Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  They gathered two mornings hence in the lower ward, Kearney in his riding clothes, mounted atop his great bay, looking as much the warrior as Gershon. The sky was the color of smoke, and a light drizzle darkened the pale stone of the castle. Row after row of the duke’s soldiers stood in the grey light and mist, waiting for their orders. They filled the lower ward, spilling up the broad stairs at the south end into the upper ward as well. Gershon had said seven hundred the day before, but to Keziah it seemed that there were thousands of them.

  All of them were Eandi, of course, and unlike even the most ancient armies of her own people, the armies of Eibithar’s houses, great and small, included only men. She felt like a cleric from Morna’s Sanctuary in the middle of one of Ean’s cloisters. She did not belong.

  As if to prove the point, Marwan, the prelate of Glyndwr Castle’s cloister, was there as well, his bald head damp, tiny drops of silver rain clinging to his brown robe. He prayed to Ean for the safety of the duke and his men, without bothering to mention Keziah, without even looking at her.

  Gershon wouldn’t look at her either. She had hoped that with their conversation the day before they had at least started to move beyond the enmity that lay between them. It seemed, though, that her hope was misplaced.

  Worse still, Kearney had made a point of telling her, late the previous day, what she already knew: they could not be together during the journey.

  “There’s no privacy in an army, Kez,” he told her. “Everyone would know.”

  She didn’t argue. She merely nodded and left him, so that he could dine with the duchess and spend the night with her.

  Here she was, about to be escorted to Kentigern by over seven hundred men, and yet it promised to be the loneliest journey of her life. It should have been funny, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

  The prelate finished his invocation and stepped back to stand beside Leilia, who had come to see her husband off. Like just about everyone else, the duchess refused to look at her, but Keziah knew that her presence in the company had to be gnawing at the woman like field vermin. It was small consolation really, but it was something.

  Silence fell over the castle, as heavy as the mist. Gershon’s grey horse whinnied, and a number of the men shifted uneasily on their feet, their eyes fixed on Kearney.

  “We ride to Kentigern,” the duke said, his voice ringing suddenly across the ward, “not to make war, but to stop it. We have no quarrel with the other houses, but we will not sit by, allowing them to destroy the kingdom. I wish to save Eibithar from the ravages of a civil war, and I need your strength and your skill to do so. You are to be the blade I wield in the name of peace. Men of Glyndwr, are you with me?”

  The soldiers responded as one, raising their swords and bows over their heads and giving a thunderous roar that reverberated off the castle walls until Keziah thought the stone must surely give way.

  “To Kentigern!” the duke cried.

  “To Kentigern!” came the reply.

  A moment later, Kearney started slowly toward the castle gate. A young man rode on each side of the duke, one bearing the silver and black banner of Glyndwr, and the other the purple and gold of Eibithar. Gershon and Keziah rode behind them, followed by the soldiers of Glyndwr, who were on foot. Emerging from the castle, they found hundreds of cheering people lining the broad lane that led from the castle’s north gate to what was known as the highlands gate, at the west wall of the city. Children stared with wonder at the horses and the soldiers’ weapons, and women waved to their husbands and brothers and sons.

  “You’d think we were going to fight the Aneirans,” Gershon said over the din.

  At first Keziah said nothing, thinking that he had been speaking to Kearney. But a moment later she realized that the duke was riding ahead of them, and that the swordmaster had addressed the comment to her.

  She nodded and made herself smile, not knowing what to say.

  “These men have dreamed of this day all their lives,” he said. “Marching with their duke is the greatest honor many of them will ever know.” He gestured at the people along the rode. “Their families realize that as well.”

  “You make it sound like they want to go to war,” she said, having to shout to make herself heard.

  He frowned. “That’s not what I meant at all. It has nothing to do with fighting or killing. They’re serving their duke and their king. They’re journeying under the banners of Eibithar and Glyndwr. That’s all the matters to them.”

  Again, she wasn’t certain how to respond.

  “You don’t understand, do you?” He shook his head and faced forward again, as if dismissing her.

  They soon reached the gate and rode out into the highlands, leaving the cheers behind them. Even on this day, with the sky dark and the fine rain falling, a wind blew across the high grasses and grey stone. They hadn’t felt it in the city, but out here, among the tors and boulders, it stung their faces and eyes, keening like one of Bian’s demons.

  “I do understand,” Keziah said at last, drawing Gershon’s gaze once more. “I’ve devoted my life to serving the House of Glyndwr and I’m risking my life to save Eibithar. Don’t tell me I don’t understand, swordmaster. You don’t know me well enough to judge such a thing.”

  She kicked at her horse, spurring him ahead of Gershon’s. And for the rest of that day, she and the swordmaster rode separately, trying their best to ignore one another.

  Despite the wind and the difficult terrain of the highlands, the company managed to cover nearly three leagues before stopping for the night beside a small tributary of the Sussyn River. They forded the river the following morning, continuing west until they met a second watercourse, which they forded as well. They made camp that night beside the third and last branch of the river, fording it the next day and riding on until they came within sight of the end of the steppe. Fording the streams was no small task, particularly for the quartermaster’s men and the wagons they drove. But though these tributaries came together farther north, closer to the edge of the steppe, the river they formed was far too powerful and wide. Better to brave three smaller streams than chance crossing the Sussyn in all its might.

  Even with the river crossings, Keziah found the journey tedious. Since their encounter the first day, Gershon had avoided her. Most of the men were either afraid of her or too wary of Qirsi sorcerers to come near her. It almost didn’t matter which; the result was the same. No one spoke to her. Few of them even looked at her. Except Kearney, of course. The duke spent at least a part of each day by her side. Occasionally they spoke of what awaited them in Kentigern, but mostly they just rode in silence, savoring what little remained of the intimacy they had left in Glyndwr.

  The nights were no better, though in truth she had little cause to complain. Several of the men took time each evening to erect a small tent that she had to herself, giving her comfort and warmth that no one else save Kearney enjoyed. Her evening meals consisted of more than just the hard cheese and dried meat rationed to the soldiers. She ate with Kearney and Gershon and so partook of whatever the quartermaster managed to find for the duke. The first night it was coneys, killed by several of the men as they marched. The second and third nights they ate ptarmigans roasted on spits and flavored with highland sage. The quartermaster had even brought a small amount of wine, which the duke insisted on sharing with the minister and swordmaster.

  Even having to dine each night with Gershon, who brooded silently across from her at the small table in Kearney’s tent, she should have been grateful. Compared with what the men of Glyndwr’s army were enduring, she was not suffering at all.

  But her fine meals and warm bed could not alter the fact that she was lonelier than she had been in years. She and Kearney were finally out of Glyndwr Castle together, leagues away from Leilia and her ladies, with their prying eyes and icy stares, and still they couldn’t be together. They couldn’t even touch without fear of drawing unwanted attention. And had they found a way to move beyond si
ght of the army, Gershon would have been there, glaring at them, his distaste for her written plainly on his blunt features.

  So she rode, and when the others stopped, she did as well. But her days and nights passed without love, without companionship. After just three days she would gladly have given up warmth and good food for conversation or a shared smile. Instead, she finished her meal with the duke and swordmaster and quietly excused herself, walking back to her shelter as the last rays of daylight disappeared beneath the steppe and the moons hung overhead, midway through their waxing.

  She didn’t feel sleepy—she hadn’t done enough during the course of the day to tire herself—but she lay down on the sleeping roll left for her by Kearney’s soldiers and stared up at the roof of the cloth shelter, listening to the sounds of the camp. Voices and laughter drifted among the rocks and grasses of the steppe, mingling with the calls of larks and the whisper of the wind. Someone was singing in the distance, his voice high and sweet, like that of a boy. Keziah didn’t recognize the song. Closer to her tent, horses nickered and stamped their feet.

  Eventually, as darkness spread through the camp like mist, she felt her eyes closing and she gave in to sleep. An instant later, though, she opened them again, only to find herself standing in the middle of the steppe. The sun was up again, partially obscured by high thin clouds. Kearney and his men were gone.

  I’m dreaming.

  She heard a voice calling her name and she turned toward it. Grinsa was walking toward her.

  “Why can’t you let me sleep?” she asked as he drew near. “These conversations of ours leave me exhausted.”

  Her brother grinned. “No more than they do me.”

  He looked more rested than he had a few days before, though he still looked tired.

  “You’ve left the castle,” he said. “I can tell that much.”

  “Yes, with an army of seven hundred men.”

  “Well done, Kezi!” he said, his smile returning, even broader than before. “How far have you come?”

  “We’re still on the steppe, but we’ve crossed the Sussyn, and we should begin our descent tomorrow.”

  He seemed to consider this, as if measuring in his mind the distance they had covered.

  “What’s happened?” she asked. “Are they at war already?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’ve left Kentigern with Lord Tavis. We’re nearing Tremain. I need you to come here too, with Kearney of course.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult. It’s a natural stopping point between here and Kentigern. I believe Kearney was planning to stop there anyway. He and Lathrop are on good terms.”

  Grinsa nodded. “Good.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the two of us being together?”

  “Of course I am,” he said, frowning. “But I need to speak with your duke, and this is the only place I can do it where Tavis will be safe.”

  “Why do you need to speak with Kearney?”

  He hesitated. “Are you certain you want to know?”

  It seemed to Keziah that the wind on the steppe rose suddenly, chilling her. In truth, she didn’t want to know. But whatever it was, Kearney would probably ask her counsel, and she wanted to be prepared.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m going to ask Kearney to give Tavis asylum in the House of Glyndwr.”

  She couldn’t say that she was surprised. Had she been in her brother’s position, she would have done the same. Just as Kearney was the only duke with any hope of stopping a civil war, he was also the best choice for this. Glyndwr’s dukes had rarely held Eibithar’s throne—the other major houses did not view the men of Glyndwr as ambitious, or as threats to their ambitions. Given how remote Glyndwr was from the others, Tavis was also likely to be safest there. It made perfect sense.

  “All right,” Keziah said. “Do you want me to plant the idea before we arrive, or would you rather it came from you the first time he heard it.”

  “That’s it?” Grinsa asked, raising an eyebrow. “No argument? Just ‘all right’?”

  She shrugged. “He’s really the only choice, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then answer my question,” she said, grinning slightly, “and let me sleep.”

  Grinsa laughed. “Fair enough. No, don’t mention it to him. It might help smooth the way, but I’m afraid it will raise suspicions. This will strike them as a rather audacious proposal. They won’t believe that we both thought of it on our own.”

  “Very well. I’ll say nothing, then. But I’ll do everything I can to make certain that we stop in Tremain.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll be there?”

  Keziah thought for a moment. “As I said, we’re still on the steppe. We’re at least twenty leagues away, and with the descent still ahead of us, I would imagine it will be at least seven days more.”

  “That gives us enough time to get there as well. I hope we’ll be staying at the sanctuary, but you needn’t worry about that. I’ll find you.”

  She still felt cold, and she rubbed her arms.

  “Are you all right, Kezi?”

  Keziah nodded, making herself smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Of course.” Grinsa wrapped his long arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll let you sleep. Journey safely, Kezi. I’ll see you soon.”

  He released her and started to walk away.

  “Grinsa, wait!” she called, without even thinking.

  Her brother faced her again.

  “Something’s going to happen, isn’t it?”

  His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The last time we spoke, I had the sense that you were keeping something from me. I think that you know what awaits us on this journey, but you’re not telling me.”

  He just gazed at her, his expression revealing little, but his pale eyes looking sad. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I do know.”

  She shuddered, but she couldn’t keep herself from asking. “Will you tell me now?”

  “I can’t, Kezi. It all has to happen as it’s supposed to, with none of those involved knowing what will come. One person could change everything, and that could be extraordinarily dangerous.”

  “But you know.”

  He shrugged. “I’m the Weaver.”

  There had been a time, years before, when she had envied him his power. But as she came to appreciate the burden he carried, her jealousy faded, leaving her slightly awed that the boy she remembered from her youth could possess the wisdom and strength necessary to stand before her and speak those words with such calm. I’m the Weaver. No Eandi in the Forelands, not even one as intelligent as Kearney, could have possibly understood.

  “This future you’ve seen,” she said. “Is it terrible?” She was trembling and she felt a tear running cold down her cheek.

  “Kezi, I can’t—”

  “Is it terrible?” she demanded.

  Grinsa exhaled through his teeth. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I’ve seen glimpses, that’s all. The only thing I know for certain is that we have to do this. There’s too much at stake.”

  She didn’t answer. She was cold and tired and too frightened to speak.

  Grinsa gave a gentle smile and walked back to where she stood. Laying a hand gently on her brow, he kissed her cheek, and spoke a single word.

  “Sleep.”

  She opened her eyes to the darkness of her tent. Night had chilled the air, and she was shivering. She longed to go to Kearney, just to feel him beside her. But instead she wrapped herself in a rough blanket and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  City of Kings, Eibithar

  They spoke in hushed tones, mindful of the king, who slept in his bed on the far end of the grand chamber. Servants came and went, bringing plates of food and cups of water that Aylyn did not touch, and removing them again some time later. An herbmaster lingered near the great bed, in case Aylyn needed an
elixir to ease his pain or induce sleep, and priests of the castle’s cloister prayed by the king’s side. Occasionally, the healers came as well, but they had long since given up their vigil. Eibithar’s king was dying, and all the magic in the world could not save him.

  Natan still remembered seeing Aylyn for the first time, nearly seventeen years before. The king was already in his middle years by then, and more than sixteen years into his reign. His hair had begun to thin and grow grey, and he no longer looked like the lithe swordsman he was said to have been in his youth. But still, Natan had been impressed with the quiet strength he saw in the man, and the confidence and wisdom that lay behind his words.

  Natan had been quite young at the time; he had never seen a king before, much less spoken with one. He hadn’t even planned to come to the City of Kings, but his duke, Filib of Thorald, Aylyn’s son, had insisted. The king’s archminister had just died, and Aylyn was looking for a new Qirsi advisor.

  “Much as I hate to lose you,” the young duke had said, “I think you should go. My father needs you more than I do, and you should be in a court where your talents can be of most use.”

  It remained, to this day, the greatest act of kindness any Eandi had ever shown him.

  Natan had been nervous about meeting the king, having far less confidence in his abilities than the duke had expressed. But despite the years that separated them, and Aylyn’s unconcealed distrust of the Qirsi people, he and the king both realized almost immediately that they could work well together. In the years that followed, Natan had come to realize that Aylyn was not a great king. He was a competent military leader and a generous guardian of his kingdom and people, but that was all. Filib might have been great, had he lived. And Natan saw the seeds of greatness in his son, Aylyn’s grandchild, who had visited Audun’s Castle several times before his own tragic death two years before.

  Even without achieving greatness, however, Aylyn had done all that Eibithar could ask of its king. He had tried to keep the peace, and failing that, had used his armies prudently, risking as few lives as possible. He had ruled the land for longer than any king in over two centuries, and throughout his reign Eibithar had remained one of the three preeminent powers in the Forelands, along with Braedon and Sanbira. A kingdom could ask little more of its sovereign. He deserved better than this ending, wasting away in his bed, without heirs, without a wife to offer comfort and shed tears. So though the healers no longer sat by his side, Natan had taken it upon himself to make certain that someone did. He and his fellow ministers had taken turns watching over the king, and would until the Deceiver came for him.