Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (29 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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“Difficult, but not impossible.”
“No. Not impossible.”
“What about from another chamber on this level?”
Fotir hadn’t considered this. Whoever it was would have had to come from the east; approaching the window from the west would have meant climbing past the duke’s window as well as Fotir and Xaver’s. This was the easternmost room on this, the south wall of the castle, and though there was a small ledge below the windows on this wall and on the east wall that abutted it, the rounded wall of the corner tower stood between. From what Fotir could see, climbing around the tower would have been difficult, but far from impossible and far less difficult than the climb from the ground below.
“Yes, my lord. It does look—”
It caught his eye like a ruby hanging from the throat of a noblewoman. It was small, no bigger than the tip of a finger, but it was unmistakable. On the far edge of the right-hand shutter, ending abruptly at the corner so that it looked like Ilias halfway through his waning, was a dried crescent of blood.
“It does look what?” Javan asked.
“My lord!” Fotir whispered, as if afraid that he might scare the stain away. “Come look at this!”
He stepped to the side, making room for the duke to join him at the window, but he kept pointing at the spot.
“Ean be praised!” Javan said, seeing it as well.
“You’ve found something?” Shurik asked, sounding doubtful.
“Indeed we have,” the duke answered. He looked at Fotir, grinning for the first time in days. “Thank you.”
The first minister joined them at the window, as did Xaver. Javan pulled the shutter back in toward the window and pointed at the stain.
“That’s blood, First Minister,” the duke said. “Somebody entered the room through this window, killed Brienne, made it seem that Tavis had done it, and then left, again through the window.”
Shurik examined the spot for several moments, a slight frown on his narrow face. “I agree that this seems to be blood,” he said at last, stepping back from the window and facing Javan. “But I fail to see how a single spot of this size supports such a wild claim.”
“How else do you explain it?” Fotir demanded.
“Lord Tavis might have gone to the window after killing her.”
Xaver shook his head. “You saw how much blood the murderer put on Tavis’s hands. If he had gone to the window, there would be blood all over the frame.”
“Perhaps there was, but the servants washed it away. Or, for that matter, maybe the servants got blood on their hands while they were washing the room and then put that spot there themselves.”
“That’s absurd!” said the duke.
“No more so than the notion of a wall-climbing assassin, my lord.”
“You’re just determined to blame this murder on my son! And so is your duke.”
“And you, sir, are desperate to save him, even if it means fabricating these ridiculous tales.”
“Watch yourself, Qirsi!” the duke said, leveling a rigid finger at the man. “Remember to whom you speak!”
“I wouldn’t care if you were already king, my lord,” Shurik said, meeting Javan’s gaze. “Your son would still be in our prison and I would still be skeptical of all you’ve said. Justice in Kentigern is meted out fairly, without regard to station.” He turned and started toward the door. “You found what you were looking for. Now I’d suggest that you return to your quarters.”
“I demand that you inform your duke of what we’ve found!” Javan said, his voice booming in the small chamber.
The minister stopped just short of the doorway and faced the duke once more. “I have every intention of informing him, my lord,” he said, his voice even and low. “I’ll tell him as well what you think it means. And I’ll offer my own opinion, which is that your little discovery does little to counter all the evidence pointing to Lord Tavis’s guilt.”
He turned again, and left the room, accompanied by one of the guards.
For some time, Fotir and his companions said nothing. Then the MarCullet boy returned to the window and stared at the crescent of blood.
“It has to mean something,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”
Fotir wanted to tell him it did, but he knew the true answer even before Javan spoke it aloud.
“It only means something,” the duke said, “if Aindreas allows it to.”
The screams of the other prisoner had become hoarse and ragged. They were softer as well, almost feeble, as if the man’s strength was finally flagging. Since his first day in the dungeon, Tavis had tried to ignore the screaming. To some extent he was finally succeeding. He could sleep now, which was an improvement over the first several days, and there were times when the sound seemed to fade to the back of his mind, like the crash of the breakers on the cliffs below Curgh Castle.
Still, he always noticed when the sound stopped, because of the relief that silence brought, to be sure. But also because it meant invariably that someone was entering the prison.
So when the screaming stopped this time, trailing off uncharacteristically into a fit of coughing, he assumed that his father or Xaver had returned yet again. His father had already come to see him a second time this day, to tell him of the blood they had found on the window shutter outside his chamber. It was news that might have heartened him, had he dared to allow himself to hope. Perhaps another visit would again offer good tidings. Even after the prisoner’s coughing ceased, however, the door at the top of the stairs did not open. Tavis waited, listening for the sound of the bolt being thrown or of voices on the far side of the door. After a time, he began to listen as well for some sound from the other man in the dungeon. But all in the prison remained still.
Had the prisoner lost consciousness? Had he died? It had never occurred to Tavis that he would, though of course it should have. The man was in the forgetting chamber. Ean knew how long he had gone without food or water. It was amazing that he had lasted this long. Yet Tavis could not bring himself to accept that the prisoner wouldn’t resume his screaming in another moment.
He should have been relieved. How many hours had he spent praying for silence? How many times had he wanted to shout at the man to stop? At last he had peace. But at what cost? As unnerving as the screaming had been, the thought of being truly alone in the dungeon
was worse. As ridiculous as it seemed, he had taken some comfort from the other prisoner’s mere presence. Or maybe—was it possible? —he had taken comfort in the man’s misery, in the knowledge that his own fate, though wretched, was better than that of the poor fool in the forgetting chamber.
Suddenly the dungeon felt darker, smaller, colder. The terror he had struggled for days to control began to rise again in his chest, clawing at his heart like some demon from the Underrealm. He thought about calling to the man, asking him if he was all right. But what if he answered? What if he didn’t?
He closed his eyes, fighting desperately to resist the urge to start screaming himself, when at last he heard the opening of the prison door and footsteps on the stairs. Maybe this was why the man had fallen silent.
Opening his eyes again, Tavis climbed awkwardly to his feet and strained to look up at the stairs, expecting to see Xaver or his father. What he saw instead made his stomach heave.
Brienne’s father had come, accompanied by two guards and the prelate of Kentigern’s Cloister of Ean.
“I’m to be executed,” Tavis whispered. “Ean have mercy.”
“It pleases me to hear you invoke the god, my son,” the prelate said, a smile on his thin, bony face. “Perhaps there is still hope for your soul.”
“Have you come to hang me?” Tavis asked, his voice trembling like a child’s. He looked briefly at the prelate, but then shifted his gaze to Aindreas.
The duke’s expression was as hard as the prison walls, his eyes filled with loathing. Tavis had no doubt that the duke wanted him dead, and would have been happy to kill him with his bare hands.
But it was the prelate who answered his question. “No, my son. There will be no hanging today. But the time approaches and the Underrealm awaits. Have you made your peace with Ean?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“There is a cloister in Curgh Castle, is there not?”
“Of course, Father Prelate.”
“And who is the prelate there?”
“His name is Nevyl. I can’t remember his family name.”
“Nevyl,” the prelate repeated, his smile broadening. “Of course. Brother Ortishen.”
Tavis nodded. Ortishen. That was it. The prelate was close to his
mother, less so to his father, who still resisted the movement away from the older faith toward Ean worship. The duke journeyed out of the castle once every turn to visit with the prior of Curgh’s Sanctuary of Elined. As Eibithar’s future king, Javan often said, he had a responsibility to listen leaders of both faiths, as did Tavis. But the duchess disapproved, reminding him pointedly that other houses in Eibithar had embraced the cloisters and insisting that it was time Curgh did the same. For his part, Tavis preferred the ancient rituals and meditations of the sanctuary to the somber liturgies of the Ean worshipers. Still, his mother made certain that he spent at least a few moments of each day in the cloister.
“No doubt Nevyl has led you in the recitation of Ean’s Teachings,” the prelate went on.
“Yes, Father Prelate.”
“So you know that Ean values truth above all else. ‘Thy word shall be golden and thy deeds the reflection of thine heart.’”
Tavis recognized the phrase: Ean’s Fourth Doctrine. Had his father been there, he would have pointed out that if Ean valued truth above all else, this would have been the first doctrine. Tavis, though, said nothing.
“Please, my son, you do not want to face Ean with deceit lying heavy on your heart. The Underrealm is a cruel place for those who hide the truth.”
“Yes, Father Prelate, I’m sure it is.” He knew where this was leading, what they wanted him to say. He faced Aindreas again, meeting the duke’s glare as best he could. “You want me to confess to Brienne’s murder.”
“We want you to find peace,” the prelate insisted. “You have taken a life, and must answer to the god for that. Do not face him as a liar as well as a murderer. Confess now, and perhaps your path into the Underrealm will be easier.”
“I can’t do that,” Tavis said, still looking at the duke. “I didn’t kill her.”
“You lying pile of dung!” the duke said, striding forward and striking him with the back of his hand.
Tavis’s ears rang with the blow and his cheek burned. He held his breath for a moment, fighting back the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He kept his face turned to the side, not daring to look at Aindreas again.
“Don’t do this, my son,” said the prelate, his voice as soothing as
a balm. “Please. Your life has been destroyed by butchery and lies. Do not make the same mistakes as you go to face the god.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said again, knowing what the duke would do.
Aindreas’s blow hammered his head against the stone wall. His knees buckled, but he managed somehow to keep his balance. He felt blood begin to flow from high on his cheek, where the duke had hit him, as well as from his temple, where his head had crashed into the wall. More than anything he wanted to be brave, to endure this in a way that would have made Brienne proud, but he could not hold back his tears.
“Confess, you craven bastard!” Aindreas hissed.
Tavis choked back a sob, but didn’t answer.
“Confess!” he said again, mashing the boy’s head against the wall. He brought his face close to Tavis’s, his hands still pushing on the boy’s head. Tavis smelled wine on his breath. “Confess, I say!”
The prelate cleared his throat. “My Lord Duke, I’m not certain that this—”
“Go!” Aindreas commanded, not even looking at the man. “Your work here is done.”
There was a long silence. Tavis was aware of nothing save the duke’s rasping breath warming his cheek.
“Very well,” the prelate said at last. “Ean have mercy on your soul, my son.”
It seemed to take the man forever to climb the stairs and leave the dungeon. All the while, Aindreas did not move, not even to release him. Tavis felt as though his skull would shatter like crystal under the duke’s hand, and he wondered if that was Aindreas’s intention.
But when the prison door finally opened and then closed, indicating that the prelate was gone, Aindreas backed away.
“I’m glad you refused him,” the duke said. His face was red, and his eyes had a wild look to them. “I rather like the idea of you enduring the tortures of the Underrealm for all eternity. I was torn, for a time, because I want to hear a confession. The prelate has assured me, however, that a confession resulting from torture would not spare you after your death. That was why he insisted that I allow you the chance to give one freely.” He shrugged. “Now that you’ve refused him, I’m free to do with you as I please.”
“I swear to you, my lord, I did not do this.”

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