Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “Be well, Kezi. I hope to see you soon.”

  She didn’t. As much as she missed her brother, she hoped that Kearney would refuse to ride to Kentigern. She kept this to herself, however. “I love you, Grinsa” was all she said.

  An instant later she was awake. Her room was dark, save for the glowing remains of her fire. She rose from her bed and stepped to the window, staring out over the highlands and Lake Glyndwr. Panya hung above the lake, a thin white crescent reflected in the shimmering, windswept waters. Daylight was still hours away.

  She wanted to go to Kearney then, without waiting for dawn, but she knew he was with the duchess. Not that she could tell him anything of her dream anyway. She couldn’t even speak to him of the threat faced by the kingdom until news of Brienne’s murder arrived from Kentigern. There was nothing for her to do but sleep. Still, she remained at the window, watching Panya climb higher into the sky, tasting the lake waters in the wind. After a time, Ilias appeared on the horizon, barely more than a sliver and the color of leaves on a highland oak during the harvest. The lovers.

  Keziah turned away from the moons and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come easily, she knew. Too many thoughts raced through her mind. But better just then to try than to stand at her window thinking of Kearney. She had her days for that.

  She slept later than she had intended, waking to the midmorning bells as sunlight streamed through her window. Still, she felt as though she could have slept for hours more. Her conversation with Grinsa had left her drained and troubled. Her slumber after the dream had been fitful.

  She rose and splashed cold water on her face, before dressing and making her way to Kearney’s ducal chambers. Reaching his door, she heard him laughing within. Apparently he wasn’t alone. She passed a hand through the tangles in her white hair, wishing belatedly that she had taken the time to comb them out. Then she knocked.

  “Enter!” he called.

  She pushed the door open and found the duke at his writing table. Gershon, the swordmaster, stood next to him, the grin on his face vanishing as he saw her come into the room.

  “First Minister!” the duke said, standing and stepping around the table to greet her. He took her hand in both of his. They felt warm, and she looked down at them, not willing to look into his eyes just yet.

  “I trust you slept well,” Kearney said.

  “Quite, my lord. Thank you.”

  Gershon cleared his throat. “I should be going, my lord, I have men to train.”

  Kearney released her hands and grinned at the swordmaster. “Of course you do. Don’t be too hard on them, Gershon.”

  The man grunted and started toward the door. He didn’t look at Keziah again.

  “I’ll consider your counsel, swordmaster,” the duke said as Gershon went past. “We’ll speak of this again.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Kearney faced her again when Gershon was gone, and putting his arms around her, drew her into a deep kiss.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “Did you? I’d have thought the duchess would make you forget me entirely.” She regretted the words as soon as they crossed her lips.

  He released her, stepping back around the table to his chair.

  Keziah closed her eyes briefly, cursing her stupidity. They had fought about Leilia countless times before, and always it came back to the same unalterable fact: she was his wife, the mother of his heirs, and nothing would ever change that. Bringing it up as she just had only served to make their time together awkward and sad.

  He sorted through some of the documents lying before him, his eyes trained on the pieces of parchment. “You left early last night. Were you ill?”

  I’m sorry. Don’t be this way. “Just tired, my lord. I trust the banquet went well.”

  “Well enough. Farrar is a fine man. He may even carry some influence with the Caerissan king. But Gershon believes that he may bring less to a military partnership than we first thought.”

  “Of course he does,” she said, unable to keep the ice from her voice. “Does Gershon base this on anything or is he just guessing?”

  Kearney looked up. “First my duchess and now my swordmaster. Am I to ignore my other ministers as well? What about the prelate, or Morna’s prioress down in the city? Should I ignore all of them, and listen only to you?”

  Keziah felt her face shade to crimson. “No, my lord.” She hesitated, struggling to hold his gaze.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “Say what you will.”

  “We’re not seeking the strongest lord in Caerisse. We’re merely looking for allies in the event of a war with Aneira. The duke of Rouvin’s influence with his king is far more important to us than his army. There are few dukes in Caerisse who are as strong as Eardley or Heneagh, much less Eibithar’s major houses. I don’t question Gershon’s assessment of Farrar’s army, but neither do I think it should be our first consideration in this matter.”

  The duke regarded her for several moments, saying nothing. Finally he began to nod. “You make a good point. Gershon is a fine swordmaster, but he sees the world through a warrior’s eyes.” He gave a slight frown. “Still, Keziah, that’s no reason to hate him.”

  “I hate him because he has nothing but contempt for all Qirsi. It has nothing to do with his strange affection for swords and war horses.”

  He continued to stare at her, shaking his head now. After a time, a smile touched his lips. “You’re a difficult woman.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I try to be.”

  He gave a gentle laugh.

  “I’m sorry for what I said before about the duchess,” she went on. “It wasn’t fair of me.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, dismissing the apology with a gesture. But his green eyes flicked away from her gaze once more. It seemed she had hurt him more than he cared to admit.

  Kearney picked up a piece of parchment from his table and motioned toward one of the chairs near where Keziah stood. “Please sit,” he said. “There’s other news we need to discuss.”

  She lowered herself into the chair, knowing what he would say before he opened his mouth to speak, and wondering if Grinsa had known that word would come this morning, or if it had just been coincidence. Suddenly she felt cold, though sunlight shone through the windows, warming the chamber.

  “A messenger arrived this morning from Kentigern. It seems the duke’s daughter, Lady Brienne, was found murdered in the bed of Lord Tavis of Curgh. Apparently Tavis was visiting Kentigern with his father, to arrange a marriage of all things.” He paused, looking at her, waiting for some response. When she offered none, he went on. “Tavis has been imprisoned in Kentigern’s dungeon ever since. Aindreas and Javan are both threatening war, and Aindreas has gone so far as say that he will oppose Javan’s ascension to the throne when Aylyn dies.”

  He paused a second time, obviously expecting her to say something.

  “Who sent the message?” It was all she could think to ask. Of course the message said nothing of Tavis’s escape, but she needed to know if it cast any doubt at all on the boy’s guilt.

  The duke frowned, but he looked at the parchment once more. “One of Aindreas’s ministers. I don’t recognize the name. Why?”

  Keziah shrugged. “What do they want from us?”

  “A pledge of support should Javan try to take the throne before the matter is settled.”

  “Do they offer any proof that the boy did it?”

  Kearney glanced at the message again. “There seems little doubt of that. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s enough to say that they as much as found him with the weapon in his hand.”

  She felt her mouth twitch, and she looked away. What is it you ask of me, Grinsa? “Shouldn’t you hear from Curgh before you commit yourself to Aindreas’s cause?”

  “I suppose,” he said, looking puzzled. “But under these circumstances I’m not sure what difference that would make.”

  “If the boy is innocent it could make all the diff
erence in the world.”

  He tossed the message onto the table and stepped around it again so that he stood just in front of her chair. “This isn’t like you, Kez. What’s going on? Is this still about last night?”

  “No,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But we can’t just assume the boy is guilty and join Aindreas in opposing Javan. The Rules of Ascension date back nearly eight centuries. This is no trifle Aindreas is asking of you.”

  “I know that. But what if Tavis did kill her? Can we ignore Kentigern’s plea and give the throne to a house of murderers?”

  “Of course not. This is why we need to know more about what happened.”

  The duke gave a loud sigh and sat on the edge of his table. “I’ve never liked Javan. I’ve never trusted him.”

  “You like Aindreas that much more?”

  A smile alighted on his face for an instant and was gone. “No. But my father and Aindreas’s father were good friends. I suppose I feel that has to count for something.”

  “Something perhaps. But that’s not much on which to base a decision of this magnitude.”

  Kearney nodded. “You’re probably right.” He looked at her again. “So you think I should do nothing for now.”

  Yes, she wanted to say. Stay out of it. Let the fools tear each other apart. But she had promised Grinsa.

  “I’m not certain that you can,” she answered, the words almost sticking in her throat. “It sounds as though Javan and Aindreas are on the verge of war. You may have to go to Kentigern, not as Aindreas’s ally, but as a peacemaker.”

  His eyes widened. “Go to Kentigern?” he repeated. “Even Aindreas’s minister didn’t suggest that.”

  “Still, I think you should consider it.”

  “What would you have me do, Kez? Just ride to the tor unasked with a thousand soldiers at my back? They may be threatening war, but they’re not at war yet. By leading my men to Kentigern, I might give them just the excuse they need.”

  “Or you might give them pause. If you wait until they’re already at war, it may be too late. The entire kingdom could be drawn into their conflict, at a cost we can scarcely imagine. This may be the only chance you have to prevent civil war.” She stopped, surprised by her own passion. Perhaps Grinsa’s plea for help had affected her more than she realized.

  Kearney stared at her for some time, offering no response. “You still surprise me sometimes, Kez. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you argue so forcefully for any action that involved Glyndwr’s army.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” she asked, still half hoping he would say no.

  “I don’t know. It still seems rash to me. I know how I’d feel if one of the other dukes brought his army to Glyndwr unbidden.”

  She nodded. “I understand. No doubt you should speak with Gershon about this.”

  “Gershon?” the duke said, his features registering such shock at the suggestion that Keziah almost laughed out loud. “Now I know you’re concerned about this. You actually want me to seek the swordmaster’s advice?”

  “You said yourself that Gershon sees the world through a warrior’s eyes. In this case I think such a view would be useful.”

  “Gershon,” Kearney said again, shaking his head. “Yes, I’ll speak with Gershon.”

  “Good. I think he’ll agree with me.”

  They sat in awkward silence for a few moments, Keziah gazing toward the window, though aware that he was watching her. At last she stood.

  “I should go.”

  He caught her arm with a gentle hand. “Why?”

  “You have to speak with Gershon, remember?” She couldn’t help but smile.

  Kearney stood, pulling her toward him. “He’s training my men right now. He won’t be finished until after the midday bells are rung.”

  Light from the windows lit his silver hair and made his green eyes sparkle like emeralds. He bore a small scar on his chin, white and crescent-shaped. It looked just as Panya had the night before. She traced it lightly with her finger, bringing a smile to his lips.

  “Tell me how you got this.”

  She had heard the story a thousand times already. He had been eight when it happened, a boy in his father’s court, and, on that particular day, mounted atop his father’s steed. The horse had been far too big for him—his feet didn’t even reach the stirrups—but when several older boys challenged him to a race he didn’t hesitate to accept. He knew how to ride well enough, but the creature was too strong for him. When he tried to stop it, the horse reared and threw him, giving him the cut on his chin. By that time, though, he had won the race.

  “You don’t want to hear that story again.”

  They called him the silver wolf now, for his hair and the crest of his house, a wolf howling at the full moons. She thought it an odd name for a man with hands as gentle as his, but she knew that few saw him as she did. She knew as well that he could no more ignore a challenge now than he could as a boy. It was not in his nature. They would be riding to Kentigern. Not today perhaps, or even during this moon. But soon. And even with his arms around her, and his lips caressing hers once more, Keziah could not keep from shivering.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kentigern, Eibithar

  He awoke to the distant echo of thunder and the sweet, cool scent of rain. A soft grey light held the room and a bird called from just outside one of the windows, clear and urgent. For what seemed the first time in a turn, Tavis felt no pain. None at all.

  For the past few days he had drifted in and out of sleep, usually waking to find Grinsa standing over him, healing his wounds, or soothing the fever that burned in his brow. Once he had opened his eyes to find the prioress sitting beside his bed, her stern expression unable to mask the concern in her dark eyes. This, though, was the first time Tavis could remember waking to an empty room since the dungeon. He should have been able to enjoy such solitude, but instead he felt a sense of dread rising in his chest, as if he expected Aindreas to enter the chamber in the next moment.

  “Grinsa?” he called, throwing off his blanket. He stepped to the door, his legs stiff and weak. “Mother Prioress?”

  He pulled the door open, expecting to find a corridor or a second room. Instead, he found himself looking out at an open courtyard of painted stone. A small fountain gurgled in its middle, surrounded by a modest bed of flowers. On the far side he saw other buildings like the one he was in, and beyond them, the back of the shrine. A gentle wind blew rain against his face and the thin white robe he was wearing.

  “Grinsa?” he called again. “Is anyone here?”

  No one answered, though the wind blew harder and another rumble of thunder rolled among the buildings of the sanctuary. Reluctantly, Tavis closed the door and returned to his bed. He was tired still, and could easily have slept more, but he felt restless.

  Standing again, he started to search the room for his clothes, only to remember an instant later that they had been matted with filth and blood, and cut to little more than ribbons by Brienne’s father. No doubt they had been discarded or burned, and good riddance. But he saw no new ones to take their place. All that had been left for him was the simple white robe he was wearing, which was not at all appropriate for a duke’s son, much less one who was in line to be king. It was intolerable really. There didn’t appear to be any food either. Grinsa and the prioress had just left him alone in a room, unattended. What if Aindreas’s men had come for him?

  There was a knock at the door and before he could respond, one of the clerics poked his head in.

  “Did I hear you calling, my lord?” the man asked.

  “You certainly did. Where is Grinsa? Where is the prioress?”

  The man smiled and stepped fully into the chamber, uninvited. Tavis thought of saying something, but he wanted answers, and there seemed no sense in driving the man away.

  “Your friend, Grinsa, has left the sanctuary. I don’t know where he’s gone. He said he’d be back by tomorrow morning.”


  Tavis’s throat felt dry. “Left the sanctuary?”

  “For a time, yes. The prioress is in the shrine, performing her midday devotions. She should be available a bit later.” He paused. “My name is Osmyn. We met two nights ago, though I doubt you remember. Can I help you with something?”

  Grinsa had gone. Who knew if he would really return? Tavis truly was alone. “I need clothes,” he said at last. “I have nothing but this robe.”

  The man nodded. “The vestments of a novice.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “A novice?”

  “Yes. Grinsa and the prioress thought it best that you be dressed so. The duke’s guards have been watching the sanctuary from afar. Wearing that robe, you’re far less likely to draw their attention.”

  Tavis felt a sudden sharp chill, as though he were back in the prison again. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll wear this for now.”

  “Is there anything else, my lord?”

  “Yes, food. I haven’t eaten in days.”

  “Actually, my lord, I fed you some broth just yesterday. But I’ll be happy to bring you some cheese and bread.”

  “That’s hardly what I had in mind.”

  “I’m afraid it’s all we have, my lord. Unless you care to wait until the evening meal. I believe we’ll be having fowl and greens.”

  His stomach felt hollow as a gourd at the harvest. Cheese and bread would have to do.

  “Fine,” he said, turning away from the man. “Bring me what you have.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The cleric withdrew, closing the door gently, and leaving Tavis brooding by the window. They had him dressed like a novice, and eating even worse. He should have just left. Had he a mount, he would have. But with Aindreas’s soldiers searching the city for him and his wounds only recently healed, he would have been just as well off walking back to Kentigern’s dungeon and saving them the trouble of hunting him down. He had no choice but to wait for Grinsa. If and when the Qirsi returned, they’d leave this place together and set about restoring Tavis to his rightful place in the kingdom.