Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  The duke placed one of the torches he carried in a sconce by his head, then drew his sword and continued warily down the stairs.

  “Guards!” he called. “Get down here! And bring more torches!”

  Aindreas’s heart hammered at his chest and his sword hand was shaking. Where were the damn guards!

  “Hurry up!” he bellowed.

  One of the men came running down the stairs, his sword already in hand.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  “Where’s the other man?”

  “Getting the torches, my lord.”

  The duke nodded and swallowed. Of course, that would take some time.

  “Where’s the boy?” he asked.

  Even in the dim light he saw the man blanch, his eyes flying to the wall where Tavis had hung for days.

  “I—I don’t know, my lord!”

  Aindreas gestured toward the far corner of the cell with his sword. “The forgetting chamber,” he said in a whisper. “Check it.”

  The man nodded, then hesitated. Aindreas handed him the second torch.

  The guard walked forward slowly, dropped to his knees, and, thrusting the torch into the narrow opening leading to the tiny cell, peered into the chamber. After a moment he straightened and, looking back at the duke, shook his head. He appeared to be clenching his teeth, as if to keep from being sick. After a few seconds he managed to speak again. “No sign of him, my lord. Just the brigand we put in there some time back. And he’s …” He clamped his mouth shut again, shaking his head a second time.

  “Has anyone been in this cell tonight?”

  “No!” the guard said, his eyes widening. “I swear it!”

  Aindreas glared at him. “Could someone have gotten in while you were outside?”

  “I’ve had this the whole time,” he said, holding up the iron key. “No one could have gotten in or out without my help.”

  “Apparently someone did.” The duke walked over to the wall and bent down. The manacles lay on the floor, each of them broken in two.

  The second man arrived, hurrying down the stairs with two torches in each hand. Seeing that the boy was gone, he halted and looked at his friend. “Where—?” He stopped himself, and glanced at Aindreas, appearing even more frightened than he had when the duke found them outside.

  Aindreas grabbed one of the torches from him and began searching the dungeon. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but it was all he could do to keep from running the men through with his blade.

  Aside from the manacles, he saw nothing unusual on the floor. The iron grate still covered the window shaft, and while he wasn’t certain he could trust these men even to look into the forgetting chamber without missing something, he wasn’t about to stick his head in there. He could smell the brigand from where he was. He had to have gone up the stairs and through the door. There was no other way. Which meant that he had help. Not from these two. Neither of them was clever enough to be of any use in such a plot. They were much more valuable to his enemies for their incompetence than they would have been as allies.

  Spitting a curse, he spun toward the men. “Raise the alarm!”

  One of them started to leave, but Aindreas raised his sword to stop him. “On second thought,” he said, starting up the stairs, “I’ll do it myself. The two of you can stay down here.”

  “But my lord—!”

  He didn’t even break his stride. “Be thankful I don’t kill you where you stand.”

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he slammed shut the prison door and ran into the ward shouting for his guards. With any luck at all Tavis had yet to leave the castle. If not, he might at least still be in the city. Not that it mattered. He’d track the boy to Uulrann if he had to. But he swore to every god who would listen that his daughter’s murderer would not cheat the death he had earned.

  Fotir managed to avoid Kentigern’s guards as he made his way back to his chamber. He had thought that Xaver would be asleep again, but he should have known better.

  “Is he free?” the boy asked, as soon as the minister opened the door.

  Fotir raised a finger to his lips, quieting the boy. He closed the door gently before answering. “Yes,” he whispered. “He’s free.”

  “Is he all right?”

  The Qirsi started to undress. “Get back in your bed and I’ll tell you everything I can.”

  Xaver quickly returned to his bed and lay down.

  “Lord Tavis needed a good deal of healing. He’d been tortured, just as we expected.”

  “But he’s all right now.”

  “When I left him he was well enough to move. But he’ll need several more days of healing, and even then some of his wounds may not heal fully. Many of the scars will stay with him for the rest of his life.”

  “I hope they all rot in the Underrealm!” the boy said. “Aindreas, his guards, all of them.”

  Fotir nodded, returning to his own bed. “I must admit, I feel the same.”

  There was a brief pause and then, “Where is Tavis now?”

  “With Grinsa. They’re out of the castle, but the gleaner didn’t tell me where they were going. He thought it would be safer if I didn’t know.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  With my life, he wanted to say. And with all of yours as well. But how could he explain such a statement? Even if he tried, even if he told Xaver that Grinsa was a Weaver, and that his willingness to share his secret offered all the proof of his goodwill that Fotir needed, the boy wouldn’t understand. Xaver was a loyal friend to his liege, courageous and intelligent beyond his years, but he was Eandi. Probably he wouldn’t even know what it meant to be a Weaver, but if by some chance he did, he would see Grinsa as a threat, someone who should have been executed rather than entrusted with the life of the young lord. Fotir and the boy shared a common bond—their fealty to the House of Curgh—and the Qirsi saw qualities in Xaver that he had seen in himself years ago. But in this instance, all that tied them to each other could not bridge the chasm that separated Qirsi from Eandi.

  “Yes,” he told the boy, knowing that the question deserved a more thoughtful answer than he could give. “I trust him.”

  “When are we to join them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Xaver propped himself up on one elbow. “You and Tavis made no plans?”

  “Xaver, the duke of Kentigern still believes Tavis is a murderer. His escape doesn’t change that. If anything, it makes your friend appear even more guilty than before. But given the condition he was in, we had little choice.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That Tavis will probably have to leave the kingdom. If he remains, he risks being hunted down and killed, or at least imprisoned again.” Fotir hesitated. It had to be said, though he knew that it would pain the boy, and the duke and duchess even more. “We may never see Tavis again. We just have to take comfort in the knowledge that he’ll be safe, even if we can’t be with him.”

  Xaver stared at him for several moments, his expression unreadable in the darkness. Finally he lay back down, gazing up at the ceiling. They lay in their beds for a long time, neither of them speaking, until Fotir began to wonder if the MarCullet boy had fallen asleep.

  “He was never an easy friend,” the boy said abruptly, his voice so soft the minister could barely hear him. “He could be selfish, at times even cruel. But he was the only friend I ever had.” He paused, but only briefly. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that now. I just wish I had told him that.”

  He doesn’t deserve your regret. Even after all he’s been through. He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, however. Not after risking his own life to save the boy. Not after devoting himself to the boy’s father, who, though brave and wise, could also be humorless and cold. What was it about the men of Curgh that inspired such loyalty? Certainly it wasn’t their charm or their warmth. “I’m sure he knows,” Fotir said at last. “When we first reached the dungeon, and he still couldn’t see who had
come, yours was the first name he called out.”

  He was going to say more, but before he could, he heard someone shouting from the inner ward. An instant later the castle came alive with voices and tolling bells. Torchfire lit the walls of the fortress and cast flickering shadows within their chamber.

  Fotir and Xaver leaped from their beds to the window and stared out at the men gathering in the ward. Aindreas stood at the center of the growing throng, barking commands to his men and gesturing frantically toward the towers and gates.

  “They can’t possibly know already,” the minister said, his stomach clenching like a fist.

  “Know what?” Xaver asked. “You mean Tavis? They’ve already learned that he’s gone?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But how?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come away from the window,” he said, climbing back into his bed and gesturing for the boy to do the same.

  Xaver backed away from the window and then turned toward the Qirsi, his eyes large and fearful, like those of a child.

  “The duke can know nothing of what happened tonight,” Fotir said, pointing to the boy’s bed once more.

  Xaver lay down again. “You mean our duke?”

  “Yes. We’ll tell him soon; he’ll want to know that Lord Tavis is safe. But for now, don’t speak of it, even if the three of us are alone. If Aindreas has any cause to believe that he knew, it could lead to war.”

  “But won’t Aindreas suspect the duke?”

  “Of course. But leave that to Javan. As long as he doesn’t know anything of the escape, he’ll be able to defend himself against Aindreas’s accusations.”

  “All right.”

  Fotir heard footsteps in the hallway and the ring of steel as swords were drawn.

  “Be brave, Xaver MarCullet,” he said. “Remember who you are and all that your father has taught you.”

  Someone pounded heavily on their door.

  “Open this door!” a voice called. “Or by authority of the duke of Kentigern we’ll break it in!”

  Fotir stepped to the door and pulled it open. Perhaps a dozen guards were crowded in the corridor, all of them with their swords drawn. Several held torches.

  “The two of you will come with us,” one of the men said.

  Fotir nodded. “Of course. Can we dress first?”

  The man nodded. Fotir and Xaver pulled on their clothes and stepped into the corridor. The guards had Javan as well. The duke looked sleepy and confused, his clothes thrown on hastily.

  Before the guards could take them anywhere, however, Aindreas and Shurik came around the far corner, the Qirsi minister hurrying to keep up with his duke.

  “Ah, good,” Kentigern said, seeing Javan and the rest of them. “I was afraid the three of you would be gone as well.”

  Javan straightened, as if finally rousing himself from his slumber. “What is the meaning of this, Aindreas?”

  Kentigern shook his head. “I should have known,” he muttered. He turned to the captain of his guards. “Report.”

  “The duke was asleep, my lord. Or at least he seemed to be.” He pointed to Fotir and Xaver. “These two were already awake.”

  “We’re both light sleepers,” Fotir explained evenly. “From all the noise outside we thought the castle was under attack.”

  The large duke sneered. “Of course you did.”

  “I demand an explanation!” Javan said, sounding, Fotir had to admit, like a peevish boy.

  A guard who had entered Fotir and Xaver’s chamber a few moments before emerged now and shook his head. A second man stepped out of Javan’s room a few seconds later and did the same.

  “Nothing, my lord,” this one said.

  “Very well, Javan,” Aindreas said, looking at Curgh’s duke once more. “If you insist on playing this game, I’ll go along. Your son is gone from my dungeon. We don’t know how he got out, or where he is now. But we’re searching the castle and the city, and even now I have soldiers fanning out over the countryside. We will find him. So unless you wish to see him ridden down like an animal, or killed by my archers and dragged back to the castle behind a mount, you’d better tell me where he is.”

  The duke paled at the news—surely Aindreas saw it as well—and he put a trembling hand to his lips.

  “Tavis escaped?” he said, his voice unsteady. “Ean be praised! When?”

  Aindreas dismissed the question with an impatient gesture, turning to Fotir. But the Qirsi could see that he was unnerved by Javan’s response.

  “What about you?” Kentigern demanded. “What do you know about this?”

  The minister shrugged, surprising himself with how calm he felt. “Nothing, my Lord Duke. As I told you—”

  “Yes, yes. You thought we were under attack. No doubt you were hurrying to our aid when my men opened your door.”

  “Actually no,” Fotir said. “We were about to check on our duke, just as one would expect of his loyal servants.”

  “My lord, my lord!” came a voice before Kentigern could answer. An instant later two more guards ran into the corridor, nearly crashing into several other guards. “My lord!” one of them said again.

  Aindreas took an eager step toward them, pushing aside two of his men. “Yes, what is it? Have you found him?”

  “No, my lord. Something else. A hole in the wall of the north city tower.”

  “A hole? In the stone?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Aindreas whirled toward Fotir, grinning triumphantly. “I knew that there was Qirsi magic behind this! How else could his manacles have broken? How else could he have gotten out of the dungeon without being seen? How else could he have walked after all—?” He faltered, though only for an instant. “After all that time in chains.”

  Fotir almost forgot himself. He so wanted to reveal what Kentigern had done to Lord Tavis, here, in front of Javan and Xaver and the man’s guards, that he nearly pounced on Aindreas’s slip of the tongue. But by doing so he would have proven his own complicity in the boy’s escape.

  “I don’t understand, my lord,” he said instead. “Are you accusing me of helping Lord Tavis escape?”

  “Well, who else would I accuse?” Aindreas gestured toward his first minister. “Shurik?”

  Fotir allowed himself a smile. “And you believe that I used my magic to break a hole in your castle?”

  “Would you have me believe that you used your hands?”

  The Qirsi laughed. “One is as likely as the other, my lord. Even if I had the power to do such a thing, I would barely be able to speak for the effort, much less stand here as I’m doing.”

  Aindreas looked at him skeptically.

  “You needn’t believe me, my lord,” Fotir said. “Ask your first minister.”

  The duke turned to Shurik, a question in his pale eyes.

  Shurik cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m afraid he’s right, my lord. I don’t possess the shaping power myself, but I know many who do. It’s my understanding that, if the minister had done what you’ve accused him of doing, he would scarcely be able to stand for hours afterward.”

  “Well, perhaps you had help,” Aindreas said.

  Before Fotir could respond, Javan began to chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re like an Aneiran constable, Aindreas, determined to blame the first person you find for each crime no matter what the facts tell you. Even the most plausible denials aren’t good enough for you. You’ve made up your mind that Tavis is guilty, despite the blood we found on his window shutter. And now you’re doing the same with Fotir, even after what your first minister just told you.”

  The duke’s face shaded to purple, and Fotir feared that Javan had gone to far. It was bad enough likening a Kentigern to an Aneiran, but to do so under these circumstances, with Brienne dead and Tavis gone from the prison, bordered on cruel.

  “Your son has escaped my prison,” Aindreas said, biting off each word. “Whom else should I blame but one of your company?”

  The duke
of Curgh shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know. I won’t lie to you and tell you I’m sorry. I hope that my boy is already leagues away from this castle. I don’t even care if he’s in Aneira, so long as he’s safe from you and your dungeon. But as your own guards have already told you, he’s not in Fotir’s room, nor is he in mine. So blaming one of us for his escape strikes me as rather foolish.” He turned back toward his room. “I’m going back to sleep. I hope your search for Tavis proves as fruitless as your efforts to keep him locked away.”

  “Hold, Javan!” Kentigern said, his voice echoing in the narrow corridor.

  The duke faced him again. “What is it now? You wish to search my chamber a second time? Perhaps you think I carved a hole in your castle wall with my sword, and you want to see if my blade is notched.”

  Aindreas bristled. “I see no humor in this,” he said. “My daughter’s killer has escaped and until he is found I plan to hold you and your company in his place.” He glanced at his captain. “Take them. You’re not to let them out of your sight. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded. “You want them in the dungeon, my lord?”

  The duke hesitated, his eyes flicking toward his first minister. Shurik held his gaze briefly, then shook his head.

  “No, not to the dungeon,” Aindreas answered, shaking his head as well. “Put them in the prison tower. See to their needs, keep them fed and reasonably comfortable. But they are not to leave the tower.”

  “You would make a prisoner of your future king?” Javan demanded.

  “If I must.”

  “Though it mean civil war?”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same to save your son?”

  Javan did not respond, but Aindreas must have seen the answer written on his features, for a moment later he gave a dark grin.