Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (21 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“I think your duke is a passionate leader and a devoted father and husband,” Fotir said, opening his eyes. “He’ll be a valuable ally for my duke, and a trusted advisor when the duke becomes king.”
Actually, from what Fotir had heard, the man was a fool and a drunkard. When he wasn’t trying to mount some serving girl from the castle’s kitchens, he was sending his soldiers on exercises that took them dangerously close to the Tarbin. There were those who said that he wanted to start a war with the Aneirans, to enhance his stature in the kingdom. Others said he took such risks out of sheer boredom.
Shurik grinned at Fotir’s kind assessment of his duke. “And I have no doubt that Javan will lead our kingdom well. From what I hear he can be both strong-willed and compassionate, courageous and reasonable. Who can ask for more in a king?”
Fotir could tell that the minister had not given his true opinion of Javan, but after being more polite than honest himself, he could hardly say anything.
Seeing his expression, Shurik laughed. “We’ve fulfilled our duties quite well, wouldn’t you say, cousin?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
The minister gave a small frown. “Of course you do. Our dukes expect us to be tactful, to lay the groundwork for their better relations.”
“Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“I suppose. I had hoped that we might move beyond that. Lord Tavis and Lady Brienne are to be married. The houses don’t need our help to forge closer ties.” He sipped his ale. “I saw this evening as an opportunity for us to start building a friendship of our own, Qirsi to Qirsi.”
Fotir nodded, though he wasn’t quite certain where all this was leading. “I’d like that as well, cousin. Such a friendship would further the interests of both our dukes.”
“I suppose it would,” Shurik said, a slight smile lingering on his lean face. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was just looking for a friend. Do you have friends, Fotir?”
He laughed. “Of course I do.”
“Qirsi friends?”
Fotir hesitated. “Some,” he said. “There are other Qirsi ministers in Curgh Castle. I consider them my friends.”
“I’m glad to hear that. As I said before, I’d been told that you were a difficult man.” Shurik sat back, pulled the pipe from between his teeth, and drank some ale. “Tell me, Fotir, what powers do you possess?”
Once again, Fotir faltered. It was a question that Fotir would have asked only of a close friend.
“Forgive me,” Shurik said, as if reading his thoughts. “The question makes you uneasy. Perhaps it would be best if I told you that in addition to being a gleaner, I also have the power of fire and speak the language of beasts.”
It was useful information to have. While Kentigern’s minister had several abilities, as many as Fotir, only the language of beasts was considered by the Qirsi to be among the deeper magics. Most men and women of the sorcerer race possessed only one magic or perhaps two. Those few who possessed three, like Fotir and Shurik, were among the most fortunate of their people, and among the most sought after by Eandi nobles throughout the Forelands. For centuries, the Qirsi had served the courts of the various kingdoms as ministers, offering not only counsel, but also gleanings of the future, and powers such as fire, shaping, or mists and winds that could benefit their lords in battle. Lesser nobles tended to have but one or two ministers, dukes as many as a half dozen. Kings often had ten or more, and some said that the emperor of Braedon was served by twenty Qirsi.
“And you?” Shurik prompted.
“Like you I’m a gleaner,” Fotir said. “And a shaper, as well. And I have the power of mists and winds.”
Shurik’s eyebrows went up. “Very impressive. I can see why your duke values you so.”
“Does he?” Fotir asked, curious again as to where Shurik was going with all this.
“Of course. Surely you must see it.”
“I believe the duke respects me and is appreciative of my service.”
“And that’s important to you.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“I suppose,” Shurik said, giving a small shrug and sipping his ale. “I think it’s possible for the opinion of one’s duke to become too important.”
Fotir found himself thinking back to his unpleasant encounter with the Revel Qirsi in the Silver Gull. Trin had said something vaguely similar.
“Tell me, cousin,” Fotir said. “Are you one of those Qirsi who find the Eandi tiresome and dull-witted?”
“Not at all. Do I give that impression?”
Fotir shook his head. “No. Forgive the question. Something you said reminded me of a man I know.”
Shurik raised an eyebrow. “And he feels this way.”
“Yes.”
“A man in your position might think about taking more care in your choice of friends. Your duke would find it disturbing to know that you keep such company.”
Fotir grinned and inhaled the sweet smoke of the Uulranni pipeweed. “He’s hardly a friend. And I give my duke no reason to doubt my loyalty.”
“That’s very wise. I’m much the same way.” The minister took a long breath. “I will admit, though: there are times I wish I could live in a Qirsi kingdom, serving a Qirsi lord.” The minister smiled at Fotir’s expression. “You find my candor unsettling, cousin?”
“I guess I should find it refreshing,” Fotir said, smiling as well. “But after so many years in an Eibitharian court, I’m not certain how to respond to it.”
Shurik laughed, though he quickly grew serious again. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful to my duke,” he said. “It’s true that he can be crude and foolish, sometimes even childish. But for all his faults, he can also be a wise and competent leader, particularly when he’s sober. He commands his armies boldly and with imagination. He has, over the years, learned when to be firm with his people and when to be kind. At times he even surprises me with his graciousness and his wit.” He made a sour face. “Obviously tonight was not one of those occasions. But still, as Eandi dukes go, he’s not a bad one to serve. In all, I count myself quite fortunate.”
Fotir nodded his head slowly. “I’m glad for you, cousin. And I appreciate your honesty.”
“And yet, you offer none in return.”
He felt his body stiffen. “What?”
“I’ve just been quite open with you about my feelings for the duke, but I’ve heard nothing from you beyond that drivel about the duke’s respect and his appreciation for your service.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
Shurik sat back and rolled his pale eyes. “So Javan of Curgh is without faults, and Fotir jal Salene serves him with blind devotion.”
“I never said the duke had no faults. He can be cold, at times humorless. He’s stubborn and often ruthless, even in circumstances that demand flexibility.”
The minister relit his pipe, sending swirling clouds of blue smoke up to the ceiling. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“There’s very little more, cousin,” Fotir said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I admire the duke. I believe he’ll be a fine king and I’m quite content serving him.”
Shurik looked disappointed, although he recovered quickly. “Well, I’m happy for you, cousin. Who wouldn’t be? Few of us are as lucky as you.”
“I have been very fortunate,” he agreed. Once again, though, he found himself thinking of his encounter with Trin in the Silver Gull. It disturbed him that Shurik had heard people speaking of how difficult he could be. The last thing a man in his position needed was a questionable reputation.
They sat without speaking for several minutes. At one point, the serving girl returned bearing two more tankards of ale. Fotir could still hear noise coming from the main chamber of the tavern when the door to their small room was open, but the crowd seemed to have grown smaller.
“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.”

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