Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (10 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“I wasn’t asking you to lie,” he said. “But you saw what happened. The man wasn’t down yet, and he was still armed.”
Xaver shook his head. “Stop it. This isn’t about the probationer or our training, and you know it.”
Tavis looked away, staring over Xaver’s shoulder back toward his father’s chamber. “What is it about then, Xaver? You and me? Me and my father? You and your father? I can’t tell anymore.”
“It’s mostly about you.”
It always is
. “It’s about what kind of duke you’re going to be. What kind of king.”
“I suppose we’ll find that out soon enough,” he said. “The Qirsi gleaner can put all your fears to rest. And my father’s.”
So that’s what it is
, Xaver thought.
His Fating.
“It’s going to be fine, Tavis,” he said, trying without success to smile.
“Of course.”
For several moments they stood there saying nothing, Xaver watching the young lord, Tavis’s eyes still fixed on the windows of his father’s chamber.
“I suppose we should get dressed then.”
“Yes,” Tavis said, starting once more toward his quarters. “Let’s get this over with.”
It was hot under the tent, despite the open flaps at either end and the steady ocean breeze that blew through the city of Curgh. Most of the performers in the Revel preferred the growing turns. They enjoyed singing or dancing or juggling in the streets on warm nights when flame flies lit the air and the infrequent rains brought immediate relief from the heat. Certainly they all preferred traveling when it was warm and the skies were clear.
But for Grinsa and the other Qirsi gleaners, the growing season meant not warm nights and cool breezes, but rather stifling days spent in the still air of the gleaning tent. Determinings and Fatings were intensely private matters—there could be no denying the
necessity of the tent. There were even some gleaners who felt that the discomfort actually added to the mystery and gravity of the event, although Grinsa was not one of them. But all of them complained about it, usually to each other, occasionally to Aurea and Yegor.
The boy seated on a simple wooden chair across the table from him had yet to say a word. His name was Malvin Thanpole. He lived here in Curgh City with his mother, a seamstress in the castle, and his father, a wheelwright. He had come for his Determining, of course, but like so many of the younger ones, he had lost his nerve upon entering the tent. By custom, until the boy made his request with the ritual words, Grinsa could not begin. It didn’t matter that Malvin had nothing to fear from the vision he would see in the Qiran, and even if such reassurances would have helped, they were not Grinsa’s to give. The Determining was supposed to be an act of magic. Had Malvin seen the list of names and future occupations that Grinsa kept hidden beneath his own chair, he would have been shocked and, probably, deeply disappointed. Cities and towns had needs. If every boy and girl in the land realized their dreams of fighting in the king’s army or dancing in the Revel, who would shoe the horses and plow the fields and fix wheels for peddlers’ carts? There was magic enough in the Fatings. But apprenticeships had to start in the twelfth year and sometimes children needed to be steered toward their talents and their fates.
“If we sit here too long,” Grinsa said gently, “your naming day will come again, and you’ll be too old to look in the stone.”
Malvin still refused to look him in the eye, but at least he smiled.
“Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?” In the fear and excitement of the moment, some of them actually forgot, despite practicing day after day in the turns leading up to the Revel’s arrival.
But Malvin nodded. “I remember,” he said, the words coming out as little more than a whisper.
“Good. Why don’t you give it a try. I don’t think you have any reason to be scared, a strong, intelligent boy like you.”
He smiled again, glancing up for just an instant before staring down at his hands once more. He swallowed. And then in that same low voice, he began at last.
“In this, the year of my Determining, I beseech you, Qirsar, lay your hands upon this stone. Let my life unfold before my eyes. Let
these mysteries be revealed in the light of the Qiran. Show me my fate.”
It was supposed to be “Let the mysteries of time be revealed,” but Grinsa wasn’t about to make him say it again.
“Very good, Malvin,” he said. “Now look into the stone.”
The boy leaned forward, his eyes wide as he stared at the Qiran. The stone was glowing as it always did, and now Grinsa melded his own magic with that of the Qiran.
Qirsi power was double-edged, like an Uulranni blade. Every act of magic—every conjured flame, every image coaxed from the tone—shortened a sorcerer’s life just a little bit. Gleaning was a simple magic; the power it required was nothing compared with the effort necessary to summon mists and winds, or shatter a sword. But unlike other Qirsi, who might use their magic only occasionally, a gleaner laid his or her hands on the stone dozens of times each day. “Gleaning,” it was said among the Revel Qirsi, “is like bleeding one’s life away from a thousand tiny wounds.” And perhaps this was true. Grinsa’s people already lived far shorter lives than the Eandi, and Revel gleaners tended to die younger than most.
Still, Grinsa enjoyed gleaning. How could any Qirsi not? His people were creatures of magic. The same power that shortened their lives allowed them to do things of which the Eandi could only dream. If a musician’s harp stole years from her life, wouldn’t she still play? Did the risk of death keep warriors from going to battle? It seemed to Grinsa that the Qirsi were no different. Their magic was their craft. When Grinsa felt his power coursing through his limbs, cool and swift, like water flowing off the Caerissan Steppe early in the planting, he was reminded of how much joy was to be found in even the simplest act of magic.
Using that magic now, he summoned from the Qiran’s depths an image of a tall man with corded muscles and sweat on his brow. He had straight brown hair and grey eyes, just like Malvin, and he was planing the rim of a large wagon wheel. The man moved gracefully, efficiently, like someone who had been doing this all his life. He could easily have been a master swordsman or a skilled rider atop his mount, such was the power and ease of every motion.
Grinsa had learned long ago that with the Determinings, it wasn’t enough just to show the children their futures. He also had to make even the simplest profession appear heroic. Though Malvin
was seeing himself as a wheelwright, and not a soldier, he was also seeing himself as a grown man, muscular, handsome, and skilled in his work. He would take that away from this tent as well, and perhaps it would ease any disappointment he might feel at learning that he would not be joining the King’s Guard. Would Malvin really look like the man in the stone? Possibly. But Grinsa thought it likely that he would see himself that way for the rest of his life. Where was the harm in that?
The gleaner held the image in the stone for a few moments more, smiling at what he saw on the boy’s face. Then he allowed the vision to fade slowly. Even as the image vanished, disappearing in the soft grey light of the Qiran, like a ship sailing into a morning mist, Malvin did not look away. Only when it was completely gone did he blink once, then look up at Grinsa.
“Was that really me?” he asked breathlessly.
The Qirsi smiled. “What do you think?”
“It must have been.” The boy stood abruptly, almost toppling his chair. “I should go tell my mother and father.”
“Of course. Goodbye, Malvin. Gods keep you safe.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, already spinning away from the table and running out of the tent. “I wish you the same,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Smiling briefly, Grinsa leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Malvin was his eighth Determining of the day, and he had done two Fatings as well. That took a lot of magic, even for him. His back and legs had grown stiff, and there was a dull ache in his temples.
“Morna have pity, it’s hot in here!” came a voice from in front of him.
He opened his eyes again and saw Cresenne, one of the other gleaners, stepping into the tent.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.
“Liar.”
He grinned. She was younger than he was and new to the Revel. She was also exceedingly pretty, with long, fine white hair, pale eyes the color of candlelight, and a soft smile.
“You look tired,” she said. “Do you want me to take over for a time?”
“How long is that line?”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if she could gauge the line’s
length from inside the tent. “There must be fifty children out there. Most of them are here for their Determinings.”
Naturally. The younger ones were always the most eager. Those of Fating age tried to pretend they didn’t care by waiting until two or three days into the Revel to approach the tent. But as far as Grinsa could tell, they were no less nervous than the twelve-year-olds once they got inside.
“On the other hand,” Cresenne added, “the duke’s son and his liege man just arrived. They’re both of Fating age, I believe.”
Tavis and Xaver, the two he’d been expecting. Grinsa tried to keep his expression neutral.
“Why don’t I take the two of them and a few more of the Determinings,” he said lightly. “I should be ready for a rest by the time I’m finished with all that.”
“You’re sure?” she asked. “As I said, you look like you could use a rest right now.”
He smiled. The pain in his temples had disappeared at the mention of the duke’s son. “Actually, I’m feeling fine. Give me a moment or two. Then send in Lord Tavis.”
“As you wish.”
She turned and stepped out of the tent, leaving Grinsa alone with the heat and the soft light of the Qiran.
T
avis could feel their eyes upon him and he knew what lay behind their stares. They envied him; for some that envy might even have spilled over into resentment. He understood, really. How could they help themselves? Here they were, waiting on line for a glimpse of their dismal futures or a chance to learn what lowly profession they would devote the next six years of their lives to mastering. Meanwhile, his future was as plain as the red moon rising into the deep blue of Morna’s sky.
He was to be king, and duke before that. He would marry well and his wife would bear as many children as it took to give him an heir to continue Curgh’s hold on the throne. He alone among those standing outside the gleaning tent in the marketplace of Curgh City had nothing to fear from the Qiran. His fate had been decided long ago.
Even Xaver could not say that. No doubt his friend would fare well with the gleaner. He came from a noble family, though he had little claim to the family seat. His father was the second son of a thane, which was akin to being the second to last man standing in a battle tournament. Everyone knew that Hagan’s older brother was a wastrel who had none of Hagan’s intelligence or fighting skill. But he was the eldest, and the thaneship belonged to him. Had Tavis’s father not brought Hagan to Curgh to be swordmaster and captain of the guard, Hagan would have remained an obscure earl in the Curgh countryside, a fate he would have passed to Xaver as well. In a sense, then, the brilliance of Tavis’s future would shine on his friend’s as
well. So long as Xaver remained by Tavis’s side, his Fating could not show much that would give him cause to grieve. But still, Xaver’s future could not be as certain as his own. No one’s could.
Or so Tavis told himself again and again.
My Determining showed me as duke. Not as king.
It was such a small thing. A trifle. Yet it seemed to Tavis that it threatened the very foundations of his life.
Why not king? What could it mean?
“We really ought to wait on line with the rest,” Xaver said quietly. “They’ve been here since before midmorning bells.”
Tavis dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand, as if it were a bothersome fly. “Don’t be a fool. The duke’s son and his liege man don’t wait on line with the children of commoners. They wouldn’t want that any more than we would.”
“I’m not certain of that. Don’t you see the way they’re looking at us?”
Tavis turned to stare at him, unable to believe that his friend could be so dense. “You think that’s why—?”
Before he could finish, a Qirsi woman emerged from the tent.
“Lord Tavis?” she said. “The gleaner is ready.”
Tavis nodded, looked at Xaver again.
“May the stone be kind,” his friend said.
Tavis forced a smile, then followed the woman into the tent.
He noticed the stone first, glowing on the table in the center of the space as if Panya herself had laid her shining hands upon it. It was as large as a building stone and jagged like a mountain peak, save for one side, the side facing him now, which had been cut and polished so that it offered a window into the depths of the crystal. It was just as he remembered from last time. His Determining, when he had seen himself as duke of Curgh.
But not as king.
Behind the stone, seated at the table, a Qirsi man watched him. His eyes were medium yellow—not as pale as those of the woman standing next to Tavis, but not as bright as Fotir’s. He wore his white hair loose and long, but while this often had the effect of making the Qirsi look even more wan and frail than they were, it did the opposite for this man. He looked formidable, as if the magic he possessed was bolstered by a physical strength that most Qirsi lacked.
“This is Lord Tavis of Curgh,” the woman said. “He has come for his Fating.”
The man looked appraisingly at Tavis, his expression revealing
little. After a moment he nodded to the woman. “Thank you, Cresenne.”
She smiled, her eyes flicking briefly toward Tavis, and withdrew.
The man stood and indicated the chair opposite his own with a slender hand.
“Won’t you sit, my lord?”
“Thank you,” Tavis said, lowering himself into the chair. He realized that his hands were trembling, and he tried to hide them from the Qirsi.
“My name is Grinsa jal Arriet,” the gleaner said sitting as well. “We’ll get to your Fating in a short while. I just have some questions for you first.”
“I don’t remember that from last time.”
The man smiled. “You’ve had a Fating before?”
“No, you fool,” Tavis said impatiently. “From my last gleaning. My Determining.”
“Fatings are quite different from Determinings. I’m afraid your previous experience in this tent is poor preparation for this one.”
“I’ve never heard of a Qirsi asking questions at any gleaning at all.”
The man regarded him for some time. “We all glean in our own way, my lord. If you wish I can find another gleaner for your Fating, but he or she may need some time to prepare. You could have quite a wait.”
Tavis twisted his mouth sourly. “No,” he said, pressing his fingers together. “I don’t want to wait. Just get on with it.”
“Of course, my lord.” But rather than asking him anything, the Qirsi merely gazed at him, until Tavis began to feel as if he would scream if the man didn’t ask him something in the next moment.
“Well?” he demanded.
“You’re concerned about your Fating, my lord.” The gleaner offered it as a statement, but it seemed to Tavis that he appeared troubled.
“Why should I be?” the young lord asked, looking briefly at the glowing stone.
“I’m not certain. I was about to ask the same of you.”
“I have no reason to be afraid. I’m the duke’s son. I’m to be king someday.”
“Then why are you so concerned?”
I don’t know
, he wanted to say.
Why didn’t I see myself as king four
years ago? Can a Determining be wrong?
Instead he looked away again. “I never said I was.”
“There was an incident at the castle today,” the Qirsi said. “You assaulted a man. Why?”
Tavis stared at him. “How did you hear of this? Who told you?”
“Why did you do it?”
Tavis stood abruptly, nearly upsetting the table and the Qiran. “Answer me! How do you know about this?”
“A man hears things,” the Qirsi said, his expression infuriatingly calm. “People talk.”
“Who?”
“Please sit, my lord.”
“Tell me who told you!
”
“No.”
“I’ll have you arrested!” Tavis said, whirling away from the man and stepping toward the entrance to the tent. “I’ll call the castle guard right now!”
“If you leave this tent,” the man said in an even voice, “you will never be allowed back in. You will never see your Fating.”
Tavis stopped in midstride.
“Please, my lord,” he said again. “Sit.”
The young lord turned again. His heart was hammering in his chest and his hands were shaking again, though this time with rage rather than fear.
“Did you feel that the man you assaulted today was a threat to you?”
Something in the way the Qirsi asked the question caught his attention. His tone carried no hint of accusation. On the contrary. It almost seemed to Tavis that he was looking for a reason to forgive Tavis’s actions.
“What’s your name again?” the duke’s son asked quietly.
“Grinsa, my lord.”
Tavis took a uncertain step forward.
“Did you think he was going to hurt you? Is that why you struck him?”
“No,” Tavis admitted, slowly walking back to his chair and sitting. “I’m not sure why I did it. I was training, I was acting on instinct. I didn’t think about it at all. I just hit him.”
Grinsa nodded. “I see. Do you think you were wrong to do it?”
Tavis narrowed his eyes, wondering if he had been mistaken a
few moments before. “What does any of this have to do with my Fating?”
The man hesitated. “A gleaner needs to know something of those who seek their fates.”
“I’m Tavis of Curgh, son of Javan, duke of Curgh. What more do you need to know?”
Grinsa smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps you’re right. Do you have any questions for the stone, my lord? Anything you wish to know?”
Tavis almost said something then about his Determining, about how the Qiran had failed to show him a vital part of his future. But instead he shook his head and took a long, steadying breath.
“The words, my lord,” Grinsa said, his tone almost gentle. “When you’re ready.”
He opened his mouth to make the ritual entreaty to Qirsar and the stone, but what came out surprised even him.
“Are Determinings always right?”
As soon as he asked the question, he regretted it. He felt his face redden.
“Determinings and Fatings offer us glimpses of our futures,” Grinsa said, seeming to choose his words with care. “Nothing more. Are they accurate? Yes. Do they tell us everything about what our lives will bring?” The Qirsi smiled and shook his head. “Of course not.”
Tavis hadn’t realized how frightened he had been of a different answer until Grinsa spoke. He actually managed a smile.
“When you’re ready, my lord,” the Qirsi said again.
“In this, the year of my Fating,” Tavis began, “I beseech you, Qirsar, lay your hands upon this stone. Let my life unfold before my eyes. Let the mysteries of time be revealed in the light of the Qiran. Show me my fate.”
The soft glow of the stone began to give way to a brighter, harder light. Tavis sat forward to gaze into the stone, even as he felt his blood racing in his veins, like the waters of the Heneagh in flood. Slowly, the image in the stone grew sharper. And as it did, Tavis felt his whole world shift, as if Elined herself had torn it apart and put it together again in some grotesque parody of what it was supposed to be.
He had hoped for a vision of glory, of himself in Audun’s Castle, sitting on the throne, leading Eibithar to victory against the armies of Aneira, or perhaps even Braedon. He had thought to see himself
married to a woman of surpassing beauty and strength. He was to be king, and he had dreamed again and again of seeing himself as such.
True, he had feared that he might see something else: his own death at the hands of assassins or thieves, or worse, his body twisting with convulsions as he succumbed to the pestilence.
But neither his brightest hopes nor his darkest fears could have prepared him for the vision presented to him in the glimmering depths of the Qiran.
He was in a dungeon he had never seen before, his wrists and ankles manacled to the wall. His clothes were befouled and in tatters, his hair matted. His face was covered with bruises, his lips were cracked and stained with dried blood. Yet even through the injuries and the filth, Tavis could see that he was looking at himself as a young man, barely older than he was now. This was no image of his distant future. Whatever would bring him to this condition would happen soon. He gagged, fearing that he might vomit. He could almost smell the fetor of the prison.
But he couldn’t bring himself to look away. This vision of his misery held him as firmly as those blackened iron chains bolted into the prison wall. Had he been captured in battle during some coming war? Had enemies of the House of Curgh abducted him in an attempt to gain the throne?
Even as these questions formed in his head, however, the Tavis within the stone, the wretched prisoner, turned his head to look directly at the Tavis in the gleaning tent. And this second Tavis, the boy enduring a Fating that exceeded his worst fears, cried out at what he saw in those dark blue eyes. Whatever circumstances had led to his incarceration had not resulted from battlefield heroism, nor had they been contrived by Curgh’s enemies. The man in the stone did not believe in his own innocence.
A few moments later, mercifully, the image began to fade, like a castle obscured by the smoke of siege fires. Tavis closed his eyes and slumped in his chair, but he hadn’t the strength even to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
“How is any of that possible?” he whispered.
“The Qiran seldom explains what it shows,” Grinsa said softly. “As I said before, it merely offers a glimpse of the future.”
“But that …” He gestured vaguely at the stone and swallowed hard, feeling the bile rising in his throat again. “That had to be a
mistake.” He looked up abruptly, staring hard at the Qirsi. “Or a trick.”
“I assure you, my lord,” Grinsa said, “it was no trick. And though it saddens me to say it, the Qiran rarely makes mistakes.”
Tavis wanted to rail at the man, to accuse him of deception and have his white head impaled on a pike before sundown. But he knew better. There had been something too real about the image, about that look he saw in his own eyes. There could be no denying the truth of it.

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