Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (14 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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She nodded. “It was that way in Wethyrn as well.”
“It makes no sense,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve too much in common to be at war with ourselves this way.”
“Maybe. But the Qirsi feud is as old as the kingdoms and Carthach’s treachery.”
“The Qirsi feud?”
She colored and looked away again. “That’s what they call it on the Wethy Crown.”
“I suppose it’s apt. And do they also still refer to Carthach’s choice as treachery?”
“Some do.”
“You just did.”
She smiled, though there was a brittleness to it. “That’s what my father always called it. I do it by habit more than anything else.”
He wasn’t certain that he believed her, but it was not a subject worth pursuing. Discussing Carthach’s betrayal with a Qirsi was as risky as asking an Eandi whether he or she followed the Old Faith or the Path of Ean. Most of the Qirsi in the Forelands viewed Carthach as a traitor, a man who abandoned their people in the time of their greatest need, for a few bars of gold. But some, Grinsa among them, saw Carthach as something else.
The Qirsi Wars were going to end badly for the invaders, regardless of what Carthach did. That much was clear by the time he struck his deal with the leaders of the Eandi army. The Qirsi advance across the Forelands had been stopped, and the two armies had fallen into a brutal war of slow attrition, one that the Forelands’ defenders, who vastly outnumbered the invaders, were bound to win. By crossing over to the Eandi side, and showing them how to defeat the Qirsi magic and end the war swiftly, Carthach might have saved tens of thousands of lives.
There was an old Qirsi saying: “The traitor walks a lonely path.” As one might expect, Carthach was reviled by the Qirsi. But he was never truly embraced by the Forelanders. They gave him gold and asylum, just as they promised, but he lived the rest of his life truly an exile, friendless, loveless, and scorned.
Even after his death, even after the Qirsi had lived for centuries in peace among the Eandi of the Forelands, Carthach remained the most hated man in Qirsi lore. Among the Eandi he was largely forgotten. Most Qirsi avoided discussing him at all, especially in the company of the Eandi. But his betrayal lay at the root of nearly every conflict that had divided his people since. Certainly it was the source of Trin’s hostility toward Fotir. Those who hated Carthach the most believed that the Qirsi who served in the courts of the Forelands’ kingdoms repeated his betrayal every day.
This was not to say that Fotir, or others in similar positions throughout the Forelands, had forgiven Carthach. On the contrary, some of them were nearly as vehement in their loathing for the man as Trin. But they saw their own influence as a way to improve the standing of the Qirsi in the northlands, to help their people become something more than merely a vanquished race.
Grinsa, while acknowledging that there was wisdom, perhaps even a sort of honor, in Carthach’s actions, could not in good conscience align himself fully with either side. There were real dangers in the rage still carried by men and women who felt as Trin did, dangers that were beginning to manifest themselves in frightening ways in the Forelands. Yet there was also something offensive in the righteousness of men like Fotir. Nearly nine centuries after the end of the Qirsi Wars, Grinsa’s people had done little to ease the pain of their defeat.
He and Cresenne walked for some distance without speaking. He sensed her unease and was very much aware of his own, but he could think of nothing to say.
“It seems we’re on opposite sides of this,” she finally said, her voice subdued.
“Yes, it does.”
She halted, reaching out for his arm to stop him as well and make him face her.
“Does that mean that we can’t … ?” She stopped. Even in the pale light of Panya and Ilias he could see that she was blushing.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t mean that at all.”
Their eyes met. After a moment Cresenne stepped forward and, lacing her fingers through his white hair, pulled his lips to hers, kissing him deeply.
“I’m glad,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest.
Grinsa smiled. “So am I.” He gave a small laugh. “Trin was right. This is better than waiting six turns.”
She smiled up at him and they kissed a second time. While they were kissing, though, Cresenne suddenly yawned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, starting to laugh. “I’m very tired.”
Grinsa frowned. “Yawning during a kiss, especially a first kiss—”
“It was our second,” she broke in, still giggling.
“Still,” he said, smiling now himself. “That’s a terrible thing to do to a man’s pride.”
“You’re right,” she said, trying with little success to stop laughing. “I’m terribly sorry.”
He held out a hand to her. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your room.
With that, her laughter did stop. “But our walk.”
“We’ll be in Curgh for another half turn,” he said, gently brushing the hair back from her brow. It was as soft as Sanbiri silk. “And if you’d like, I’ll walk with you every night.”
She took his hand. “I’d like that,” she said, although before she could finish, she had to suppress another yawn.
They both laughed, turning once more to walk back to the inn and their rooms.
Cadel had ended his singing performance some time ago, making his apologies as he left the other performers, claiming to be weary from the journey to Curgh. Jedrek had made a point of remaining to sing on. No sense drawing any more attention to themselves than was necessary. Cadel would have liked to stay as well. They sounded good tonight, and there were some fine musicians here for the Revel. But he had an appointment to keep. He had made his way, silent and watchful, over the city wall and around the base of the castle to the rocky promontory overlooking the Strait of Wantrae. There he had waited. And waited. Until his patience began to wear as thin as parchment.
Yes, they were paying him handsomely, but that did not give them the right to treat him like this. He almost wished that he hadn’t taken so much gold from them in Thorald two years before. Ever since then, they had acted as though he was theirs to do with what
they pleased, as if he were a servant, or a mount. No amount of gold was worth this.
As Panya reached her zenith and began her long slow arc downward to the western horizon, he resolved to leave.
“Let them find me tomorrow,” he said aloud, his voice sounding small amid the pounding of the waves below and the rush of the water wind.
But even as he turned to start back to the castle, he saw a figure approaching over the rocks, white skin and whiter hair illuminated by Panya’s glow. As the figure drew nearer, Cadel caught a glimpse of the pale eyes as well, and he shuddered. If it weren’t for the gold …
The Qirsi stopped a few strides from where he stood, slightly out of breath, ghostly hair twisting in the wind.
“You’re late,” Cadel said, allowing his voice to convey the full force of his anger. “I’ve been here for better than an hour.”
“It was necessary. Circumstances have changed.”
He hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“The duke’s son is missing. He had his Fating today, and apparently it left him … unnerved.”
“Do you know what he saw?”
“Not yet,” the white-hair said sourly. “That may take some time.”
“Is it possible that he knows what we have planned for him? Might he have fled?”
“I don’t think so. He got drunk, and he took a blade to his liege man. Hardly the actions of someone intent on flight. I think it more likely that he merely drank himself into a stupor. It’s possible, however, that he’s taken his own life.”
“In which case my work here would be done.”
“Hardly,” the Qirsi said. “Such a death would complicate matters more than you could know. Regardless, though, we need to wait before we act. I need to know what Tavis saw in the stone and who he talks to about it.”
“Can’t you ask one of your Qirsi friends about the Fating?”
“It’s not that easy. Gleaners aren’t supposed to discuss the Determinings or Fatings they see, and Tavis’s gleaner doesn’t sympathize with our cause.”
Neither do I
. “So what do you want me to do?” He hated even asking the question. They had no right to order him about. Yet, it was their money.
“Meet me here again, two nights after the Night of Two Moons. By then we should know more. But prepare yourself for this: I don’t want anything done while the Revel is here in Curgh. It was fine for Filib, but if we do it twice, we invite suspicion.”
He had to admit that the Qirsi was right. “All right. When? Where?”
“I should know that the next time we meet.” The Qirsi smiled, though the expression in those ghostly eyes didn’t change. “Until then you should sing and enjoy the Revel.”
I don’t need your permission
. “And what will you be doing?”
The white-hair was already turning away to return to the city. “Planning a murder, finding out what Lord Tavis saw in the stone. You’re not the only one trying to earn some gold.”
T
hey found him the next morning, shivering in his sleep in a corner of the wine cellar. The guards who discovered him there roused him and led him to the duke’s chambers, stopping twice along the way so that the duke’s son, the future king of Eibithar, could vomit in the gardens of the duke’s ward. The men in question did not hear what the duke said to Tavis within chambers—they were told to leave the inner ward and return to their posts. But they said later that the duke’s voice carried all the way to the south barbican on the far side of Curgh Castle.
Xaver heard all of this in bits and pieces over the following few days from servants, nurses, and guards. He had no part in the search. Even if the castle surgeon would have allowed it, he wouldn’t have helped. Instead he kept to his chamber day and night. He was resting, he told his father, recovering from his wound. But his father knew him too well to be fooled. It was clear to both of them why he had shut himself away, like a novice seeking his first vision from the gods. He was hiding from his closest friend at a time when he should have been rejoicing.
His gleaning had been everything he had hoped, and more. He had seen himself in the court of the king in Audun’s Castle, a captain in the King’s Guard, serving under his father. He had seen his wife as well. He didn’t know her name yet, or whence she had come. But she was beautiful, with long, shimmering black hair and a pretty oval face. And they were in love. That much had been clear.
It was a Fating straight out of his dreams, and his father’s. He
should have been celebrating. He should have been enjoying the Revel.
Finally, three days after the incident on the castle wall, Xaver’s father ordered him out of his chamber to the castle training grounds. He still couldn’t practice, of course—his arm was wrapped in a heavy bandage. But his father had made it clear that he was to watch the soldiers hone their sword skills. “If you can’t practice,” his father had said, “at least you can learn a bit this way. It’s better than sitting there in your chamber all day.” Mostly, however, Xaver just scanned the ward for Tavis, dreading the moment when he would finally see the duke’s son.
Had he attacked Tavis as the lord had attacked him, he would have been executed within a day. But Tavis would suffer no such fate. Xaver remained the young lord’s liege man, of course, despite the blood that had flowed from his wound four nights before and the dull ache that he felt there still, beneath the surgeon’s dressing. He had sworn fealty to the duke’s son years ago, before their Determinings, in a ceremony that neither of them had understood fully. Certainly he had not. They had been children, best friends. And since one of them happened to be the son of a duke, and the other the son of the duke’s liege man and captain of the guard, it had seemed the natural thing to do. Both fathers had urged them to wait, at least until after their Determinings. But Tavis, headstrong even then, had insisted, and Xaver, not knowing any better, had gone along.
He still remembered the words. They were emblazoned on his mind like the seal of Curgh on a castle banner.
“I, Xaver MarCullet, son of Hagan and Daria, free and noble born to the thaneship of MarCullet, swear fealty and service to you, Tavis of Curgh, sole heir to the House of Curgh, its lands and privileges. For as long as we both live, or until you release me from this pledge by your word, I am your liege man, sworn to protect you, honor you, and stand by you. My sword is yours, my shield is yours, my life is yours.”
He had kissed Tavis’s hand—both of them had thought this quite amusing—and Tavis had then laid his palms on Xaver’s head and sworn an oath of his own. Those words Xaver had long since forgotten, though he knew that the duke’s son had pledged to preserve the honor of both their houses and to receive Xaver’s service in good faith. It had all been over in a matter of moments. Afterward they had run out of the room, through the stone corridors, and into
the bright sunshine of the ward to resume their swordplay. It might as well have been another game, another imaginary adventure.
Except that as they grew older, and Xaver’s memory of their other games faded, this one did not. Instead, that moment in the duke’s chambers, under the watchful eyes of their fathers, had taken on greater importance with each year that passed, until it sometimes seemed to be all that remained of their childhood friendship. Tavis would never release him from the oath he had taken, and Xaver would never ask him to. They were bound to each other, like brothers. But there had been times, more numerous than he cared to acknowledge, when Xaver found himself wondering if he would have taken the oath at all if they had heeded their fathers’ advice and waited.
He wouldn’t have on this day. That was certain.
“They say he threw his first flask at the duke,” one of the guards whispered to another, as they stood in the hot sun watching Xaver’s father run a unit through their training exercises. “That’s why he went down to the cellars in the first place.”
“Actually that’s not true,” Xaver heard himself say. He kept his voice low, so that his father wouldn’t hear.
“You’re sure?” the guard asked.
“I was there. He just threw it at the floor. It wasn’t aimed at the duke.”
One of them nodded, but the other just stared at him.
“Why do you defend him?” he asked.
“I’m not defending him, really. I’m just trying to keep any more stories from spreading.”
“If it was me, after what he’d done, I’d be starting a few stories myself. Truth be damned, and him with it.”
Xaver had been leaning against the castle wall. But now he stood straight, and drawing his dagger with his good arm, he pointed the tip of it at the man’s heart.
“Take back those words or defend yourself!” he said as forcefully as he could.
“But young master, I was just—”
“Your words are an affront to Lord Tavis, and so an affront to me, his liege man! I’m sworn to protect his name as well as his life, and unless you unsay what you have said, I’ll cut you down where you stand!”
The guard glanced at his friend, before facing Xaver again, a
puzzled look on his face. After a moment he shrugged. “I take it back, my lord.”
Xaver stood there a few seconds longer, breathing hard, the hand holding his blade trembling slightly. Finally, he lowered his dagger. “Very well,” he said quietly. Looking beyond the guard, he saw that his father was watching him, as were the rest of the men.
His father took a step toward him, a question in his gaze, but Xaver shook his head, stopping him.
He returned his dagger to its sheath and faced the two guards again. “Perhaps I should return to my quarters. Tell my father I was … not feeling well.”
“Of course, my lord,” the first guard said. “My apologies if we gave offense.”
Xaver shook his head. “It’s all right.”
He started to turn away, but as he did the two men bowed to him. Unsure of what to do, he murmured a quick thank-you and hurried back toward the north end of the castle.
He couldn’t explain what he had just done. The guard had been right. Tavis didn’t deserve to be protected, not by him, certainly not with such ferocity. Yet he had drawn his blade on the man, for a comment that hardly deserved notice.
His arm throbbed as he walked across the city ward, his eyes trained on the ground. The guards at the inner gatehouse said nothing to him, and he entered the duke’s ward in silence, almost afraid of what he might say if he spoke. Despite all the time he had spent alone in his room, he had slept poorly the past few nights. Perhaps rest was all he needed. That, and some time away from Tavis.
When he saw the duke’s son standing in the corridor outside the door to his quarters, Xaver realized that he wasn’t likely to get either any time soon.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Tavis said, looking uneasy.
Xaver stopped a short distance from him. “So I see.” He kept his voice utterly flat. He’d offer no hope of forgiveness, at least not yet.
Tavis licked his lips, his dark eyes wandering around the narrow hallway like a fly searching for something on which to alight. Finally they came to rest on Xaver’s bandage. “How’s your arm?”
“It hurts.”
“I’m sorry, Xaver,” he said, his expression so pained that Xaver wondered if he was going to cry. “I didn’t … I was drunk. I don’t know …” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“What is it you want, Tavis?” Xaver asked.
The duke’s son closed his eyes briefly. “Can we do this in your chamber? Please? It won’t take long.”
He wanted to refuse, to send Tavis away. But Tavis was the lord, and Xaver his liege man. Without a word he pushed his door open and gestured for Tavis to enter the room. Stepping inside himself, he closed the door and faced his friend.
“Now, what do you want?”
Tavis began to walk around the small chamber, pausing briefly at the lone window to gaze out at the ward before wandering again. He looked pale, as though he still felt the effects of his drinking. He had bathed recently, and he smelled faintly of perfumed soaps. Still, it seemed to Xaver that the stench of vomit and stale wine clung to him, as the smell of a horse stays with the rider after a long journey.
“I’m not very good at this,” Tavis said.
“You’ve already apologized. You don’t need to do it again.”
The lord halted and for the first time that day he looked Xaver directly in the eye. “Yes, I do. I don’t think I can ever apologize enough.” He resumed his pacing. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
He took a long breath, stopping just in front of Xaver. This time, however, he didn’t allow their eyes to meet. “I want to release you from your oath,” he said, a slight flutter in his voice. “Actually, I don’t want to, but I feel that I should offer after …”
He swallowed, not bothering to finish the thought.
Xaver couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had expected apologies, pleas for forgiveness, perhaps even excuses. But not this.
“You’re releasing me?” he said, knowing how dull-witted he must have sounded.
“Yes. If it’s what you want, I’ll do so formally tonight, before both of our fathers and the rest of the court.”
A voice in Xaver’s mind screamed for him to accept the release, to unburden himself of this boorish young lord before his entire life was ruined. He knew, however, that he could not. He had taken the oath as a child, and there had been days when he had regretted his foolishness for doing so. But his friendship with Tavis was older than memory, and he had pledged himself to serve the lord for a lifetime. More than that, though, he had been sustained through the worst days of their friendship by the promise that he sometimes glimpsed within his friend. Beneath the spoiled child, beyond the selfish, hot-tempered youth, there was a man who carried both his
father’s strength and his mother’s wisdom. At times, Xaver went for turn after turn without seeing this man, and he grew discouraged and fearful for the kingdom. But then he would appear again, just as Xaver began to lose hope. Just as he had now, in Xaver’s chamber, with an offer bespeaking the humility and generosity of someone worthy of Audun’s throne.
Tavis’s offer hung before him, glittering like a jewel. He was drawn to it. He had longed for such freedom often enough, and none would blame him for accepting. Not his father, nor the duke. The duchess might. But none of that was to the point. He would blame himself. It was a jewel he saw before him. And the price—his honor—was too steep.
“I don’t want to be released, my lord. I am your liege man, and I will be until one of us is called by Bian to the Underrealm.”
In spite of everything, Xaver was moved by the look of relief that flashed across the lord’s face.
“Thank you,” Tavis whispered. “I didn’t—”
Xaver stopped him with a raised finger. “I’ll continue as your liege man,” he said. “But …” He hesitated. “But I don’t want to see you for a few days.”
The color that had returned to the lord’s face drained away again. “How many days?”
“I don’t know. Not very many. Maybe just until the end of Amon’s Moon.”
“But … But that’s more than half a turn.” He sounded like a child learning that he was to be denied a favorite toy.
“All right,” Xaver said reluctantly. “Then until the Revel leaves Curgh.”
Tavis opened his mouth, no doubt to complain again. But he appeared to think better of it. After a moment he pressed his lips together and gave a single nod.
Once more they lapsed into silence, although they continued to stand facing each other, as if preparing to duel. Xaver would have liked to tell Tavis to leave, but he gave up that right when he refused Tavis’s offer of release. So he just stood, staring off to the side, wishing the lord would say his goodbyes.
“It seems I’m to marry,” Tavis said at last, a false, brittle brightness to his tone.
“Yes, I know.”
The duke’s son gave him a puzzled look.
“We were discussing your betrothal the other night at dinner. You don’t remember?”
His face shaded toward crimson. “No, not a thing,” he said, his gaze dropping to Xaver’s bandage again. “If the guards and my father hadn’t told me what I had done to you, I wouldn’t even have remembered that.”

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