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Authors: David B. Coe

Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (45 page)

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Even having to dine each night with Gershon, who brooded silently across from her at the small table in Kearney’s tent, she should have been grateful. Compared with what the men of Glyndwr’s army were enduring, she was not suffering at all.
But her fine meals and warm bed could not alter the fact that she was lonelier than she had been in years. She and Kearney were finally out of Glyndwr Castle together, leagues away from Leilia and her ladies, with their prying eyes and icy stares, and still they couldn’t be together. They couldn’t even touch without fear of drawing unwanted attention. And had they found a way to move beyond sight of the army, Gershon would have been there, glaring at them, his distaste for her written plainly on his blunt features.
So she rode, and when the others stopped, she did as well. But her days and nights passed without love, without companionship. After just three days she would gladly have given up warmth and good food for conversation or a shared smile. Instead, she finished her meal with the duke and swordmaster and quietly excused herself, walking back to her shelter as the last rays of daylight disappeared beneath the steppe and the moons hung overhead, midway through their waxing.
She didn’t feel sleepy—she hadn’t done enough during the course of the day to tire herself—but she lay down on the sleeping roll left for her by Kearney’s soldiers and stared up at the roof of the cloth shelter, listening to the sounds of the camp. Voices and laughter drifted among the rocks and grasses of the steppe, mingling with the
calls of larks and the whisper of the wind. Someone was singing in the distance, his voice high and sweet, like that of a boy. Keziah didn’t recognize the song. Closer to her tent, horses nickered and stamped their feet.
Eventually, as darkness spread through the camp like mist, she felt her eyes closing and she gave in to sleep. An instant later, though, she opened them again, only to find herself standing in the middle of the steppe. The sun was up again, partially obscured by high thin clouds. Kearney and his men were gone.
I’m dreaming.
She heard a voice calling her name and she turned toward it. Grinsa was walking toward her.
“Why can’t you let me sleep?” she asked as he drew near. “These conversations of ours leave me exhausted.”
Her brother grinned. “No more than they do me.”
He looked more rested than he had a few days before, though he still looked tired.
“You’ve left the castle,” he said. “I can tell that much.”
“Yes, with an army of seven hundred men.”
“Well done, Kezi!” he said, his smile returning, even broader than before. “How far have you come?”
“We’re still on the steppe, but we’ve crossed the Sussyn, and we should begin our descent tomorrow.”
He seemed to consider this, as if measuring in his mind the distance they had covered.
“What’s happened?” she asked. “Are they at war already?”
“Not as far as I know. I’ve left Kentigern with Lord Tavis. We’re nearing Tremain. I need you to come here too, with Kearney of course.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. It’s a natural stopping point between here and Kentigern. I believe Kearney was planning to stop there anyway. He and Lathrop are on good terms.”
Grinsa nodded. “Good.”
“Aren’t you worried about the two of us being together?”
“Of course I am,” he said, frowning. “But I need to speak with your duke, and this is the only place I can do it where Tavis will be safe.”
“Why do you need to speak with Kearney?”
He hesitated. “Are you certain you want to know?”
It seemed to Keziah that the wind on the steppe rose suddenly, chilling her. In truth, she didn’t want to know. But whatever it was, Kearney would probably ask her counsel, and she wanted to be prepared.
“Tell me.”
“I’m going to ask Kearney to give Tavis asylum in the House of Glyndwr.”
She couldn’t say that she was surprised. Had she been in her brother’s position, she would have done the same. Just as Kearney was the only duke with any hope of stopping a civil war, he was also the best choice for this. Glyndwr’s dukes had rarely held Eibithar’s throne—the other major houses did not view the men of Glyndwr as ambitious, or as threats to their ambitions. Given how remote Glyndwr was from the others, Tavis was also likely to be safest there. It made perfect sense.
“All right,” Keziah said. “Do you want me to plant the idea before we arrive, or would you rather it came from you the first time he heard it.”
“That’s it?” Grinsa asked, raising an eyebrow. “No argument? Just ‘all right’?”
She shrugged. “He’s really the only choice, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then answer my question,” she said, grinning slightly, “and let me sleep.”
Grinsa laughed. “Fair enough. No, don’t mention it to him. It might help smooth the way, but I’m afraid it will raise suspicions. This will strike them as a rather audacious proposal. They won’t believe that we both thought of it on our own.”
“Very well. I’ll say nothing, then. But I’ll do everything I can to make certain that we stop in Tremain.”
“How soon do you think you’ll be there?”
Keziah thought for a moment. “As I said, we’re still on the steppe. We’re at least twenty leagues away, and with the descent still ahead of us, I would imagine it will be at least seven days more.”
“That gives us enough time to get there as well. I hope we’ll be staying at the sanctuary, but you needn’t worry about that. I’ll find you.”
She still felt cold, and she rubbed her arms.
“Are you all right, Kezi?”
Keziah nodded, making herself smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Of course.” Grinsa wrapped his long arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll let you sleep. Journey safely, Kezi. I’ll see you soon.”
He released her and started to walk away.
“Grinsa, wait!” she called, without even thinking.
Her brother faced her again.
“Something’s going to happen, isn’t it?”
His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The last time we spoke, I had the sense that you were keeping something from me. I think that you know what awaits us on this journey, but you’re not telling me.”
He just gazed at her, his expression revealing little, but his pale eyes looking sad. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I do know.”
She shuddered, but she couldn’t keep herself from asking. “Will you tell me now?”
“I can’t, Kezi. It all has to happen as it’s supposed to, with none of those involved knowing what will come. One person could change everything, and that could be extraordinarily dangerous.”
“But you know.”
He shrugged. “I’m the Weaver.”
There had been a time, years before, when she had envied him his power. But as she came to appreciate the burden he carried, her jealousy faded, leaving her slightly awed that the boy she remembered from her youth could possess the wisdom and strength necessary to stand before her and speak those words with such calm.
I’m the Weaver
. No Eandi in the Forelands, not even one as intelligent as Kearney, could have possibly understood.
“This future you’ve seen,” she said. “Is it terrible?” She was trembling and she felt a tear running cold down her cheek.
“Kezi, I can’t—”
“Is it terrible?” she demanded.
Grinsa exhaled through his teeth. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I’ve seen glimpses, that’s all. The only thing I know for certain is that we have to do this. There’s too much at stake.”
She didn’t answer. She was cold and tired and too frightened to speak.
Grinsa gave a gentle smile and walked back to where she stood. Laying a hand gently on her brow, he kissed her cheek, and spoke a single word.
“Sleep.”
She opened her eyes to the darkness of her tent. Night had chilled the air, and she was shivering. She longed to go to Kearney, just to feel him beside her. But instead she wrapped herself in a rough blanket and fell into a dreamless sleep.
City of Kings, Eibithar
T
hey spoke in hushed tones, mindful of the king, who slept in his bed on the far end of the grand chamber. Servants came and went, bringing plates of food and cups of water that Aylyn did not touch, and removing them again some time later. An herbmaster lingered near the great bed, in case Aylyn needed an elixir to ease his pain or induce sleep, and priests of the castle’s cloister prayed by the king’s side. Occasionally, the healers came as well, but they had long since given up their vigil. Eibithar’s king was dying, and all the magic in the world could not save him.
Natan still remembered seeing Aylyn for the first time, nearly seventeen years before. The king was already in his middle years by then, and more than sixteen years into his reign. His hair had begun to thin and grow grey, and he no longer looked like the lithe swordsman he was said to have been in his youth. But still, Natan had been impressed with the quiet strength he saw in the man, and the confidence and wisdom that lay behind his words.
Natan had been quite young at the time; he had never seen a king before, much less spoken with one. He hadn’t even planned to come to the City of Kings, but his duke, Filib of Thorald, Aylyn’s son, had insisted. The king’s archminister had just died, and Aylyn was looking for a new Qirsi advisor.
“Much as I hate to lose you,” the young duke had said, “I think you should go. My father needs you more than I do, and you should be in a court where your talents can be of most use.”
It remained, to this day, the greatest act of kindness any Eandi had ever shown him.
Natan had been nervous about meeting the king, having far less confidence in his abilities than the duke had expressed. But despite the years that separated them, and Aylyn’s unconcealed distrust of the Qirsi people, he and the king both realized almost immediately that they could work well together. In the years that followed, Natan had come to realize that Aylyn was not a great king. He was a competent military leader and a generous guardian of his kingdom and people, but that was all. Filib might have been great, had he lived. And Natan saw the seeds of greatness in his son, Aylyn’s grandchild, who had visited Audun’s Castle several times before his own tragic death two years before.
Even without achieving greatness, however, Aylyn had done all that Eibithar could ask of its king. He had tried to keep the peace, and failing that, had used his armies prudently, risking as few lives as possible. He had ruled the land for longer than any king in over two centuries, and throughout his reign Eibithar had remained one of the three preeminent powers in the Forelands, along with Braedon and Sanbira. A kingdom could ask little more of its sovereign. He deserved better than this ending, wasting away in his bed, without heirs, without a wife to offer comfort and shed tears. So though the healers no longer sat by his side, Natan had taken it upon himself to make certain that someone did. He and his fellow ministers had taken turns watching over the king, and would until the Deceiver came for him.
“Natan, are you all right?”
The Qirsi tore his gaze from the bed and found the other ministers watching him.
“I’m fine,” he said. He looked at Wenda, who had spoken, and made himself smile. “What were you saying?”
She leaned forward and patted his leg gently.
Wenda had been in Audun’s Castle serving Aylyn almost as long as he. He remembered seeing her for the first time as well. She had been rather plain-looking in her youth—the passage of the years and the gentle lines they had brought to her pale face had actually made her a more handsome woman—but Natan had fallen in love with her anyway. She was brilliant and she carried Bohdan’s spirit in her heart. Even the king could not resist her humor. Wenda and Natan
were both joined to other people; nothing ever came of his affection for her. But he liked to think that in some small way she had loved him as well.
Wenda became high minister shortly after Natan did, and four years ago, when Aylyn’s archminister died, the king made it clear that he was considering both of them as possible replacements. In the end, the king chose Natan, largely because he had served the throne longer. If by some remote chance Natan died before Aylyn, no one doubted that Wenda would succeed him in the position.
“Paegar was asking if we could act as the king’s surrogates,” she said.
Natan glanced at the others. They were watching him, waiting for his reply. He was supposed to be presiding over this discussion. Actually Aylyn was. But with the king unable to join them, this responsibility fell to the archminister. And it was all he could do just to listen to what the others were saying.
He cleared his throat. “To what end?”
“To send the King’s Guard to Kentigern,” Paegar said. “To stop Aindreas and Javan from going to war.” The man frowned, a look of concern in his yellow eyes. “Are you certain you’re well, Archminister?”
“Yes, of course. just a bit distracted, that’s all.” He smiled again, though these lapses concerned him. His father and mother had both died before their thirty-eighth birthdays and here he was nearing his fortieth. He should have been thanking Qirsar for his long life, but he couldn’t help cursing the years for what they had done to him. Lately his mind wandered like that of a child, and he could barely keep himself awake during ministerial conclaves. Three nights before he had tried to summon a wind to his chambers, just to see if he could. The draft he conjured—it could hardly be called a wind—barely stirred the curtains by his window. Yet the effort left him breathless and damp with sweat.
“So what do you think, Archminister?” Paegar asked, the smile on his face not quite masking his impatience.
“I think it’s a bad idea.” Natan had to keep himself from grinning at the reaction of the other ministers. Even Wenda and Paegar looked surprised.
“You do?” Wenda asked.
“We’re just ministers,” Natan said. “It’s one thing to collect tithe
from the dukes in Aylyn’s name, or even to extend trading privileges to merchants from other kingdoms. It’s quite another to order the King’s Guard to one of the dukedoms.”
“But surely under these circumstances, we’d be justified,” said Dyre. He was one of the younger Qirsi, the underministers, as they were called, though in truth any first minister in any dukedom in Eibithar would have gladly surrendered his or her place to be one of them.
“In whose eyes?” the archminister asked. “In our own? Perhaps. But to the captain of the guard and his men, we’re sorcerers. They’d no more take orders from us than they would from the king of Caerisse.”
“Not even to prevent a civil war?”
“We don’t know this will end in war. We can’t prove it to them. Unless you’ve gleaned something I don’t know about.”
Dyre’s face reddened. After a moment he shook his head.
He reminded Natan so much of himself when he was young and new to the castle, when he had wanted nothing more than to wield his power in the name of the king. Natan had been fortunate to serve as a young man under a wise king, seasoned by years on the throne, who knew something of power and its limits. What would it have been like to come to the City of Kings as a young minister and find that the king one served was too infirm to lead? The archminister wondered if he had been too quick to dismiss the man’s suggestion.
“I’d be willing to discuss the matter with the captain of the guard,” he said after a brief silence. “He may be more open to the idea than I expect.”
The young minister nodded. “Thank you, Archminister.”
“Could we have one of the dukes act on the king’s behalf?” another minister asked.
“I like that idea even less,” Wenda said, before Natan could respond. “Enlisting the aid of a duke in the king’s name could be very dangerous. For all we know, that could start the war we’re trying to prevent.”
“I have to agree,” Paegar said. “If the archminister can’t prevail upon the captain to take his men, there’s little we can do.”
A door opened near the king’s bed and Obed, the prelate, stepped into the room. He glanced toward the Qirsi ministers, then quickly looked away, hurrying to his usual place beside the king to begin his whispered prayers. Ean worshipers had little use for the
Qirsi, and the prelate was no different. A moment later, though, the prelate stole a second look toward the Qirsi, and seeing that Natan was looking his way, Obed gave a small nod. The prelate had come to the City of Kings as a priest just a turn before Natan began his service to the king, and over the years the two men had come to understand one another. They weren’t friends. Natan, who spent some time each day meditating in one of the city’s four sanctuaries, had heard too many of Ean’s servants railing against Qirsi heresies and the evils of the Old Faith to befriend any prelate. More often than not the two men offered Aylyn conflicting advice and sought to undermine each other’s influence with the king. But while Natan had questioned Obed’s judgment on many occasions, he never doubted the prelate’s devotion to Aylyn, nor did he believe that Obed doubted his. Natan didn’t have to imagine what the prelate was feeling at that moment, praying to his god, waiting for the king to die, for the Qirsi was feeling it as well.
He had lost track of the discussion again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was tired. All he wanted was to return to his chambers and rest.
“I hate to even ask this,” Paegar said, eyeing Natan. “But have the healers given us any sense of how long the king … how much time he has?”
The rest turned to him. Wenda, the underministers. Glancing toward the bed once more, the archminister saw that even the prelate was watching him, awaiting his answer.
“I gather from all they’ve told me,” Natan said, pitching his voice so Obed could hear him as well, “that they can only guess at such things. But he hasn’t much time left. A few days. Perhaps half a turn. Perhaps less. It seems they almost lost him last night.”
Paegar nodded, as if he had expected this. “And what happens if he dies, making Javan king, before this matter in Kentigern is settled?”
“I’ve thought of that as well,” Wenda said. “If Aindreas truly intends to keep Javan from the throne, the king’s death could bring war.”
“All the more reason to send the guard,” Dyre said, refusing to meet Natan’s gaze.
The archminister shook his head. “All the more reason not to.”
“What?”
“Think for a moment. If the king dies and the King’s Guard is
in Kentigern, they become Javan’s men. Right now we have two dukes of roughly equal strength threatening to start a war, the end of which neither of them can foresee with any confidence. If Curgh suddenly adds the King’s Guard to his army, it’ll be a slaughter.” Natan glanced around the circle of advisors. “Is that what we want?”
Dyre just shook his head, staring at Natan as if the archminister had shown him a new magic, a way to use his Qirsi powers that the younger man had never seen before.
There!
Natan wanted to say.
You see? Even as an old man, with one foot already in the Underrealm, I can think of things you’ve never even considered.
Wenda cast a sly grin Natan’s way. “I think we’re done for the day,” she said, looking at the others. “We’ll gather again in the morning. In the meantime, pray for the king’s comfort and for an easy journey to the Underrealm.”
It was his place to adjourn them, but under the circumstances Natan did not mind at all. He had said his piece.
Most of the underministers stood and began slowly to file out of the king’s chamber. Dyre lingered, however, seemingly intent on having the last word.
“You’ll speak with the captain?” he asked.
Natan had to think for a moment before remembering that he had promised to do so. “Of course,” he said. He already knew how the conversation would go, but he had given his word.
“Thank you.” The man hesitated briefly, glancing first at Paegar and then at Wenda. After a moment he turned and left the room.
“The man’s a fool,” Natan muttered, watching him go.
Wenda smiled, placing a hand on his leg again. “He’s just young, Natan. I remember when we were the same way.”
“He’s not just young,” Paegar said. “He’s also scared.” He looked over at the prelate, before continuing in a lower voice. “So am I, to tell you the truth.”
The archminister knew that he should have been as well. The kingdom had been through several civil wars over the course of its history; Eibithar’s major houses had fought among themselves more frequently than the kingdom had fought the Aneirans. Natan did not doubt for a moment that Javan and Aindreas were capable of dragging the land into yet another war. But as with so many other things recently, this failed to arouse any feelings in him at all. He should have been frightened, or angry with the dukes’ foolishness, or
at least sad that the kingdom could still be threatened from within in this way. But he felt nothing.
“It would be best if Javan would simply abdicate,” Paegar went on a moment later.
“And give the kingdom to Aindreas?” Wenda said. “He’d never do it.”
It was one of the few flaws in Eibithar’s Rules of Ascension. The rules had been created eight centuries before by the leaders of all twelve houses, and they remained, in Natan’s mind, a most reliable and equitable method for choosing a leader. By allowing only the eldest son of a king to ascend to the throne, the dukes hoped to keep one house from becoming the sole ruling power in the kingdom. But by establishing an Order of Ascension, a hierarchy among the houses, they hoped as well to maintain some consistency of leadership. Occasionally, over the centuries, Thorald’s supremacy had drawn the resentment of the other houses, leading to civil war, and in more than one instance, to experiments with other methods of selecting a king. Always, however, the houses turned back to the Rules of Ascension. Simply put, they worked.
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