Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  The swordmaster considered this, shaking his head. The Qirsi were full of surprises, and he wasn’t ready to rule out the possibility that this was some sort of trick. It had always struck him as absurd that the sorcerer race, men and women who had first come to the Forelands as would-be conquerors, were now trusted as ministers in every court of every kingdom in the land. Hadn’t any of the Eandi nobles learned their history? Didn’t they know what Qirsi magic had done to the armies of the Forelands during the Qirsi Wars? Had they forgotten that the Qirsi themselves had been done in by a traitor? They were dangerous and deceitful, yet it sometimes seemed to the swordmaster that he was the only person who realized it.

  Perhaps, as Kearney often said, he was too much of a warrior. He didn’t fully trust the Caerissans either, though Caerisse and Eibithar had been allies for two centuries and hadn’t fought a war in four hundred years. Once an enemy, always an enemy. It was an old soldier’s credo, one Gershon’s father had taught him many years ago. He knew that it could be taken too far—during its history, Eibithar had fought wars with just about every kingdom in the Forelands, and he couldn’t expect the kingdom to stand alone, without allies. But neither would he expect any of Eibithar’s dukes or thanes to turn to the people of Wethyrn or Caerisse for counsel. Yet none of them thought twice about turning to the white-hairs.

  Gershon thought his duke the most intelligent and honorable man he had ever known. He understood the world as it truly was, unlike some, who seemed incapable of seeing beyond what they thought the world should be. As commander of Glyndwr’s army, he appreciated the value of training and fine arms. As head of one of Eibithar’s major houses, he knew when to talk and when to use his soldiers. As a friend, he expressed his opinions with candor, and expected the same in return, even knowing that he might not like all he heard.

  A man—a soldier—could ask for no more from his duke. To Gershon’s mind Kearney had but one flaw: his attachment to the first minister.

  It was bad enough that he turned to her for advice at every turn. That he should love her as well seemed to the swordmaster uncharacteristically foolish. Gershon and Sulwen had befriended Kearney and his wife years ago, long before Kearney’s father died, making the young man duke. The swordmaster knew that Leilia could be difficult, even cold at times. He knew as well that it was not at all uncommon for a noble to take a mistress, or even several. But a mistress was one thing; a Qirsi mistress who also served as first minister was quite another. Never mind that their love was forbidden, that they risked disgracing themselves and the House of Glyndwr every night they spent together. How was he to judge the soundness of the advice she offered if he listened to her as a lover rather than as a noble? The Qirsi had shown time and again that they could not be trusted, and yet Kearney had let the woman into not only his court but also his bed.

  Gershon found it easy to hate her, and easier still to question her motives and the soundness of her counsel. All of which made those rare instances when he found himself agreeing with her deeply disturbing.

  “You’re very quiet, swordmaster.”

  Gershon looked up. Kearney was eyeing him closely, that same smile on his lips.

  “I take it you think this is a bad idea.”

  The swordmaster cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m not certain what I think of it. It does sound like Kentigern and Curgh could be at each other’s throats, and soon. I’d put our army up against either of theirs without a second thought, but I’m not anxious to get between them.”

  The duke looked puzzled. “So you do think we should stay out of it.”

  “I don’t know that we can. She’s right about that. If we have even the smallest chance of preventing a civil war, particularly one so close to the Aneiran border, we have an obligation to do so.”

  “We live in extraordinary times,” the duke said, laughing and shaking his head.

  “My lord?”

  “First Keziah suggests that I speak with you, and then you tell me that you agree with her. I wouldn’t be surprised if the king of Caerisse walked in here tomorrow and told me he’d signed a treaty with the Aneirans.”

  “Ean forbid,” Gershon said with a frown.

  There was a knock at the door, and the swordmaster felt his shoulders tightening.

  “Are you certain you’re up to this?” the duke asked.

  “Of course, my lord. We’re your most trusted advisors and you require counsel from both of us. That’s what you’ll have.”

  The duke nodded, then faced the door. “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened and the first minister walked in, her white hair and pallid skin making her look more like a wraith than a person.

  Kearney rose from his chair and stepped around his table to greet her. “Good morning, First Minister.”

  “My lord,” she said, giving a small bow, no doubt for Gershon’s benefit. “You sent for me?”

  “Yes.” He indicated Gershon with an open hand. “We were just discussing your suggestion that I ride to Kentigern.”

  The minister faced him, her expression unreadable. “Good morning, swordmaster.”

  He nodded once, saying nothing.

  “Did you decide anything, my lord?” she asked.

  “Not yet, no. But you should know that I received another message this morning, this one indicating that Lord Tavis managed to escape from Kentigern’s dungeon and that Aindreas has imprisoned Javan, his first minister, and a small company of his men in the castle. It seems he intends to hold them until the boy can be recaptured.”

  The woman rubbed her hands together anxiously. “Who sent the message, my lore?”

  “That’s the odd thing. It’s not signed, and the messenger couldn’t say.”

  “Perhaps it’s meant as a deception, a trick to get you to ride to Kentigern.”

  “I thought you wanted him to go,” Gershon said.

  She hesitated, and the swordmaster could see that she was struggling with something. There was more here than the duke knew.

  “I want nothing one way or another,” she said at last. “If by going to Kentigern the duke can prevent a civil war, then by all means he should go. But only if the danger to him isn’t too great.” She gave a thin smile. “That’s why I told him to speak with you, swordmaster. Who better to decide what’s safe for him and what isn’t?”

  “Do you think this message is a trick of some sort?” Kearney asked, forcing them both to look at him again.

  “It bothers me that isn’t signed,” Gershon said. “But with all we know of what came before, and all we know of Javan and Aindreas, I believe what it says.”

  The Qirsi woman crossed her arms over her chest. “So do I.”

  Again, watching her speak, Gershon had the sense that she was holding something back.

  The duke, however, did not seem to notice. “I believe it as well,” he said, “though I’m loath to admit it.” He walked slowly to the hearth and gazed into it, though no fire burned there. “Left to themselves, Javan and Aindreas will destroy each other, leaving all of southwestern Eibithar exposed to Aneira.” He faced them again. “That’s where both of you think this will lead, isn’t it? Unless I stop them.”

  “No one else will stop them, my lord,” Gershon said, choosing his words with care. “The king is said to be infirm, Tobbar carries little weight with the other houses, and the same can be said of the new leaders in Galdasten.”

  He glanced at the first minister and found that she was watching him closely, as if seeing him for the first time. It made him uncomfortable to have her staring at him so.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked sourly.

  “No,” she said. “Just the opposite. I was about to say much the same thing.” She smiled. “I’m not accustomed to agreeing with you so often.”

  “Perhaps there’s hope for Javan and Aindreas after all,” Kearney said, grinning at them.

  Gershon mustered a smile, but he remained uneasy.

  “So,” the duke went on a mom
ent later, “I have no choice but to intervene.”

  “I don’t believe that’s what the swordmaster was saying, my lord. It may be that none of Eibithar’s houses should intervene. You may even want to consult with them before you act. But if you feel that something should be done, you’ll have to do it yourself. None of the others can.”

  She understood him well enough, though Gershon didn’t like her speaking for him.

  The duke looked at him, a question in his green eyes.

  The swordmaster nodded. “She has it about right.”

  “I don’t think we have time to consult with the other houses,” Kearney said. “As it is we may not get to Kentigern soon enough to prevent a war.” He returned to his table, pulled a piece of parchment from a drawer, and began to write. “How long will it take you to prepare the men?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

  Gershon didn’t hesitate. “We can be ready two mornings from now, my lord. How many men do you want to take?”

  “As many as we can without leaving Glyndwr vulnerable.”

  Gershon thought for a few moments. He would leave three hundred archers and two hundred swordsmen to keep the city and castle safe. Fewer men might suffice, but he tended to be cautious in such matters. See first to defending yourself, for a victory in the field means nothing if home is lost. It was yet another of his father’s sayings, and perhaps the most sensible of them all.

  “I would take seven hundred, my lord. Two hundred bowmen and the rest swordsmen.”

  “That sounds fine.” The duke looked up from his writing. “You’ll see to their provisions?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “So you’ve decided,” the minister said.

  “Yes. Given what I’ve been hearing from the two of you, I don’t feel that I have any other choice.”

  “What is it you’re writing?”

  “A message to Aindreas informing him of my intention to ride to Kentigern and asking him not to do anything that might endanger the peace before I arrive.”

  “It’s a bit late for that,” Gershon said quietly.

  Kearney glanced at him, smiling once more.

  “You’re certain this is wise, my lord?” the Qirsi asked.

  “No,” he said, still grinning.

  The minister didn’t respond, and Kearney’s smile faded.

  “I know it carries risks. But I believe it’s the right thing to do.”

  She stood there for several seconds, looking as if she wanted to say more. Instead she turned and started toward the door. “Then I’ll leave the planning to the two of you. I’m not very good with soldiers and supplies.”

  “Kez, wait.” Kearney was on his feet again, stepping out from behind his table. “I must say, I’m as confused as Gershon was before. First you tell me I have to go to Kentigern, and then, when I make up my mind to do so, you act like I’ve just disappointed you terribly.”

  The Qirsi stopped at the door, but didn’t face him again. “I don’t mean to, my lord. I agree that you’re doing the right thing. I … I’ll pray to the gods for your safety.”

  “Our safety, Kez. You have to come with me.”

  She did turn then. “I’m no warrior.”

  Gershon had to keep himself from voicing his agreement. She wasn’t a warrior, and she had no place in the company that would ride from the highlands to the tor.

  “No, but you’re my first minister. Gershon is a warrior and we may need him before all of this is over. But I have to stop a war, and I need to have someone with me who’s as skilled in mediation as the swordmaster is in soldiering.”

  The look in her yellow eyes brightened. “Yes, my lord,” she said. Neither of them had moved—half the room lay between them. Yet, looking from one of them to the other, seeing the way they gazed at each other, Gershon had to turn away. He could never approve of their love, but neither could he deny its power.

  “I’ll leave you, my lord,” she said again, the words coming out as no more than a whisper.

  “Very well. We’ll speak again later in the day.”

  She bowed again before leaving.

  For a moment Kearney continued to stare at the door, as if he could still see her standing there. Then he looked at the swordmaster, as if finally remembering that he was still there.

  “Is there anything else, Gershon?”

  Nothing that I can say, nothing that wouldn’t end our friendship forever . “No, my lord. I’ll prepare the men and speak with the quartermaster.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced toward the door one last time, before returning to his table and the message for Aindreas.

  The swordmaster left the duke’s chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. The first minister was still in the corridor, making her way toward the court tower and the archway that opened onto the upper ward. Gershon hurried after her. His footsteps echoed off the low stone ceiling and he was certain that she could hear him. But the Qirsi didn’t turn. If anything, she appeared to quicken her stride.

  “First Minister,” he called.

  Still she kept walking.

  “Would you stop!”

  She halted, standing with her back to him for just an instant before turning. “What do you want?” Her cheeks were flushed, the blood beneath her pale skin as dark as bruises, and Gershon was struck by how young she looked.

  “You’re hiding something from us. I want to know what it is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He gestured over his shoulder toward Kearney’s chamber. “I was watching you in there while you were talking to the duke. You weren’t telling him everything. I can’t tell if you want him to go on this journey or not, but whichever it is, there’s more to your reasoning than you’d like us to know.”

  She chewed her lip, her eyes darting to his face, then dropping again. She looked so much like a child that Gershon couldn’t help but wonder how old she was. Few of the Qirsi, he knew, lived to their fortieth year. And in that moment he thought she couldn’t have been much more than half that old.

  “Do you believe that I love him?”

  He blinked, not certain that he had heard her correctly. “What?”

  “I know that you hate me, that you hate my people. No doubt you fear our powers and see us as a threat to the kingdom. You think we can’t be trusted. Probably you even think us strange-looking.” She smiled, though the look in her eyes was sad. “I see from your expression that I’m right. But putting all that aside, do you believe that my love for the duke is real?”

  “What does this have to do—?”

  “Please just answer me.”

  It was more than he wanted to admit, but having confronted her, having demanded the truth, he could hardly give her less. “Yes. I think you love him.”

  She actually smiled. “Thank you. That couldn’t have been an easy thing to say.”

  “Whether you love him or not has nothing to do with my question.”

  “It has everything to do with your question. Do you have any idea what it’s like being his minister and his lover?”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “I can’t say that I do.”

  The first minister laughed, though there were tears in her eyes. “That may be the first time you’ve ever made me laugh, swordmaster.”

  Gershon felt his cheeks coloring. “Your point?” he asked.

  She wiped a tear from her face. “Every time I offer my counsel I’m torn between what I think the duke of Glyndwr should do, and what I want Kearney to do. He has to go to Kentigern. Both of us know that. But I’m afraid he’s going to die there.”

  He was a warrior. He dealt with such fears quite often and had learned long ago to control them. But hearing these words from a Qirsi was another matter entirely. It almost seemed to Gershon that Bian had placed a deathly cold finger on his heart, chilling his blood. “Have you gleaned something? Is the duke in danger?”

  “No, not that I know of. My fears aren’t founded on anything I can name.�
� She gave that same sad smile again. “This is just what I mean. I fear for him because I love him, and it makes being his minister … difficult.”

  Gershon wasn’t sure whether to believe her. He had spent too long thinking of their love affair as a threat to the House of Glyndwr. None of this had ever entered his mind. “It seems to me there was more to it than that,” he said at last. “The message that came this morning didn’t seem to surprise you at all.” It was little more than a guess, but apparently it was a good one.

  “You’re right,” she said. “There is more. But I assure you, it won’t compromise my loyalty to the duke, nor will it endanger our journey to Kentigern.”

  “You think I’ll just accept that?”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice.”

  “Of course I do! I can—”

  She held up a finger, silencing him. “I didn’t have to tell you anything, swordmaster. I could have lied, told you there was nothing more, and that would have been the end of it. But if we’re to ride together off the steppe and keep Kearney alive, we have to begin to trust one another.”

  “This is your idea of trust?”

  “Actually, yes. I trust that you won’t tell Kearney what I’ve told you here today. And in return you trust that I will keep the best interests of the duke and his house foremost in my mind and heart, no matter what.”

  “Can you give me one reason why I should believe you?”

  “I don’t have to; you already know it.”

  Which brought them right back to where they had started. She loved the duke. She had wanted to avoid this confrontation—she had practically run from him. Yet Gershon abruptly felt that their entire conversation had gone just as she planned.

  She turned from him, as if intending to leave.

  “This thing you’re not telling me,” he said, stopping her again. “Is it dangerous for you?”

  “Would it matter, swordmaster?”

  “If you’re in danger, I should know.” He faltered, but only for an instant. “Perhaps I can help.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, as if, for the first time that day, he had surprised her.

  “Once again,” she said, “you have my thanks. I wish I could answer you, truly I do. But I don’t know.”