Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Aindreas had intended to go to the prison tower the night Aylyn died, to tell Javan once more that he would never allow him to take the throne, that notwithstanding the Order of Ascension, he would spend the rest of his life making certain that no man of Curgh ever wore Audun’s crown. After reading Kearney’s message, however, he went to the cloister instead, and spent the evening chanting for the king. He hadn’t been to the prison tower since. No doubt Javan had heard the bells tolling and the people crying in the castle wards and city lanes. Curgh knew that Aylyn was dead and that the throne should be his. That was enough to satisfy Aindreas; at least it had been until this morning.

  He should have expected this second message, the one that had arrived just a few hours before. The only thing surprising about it was that it hadn’t come sooner. But still it had caught him unaware. Aindreas was furious with himself. He had allowed Kearney’s maudlin sentiments to cloud his judgment and distract him from what he should have been doing, readying his men and his castle for battle.

  According to this paper, which was written the day before he received word of the king’s death and signed by one of his agents in the north, Javan’s army had left Curgh Castle four days ago, led by Hagan MarCullet and the duchess. Aindreas had always been fond of Shonah; he didn’t relish the idea of facing her in battle. But she had left him little choice. He had only five or six days to prepare, and he could hardly afford to waste any time worrying about her. Hagan would have his men battle-ready—no doubt he had been working them like plow horses since he first heard that Tavis had killed Brienne. Aindreas could only hope that Villyd, his own swordmaster, had been doing the same. He muttered a curse, knowing that he should have seen to it himself days ago.

  There was a knock at his door. Shurik, at last.

  “Enter!” he called.

  The Qirsi walked in, looking like a living corpse in the silver light. “You called for me, my lord?”

  “Just after the midmorning bells,” the duke said acidly. “Where have you been?”

  “My apologies, my lord. I was observing the swordmaster as he trained the men. And after that I went to check on our guests from Curgh. I got here just as your meal arrived and I assumed you’d want to dine alone.”

  Aindreas waved a hand, dismissing the man’s excuses. “Fine, fine. You’re here now.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How’s Villyd doing with the men?”

  “Sir Temsten has them performing quite well, my lord. I know little of swordplay, but they look most impressive to me.”

  “Good. It seems we’ll be sending them to war before too long.”

  “My lord?”

  Aindreas handed him the parchment. The Qirsi took a moment to read it, an eyebrow going up as he did. Then he placed it on the table once more.

  “Do you think Curgh’s men will fight for their duchess as they would for their duke?”

  “Hagan will see to it that they do,” Aindreas said. “And they won’t be fighting for their duke or their duchess. They’ll be fighting for their king. Curgh’s army is not to be taken lightly.”

  “Of course not, my lord.”

  Aindreas glanced at his wineglass. He dearly wanted to empty it and have the cellarmaster bring him another flask. But he thought it wise to wait until the first minister had gone.

  “I want you to go back to Villyd. Tell him that he and his men are to see to the castle’s defenses. Then go to the quartermaster and tell him to make preparations for a siege. I want this castle ready to withstand Curgh’s assault in four days. That should leave us a bit of time before Hagan and his men arrive.”

  “You’ll pardon me, my lord, but I don’t think that would be our wisest course.”

  Aindreas stared at the man, wondering if he had heard him correctly. “What? Why not?”

  “It’s been nearly a full year since the harvest, my lord. The season’s crops will be bountiful, but they’re not ready yet and our stores are low. The castle is ill prepared to withstand a siege.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! This is Kentigern Castle you’re speaking of! This house has withstood sieges from the most powerful armies of the Forelands. It’s not going to fall to Curgh!”

  “I would hope not, my lord. But the fact remains that our stores of food are rather low and unless you’re ready to turn away the people of the city, or at least let Javan and his men starve in the prison tower, we have too many people to feed.”

  “So you’re saying the castle would fall?” Aindreas asked, still not willing to believe what the man was telling him.

  “I’m saying it might.”

  “Impossible,” the duke said. But he had to admit that it had been several turns since he had checked on the stores. He rubbed his brow, thirsting for that wine more than ever. “How long could we hold out?”

  The Qirsi shrugged. “I don’t know for certain, my lord. I can find out for you.”

  It wasn’t likely to matter much. Aindreas had never endured a siege as duke, but he had read accounts of them written by his ancestors and he knew that even the threat of starvation could break the spirit of a defending army.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, his stomach feeling empty and hard.

  “The castle might not be fit to hold off a siege,” the Qirsi said, a grin spreading across his face. “But the army is more than ready to go to war. Take the battle to Curgh, my lord. The duchess and her swordmaster are expecting you to wait for them atop the tor. But if you can beat them to the northern fringe of the wood, you can force them to fight with the Heneagh River at their backs.”

  This was the last thing Aindreas had expected him to say. It was a bold idea, one that hadn’t even occurred to him. Perhaps it was time the duke put his wine flasks away and took up his sword again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his head. The north edge of Kentigern Wood was just under twelve leagues from the castle. If they left that day and used the light of the moons to march by night, they could be there within three days. Then again, if this weather held, their progress would come slower, and they would have a harder time marching at night.

  “How quickly can the quartermaster be ready?” Aindreas asked.

  “I’ll have to ask him, my lord. But the men won’t be going far and we’ll need only a half turn’s supplies. Besides, he’s been preparing already. It’s no secret that you’ve been threatening Lord Curgh with war. It should take him less than a day to prepare.”

  “What if we don’t reach the edge of the wood before they’re across the river? What if we have to fight them in the forest?”

  “We know the wood better than they do, my lord. I believe the swordmaster has trained the men to fight among its trees and hollows. There isn’t a wood of any size within twenty leagues of Curgh. Javan’s men may be ready to wage a war on the Moorlands, but in the wood the advantage is ours. And don’t forget, Kentigern’s army will be led by its duke. The men of Curgh will be led by a woman.”

  Aindreas nodded, but said nothing. He turned in his chair to look out the window. The rain was falling harder now, though the sky near the horizon appeared somewhat brighter than it had a short time before. He felt the minister watching him, yellow eyes fixed on the back of his head, but all he could do was sit there, wishing for a sip of wine and wondering what his father would have done. This castle, and the tor on which it sat, had always been the foundation of his house’s strength. It seemed folly to leave it now. But with the stores low and Curgh’s army commanded by its duchess, Shurik’s counsel made a great deal of sense.

  “Perhaps I’ve overstepped,” the Qirsi said, seeming to misinterpret Aindreas’s silence. “Forgive me, my lord. In all likelihood the castle can endure a siege. We may have to limit meals at the end, but chances are we will prevail. As you say, this is Kentigern Castle. Marching to the river carries risks. We’d be foolish to try something so daring.”

  The duke glanced back at him for a moment before turning his gaze to the rain once more. He had never c
onsidered himself a cautious man. Javan was cautious. Aylyn had been cautious. But not he. Living so close to the Tarbin, the men of Kentigern had to be fearless and venturesome. The Aneirans regarded caution as a sign of weakness. None of the other Eibitharian dukes understood that, because none of them lived each day under the threat of war. The other houses saw him as reckless, just as they had his father before him.

  Aindreas didn’t recognize himself. Curgh’s army was being led to Kentigern by a woman, and he was content to sit in his castle and await a siege? That might have been how they did things in Wethyrn or Caerisse, but not in Eibithar, and certainly not on the tor. Aindreas was ashamed that it had taken the words of a Qirsi to remind him of this.

  “Are you well, my lord?”

  “I’m fine,” the duke said, facing the minister again. “Go to Villyd and the quartermaster. Tell them we march with the prior’s bells. If the quartermaster isn’t ready by then, so be it. He and his men will have their carts. They’ll catch up with us when we stop to make camp.”

  “But the prior’s bells, my lord. That’s but a few hours from now. If we wait for dawn, we should still have time to reach the river before the Curgh army.”

  “Possibly. But if we leave today we’ll be certain of it.” He stood, grinning at the Qirsi. “You’ve roused me from my torpor, Shurik. This is no time to grow timid.”

  The man gave a small smile. “No, my lord.”

  “Go on then. See to it that the preparations go smoothly. Villyd doesn’t like to be rushed, even when he needs to be. So make certain he understands that I’ll be ready to go when the bells are rung. And have my horse brought to the duke’s tower. Let the men see that I intend to ride with them.”

  “Very good, my lord,” the Qirsi said, turning to go.

  “Shurik.”

  The minister stopped and looked at him again, waiting.

  “You understand that you’ll be coming as well.”

  “Of course, my lord. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The Qirsi bowed to him and left the chamber. Aindreas pushed himself back from his table and stood, hesitating for a moment as he looked down at the dark wine in his glass. He shook his head once and walked to the center of the room. There, he pulled his sword from its jeweled scabbard and examined the blade. Even in the dull light of this grey day, it shone like Panya on a clear, cold night, drawing another smile from the duke. It had been too long since he last raised his weapon in battle. This was what he needed, more than wine, more than finding Tavis. Kearney had sent his plea for restraint to the wrong castle. Curgh was marching against him, and though he had put off his vengeance longer than anyone could have expected, that time had now passed. They wanted war, and he was glad to give it, finally. He would strike a blow against all of Curgh, not from his chamber, but from his saddle, not as the defender against a siege, but as a warrior. It was perhaps the wisest counsel Shurik had ever given him.

  Xaver’s clothes reeked of sweat and felt stiff and filthy against his skin. His hair was matted and his head itched. Occasionally the guards brought them warm water with which to bathe, but their bedding hadn’t been changed since the morning they were brought to the prison tower, and the lone window in their small room did not allow in enough air to carry away the sour smells of their captivity.

  It had gotten so bad that the previous night, Fotir had conjured a wind to stir the stale air in their chamber. Then he had sent a second wind across the narrow corridor to the duke’s room, drawing the ire of the two guards, who commanded him to stop. The minister ignored them at first, allowing the air to flow through the narrow grate at the top of the door, but when they threatened to withhold meals from all of them, including Javan, he let the wind die out.

  They had been prisoners for nearly half a turn, though it seemed far longer to Xaver. They had heard no news of Tavis in that time, leading Xaver to hope that perhaps his friend had managed to escape the city. Certainly, if Aindreas had captured the young lord again, he would have come to gloat. But it had been days since they had seen either the duke of Kentigern or his first minister.

  They knew the king was dead, having heard the bells ringing and the cries going up throughout the castle. A short time later a guard came to deliver the news to them, a small courtesy that stood in stark contrast to the treatment they had received before and since. Javan offered no response to the news of Aylyn’s death, other than to say that he had been a fine king. He kept his silence the rest of the day, not even bothering to come to his door to receive his evening meal. Usually when a king died, Fotir explained later that night, speaking in a whisper, the dukes of Eibithar’s major houses traveled to the City of Kings for his funeral and the investiture of the new king. Clearly, though, Javan would not be going, and, he guessed, neither would Aindreas.

  “The other dukes are about to find that they have no king,” the Qirsi said, candlelight flickering in his bright yellow eyes.

  “And what will they do?”

  “It’s hard to say. I find it hard to imagine any of them wanting to get between Curgh and Kentigern. If they act together, they might, but that’s even harder to imagine.”

  Xaver shook his head. “You mean they’d let us go to war?”

  “I’m not certain they’re capable of doing anything else.”

  The next two days passed much as had the ones before Aylyn’s death. Guards came and went, sometimes bringing meals or fresh water. But neither Aindreas nor Shurik came to the tower, and no one acknowledged what seemed so obvious to Xaver: that Javan was now king, and that Aindreas, by continuing to imprison him, was guilty of treason.

  The third day dawned grey and rainy, a welcome respite from the heat and sunshine of the previous several days. Otherwise, that morning was no different from those that had come before. But an hour or two after the midday bells, Xaver heard voices calling from the stairway and, soon after, footsteps on the stone stairs.

  The two guards abruptly straightened, standing stiffly with their arms at their sides. A moment later, Aindreas stepped into the corridor. He wore gloves and riding boots and a cape of silver and blue that bore the Kentigern crest. His sword hung on his belt, and he carried a second, two-handed weapon in a baldric strapped to his back.

  Despite his warrior’s dress, however, the duke looked terrible. His eyes were red and sunken, his face unnaturally flushed. Xaver wouldn’t have thought it possible for a man of Aindreas’s size, but the duke looked gaunt and sickly.

  Xaver made room at the door for Fotir so that both of them could peer out through the grate. Javan stood at his door, staring at Aindreas as well, his mouth set in a thin line.

  “Have you come to fight me, Aindreas?” the duke asked. “Or have you started a war with the Aneirans?”

  Kentigern grinned in a way that made Xaver shudder.

  “Neither, Javan. Though I am going to war. You were right about that much.” He stood there a moment, looking first at Javan and then at Xaver and the first minister. “Well?” he said at last. “Aren’t you going to ask who we’re to fight?”

  Xaver didn’t have to ask. In that instant, none of them did.

  “Who?” Javan finally said, his voice flat.

  “Your army, of course. Word came this morning. They marched from Curgh four days ago.”

  Four days ago. Most likely the same day the people of Curgh learned of Aylyn’s death. Xaver should have expected this, even before Aindreas came to them. His father would never allow Kentigern to deny Javan the throne. In many ways, Hagan had just as much pride as the men of Curgh. Add to that the MarCullet temper, and it was a wonder this hadn’t happened sooner.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Aindreas,” the duke said. “You should be at the sanctuary, praying to Bian for kindness and mercy. If you’re going up against Hagan you’ll need it.”

  Kentigern stepped so close to Xaver’s door that the boy could see the dark tiny veins of red in the man’s eyes. “Is that what you think, boy?” he said. “Is Daddy going to
come and rescue you?”

  “Leave him alone, Aindreas! He’s done nothing to you.”

  The duke laughed, his breath stinking of wine. He turned and walked slowly to the duke of Curgh’s door. “Actually, Javan, Hagan isn’t commanding your army. He is with them,” he added, glancing over his shoulder, as if he was saying this for Xaver’s benefit. “But the army of Curgh is commanded by the duchess.”

  Javan’s face blanched. “Impossible. Hagan wouldn’t allow it.”

  Xaver knew better. His father would have been powerless to prevent it.

  “Nevertheless, I’m told that she rides at the front of your army, just as a commander should. From what I hear, she’s even carrying a sword, which, if I’m not mistaken, gives me the right to kill her.”

  “You bastard! You wouldn’t dare!”

  “We both know what your son took from me. Why shouldn’t I take someone just as dear from you and him?”

  “Bian damn you to the fires!”

  “Come now, Javan,” Aindreas said with a grin. “This isn’t my fault. She chose to come. What kind of a soldier would I be if I didn’t meet her blade with my own?” He paused, a sly look on his face. “Of course, if you really want to save her, there is something you can do.”

  The boy saw his duke waver, as though he knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t keep himself from doing so.

  “What can I do?”

  “Give me Tavis,” Aindreas said quickly, moving as close to Javan’s door as he had been to Xaver’s a moment before. “Tell me where I can find the boy and I’ll let you and your men go. This war will be over before it ever begins and Shonah will be safe.”

  Javan stared at him, shaking his head. “You want me to trade one of them for the other? You’re mad! I’d never do such a thing, and Shonah would never forgive me if I did.”

  “Then I’ll take her from you,” Aindreas said, ice in his voice, “just as Brienne was taken from me.”

  “You’ll die trying.”

  “I don’t think so. I have considered, however, whether it might break the spirit of Curgh’s soldiers to see their duke’s head mounted on a pike and carried along with Kentigern’s colors before my army.”