Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  He had hoped to have someone else do this. Since he ranked highest among the members of the Qirsi movement here in the City of Kings, it was within his power to assign the task to any of the others. So long as it was done.

  “What about the herbmaster?” the minister asked, lifting a hand to greet one of the garden laborers who was working by the armory tower.

  “The Eandi?” the healer asked, frowning at the idea.

  “He takes our gold. He’s administered sweetwort for us in the past. Not to kill, but nonetheless, there’s no reason why he can’t do this as well.”

  “Actually there is.”

  Paegar had to bite back a curse.

  “When the king dies,” the healer said, “no matter the cause, the master healer will examine the body. He’ll know if Aylyn has swallowed anything. If the king were still eating his meals or even drinking water, it might work. But as things stand now, poison is out of the question.”

  “Then how?” the minister demanded, barely managing to speak the words.

  “Suffocation,” the man said, sounding unnervingly calm. “I’d suggest using a pillow.”

  He would have liked to strike him, or better yet, take a dagger to his heart. But that would have solved nothing. The Weaver expected Aylyn to die, and Paegar knew that the king’s death had to appear natural. It was no more the healer’s fault than it was the king’s.

  “All right,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Place a kerchief over his face first, and destroy it after. There should be nothing on the pillow to give us away. I’ll be with the master healer tonight, so we’ll find the body together. If there are any signs of what you’ve done, I’ll do my best to conceal them.”

  He might as well have been speaking of the flowers in bloom along the path, so light was the man’s tone. Paegar wondered if the healer would have been as composed had it been he himself who was to do the killing.

  They reached the king’s tower, whence they had started some time ago. The healer halted and faced him.

  “I’m expected back in the master healer’s chambers,” he said. “Is there anything else, High Minister?”

  Of course there was. He had never killed before. He had never thought he would. Others had died as a result of the movement. Paegar knew that. And so others in the movement had killed. But it hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to as well. How was he to gather the courage to kill Eibithar’s king? Did courage even play a role in such a murder?

  “High Minister?”

  “No,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  “Fine then.” The healer hesitated. At last he merely nodded and stepped into the tower.

  Paegar closed his eyes and took a long breath. Suddenly he longed to leave the City of Kings, just for a while. Just until nightfall.

  “High Minister!”

  He opened his eyes, turning toward the voice. Dyre was hurrying toward him, his white hair twisting in the light wind, his yellow eyes looking almost white in the sunlight.

  “May I have a word with you?”

  No. Get away from me. “Of course, Minister. What can I do for you?”

  “I saw you speaking with the healer,” the younger man said, stopping in front of him. “Is everything all right?”

  “My conversation with the healer is none of your concern.” Paegar winced at what he heard in his own voice. He looked away briefly, trying to will his heart to slow down. “Forgive me,” he said, facing the minister again. “These are … difficult times.”

  “Of course, High Minister. That was why I was hoping we might talk.” He gestured, indicating that they should walk.

  In spite of everything, Paegar almost laughed aloud. If this continued, he’d spend the entire day walking in circles.

  As they started along the path that followed the perimeter of the inner ward, Dyre spoke of his concerns about the archminister’s reluctance to send the King’s Guard to Kentigern. Paegar should have expected this in light of all that had been said during their discussion earlier in the day. But he was still thinking of how he had barked at Dyre when the man asked about his conversation with the healer. How was he supposed to fool Wenda and Natan, who had known him for so long, if he couldn’t even keep himself calm around one of the underministers? If he wasn’t careful, he would end up being hanged as a traitor before he even reached the king’s chambers.

  The young minister went on for some time, speaking his mind as if the two of them were great friends. Paegar couldn’t follow all he was saying; in truth, he wasn’t really trying. But he heard enough to know how to respond when Dyre finally turned to him again and said, “Can you speak with him, High Minister?”

  “I can try, Dyre. But you must realize that none of us knows the king or the captain of the guard as well as Natan. He’s been here the longest, and while I agree that he’s been acting strangely in recent days, I do believe that he’s right when he says that the captain will not act without a direct order from Aylyn.”

  “But does the captain know how ill the king is? Does he understand that Aylyn can’t give orders anymore?”

  “He’s spoken with the healers. I’m certain he knows.”

  The man sighed and rubbed a hand across his lips. “The archminister promised me that he would speak with the captain,” he said. “Would you at least see that he remembers?”

  Paegar nodded, sensing an opportunity to end their conversation. “I give you my word. If Natan won’t do it, I will.”

  “Thank you, High Minister,” Dyre said, looking truly grateful.

  “My pleasure.”

  He stopped walking, glancing for a moment up at the sun. “If there’s nothing else—”

  “No, nothing at all,” the man said quickly. “I’ve already kept you too long.” He took a step back, smiling now. “Again, my thanks. I feel better having spoken with you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Paegar turned and walked away, hoping that Dyre wouldn’t call him back, and that no one else would stop him. He needed time alone, to prepare himself for what he had to do. He couldn’t leave the city, he knew. Not with the king dying. Instead he made his way back to his quarters, entering the prison tower and walking through the cool stone corridors of the castle. It would have been quicker to cross the ward once more, but in the middle of such a warm, sunny day, he was far less likely to be accosted within the hallways.

  Entering his small chamber, Paegar locked the door and stepped to the small window. A warm breeze touched his face, carrying the faint smell of roasting meat from the castle kitchens. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and his stomach rumbled loudly. The prior’s bells had yet to ring; the sun would be up for hours more. Certainly he had time enough to eat. But despite his hunger, the thought of eating nearly made him retch.

  He remained by the window, staring out at the castle’s outer ward and the great towers of its middle wall. The sun turned its slow arc across the bright sky, casting deep shadows across the north barbican and the deep green grass that grew in front of it. After some time, guards at the city gates rang the prior’s bells. Still Paegar did not move. A flock of doves flew above the walls and towers, turning together in tight circles like trained horsemen. A bank of dark clouds appeared in the western sky, blocking out the sunlight. The air turned colder and the minister thought he heard thunder roll in the distance.

  A short time later it began to storm, the gusting wind driving rain into his chamber. Reluctantly the minister closed the wooden shutters on his window and lit a candle by his bed. He thought about lying down and trying to sleep, but, fearing that he would sleep too long, immediately thought better of it. After sitting in the candlelight for just a minute or two, he extinguished the flame. He had been in his room long enough. Better to return now to the king’s chambers, and remain there for as much of the night as was necessary, than to appear there suddenly just a short while before Aylyn was to die.

  Wenda and Natan were with the king when he got there, as were the
ever-present priests. Paegar had hoped—vainly, he knew—that Aylyn might die before nightfall, but the king looked just as he had that morning.

  The minister stepped to the foot of the bed, bowing once to his sovereign, before he joined the older ministers at Aylyn’s side.

  “He actually stirred at the sound of the thunder,” Natan said softly, his eyes never straying from the king’s face. “We hoped that perhaps he would awaken. But he hasn’t moved or made a sound since.”

  Paegar shuddered at the notion that the man could move at all. He was supposed to be one step from death. The minister felt his hands start to tremble again and he balled them into fists.

  “Is everything all right, Paegar?” Wenda asked.

  “I had hoped the king might show some improvement.”

  Natan shook his head. “He’s past that.”

  Wenda stepped closer to Paegar. “I’d like to get some sleep now,” she whispered. “That way I can stay with the king through the night. Can you remain with the archminister until I return? I fear for his health.”

  “Actually,” Paegar said, also lowering his voice, “I slept during the day so that I could relieve you both for the night.”

  She smiled, looking a bit surprised. “How kind of you.”

  “What’s that?” Natan asked.

  “Paegar is going to stay with the king tonight so that you and I can rest.”

  “I don’t want to rest.”

  Wenda frowned. “Natan, don’t make me call the herbmaster for a sleep draught.”

  The archminister glared at her for several moments, then shrugged and looked away. “All right,” he muttered. He quickly looked up again. “Not yet, though. I’m not leaving yet.”

  Wenda took his hand. “No,” she said gently. “Not yet.”

  The priests left a short time later, with the ringing of the twilight bells. They would pass the night in the cloister, returning the next morning at dawn. At least that was what they did most nights. Tonight would be different.

  Wenda and the archminister lingered far longer than Paegar had wished they would. And just as they finally resolved to leave, the healers arrived to check on the king. Natan insisted on staying for this, of course, and it was another hour or more before Wenda could lead him away.

  At last, however, Paegar found himself alone in the chamber with the king. There was no light save for the low fire that burned in the great hearth, and a single candle that flickered by Aylyn’s bed. The castle had grown quiet. Most were in bed by now. But still he waited. The minister told himself that he had all the night, that if he killed the king too early he would invite suspicion. But he knew that wasn’t why he waited.

  There were several pillows on the bed other than the two on which the king’s head rested. He had only to take one in his hands. His stomach felt hollow and sour, and his throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow.

  The king had never been especially kind to him—certainly not as he was to Natan and Wenda. But neither had he ever been cruel or even discourteous. He had done nothing to deserve this death. Paegar could never claim that he had. The men and women of the movement had offered him gold and spoken to him of a glorious future for his people. And after so many years of living in this castle and serving this Eandi king, of offering counsel that was ignored as often as it was accepted, that had been enough. That was why Aylyn was about to die. That was the only reason.

  He stepped forward and picked up one of the pillows. He was breathing hard and his hands felt sweaty. Only at the last minute, just before he covered the king’s face, did he remember what the healer had said about a kerchief. Pulling one from the pocket of his robe, he placed it carefully over Aylyn’s mouth and nose. The king didn’t move.

  Paegar closed his eyes and lowered the pillow onto the old man’s face, pushing it down harder and harder until he was nearly lying on the bed himself. Still Aylyn offered no resistance and for a long time the high minister remained there, wondering if the old man was dead yet.

  Finally he stood and removed the pillow and kerchief. The king looked just as he had before. Paegar bent over and laid his cheek on the king’s chest. He heard no heartbeat and sensed no movement. Straightening, the Qirsi carried the kerchief to the hearth and threw it on the fire. It blazed briefly before shriveling into a small blackened mass, which he stirred with a poker until it vanished.

  His hands were still shaking, but that didn’t matter anymore. They’d expect that, just as they would expect the tears that ran down his cheeks.

  “Guards!” he shouted, returning to the king’s side. “Wake the castle! The king is dead!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Tremain, Eibithar

  “Ask a noble the difference between a minor house and a major house,” an old Eibitharian saying went,”and his answer will tell you to which he belongs.”

  Like so many of the old adages this one carried more than a grain of truth. The only differences the dukes of Eibithar’s minor houses saw between themselves and the leaders of the major houses were a few hundred men in their armies, a few thousand qinde in their treasuries, and the chance to become king under the Rules of Ascension. To the dukes of the major houses, even Kearney, whose house ranked lowest among the five, the distinctions were far greater. With each house’s army including fewer than two thousand soldiers, a difference of a few hundred could be significant. But more than that, the men of Thorald, Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr were the land’s finest and best trained. Kentigern and Glyndwr were expected to protect Eibithar’s borders; Thorald, Galdasten, and Curgh her shores. Their armies had to be the best. And since the dukes of the five were in line for the throne, their courts had to be worthy of receiving nobles from all the kingdoms of the Forelands. Their castles were larger and more elegant, their cities were more prosperous. “No one who has lived in a major house could ever mistake a minor for one of the five,” it was often said. “And no one who leaves a minor house for one of the five will ever return home.”

  Keziah, who had spent her childhood in the House of Eardley, the most prosperous of the minors, and her adult years in Glyndwr, was inclined to agree with the nobles of the five. The castles of the major houses were finer in every way. Eardley’s army was only slightly smaller than Glyndwr’s, but Eardley’s men were no match for those commanded by Kearney. It was true that the houses had been ranked centuries ago, according to their strengths at the end of the clan wars. It might even have been true that in some ways the hierarchy no longer reflected reality. Many believed that Sussyn, the lowest in rank of all Eibithar’s houses, was actually stronger and more prosperous than both Domnall and Labruinn. Most agreed that there was little difference among the armies of Galdasten, Curgh, and Kentigern.

  But there could be no disputing the fact that only five dukedoms deserved to be called major houses. Far from being a relic of a forgotten time, the distinction between the majors and minors continued to provide a legitimate basis for determining who among Eibithar’s nobles should be king.

  Keziah was reminded of this upon their arrival at Tremain Castle eight days after her last conversation with Grinsa. Among the kingdom’s seven minor houses, Tremain was ranked fourth. The castle, perched just at the edge of the Heneagh River and within sight of the eastern fringe of Kentigern Wood, rose high above the surrounding city, its round towers bearing banners of tawny, black, and gold. Keziah could see the famous Tremain orchards on the eastern side of the castle, just beyond the low grey wall that surrounded the city. There could be no denying that it was one of Eibithar’s more beautiful fortresses, but it was no larger or more imposing than the castles of thanes and earls living in the Glyndwr Highlands. Compared with Glyndwr Castle itself, Tremain looked small and vulnerable.

  Riding with Kearney and Gershon just a few hours past midday, Keziah crossed the Tremain Bridge and approached the city’s north gate. There, Lathrop, duke of Tremain, met the company with a full complement of guards. Kearney had sent a small party of soldier
s ahead to Tremain two days earlier, to ask Lathrop’s leave for the Glyndwr army to rest in his dukedom.

  Of course the duke had given his permission. As Keziah had told Grinsa, Kearney was on good terms with the duke and they visited yearly, to hunt for elk in the highlands or boar in the nearby wood. Indeed, not only had he agreed to let Glyndwr’s men set up camp in the shadow of the city walls, he had made Kearney, Gershon, and Keziah guests of the castle.

  Lathrop had been a friend of Kearney’s father before the old duke died. His hair and beard were the color of steel, and there were deep lines around his pale blue eyes. He had grown heavy in recent years and he walked with a pronounced limp. But he was still quick to smile and he greeted Kearney and Gershon with great enthusiasm, embracing them as brothers after the riders from Glyndwr dismounted.

  Lathrop had been accompanied to the city gate by his young wife, Tabya, who, to Kearney’s obvious surprise, was large with child.

  “A duke needs heirs,” Lathrop said in a deep voice, chuckling at the reddening of Kearney’s face. “My first wife, Bian keep her safe, gave me only daughters.”

  The duchess appeared unconcerned with all the attention being given to her belly. She merely stood beside her duke, playing absently with her red curls and smiling as he spoke. She couldn’t have been more than three or four years past her Fating.

  The duke of Tremain’s first minister was there as well, an older Qirsi woman named Evetta, whom Keziah greeted warmly. Keziah would have been happy to pass the evening speaking with the minister and drinking the rich pear spirits made here in Tremain’s cellars. But already she was scanning the faces of those who peered out through the city gate, searching for Grinsa. The spires of the Sanctuary of Adriel rose into the sky just beyond the city wall. She could hear the clerics chanting where she stood. Her brother was nearby. She could feel him.

  “First Minister?” she heard Kearney say.

  She made herself face the two dukes, her cheeks burning. “Yes, my lord.”