Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (71 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Shurik glanced at Yaella for just an instant. “That was our arrangement, my lord. Under the circumstances, the siege having failed and the duke having been lost, I expect no more gold. But there is no longer a life for me in Kentigern, or anywhere in Eibithar for that matter. I do humbly ask your protection.”
“Yes, very well,” Rowan said, a sour expression on his youthful face. “I grant you asylum. And if my father promised gold, you’ll have that as well. The word of a Mertesse is as true as the sun.” It was an old saying, as old as the house itself, from all that Yaella could tell.
“You’re most gracious, my lord,” Shurik said. “Just as your father was.”
Rowan eyed him for a moment. “How much do we owe you?”
Shurik looked at Yaella once more.
“He was promised three hundred qinde, my lord,” she said, “and he’s still owed half.”
The duke’s eyes widened slightly, but then he nodded. “See to it, First Minister. And then make certain that he remains as far away from me as possible.”
Yaella faltered, glancing quickly at Shurik. “Of course, my lord.”
“My lord is too kind,” Shurik said, bowing once more. Yaella heard sarcasm in his voice, but again the duke didn’t appear to notice.
Rowan said nothing, his eyes fixed once more on the papers in front of him.
The two Qirsi exchanged another look.
“We’ll leave you now, my lord,” Yaella said. “You must be terribly weary.”
“Why did you do it?” Rowan asked.
Yaella frowned. “My lord?”
But when the duke looked up, his gaze fell upon Shurik’s face. “Why did you help my father? Was it just the gold?”
Abruptly Yaella’s heart was pounding like a smith’s sledge. She stared at Shurik, scouring her own mind for some answer that would satisfy Rowan without revealing too much. Her friend, though, gave no indication that he was shaken by the question.
“I served Aindreas of Kentigern for nearly ten years,” he said. “And never once did I feel that my duke appreciated my counsel or my powers. But more than that, I never felt that I was in the court of a great man. Do you have any idea, my lord, what it’s like to devote your life to serving a man you don’t respect?”
Yaella knew how much truth there was in Shurik’s answer, not only because he had expressed similar sentiments to her, but also because she had pledged herself to the Weaver’s cause for much the same reason.
“Yes,” the Qirsi went on after a moment’s pause, “I wanted your father’s gold. But just once I wanted as well to find myself in the service of a man I could honor.”
She felt certain that he was speaking of the Weaver, but Rowan couldn’t know this.
“I see,” the duke said, his voice low. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Your question demanded nothing less, my lord.”
Rowan nodded, suddenly looking tired and pale. “Leave me now. I wish to be alone.”
“Yes, my lord,” Yaella said.
The two Qirsi bowed to him one last time and left the chamber, keeping their silence until they were far from the duke’s guards in the dark corridors leading back to Yaella’s chamber.
“You handled that well,” she finally said. “Better than I would have.”
“I simply told him what he wanted to hear, and in a way that was so vague that I didn’t even have to lie.” Shurik grinned. “But you give yourself too little credit. You would have done the same had you been in my position.”
Yaella shook her head, unable just then to share in his mirth. “It will be much more difficult to explain all this to the Weaver. He expected a successful siege and a prolonged war between Aneira and Eibithar. We’ve given him neither.”
“I don’t know what he expected. As I told you before, I think it
possible that he had much to do with our failure.” He stopped her beneath one of the torches, taking both her hands. “We did what we could. We did what the Weaver told us to do. How can he ask more of us than that?”
Someone stepped into the corridor at its far end, the footfall startling her.
The two Qirsi began walking again, although Shurik continued to hold one of her hands in his own. They passed a guard, who nodded to them, his gaze straying to their entwined hands.
“He saw,” she whispered, after she could no longer hear the man’s footsteps.
“So what?” Shurik said. “I’m tired of keeping up appearances for these Eandi fools. Besides, I live here now. Chances are I’ll be one of the duke’s underministers before long. Isn’t it natural that I should seek the affections of his lovely first minister?”
She did smile at that.
A few moments later, they reached her door, pausing for a moment in the corridor.
“Will I be using my sleeping roll again tonight?” he asked, smiling and stepping closer to her.
Yaella felt her cheeks color and nearly laughed aloud at herself. Was she a girl again, about to share her bed with this man for the first time? She put her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“The duke did say to make certain you were comfortable.”
“A fine man, this new duke.”
Yaella kissed him again, deeply this time, before opening her door and drawing him into her chamber.
Lying in the darkness with Yaella naked beside him, her breathing slow and deep, her hand resting lightly on his chest, Shurik struggled to slow the beating of his heart. His brave words in the corridor notwithstanding, he feared the Weaver, as any Qirsi in his right mind would. Shurik considered himself a formidable man. Few Qirsi could lay claim to wielding even three forms of magic, much less the four that he possessed. He had served in the court of one of Eibithar’s most powerful dukes and had, for the past several years, succeeded in concealing his betrayal. He might not have been the finest warrior in Aindreas’s army, but swordsmanship was an Eandi
talent. In the most important respects, those that mattered to his own people, he was a man to be respected.
Yet, next to the Weaver, he was nothing. The man could read the thoughts and harness the powers of other Qirsi as if they were his own. He could enter the dreams of those who served him, and could compel their obedience without saying a word or lifting a hand. Shurik had dreamed of such power for years; he had never imagined that another would use it to bend his will.
If he could have divined the purpose behind the Weaver’s instructions it might have helped to ease his mind, but even in this way, the man was beyond him. Would the Weaver be angry that the siege had failed, or had he been responsible for its failure? Either way, Shurik felt certain that the man was waiting for him, ready to invade his sleep and carry him to the mysterious rise where they always spoke. So the minister lay awake, fighting his weariness, groping in the darkness for the words he would use to explain all that had gone wrong in the last few days. He longed to get up and step to the window so that he might look upon the moons and feel the cool touch of night on his face. But with Rouel dead and the castle mourning, even that was denied him. He felt himself drifting toward sleep, and though he tried to resist, it was as futile as swimming against a storm tide. It almost seemed that the Weaver had found a way to control his body as well as his mind.
At last he closed his eyes, thinking to do so only for a moment. But when he opened them again he was on the plain, standing in tall grasses amid the hulking shadows of boulders. The sky above him was black as night, but starless and moonless. Without even thinking, he started to walk toward the rise where the Weaver awaited him.
It was a steep climb that always left him winded and sweating, but this night it seemed especially arduous, as if the Weaver was already punishing him. Shurik felt as though he were ascending the highest peaks of the Basak Range rather than the grassy mound he had encountered here before. His legs ached and the slope grew so severe that he had to scramble on his hands and feet for the last part of the climb. When at last he reached the top, he could barely stand and his breath came in ragged gasps that tore at his chest.
He stood there for a long time, bent at the waist, his head spinning until he thought that he might be sick. The wind had ceased, as if the land itself were waiting for him to recover. At last he
straightened, and only then did the light blaze, stabbing like a blade into his eyes. He looked away, raising a hand against the light. When he faced forward again, the Weaver was there, walking toward him, his wild hair and flowing cape framed by the radiance like a cloud that has blotted out the sun.
The Weaver stopped a few paces from where Shurik stood. He looked taller than Shurik remembered, more powerful, more frightening, his face obscured by the shadows.
“The siege is over.” The Weaver offered it as a statement, his voice as hard as the stone boulders strewn across the darkened landscape.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And there is no war.”
“No.”
“How is it that you’ve managed to fail so miserably?”
How many times would he have to explain this? “Kentigern returned too soon, and he brought the armies of Curgh and Glyndwr with him.”
“I had heard of this as well. Not only did you fail to give me the war I desired, but you have allowed the major houses of Eibithar to unite. Only days ago, Curgh and Kentigern were on the verge of civil war. Now they’ve fought side by side against their kingdom’s most hated enemy. There’s no telling how many turns it will take to drive them apart again.”
“There was little I could do to—”
Shurik’s head snapped back, his cheek stinging as if he had been struck. But the Weaver hadn’t moved at all.
“You’re Kentigern’s first minister!” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You were there as all this was happening! And you want me to believe that you couldn’t prevent any of it?”
“There were other forces at work, Weaver.”
“Yes, of course there were.”
Shurik heard sarcasm in the Weaver’s tone and he had to bite back a response.
“The boy is free again?” the man asked a moment later. “Under Glyndwr’s protection?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, the only thing that worked out as you had hoped was your request for asylum in Mertesse. How fortunate for
you. Under such circumstances, a man in my position might feel that his generosity had been exploited, that his gold had gone for nothing at all.”
“The boy’s presence in Glyndwr may prove to be of some use to us,” Shurik said quickly, expecting the Weaver to hurt him again at any moment. “My former duke may have been helped by Curgh and Glyndwr, but he remains convinced that Tavis killed his daughter. Given time, I believe the rift between Javan and Aindreas will widen again. With the boy in Glyndwr, it shouldn’t be difficult to draw Kearney into the fray.”
“Interesting. You may be right. But in the meantime, whose time is being wasted? Whose gold is being spent to turn Kentigern against Glyndwr?”
Before Shurik could answer he was staggered by another blow, this one to the temple.
“Mine!”
the Weaver roared, his voice rolling like thunder over the grasses and boulders. “Never forget that! Every time you fail, I pay the cost. I’m a patient man. I’ve waited many years to achieve as much as I have. But my patience is wearing thin and my tolerance for mistakes is waning. From now on, when you fail me, you’ll be punished. And not just you, but all the Qirsi in my service, including the one sleeping beside you. You can tell her that in the morning, when you wake.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Shurik thought the man would let him go then, but he was wrong.
“You said a moment ago that there were other forces at work. What did you mean?”
The minister hesitated. This was not a matter he wished to discuss just now, with the Weaver already enraged.
“You do remember saying it.”
“Yes, Weaver. But I meant only that Tavis’s escape had drawn Glyndwr into the conflict and that the duchess of Curgh had been surprisingly generous in her offer to help Aindreas defend his castle.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s more to it than that. I sense your fear, your reluctance to tell me all that you’re thinking.”
“Anything else is conjecture on my part. Nothing more.”
“Then amuse me with your theories. But tell me quickly. I grow tired of these games. I can just as easily compel you to speak as ask you. And I don’t think you want that.”
Shurik’s throat was tight. In that moment he wasn’t even certain that he could speak. He felt a strange pressure on his eyes that swiftly turned to agony. Again the Weaver had not lifted a hand or taken a single step toward him. But it seemed to the minister that the Weaver’s thumbs were pushing his eyes into his head, until he thought that he would never see again.
“All right!” he cried. “I’ll tell you! Please, just stop!”
Abruptly the pressure was gone.
“Of course,” the Weaver said, his tone mild. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to know what you meant.”

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