Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Again something hit the floor. Terror seized his heart.

  “Father? Is that you?”

  A moment later a small flame illuminated the dungeon and he saw the two Qirsi men. Fotir he might have expected, but why would the gleaner from the Revel have come? He tried not to be frightened by the first minister’s reaction to his appearance, but seeing the tears on Fotir’s face was more than he could bear.

  “Am I beyond healing?” he asked in an unsteady voice.

  “No,” the gleaner answered, whispering as his eyes flicked briefly toward the door at the top of the stairs. “But mending all your wounds will take time. We can only do so much right now.” He glanced at Fotir. “His chains.”

  The minister nodded and stepped to the stone wall.

  “You know me?” the man asked, as the first of the manacles snapped in two.

  “I do, though I’ve forgotten your name. And I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “My name is Grinsa, and I’m here to take you from this prison.”

  “Why? You showed me this place in the Qiran. Isn’t this my fate?”

  Another manacle broke and then a third. Fotir’s breathing was growing labored.

  “What I showed you was your future, but not your true fate.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. I’ll explain, but not now.”

  The last of the manacles fell to the floor and Fotir took a step back.

  “You’re free, my lord,” he said. His face shone with sweat. “Can you walk?”

  Tavis had been sitting with his back pressed against the rough stone and now the two men came forward and helped him to his feet. Once more he leaned back against the wall. He put out his right foot, intending to take a step, but he could not support his own weight. He crumpled to the floor, crying out at the pain, which seemed to pulse from every wound Aindreas had inflicted on him.

  The gleaner spat a curse, looking up at the door once more. “He’ll have to be healed before we try to move him.” He pulled one of the torches from a sconce on the wall and held it to the flame that still burned in his hand. Then he placed the torch in a far corner of the dungeon, where its light would be less noticeable to the guards outside the door while still allowing them to see.

  “Yes,” Fotir said. “But where do we begin?”

  “Anywhere,” Tavis said. “Please. Just do something.”

  Returning to where Tavis lay, Grinsa knelt beside him and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll cool the fevered wounds,” he said. “Those are the ones making him weak. And I’ll try to repair his hands. The rest can wait until we’re someplace safer.”

  Even as the man spoke, Tavis felt the healing magic flowing, like water from a mountain stream, into the sword cut on his shoulder. Fotir knelt as well, supporting Tavis’s head in his lap as the young lord closed his eyes.

  Tavis must have dozed off, for when he awoke sometime later, the gleaner was healing one of the many wounds on his side. He was still in pain, but it was tolerable now—not at all like the agony he had known just a short time before.

  The two Qirsi were in the midst of a conversation, and he said nothing, choosing instead to listen with his eyes still closed.

  “ … You’re the only one aside from my sister,” the gleaner was saying in hushed tones. “And she and I have done all we can to conceal the fact that we’re related.”

  “It amazes me that you’ve kept it secret for this long,” Fotir said.

  “At times it amazes me as well.” A pause, and then, “I have to ask you, will my secret survive this night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a Qirsi in the service of Curgh’s duke, a man who soon will be king. We both know how the Eandi of the Forelands feel about Weavers. Some in your position would see it as their duty to expose me.”

  Tavis had heard of Weavers, but he remembered little of what he had been told. He knew that Weavers had led the Qirsi invasion of the Forelands nearly nine hundred years ago, and that all the Weavers in the Qirsi army had been executed at the war’s end. He knew as well what the gleaner meant about how Weavers were regarded in the Forelands to this day. They were feared, even hated. But he wasn’t certain why.

  “Let me ask you this,” Fotir said, seeming to avoid Grinsa’s question. “You spoke earlier of a Qirsi conspiracy. Did you mean it?”

  “I merely said that Aindreas might suspect one if we were caught. I was trying to convince the MarCullet boy to stay out of harm’s way.”

  “I understand that. But you’ve heard the talk, just as I have.”

  “Yes,” Grinsa said, after a brief silence.

  “Is it true?”

  Again the gleaner hesitated. “I believe it is. An assassin followed me to Kentigern. I have good reason to think that he was sent by another Qirsi who didn’t want me to help Lord Tavis.”

  “Where’s this assassin now?” Fotir asked, sounding alarmed.

  “He’s dead. I killed him in Kentigern Wood, though only after he nearly killed me.”

  “Qirsar save us all!”

  “Does Curgh’s prelate know that you still invoke the Qirsi god?”

  The first minister laughed. “I fear he suspects it.” A moment later he went on, his voice grave once more. “What do you think these Qirsi want?”

  “I’m not sure. It seems they wish to keep Tavis from the throne, perhaps his father as well. But I have no idea why. What does this have to do with what I asked you before?”

  “That depends. Could you see yourself joining their cause?”

  “No,” the gleaner answered, his voice hardening. “They tried to have me killed.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Actually, it’s not. Qirsi prejudice against the Eandi has cost me more than you can imagine. Now, I’ll ask you again, what does this have to do with the fact that I’m a Weaver?”

  “Probably very little. But it occurs to me that if there is such a conspiracy, and if I intend to oppose it, along with others who feel as I do, it might help our cause to have a Weaver on our side.”

  “If the conspiracy is real, First Minister, and if you pledge yourself to defeating it, I swear to you that you will.”

  For some time the two of them did not speak, although Tavis still felt Grinsa’s power soothing his injuries.

  “It must be strange for you,” Fotir said at last. “You’re probably the only Weaver in the Forelands. I can’t imagine what that would be like, knowing that you’re unique, that you’re probably the most powerful Qirsi north of the mountains.”

  “Actually, I think it likely that you’re wrong. I’m sure there are several of us.”

  Even with his eyes closed, Tavis could almost see Fotir shaking his head. “How is that possible?”

  “You think I’m the only Qirsi who can keep a secret?” Grinsa asked. “Think about it. There had to be many Weavers in the Southlands before our people invaded the Forelands. The army was led by at least eight, and I doubt that all the Weavers came north, leaving the homeland unprotected. In the first century after the war, as our people settled in the kingdoms of the Forelands, a good number more were found and executed. Only later did Weavers become so rare. Do you really think the trait was bred out of us? Isn’t it more likely that those who were born with the power learned to hide it?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Fotir said. “Which means there are others. I’m not certain that I find that comforting.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  Again they fell silent. After a few moments more, Grinsa removed his hands from Tavis’s side and shifted position, taking one of the boy’s mangled hands in his own.

  “The hands are the last,” the gleaner said. “I’ll heal his other wounds once we’re away from here.”

  “Should I wake him?”

  “He’s awake already. He has been for some time.”

  Tavis opened his eyes, feeling his face redden. “How could you tell?” />
  “Your breathing changed, as did your pulse. A healer can sense such things.”

  Fotir looked down at him. “How are you feeling, my lord?”

  “Better. Thank you.”

  “I’ve taken the fever from your body,” Grinsa told him, “but that’s all. You may feel better, but you’re still in no condition to travel far, and you still need several days of healing and rest.”

  He lowered Tavis’s hand to the floor and took hold of the other one. To his great relief, Tavis found that he could move his fingers again, though they felt stiff and awkward.

  “Where will we take him?”

  The gleaner looked at Fotir and grinned. “We won’t be taking him anywhere. Once we’re out of this dungeon, you’ll be returning to your duke. It’s best you don’t know where we’ve gone.”

  Fotir looked like he wanted to argue, but after a few seconds he merely nodded.

  Turning to Tavis again, Grinsa took a breath. “You heard us talk about a lot of things, Lord Tavis.”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand that you can’t repeat them to anyone.”

  “At this point, who’d listen to me?”

  He tried to smile, but the gleaner shook his head. “This is no joke. Lives are at stake. Mine, the first minister’s, those of people who matter to me a great deal. You must not tell anyone what was said here tonight.”

  The man’s yellow eyes were locked on his, holding him as firmly as the manacles once had.

  “You have my word,” he finally said.

  Still Grinsa’s gaze did not waver.

  The torch in the corner of the prison sputtered for an instant before starting to dim.

  “We should go,” Fotir said.

  At last, the gleaner looked away. He let go of Tavis’s other hand. It felt whole again as well.

  “Yes, we should,” Grinsa agreed. “Help me get him up.”

  They stood on either side of him, each taking hold of an arm, and carefully they pulled him to his feet.

  Grinsa’s healing had brought him relief from the worst of his pain, but when he tried to stand he grasped the severity of the wounds that remained. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. They half carried him across the cell, leaning him against the opposite wall, beneath the window shaft. Every movement hurt, but smelling the sweet cool air descending from the shaft, Tavis didn’t care. He’d have crawled through flames to get out of the prison.

  “This is the only way out,” Grinsa told him. “We’re going to have to lift you into the shaft, and then one of us will pull you up, while the other pushes from beneath. It’s going to hurt.”

  “I know,” Tavis said. “I’d rather die trying than stay here.”

  The gleaner grinned. He turned to Fotir. “You go first, and I’ll lift him into the shaft after you.”

  Laying a hand on the wall, Grinsa used his magic to carve a shallow notch out of stone, one that was small enough to escape notice, but deep enough to serve as a foothold. He made a second one a span or two above the first.

  Fotir placed his fingers in the higher notch and the toe of his shoe into the lower one. In a matter of seconds he had climbed into in the shaft.

  “Once you’re in the shaft, my lord,” he called, “grab hold of my feet.”

  “Ready?” the gleaner asked.

  “Yes.”

  Grinsa lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Tavis had never guessed that a Qirsi could be so strong.

  Reaching for the opening in the wall, Tavis tried to pull himself into the shaft, grunting at the effort and the agony in his arms and legs and back. Had Grinsa not been there, pushing him up, he would have failed. As it was, he barely managed to take hold of the first minister’s ankles. Fotir started to climb and Grinsa continued to lift Tavis into the shaft.

  Every second of it was excruciating. Each time his side or back or stomach scraped the stone, he felt as though Aindreas’s blade were slicing into him again. The burns on his body screamed in his mind like wraiths. He feared that he would lose consciousness, he felt that he would have vomited had he not been starved for days. Closing his eyes, he did his best to push himself up with his feet, although this too brought him agony. But at least he was doing something to help the two Qirsi. He wasn’t just some helpless babe having to be carried by others; he was Lord Tavis of Curgh. Clinging to that thought and to his name, as if they were the only things that could keep him afloat in his ocean of pain, he fought his way up the shaft.

  The end came abruptly. One moment he was clawing his way up the narrow stone passage, and the next Fotir was pulling him out into the cool night and onto the soft grass of the castle ward. He lay there, with his face pressed into the earth, breathing in the glorious fragrance of the grass, as the throbbing of his wounds slowly subsided. In another moment, Grinsa was lying beside him, his chest heaving with every breath.

  Fotir had vanished, and Tavis wondered if he had gone back to Xaver and his father. Only when the minister crawled out of the shaft a second time and started repairing the metal grate that had covered the window did Tavis realize what he had been doing.

  “What now?” the minister asked.

  Grinsa sat up. “Tavis and I need to get out of the castle.”

  “What about my father?” the boy asked, forcing himself to sit as well.

  Grinsa shook his head. “You can’t see him. If the duke of Kentigern has cause to believe that your father knew anything of your escape it could lead to war.”

  The Qirsi was right, of course. He was free, but to all in the land he was still a murderer. Ean knew how long he might have to run, how far he might have to go to keep his freedom. Suddenly, Tavis couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see his father again.

  “How will you leave the castle?” Fotir asked.

  The gleaner climbed to his feet. “I’m not certain.”

  “Perhaps a hole in the castle wall?”

  “That wall is as thick as you are tall,” Grinsa said.

  The minister grinned. “The tower walls are a good deal thinner.”

  The gleaner smiled in return, his eyes dancing with the light of the rising moons. “Do you have the strength?”

  “Normally I wouldn’t,” Fotir answered. “But tonight I have a Weaver to help me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  He heard the midnight bells echoing across the silent city like the tolling of funeral bells, and he raised the wine goblet to his lips to empty it yet again. He was alone, as he had been every night since Brienne’s death. Shurik had retired tor the evening a short while before, having sat with him dutifully for hours, waiting to be given leave to withdraw. Ioanna had been in bed for much of the day, rising only to stare at another meal until it grew cold, and then returning once more to the shuttered windows of their bedchamber.

  We all deal with grief in our own way, Aindreas thought, pouring more wine. She sleeps, I drink. And I torture.

  He had told himself from the beginning that he only wanted a confession. Brienne deserved that much. He couldn’t allow the demon the solace of a quick death if he didn’t first admit his crime. Usually he couldn’t abide torture; certainly he rarely took such measures into his own hands. But under these circumstances he could hardly do less. Tavis had butchered his daughter, whom Aindreas had treasured more than his title, more than his house, more than all the riches in Eibithar. He had slaughtered her like an animal, and then left her lying there, half naked, in a pool of her own blood. What kind of a father would he have been had he not made her killer suffer as well?

  All he wanted was the confession, he told himself. That’s what he told the prelate as well, and Shurik, and anyone else who would have listened. But if the boy had confessed that first day, would he have stopped, and given him his execution? He wanted to say “yes” and believe it, but he knew better. So, he was sure, did Barret and Shurik. His demand for a confession was a pretense and nothing more. The boy’s continued denials delighted him, for they justi
fied every cut of his sword, every touch of the torch, every broken bone in the killing hands. Tavis truly was Javan’s son, and his stubbornness was the source of Aindreas’s only remaining joy, black though it was.

  He did feel sorry for the duke himself. Knowing what it was to lose a child, he understood Javan’s demands to see the boy and his threats of war when those demands were refused. Like his son, however, he could not be allowed to deny the undeniable. They might have been the boy’s falsehoods, but by embracing them, the father became a liar as well.

  Aindreas stood, draining his goblet again and placing it roughly on the table. He began to pace in long strides, flexing his hands like a battle-hungry soldier. Just thinking of Brienne and Tavis and Javan unsettled him, leaving him restless and eager for blood. It was late, and he should have been in bed, but sleep felt as distant as Glyndwr.

  He was in the corridor on his way to the prison tower before he formed the thought. Everyone else was asleep; Ioanna, Shurik, even Barret. But the guards would be up, and he didn’t really care if he woke the boy.

  He found the two guards standing in the inner ward, just outside the entrance to the prison tower. They were supposed to be inside, guarding the door to the dungeon. Aindreas knew it, and judging from the fearful looks on both of their faces as he approached, they knew it as well. The duke could hardly blame them, though. Even with the door closed, enough of the prison’s stench came through the small window in the door to make the entire tower reek. Had he been in their place, he would have been outside too.

  “Open the door and get me two torches,” he commanded, not bothering to say anything about where they were standing.

  They both hurried to do his bidding, although one of them managed to remember a quick “Yes, my lord.”

  With the torches in hand, and the heavy prison door unlocked, Aindreas descended the steps. He felt a bit sleepy with the wine, but he was looking forward to this. He always did.

  “Wake up, Tavis!” he called. “Time for us to have another—”

  He froze, one foot suspended above a stair, not believing what he saw in the prison, or rather, what he didn’t see. The last few times he had come to the dungeon he had been prepared for the fact that Tavis might be dead. He had not been gentle with his sword or the torches, and, for all the evil that lurked within him, Tavis was still just a boy. But Aindreas had never expected that Tavis could just vanish. It wasn’t possible. No one had ever escaped the dungeon of Kentigern Castle. Yet there were his chains, hanging limply from the bloodstained wall.