Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (36 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“Are we there?” Tavis asked, sounding sleepy.
“Almost,” the gleaner whispered.
They started forward again, turned onto the next street, and followed it in a wide arc to the gated walls of Bian’s Sanctuary.
Stopping once more, Grinsa dismounted and stepped to the nearest gate.
A heavyset man emerged from the small guardhouse and regarded him coolly, glancing for a moment at Tavis, who still sat on the horse, before looking at the Qirsi again. The man was clean-shaven, with long silver hair that was tied back from his face. He wore a simple grey robe tied at his waist with a piece of rope. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon; the clerics of the ancient gods rarely did.
“Good night to you, Brother,” the Qirsi said. “This boy and I are weary from our travels and we seek rest in your sanctuary.”
Guards were shouting all through the city now, and bells tolled from the castle as well as from the gates of the city wall. Grinsa tried to hold the man’s gaze, but he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as the shouting grew nearer.
“The prioress likes to know of all who seek refuge among us,” the man said, his voice gravelly, his face betraying nothing.
Refuge
,
not rest
. He understood all too well. “Who shall I say has come?”
“Is Meriel still prioress here?”
The man’s eyes widened, though only for an instant. “She is.”
“Then tell her that Grinsa jal Arriet has come seeking her aid.”
“And him?” the man asked, pointing at Tavis.
“He’s a friend,” Grinsa said, meeting the man’s gaze as best he could. “He needs healing and rest.”
The man gave a slight frown. But after a moment he nodded. “Very well. I’ll return shortly.”
“Thank you,” the gleaner said as the man walked back toward
the center tower of the sanctuary. He looked back again. Torchlight flickered in the distance. “Be quick, Brother,” he murmured.
Grinsa walked the horse slowly to the gate, marking the approach of the torchlight as he did.
“Where are we?” Tavis asked, warily eyeing the gate and buildings beyond.
“At a sanctuary,” Grinsa told him. “I know the prioress here. I believe she’ll be willing to help us.”
“Are we still in Kentigern?”
“Yes,” the Qirsi said, hoping the boy was too weary to put the pieces together.
Tavis nodded, but didn’t say anything more, and Grinsa allowed himself a soft sigh of relief.
A few moments later, the heavyset man returned, unlocking the gate and waving them inside.
“The prioress will see you in the shrine,” he said, locking the gate once more. “I’ll take your mount to the stable.”
“Thank you, Brother,” Grinsa said, helping Tavis off the mount and leading him toward the shrine.
Like those in the sanctuaries of the other gods, the Shrine of Bian was simple, almost stark. Unadorned on the outside save for the narrow spire that rose above the other buildings in the sanctuary, the shrine contained several rows of dark wooden benches, and a stone altar that held a bowl and knife for blood offerings, both of which were also made of stone. Narrow tapered candles burned at either end of the altar, resting in plain wooden holders that were caked with wax. Behind the altar stood an enormous window of stained glass, a stunning contrast to the austerity of the rest of the shrine. In one corner of the window, raked by angry flames of orange and yellow and tormented by black demons, the damned writhed in anguish, their mouths opened in silent screams. On the opposite side, the honored walked in a garden filled with brilliant blooms of red, blue, violet, and gold. In the center, above all the dead, stood the Deceiver himself, cloaked in a shimmering multihued robe, his arms lifted before him, as if he were controlling both the flames and the bright silver light that shone on the garden. His ageless face wore a strange expression, one that seemed to change continually with the flickering of the candlelight. There was anger in it, even malice, but Grinsa thought he sensed kindness there as well.
He glanced at the boy once more, but Tavis was nearly asleep on
his feet. He would learn soon enough where he was, but for tonight, at least, he was too consumed with his own weariness and pain to notice.
“Do you care to offer blood?” someone asked from behind them.
Grinsa turned toward the voice, knowing already whose it was.
“Gladly, Mother Prioress,” he said, “if that is the price of our safety.”
Meriel strode toward the altar on long legs. She was tall and straight-backed, though the years had left lines on her face and bold streaks of silver in her red hair.
“This is a sanctuary. There is no price for refuge here.” Reaching the altar, she turned to face him. “I merely asked if you wish to offer blood to the god.”
The Qirsi hesitated, then nodded. “I think I had better,” he told her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I sent a man to the Underrealm last night.”
The expression on her handsome face did not change and her dark eyes continued to hold his. “Step forward then. The knife and bowl await.”
Grinsa helped Tavis onto one of the wooden benches, then stepped to the altar. He held out his arm, turning it so that the underside was exposed. The prioress placed the bowl under it and raised the stone knife so that the milky white blade shone in the light of the candles.
“Hear me, Bian!” she said, her eyes closing and her voice ringing like the castle bells. “A man comes to you offering his life’s blood for a life he has taken. Deem him worthy and accept this gift. Make room for the one who has died.” She paused, looking at Grinsa. “Do you know the name of this man you killed?”
“I knew him as Honok. He was an assassin sent to kill me.”
At that her eyes did widen, though only for an instant.
“And you offer blood for him?”
He shrugged. “I killed him.”
After a moment she nodded. Closing her eyes again, she raised the knife a second time. “Make room for the one who has died,” she repeated. “Judge him as you will. And remember Grinsa jal Arriet, who gives his blood. When his time comes, consider this gift.”
She dragged the blade across Grinsa’s arm, catching the dark blood as it welled from the wound. Though he had offered blood before, he could not help anticipating pain. The blade of the stone
knife appeared jagged and uneven. But it was honed to such a fine edge that he barely felt the cut at all.
After a few moments the bleeding subsided and Meriel wrapped a cloth around his arm. He could have healed himself, of course. But he chose to let time mend this wound.
The prioress lifted the bowl and swirled it gently so that his blood covered the entire surface. Then she placed the bowl at the middle of the altar.
“Will your companion make an offering as well?” she asked, facing him once more.
From the way she asked the question, Grinsa could tell that she knew just who the boy was and what he was said to have done.
“There’s no life on his hands,” he said as forcefully as he could. “And he’s already had more blood taken from him than he deserved.”
“I’m the god’s servant,” Meriel said, “and my dukes all turned to the cloisters long ago. But I’m still a woman of Kentigern. I’ll need more than the word of one man to trust that he’s innocent. Even if that man is you.”
“I understand, Mother Prioress. You’ll give us refuge?”
“How could I not? Others in my family may have disapproved of you as a husband for Pheba, but I saw how she looked at you.”
He felt the old grief rising within him, stronger than it had been in years. Perhaps it was being with Meriel again, or just the added pain of Cresenne’s betrayal. “Her mother saw that as well,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “It didn’t seem to matter to her.”
“My sister was small-minded and selfish. She cared more for what people said of her than she did for Pheba’s happiness.”
Grinsa nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Footsteps echoed off the ceiling of the shrine and the Qirsi turned, seeing a robed cleric standing beside a door he hadn’t noticed earlier.
“My pardon, Mother Prioress,” the man said, “but there are soldiers at the gate.” His eyes flicked toward Grinsa. “They are inquiring about our guests.”
“Thank you, Osmyn,” Meriel said. “I’ll speak with them in a moment.”
The man nodded once and withdrew.
“What will you tell them?”
“A lie,” she said easily. Then she smiled. “I serve the Deceiver.”
Grinsa merely stared at her, and after a moment her smile faded. “I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you or Lord Tavis.”
It was the first time either of them had spoken the boy’s name, and the Qirsi shivered slightly.
“When they don’t find him elsewhere, they’ll come back. Aindreas wants him dead.”
“The sanctuaries cannot be violated, even by a duke bent on vengeance. Aindreas knows that.”
“He tortured me, though it risked war with my father. Do you really believe he’ll show any more regard for the sanctity of your shrine?”
Grinsa turned to look at Tavis, awake after all and very much aware of his surroundings. He was as pale as a Qirsi and he appeared to be trembling, as if the very act of sitting there was taxing him to his limits. But the look in his eyes was keen and alert.
“Fear of the Deceiver runs deep, Lord Tavis,” the prioress said, showing no surprise at the boy’s question. “It’s one thing to challenge another duke, even one who would be king. It’s another thing entirely to challenge a god. As you will learn soon enough.”
The young lord frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This is Bian’s Sanctuary, and the cycle of this moon ends two nights hence. Every turn, on Pitch Night, all who are in this place meet their dead. Lady Brienne will tell us if you are guilty or innocent. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the truth of such things can best be learned in the shrine of the Deceiver.”
Tavis had paled, but he did not look away.
“I’ll go speak with the soldiers,” Meriel said, a thin smile on her lips. She started to leave, then halted and returned to the altar. “Your offering has been accepted,” she said, looking at Grinsa. “I hope that brings you some comfort.”
She held up the stone bowl for both of them to see. It was as white as the knife, as white as it had been when first they entered the shrine. His blood had vanished entirely, as if it had been absorbed into the stone.
Glyndwr, Eibithar
E
ven before she reached the court hall, Keziah made up her mind to leave the banquet early. She had met the duke of Rouvin before and though he seemed a gracious man and a competent leader, he struck her as a typical Eandi lord: as bland as Wethy bread, too full of himself, and far less intelligent than he believed himself to be. The irony in this, one that Kearney was certain to point out to her, was that it had been her idea to invite him to Glyndwr Castle. “It would be wise to maintain good relations with our Caerissan neighbors,” she told Kearney at the time. “War may seem a remote possibility now, but by the time a threat appears, it’s often too late to win allies.”
Her duke had agreed, as a wise duke will when his Qirsi minister offers sound advice. It had helped, of course, that she had made the suggestion in his bed, as she straddled his back rubbing his shoulders. She had known at the time what it would mean—a formal dinner attended by the duchess, and a night passed alone in her bed—but she knew as well that Kearney needed to do this. Tensions along the Aneiran border remained high, and the lords of Caerisse were divided in their sympathies between Aneira and Eibithar. If the kingdom could not depend upon the support of Caerisse’s northern lords in the event of a war, they had no hope of keeping their southern neighbor from allying itself with Aneira. With so much at stake, her personal concerns about the evening seemed selfish and small.
She had been alone before, and she had spent a good deal of time in the company of her lover’s wife. One night more of one or the other would mean little to her.
Much as Keziah disliked Leilia, the duchess, she also felt sorry for her. The woman knew of Keziah’s affair with the duke. By now she probably knew that he was in love with Keziah, and she with him. Yet there was little she could do about it. Yes, the love shared by the minister and her duke was forbidden by law—the sin of the moons—but had Leilia exposed them, she would have brought humiliation on herself as well. Besides, with other lovers would have come bastards, and a different kind of shame for the duchess. In noble houses of Eibithar, it was said, there were more bastards than there were heirs. But not in Glyndwr. Had Keziah become pregnant with the duke’s child, it would not only have exposed their crime, it would also have endangered her life, for Qirsi women rarely survived the labor that brought forth the child of an Eandi man. As things stood, Leilia was still the mother of all Kearney’s children, and Keziah and the duke were so discreet that few people, even within the castle, knew of their affair. Publicly, many noblewomen in the kingdom endured far worse than the duchess did. Her pain was private, a wound few could see. Keziah couldn’t say which she thought worse. In truth, each seemed a cruel fate to bear. At times she felt ashamed for what her love did to the woman. But on nights like these, when Leilia could claim the duke as her own before all the dukedom, Keziah envied the duchess. She might even have hated her.
Stepping out of the cloister tower, the one nearest her quarters, Keziah crossed Glyndwr Castle’s upper ward toward the court tower. Elined’s turn was almost over, but here in the Glyndwr Highlands, the night air still carried a chill. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and quickened her pace. The gown she wore was cut lower in the back than it should have been for so early in the growing season, but Kearney loved it, and if he was going to pass the night in Leilia’s arms he was going to do so thinking of Keziah in this dress. She reached the far side of the ward and entered the tower, nodding to the guards there as she did.
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.

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