’s swordmaster, who hated the Qirsi almost as much as he did the Aneirans. The man said nothing to her all night, choosing instead to speak solely with Corinne, the duke’s nine-year-old daughter.

  Gershon was already there as well, but tonight he was seated next to his wife and the younger Kearney, the duke’s eldest son and heir. She would, at least, be spared his company, she thought, removing her shawl as she approached the table.

  Horns blew, the sound ringing through the hall and stopping her where she stood. A moment later Kearney entered the great room with the duchess on his arm. He was dressed as if for battle—appropriate for a banquet honoring one he sought as an ally. He wore a simple black shirt and matching breeches, and the silver, red, and black baldric worn by all dukes of Glyndwr. He was smiling broadly, his youthful, tanned face ruddy in the firelight and his hair, silver before its time, shining with the glow of the torches mounted on the walls. He was not particularly tall or broad-shouldered, but to Keziah he looked like a king.

  The duchess, on the other hand, appeared older than her years, her face fat and pale, the smile on her lips forced and awkward. She scanned the hall nervously, her eyes finding Keziah immediately, and flicking away just as quickly. The minister wished she hadn’t come at all. Better just to give the night to the duchess than to go through all of this.

  The duke and duchess of Rouvin followed Kearney and Leilia into the hall, and Glyndwr’s duke began to make introductions to the other lords and ministers. Seeing Keziah, his smile broadened and his eyes strayed briefly to her dress. With a quick, self-conscious look at his wife, Kearney beckoned to her. Taking a breath, Keziah joined them near the door.

  “My Lord Duke,” Kearney said, placing a hand lightly on Keziah’s bare shoulder, “I’m certain you remember my first minister, Keziah ja Dafydd. First Minister, the duke and duchess of Rouvin.”

  “It’s an honor to see you again, my Lord Duke,” she said, making herself smile. “And a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  The duke of Rouvin smiled, taking her hand and saying something in a thickly accented voice that she did not understand.

  Keziah nodded, continuing to smile. But she was aware of little other than Kearney’s fingers on her skin. She felt the duchess watching them, though she dared not look Leilia’s way, and long after he removed his hand and introduced his guest to someone else, the memory of his touch made her shoulder burn, as if she had stood in the sun for too long.

  “You’re at the end of the table,” she heard a low voice say. “I put you next to Rouvin’s Qirsi.”

  She looked toward the voice in time to see Leilia turning away from her, the same strained smile still on her face.

  The end of the table again. With a Qirsi no less. Keziah wondered briefly if Leilia hoped to make a match. She grinned at the thought.

  It was a fine meal, as were all Glyndwr’s feasts. Servants brought platter after platter of spice-laden stews and roasted meats, tender mountain root and sweet greens, rounds of bread baked fresh that day, and pungent cheeses from the dairymen of the highlands. Dark ales and blood-red wines flowed at all the tables, and musicians played songs from both Eibithar and Caerisse. The duke of Rouvin’s minister offered passable companionship, though Keziah was hardly in the mood for conversation. She ate little—Qirsi appetites were no match for those of the Eandi—and listened more to the music than to the man beside her. Mostly she tried not to look at the duke, even when she knew that he was looking at her. At last, when she could take it no more, she made her excuses to the Caerissan minister and left the hall, throwing her shawl around her shoulders and hurrying across the ward back to the warmth of her quarters.

  The fire she had left burning in the small hearth of her room had all but burned out, leaving a bed of glowing orange embers and a few charred ends of wood that smoked and crackled. Keeping her shawl on, Keziah placed two logs on the coals and watched them catch fire.

  Kearney would be disappointed that she had left the banquet so early. He might even be angry with her, though he could never remain so for very long. She had learned little from her conversation with the Caerissan duke’s first minister, nor had she done much to further Kearney’s pursuit of an alliance.

  “Tomorrow,” she said aloud. “I’ll seek out the minister tomorrow.” He deserved an apology, for her reticence as well for her early departure from the dinner. And her duke deserved a more determined effort on her part. “Tomorrow,” she said once more.

  The fire popped loudly.

  Keziah removed her gown, carefully returning it to her wardrobe, before pulling on her sleeping shirt and climbing into bed. She had thought that she was tired, but once she lay down, she found that sleep did not come easily. She thought of Kearney and Leilia, of what it meant to be joined to someone for so many years, to bear his children.

  Such thoughts do you no good, a voice said within her. Sleep. Stop thinking.

  But still she lay there, watching the shadows cast by the fire dance on her walls.

  When she finally did fall asleep she slipped almost immediately into a dream. She was standing on a barren stretch of the steppe on a cold, grey day. A steady wind blew across the tawny grasses and grey boulders, carrying the faint scent of the sea. Keziah recognized the place from her childhood. It wasn’t far from the home in which she had grown up. She recognized the dream as well, for it had come to her many times before, and always it meant the same thing.

  “Grinsa?” she called, turning slowly, scanning the plain. “Are you here?”

  At first she saw no one and heard nothing save the keening wind and the rustling of the grass. But after some time a lone figure appeared in the distance and began to draw nearer. She could see it was a man, tall and broad, with long white hair that twisted like mist in the wind. His mouth was full and wide, his cheekbones high, like those of a Qirsi king, and his eyes were the same shade of yellow as hers. She recognized him instantly. She knew his walk, the way his hair moved as he approached her, and she knew and loved the smile that spread across his face as he came closer.

  “You look well,” her brother said. “Court life agrees with you.”

  She wanted to return the compliment, but she couldn’t. Grinsa had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked too white, even for a Qirsi.

  “How is your duke treating you?” he asked.

  Keziah felt her face color. “Very well, thank you. He heeds my counsel, he pays me more gold than I can spend—”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Keziah smiled. “Yes, I do.”

  He appeared to be waiting for her to say more. But she just grinned at him, keeping her silence.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “Tell me nothing.” He looked away, feigning indifference. “I’m not interested anyway.”

  “Well, you never tell me anything about your life. Why should I answer all your questions?”

  Grinsa opened his arms wide. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “All right. You look terrible. What’s the matter?”

  He frowned. “You sound just like Mother.”

  “It looks to me as if you could use some mothering.”

  “Maybe,” he said, looking away once more.

  “Where are you?” Keziah asked.

  “Kentigern, in the sanctuary.”

  “With Meriel? Is that why you look this way? Are you thinking of Pheba?” />
  “I think of Pheba every day,” he told her, “but that’s not …” He hesitated, shaking his head. “I’m used to that.”

  “Then what is it? Why have you come to me?”

  Few Qirsi could have entered her dreams as Grinsa had done. Indeed, she knew of no others who were alive right now, though she was certain that there must be a few. A Weaver’s magic allowed him or her to bind together the powers of many Qirsi and wield them as a single tool or weapon. Since the Qirsi controlled their powers with their minds, this meant that Weavers could also divine the thoughts of other Qirsi, and in some cases even enter their dreams, just as Grinsa had done tonight.

  “I need your help,” her brother said. “Has word reached Glyndwr yet of the murder in Kentigern Castle?”

  “No.”

  He took a breath, as if preparing himself for an arduous task. Keziah had to remind herself that entering her dreams took a great effort on his part.

  A moment later he began to tell her his tale. The words came slowly at first, as if he were uncertain of how to begin. He described the Fating he had done for Tavis of Curgh and his affair with the woman in Bohdan’s Revel. As the story continued—his confrontation in the woods with the assassin, his rescue of Lord Tavis, and their escape from the castle to Bian’s Sanctuary, all of which had happened in the last day—the words came faster and faster, until Keziah found it difficult to follow all that he was telling her. She grasped enough, however, to understand both his fatigue and the pain she read in his eyes.

  One part of his story frightened her more than anything else, more than the idea that Brienne’s murderer still roamed the land, more even than Grinsa’s suspicions of a Qirsi conspiracy.

  “This man who helped you, Curgh’s first minister, he knows you’re a Weaver?”

  Grinsa nodded. “I had little choice but to tell him.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have before, but he risked his life for the boy, and he saw that I was willing to do the same.”

  “But still, he’s a minister. His loyalties lie with the Eandi.”

  “That’s a strange thing to hear coming from you.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said. “I wish you had found another way.”

  “No one will ever know you’re my sister, Kezi. You have nothing to fear.”

  She felt her features hardening. “I’m not worried about me,” she said angrily. “How dare you even think it! This deception has always been your idea. I just don’t want to see you burned like the ancient Weavers, and all the Weavers since.”

  Grinsa closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, and I’m not thinking clearly. Don’t be angry.”

  She nodded, though she wouldn’t meet his gaze. It had been his idea. They both knew it. But they both knew as well how necessary it had been. So great was the fear of Weavers among the Eandi that not only were all Weavers executed when they were discovered, but so were their parents, siblings, and children. It had been this way for nearly nine centuries, since the failure of the Qirsi invasion and the execution of the Weavers who commanded the army of the Southlanders. Grinsa and Keziah had no other siblings, and their parents had died many years before. But since realizing the extent of his power, as an apprentice, Grinsa had insisted that they hide their kinship. Only Nesta, the Qirsi master who had trained them both and had been the first to suggest that Grinsa might be a Weaver, had known the truth. And she had sworn herself to guarding their secret until the day she died.

  Their deception was made somewhat easier by Qirsi custom, which dictated that all boys be named for their mothers and all girls for their fathers. Hence, she was Keziah ja Dafydd; he was Grinsa jal Arriet. It helped as well that he looked just like their father, while she favored their mother. Even those who saw them together would never guess that they were related.

  “Please, Kezi,” he said softly. “Forgive me. I’m so tired. I can’t stay much longer, and I still need to ask your help.”

  Reluctantly she looked at him again, her eyes finding his. “What is it you need?”

  “The duke of Curgh’s minister told me that his lord threatened war if any harm came to his son, and that Kentigern countered with similar threats. Javan isn’t king yet, but Aylyn has little time left. Everyone knows that. If he dies, making Javan king before all of this is settled, I fear that Aindreas will try to keep him from the throne. Eibithar will fall into civil war.”

  “It sounds as though the houses could go to war even if Aylyn lives.”

  He nodded. “Quite possibly.”

  “But what do you want of me?”

  “I want you to prevail upon your duke to intervene.”

  “Kearney? What can he do?”

  “He can ride to Kentigern and speak with both men. He can talk them out of going to war.”

  Keziah shook her head. She didn’t like this idea at all. Kearney was likely to be killed if he tried to put himself between the armies of Curgh and Kentigern. “Why would Javan and Aindreas listen to the duke of Glyndwr? Kearney’s house ranks below both of them. To the other major houses, Glyndwr is barely more than one of the minors.”

  Grinsa gave her a sour look. “We grew up in a minor house, Kezi. You know there’s a great distance between Glyndwr and the minors, even Eardley.”

  She and Grinsa had grown up in the House of Eardley, the wealthiest and most influential of Eibithar’s seven minor houses. Their father had been a minister to Eardley’s duke. And Grinsa was right. Glyndwr had far more in common with the other major houses than it did with Eardley and the lesser houses. Just this night her duke had entertained a duke from Caerisse. None of the lesser dukes ever would; none of them brought enough to a potential alliance to attract such attention from the nobles of other kingdoms.

  “You may be right,” she said at last. “But I doubt that Curgh and Kentigern would agree with you. To them Glyndwr is just a lonely fortress on the steppe. In the absence of a true threat from the eastern kingdoms, they’d just as soon ignore us.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, conceding her point in turn. “But who else is there? Aylyn is too old to make the journey. The other dukes have always viewed Tobbar of Thorald as a regent and nothing more. And with Filib dead, he’s not even that. The new lords of Galdasten are still four generations away from being recognized once more in the Order of Ascension. The minor houses haven’t the strength to enforce the peace. Don’t you see? Kearney is our only hope.”

  Of course she saw it. How could she not? I don’t want to lose him. Why can’t we stay here, where we’re safe, where the snows are the greatest threat and he only needs his sword for ceremonies? She let out a long sigh. “How quickly do you need us there?”

  Keziah couldn’t help but smile at the relief she saw on her brother’s face.

  “Thank you, Kezi. I know I’m asking a lot, but this is the only way to stop a war. I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t have asked this of you otherwise.”

  He was telling the truth. She had always been able to tell. But she heard something else in his words as well. He was asking even more of her than he was saying. Something was going to happen on this journey to Kentigern, something that would change her life and that of her duke. She suspected that Grinsa knew already what it was.

  “How quickly?” she asked again, shivering slightly in the wind.

  “Soon. Word of these events should reach Glyndwr in the next few days. You must convince him immediately. Things are happening very fast. Too fast really. Tavis’s escape will only make matters worse.

  She started to say something, then stopped herself.

  “I had to save him,” Grinsa said, reading her thoughts. “Another day in Kentigern’s dungeon and he would have died.”

  “Was he worth saving? Can you justify risking civil war for this one life?”

  She expected him to grow angry, but instead he merely shrugged, as if he had already asked himself the same question.

  “I think so,” he told her. “I know that
our fates—his and mine—lie together, and I can only assume that he’ll be needed in whatever conflict is coming.” He took a breath. “I had a vision of Tavis’s Fating before the Revel even reached Curgh. It showed the two of us journeying across the Forelands together, fighting battles side by side. It’s little more than a guess, but I believe we were fighting against the conspiracy. I couldn’t show him his real Fating without giving away too much about my powers. I had to change it.” It seemed to Keziah that her brother was trying to convince himself of this, and that he failed. “I suppose you could say that I altered his Fating to save myself,” he went on, shaking his head, “but I also did it to warn him of what was coming, to prepare him in some way. In the end, I think I just made things worse for him. I never imagined that he’d turn his blade on his liege man.”

  “None of us can foresee everything, Grinsa,” she said softly. “Not even you.”

  “I know. I’ve wondered since Tavis’s Fating if I read too much in that vision, if maybe his role in this conflict will be less than I thought.” He met her gaze again. “Even if that’s the case though, I’m still certain that his death would have brought war. By saving him, I might have kept Curgh and Kentigern from destroying each other, at least for a time.”

  Keziah nodded. Even as a child, Grinsa had been wise beyond his years. It almost seemed that the gods had prepared him to carry the burdens that came with being a Weaver. She could hardly question his judgment now, after all these years.

  “As soon as word arrives, I’ll talk to Kearney,” she said. “I expect him to resist the idea. He’s not usually one to involve himself in the affairs of other realms. But I’ll try.”

  “Thank you.”

  Grinsa stepped forward and put his arms around her. She pressed her cheek against his chest, feeling warm and safe for just that moment. He smelled like home.