Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  She should have just gone to Trin’s room as she had told Grinsa she would. This was a terrible risk. But though what she needed to do could wait until morning, she feared that sleep would rob her of her nerve. She had to do it now, while the pain of what had just happened was fresh and her mind set.

  For almost all their time together, she had felt that Grinsa was hiding something from her, something more than just what Tavis’s Fating had revealed. She thought she understood the night he revealed to her that he possessed a second magic, but even after that, the feeling lingered. Now she knew why. I’m tied to him somehow. Suddenly, Tavis’s Fating mattered again. She would have given almost anything to know what Grinsa had seen, but she knew enough to see the danger. She had to do this, she told herself. No matter how she felt about the gleaner.

  He shouldn’t have been able to keep such a thing from her, not for this long. It bothered her that he had. He was just a gleaner. Or so she told herself. But there was something mysterious about him, something that would have drawn her to him even had she not needed to win his trust, something that made the nights she had spent with him more than just a lie.

  There were some among her people who possessed mind-bending power, a potent magic that allowed them to touch the minds of others and convince them of nearly anything. Cresenne wasn’t one of them. She had never needed such power. Men thought her beautiful and kind, particularly when she flattered them or made them believe she was attracted to them. She had learned long ago that she needed little more to make them believe her lies. That first night at the Silver Gull she had convinced Trin—even he was not immune—that she had feelings for Grinsa, and later, she had convinced the gleaner as well. The next night, when she and Grinsa had dinner alone, she continued his seduction.

  Since that second night, however, something had changed. She knew that she had succeeded already in winning his trust and his affection. Indeed, she suspected that he was falling in love with her. But she sensed as well that what began as a seduction had become something far more dangerous. Only now, though, with the ache of leaving him twisting like a blade in her chest, did she know for certain. She loved him. Which was why she had to do this quickly, before she changed her mind, before she had the chance to gather her courage and go back to him.

  So she walked silently down the corridor, passing Trin’s room on her way to the stairs. Stepping out of the inn, she stopped at the edge of the lane, trying to get her bearings. It was raining steadily and the streets of Galdasten were dark. She knew that most of the Revel’s Eandi performers were staying in two inns on the north side of the marketplace, just a short walk from where she stood, but it took her several moments to figure out which way was north. By the time she started walking her hair and clothes were already soaked. Usually she liked rains in the warmer turns, especially after a day as hot as this one had been. But tonight, the rain just felt cold. She crossed her arms over her chest and hurried across the marketplace.

  She had made it a point to know where the man she needed to see was staying, which inn as well as which room. Cadel had given her the man’s name before leaving the Revel, and it had been a small matter for her to inquire with the innkeeper. It was a precaution, one she had hoped would not be necessary. Certainly she had never imagined that she’d be sending this man after Grinsa.

  “Damn him!” she muttered, as the rain ran down her face. “Bian take him to the darkest corners of the Underrealm.”

  It would have made all of this easier if she meant it. In the beginning, she had thought it a simple task. At first glance Grinsa had seemed rather ordinary. Kind, to be sure. Intelligent as well, and handsome in a plain sort of way. But a Revel gleaner and nothing more. All she had to do was seduce him, learn what she could of the gleaning, and leave him. What better way to demonstrate to the Weaver that the faith he placed in her had been justified than to assure that their plot against Curgh and his son succeeded?

  But there was more to seduction, she soon learned, than merely luring a man to one’s bed. And there was more to Grinsa than was apparent at first glance.

  “Damn him!” she said again, quickening her stride.

  She couldn’t say when she first realized that she wanted to end Eandi rule of the Forelands. There had been no single moment, no sudden realization. Rather, it seemed to Cresenne that her entire life had been building to this. She still remembered the shame she had felt as a child, learning with other children, Qirsi and Eandi, of Carthach’s betrayal and what it had cost her people. She would never forget how her father was treated, when, after his years on the sea, he became a lesser minister in the court of a Wethy duke. It was bad enough that the Eandi lord spoke to him with such disdain, dismissing his counsel with a wave of his hand and never even bothering to learn his name. But to see the higher-ranking Qirsi do the same filled her with rage.

  Somehow her father accepted it all, but she couldn’t. If the ministers could treat him this way while fawning over the Eandi, they were no different from Carthach. And if her father was willing to sacrifice his pride to remain in the court, then neither was he.

  After her father died, the duke gave her mother and her twenty qinde and sent them out of his court.

  “I cannot be expected to care for the families of every Qirsi who dies in my employ,” he said at the time. “Your people just don’t live long enough.”

  Cresenne was ten years old.

  Her mother spoke of the incident only once before her own death five years later. It was just before she died. They had joined the Crown Fair, one of Wethyrn’s traveling festivals, Cresenne as a fire player, her mother as a gleaner. They had finished a long day of travel and her mother had begun to show signs of the fever that would eventually kill her. It was dark in their room and Cresenne was certain that her mother had already fallen asleep.

  “Your father was a good man,” she said abruptly. “Strong, courageous, kind. I wish you had known him when he was still sailing, before Wethyrn.”

  Cresenne hadn’t known what to say, so she had lain still in the darkness, hoping her mother would say more.

  “The lords of the Forelands don’t care about the Qirsi. They just collect them, the way they do war horses or swords. That’s what the duke did. Your father wanted a good home for us, otherwise he never would have worked for such a man.”

  Those words stayed with Cresenne long after her mother’s death. And though, with time, they had allowed her to forgive her father, even to love him again, they had only served to deepen her hatred of the Eandi and their Qirsi allies. She often wondered if that had been what her mother intended.

  The first time the Weaver came to her, walking into her dreams like some white-haired god, Cresenne knew that she had been destined to join his cause. Perhaps he sensed this as well, for she quickly became one of his most trusted servants. It helped that she knew the festivals and was willing to travel the Forelands with them. The Weaver had recruited several ministers by then, but he also needed Qirsi who weren’t tied to a particular court and could move freely about the land without drawing undue attention. There were others like her—chancellors, the Weaver called them—traveling with the Festival in Sanbira, the Emperor’s Fair in Braedon, and one or two of the smaller carnivals in Aneira and Caerisse. But Cresenne was the youngest; the Weaver had told her so. Many of the older ministers seemed to resent taking orders from her, but she arranged their payments, and she spoke for the Weaver, so they never defied her.

  The Weaver instructed her to eliminate Lord Tavis, but he left it to Cresenne to determine how this might best be done. She had no doubt that he would be pleased with her plan. She needed to make certain, though, that Grinsa didn’t ruin everything. I’m tied to him … What could that mean?

  Still making her way through the darkness and the rain, Cresenne reached the inn, hurried through the door, and started up the stairs that led from the tavern on the ground floor to the sleeping rooms above.

  “Who’s there?” a man’s voice called fro
m behind the bar. A moment later he lit a candle, spilling light across the open room of the tavern.

  Cresenne pressed herself against the wall, hiding in the shadows.

  “I—I was invited by one of your patrons to his room, sir,” she said meekly.

  The man stepped out from behind the bar and lifted his candle higher, but the light still did not reach her.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. He seemed a gentleman, sir.”

  “I’m sure he did,” the man mumbled. “Bloody Revel.” He turned and headed back to his room. “Go on then,” he called, before shutting his door loudly.

  She continued up the steps, walked carefully to his door, and knocked softly.

  There was no answer for some time and she raised her hand to knock again. Just as she did, however, the door opened. It was dark in the corridor, and the man seemed to strain to see who had come. This was not a man she wanted to surprise, certainly not one she wanted to frighten. So Cresenne held out the palm of her hand and brought forth a small flame, summoning the magic as one would a memory.

  He was taller than she expected, with dark eyes and dark unruly hair that gave him a wild look. He wore breeches but no shirt and Cresenne could see that he bore a small white scar on his shoulder, and another high on his chest.

  “Who are you?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “You’re Honok, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. He glanced down the corridor, as if checking to see if she was alone.

  “I’m a friend of Corbin.”

  His eyes flew back to her face, widening for just an instant. He stepped farther into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

  “No,” she said. “Not out here. In your room.”

  Jedrek frowned, but then opened the door once more and led her inside.

  “Who is that?” a woman asked from the bed.

  Cresenne brightened her flame, revealing a dark-haired woman sitting up in bed. She was naked and large-breasted, pretty for an Eandi woman.

  “Who in Bian’s name are you?” she demanded, looking Cresenne up and down.

  “I’m his wife.”

  “His wife? But you’re …” Hearing Jedrek’s laughter, she stopped, glaring at one of them and then the other. “You bastard,” she said to him. “You can both rot, as far as I’m concerned.”

  She rolled herself out of the bed, grabbed her clothes and walked to the door. Flinging it open, she started down the corridor, not bothering to shut it again. Jedrek walked to the door as well, watching her go before closing it.

  “It took me three days to talk her into my bed,” he said, facing Cresenne once more. “This had better be important.”

  She was in no mood to even pretend that she cared. “Get me a candle. I don’t want to sustain this flame the rest of the night.”

  He brought her a large candle from the table by his bed. She held the wick to the flame in her hand before letting the conjured fire die out.

  “What is it you want?” he asked, standing in front of her, his hands on his hips.

  She sat on the bed, keeping her eyes on his face.

  “You know where Cadel’s gone?”

  He nodded. “To Kentigern.”

  “And you know why?”

  “I know enough. He doesn’t always tell me everything. He says it’s safer that way.”

  She considered this briefly. “He’s probably right.” She rubbed a hand across her mouth, then pushed her damp hair back from her brow. In spite of all that had happened that night, she didn’t want to do this. She tried to tell herself that she had no choice, that everything was at risk if Grinsa wasn’t stopped, but she wasn’t certain it was true.

  Can you risk letting him live? a voice asked within her.

  “No.”

  “No, what?” he asked.

  Cresenne hadn’t even realized she had answered aloud.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m here because one of the Qirsi in the Revel, the man who was present at Lord Tavis’s Fating, has decided to ride to Kentigern.”

  Jedrek looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “He had a vision. He knows the boy is in trouble. He may even have seen what Cadel has in mind for the boy. It’s possible that was what Tavis himself saw in his gleaning.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “Are you certain?”

  She looked toward the window. The rain had slackened. “No. I’m not certain of anything. But I do know the gleaner is going to Kentigern. The rest is unimportant.”

  “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Follow him. And when you’ve put some distance between yourself and the Revel, kill him.”

  He paled and lowered himself into a large chair near the window. “But he’s … You said he’s a gleaner. So that means he’s … he’s like you.”

  Cresenne couldn’t help but smile. “He’s Qirsi, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” She leaned forward. “Is that a problem?”

  “I’ve never killed a Qirsi,” he said, averting his gaze. “Cadel usually handles them.”

  He wasn’t making this any easier for her. “He’s just a gleaner,” she told him. “He shouldn’t be any different from others you’ve killed.”

  Jedrek nodded, though he still looked disquieted.

  “When were you to meet up with Cadel again?”

  “Two turns from now, in southern Aneira.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Two turns. It won’t make much sense for you to rejoin the Revel when you’re done.”

  “That’s not a problem,” he said.

  “Perhaps not for you. But two of you leaving the Revel on the same day might attract unwanted attention.” Cresenne chewed her lip for a moment. “Can you track him if he leaves a few days before you do?”

  The man grinned, showing no trace of the doubts he had expressed a few moments before. “If he’s in the Forelands, I can find him. All I need to know is his name and what he looks like.”

  Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it. She wondered if he could as well.

  “His name is Grinsa jal Arriet.” She almost didn’t get it out for the trembling of her voice. “He’s tall, broader in the shoulders than most Qirsi. He wears his hair long and untied. He has a wide mouth and high cheekbones.” And his hands are slender and more gentle than any I’ve ever known.

  “Is he a full-blood? White hair, yellow eyes?”

  She nodded.

  He frowned, but said nothing. Still, she knew what he was thinking. Like most Eandi he probably found it difficult to tell one Qirsi man from another.

  “How many days do you want me to wait?”

  She shrugged. “Can you afford to wait three or four?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference to me. Like I said, I’ll find him.”

  “Four then. That should be enough. People will remark on the fact that you’ve both left, but they’ll think it a coincidence, nothing more.”

  He nodded again. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t have any gold for you. All that I had for … for things of this sort, I gave to Cadel before he left.”

  “That’s all right,” Jedrek said. “Cadel handles the gold anyway. He’ll make sure we get paid.”

  “Do you have enough gold to buy a horse? He’ll be on horseback.”

  “Yes, I have enough.”

  Cresenne hesitated, then stood. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, but she was reluctant to leave.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he said, as if sensing her uncertainty. “He’ll never make it to Kentigern.”

  Cresenne walked slowly to the door, but halted before she reached it, and faced him again.

  “When the time comes,” she said, “don’t let him suffer. Do it quickly.”

  He took a breath, the worried look returning to his lean face. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do it any other way with a Qirsi. If I’m lucky, he won’t even see me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

/>   Kentigern, Eibithar, Elined’s Moon waning

  Fotir knew that he should have been grateful. On that dreadful morning, as Brienne’s body lay covered with blood in Tavis’s bed, he had wondered if any of them would survive the day. Certainly he’d expected that Tavis would be killed immediately. Late that day, when Javan returned to the guest quarters of the castle following his meeting with the duke of Kentigern, he too appeared to have lost all hope of saving his son’s life.

  “I’ve done all I can for him,” he said at the time. “But I fear he’ll be dead before sunset tomorrow.”

  The duke told Fotir little of his meeting with Aindreas, save that he had threatened war if Tavis was executed without fair consideration, and that Aindreas had vowed to block his ascension to the throne.

  For his part, Fotir did little better with Shurik. The friendship they had started to build during their evening together at the Silver Bear crumbled under the weight of subsequent events. When he went to speak with the minister the morning after Brienne’s murder, Shurik refused to see him. As much as Fotir wished to offer reassurances to his duke, he had none to give.

  It seemed, however, that Javan’s threats carried more weight with Aindreas than either Fotir or his duke had believed. Five days had passed since Brienne’s death and Tavis’s imprisonment, and still the young lord lived. He remained in prison, enduring conditions that Fotir could only describe as abominable. But at least he was alive.

  The day before, four days after her death as custom dictated, Brienne was honored by the people of Kentigern. Despite his loyalty to the house of Curgh and his belief in Tavis’s innocence, Fotir couldn’t help but be moved by what he heard from the castle ward as the people of Kentigern filed into the castle cloister to view her body. Men and women alike wailed in their grief and screamed for Tavis’s execution. At dusk, when Brienne’s body was carried back to the ward and laid upon the pyre, the thousands who had lingered in the castle abruptly began to sing the lament from The Paean to the Moons. It was not at all the custom—they were supposed to remain silent as the fire was lit. But this only served to make their tribute more poignant. Recalling it now, though, as he walked with Javan and Xaver to the prison, Fotir realized that even this act of devotion and love had a darker side. It didn’t matter if they proved Tavis innocent or not. Aindreas wanted the boy dead, and, it seemed, so did his people.