Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (32 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Placing his good hand on his shoulder, he closed his eyes and reached with his mind for whatever power remained within him. At first he sensed nothing, and fear gripped his heart. But then he felt it, welling up slowly within him, like a warm spring bubbling forth from the earth. Through his chest it flowed and down his good arm to the hand resting on his wound. Under that healing touch, the icy numbness retreated, leaving a searing pain that made him wince and shudder. Still, he kept his hand there, until at last the fire in his shoulder began to subside. It seemed to take a long time—the gash was deep and the pain stubborn. But eventually his shoulder healed.
Grinsa opened his eyes, only to have the forest roll and spin around him like a whirlwind. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he lowered himself onto his back. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the ground.
When he awoke the next day the wood had already grown warm, though a thin mist still drifted among the trees. Sunlight brightened the leaves above him and the trees were alive with the scolding of finches and warblers. It had to be midmorning, perhaps later.
Sitting up carefully, he was relieved to find that his dizziness had passed. He looked at his shoulder and raised his arm, testing the wound. He still bore an angry scar, dark and shaped like a sickle—chances were it would remain with him for the rest of his life—but he could move his arm without too much pain.
Almost against his will, his eyes strayed to the body of the assassin, which lay nearby. The flies had found him, hordes of them with shiny green backs. They buzzed loudly, crowding to the dark wound on his chest and to his mouth and eyes. Grinsa knew that he should do something for the man.
You killed him.
But he hadn’t the tools or the strength to bury him, and even if he could have built a pyre, he was only a day’s ride from Kentigern and he feared that the smoke might be seen from the castle. He looked away.
“Qirsar forgive me,” he breathed.
He climbed to his feet and walked to his mount, feeling just a bit unsteady. After eating a few bites of meat and taking a long drink that nearly emptied his waterskin, he threw his saddle onto the
horse’s back and strapped it into place. He started to swing himself onto the mount, but then stopped, looking back once more at Honok.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he returned to where the body lay. He exhaled heavily, then dragged the body deeper into the woods, dug a shallow grave with his hands, and covered the body with dirt and dried leaves. There was little he could offer in supplication to the gods on Honok’s behalf, so in the end he merely said, “Be just with him, Bian. May there be a place for him in your realm.”
He started back toward his horse, but seeing the assassin’s second dagger lying in the dirt, he stopped again. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it up and slipped it into his belt. A man never knew when an extra blade might save his life.
He was closer to Kentigern than he had thought. Even with his late start, he emerged from the wood onto the broad plain that lay before the city and tor just after dusk. It had been only two turns since his last visit here with the Revel, but still he could not help but pause for a moment to admire the austere majesty of the castle and the city wall. It was by far the most imposing castle in Eibithar, perhaps in all the Forelands, and gazing at it now, Grinsa found himself wondering if he had been a fool to think his plan could work. Over the centuries, the walls of this castle, and the tor on which it stood, had stopped armies from Aneira and the most powerful houses in Eibithar. Even with the powers he possessed, and the secret he carried, who was he to attempt alone what all those men had failed to accomplish?
He flexed his shoulder again, wincing slightly at the dull pain that remained. The answer, he knew, lay in Honok’s attack on him. And in Cresenne’s betrayal.
He had managed to keep her out of his mind most of the day, but thinking of her now, he felt an unbearable tightness in his chest that threatened to still his breathing. He fought past it, forcing his mind back to Tavis and his reason for being there. The duke’s son needed his help. The boy was on a path no one else could understand; one that Grinsa had foreseen nearly to its end. He was Tavis’s only hope, and all he had to do was think of Cresenne and the lengths to which she had gone to stop him, to understand how important it was that the boy survive. As formidable as those walls were, he had to try. Besides, though few knew it, he had resources of his own that were, in their own way, just as formidable.
After a brief rest, he rode on, reaching the east entrance to the city a few moments before the bells rang signaling the locking of the city gates. Once inside the city, he dismounted and led his horse through the marketplace toward the castle, not wishing to appear to be in a great rush. He left his mount at the base of the tor, in a small common yard with several other horses and oxen. He didn’t plan to be in the castle for long, but he couldn’t risk leaving the beast in a more obvious spot.
With a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being watched Grinsa started up the castle road. He was tiring quickly. The day’s ride, while not long, had worn on him, and he still felt weak from his battle with Honok. The magic he would need to get past the guards did not demand as great an effort as the healing or shaping he had done the night before, but it promised to be difficult just the same, particularly since Kentigern Castle had two sets of gates.
The lie had to be simple. Anything too intricate would demand that he expend more power than he could manage. So when the first guard confronted him at the wicket door of the castle’s city gate and asked him why he had come, he offered the easiest answer that came to mind.
“Your duke sent for me,” he said. “He seeks my counsel.”
Simple as this was, even the dullest guard in the kingdom would have been skeptical under most circumstances. But as he spoke the words, Grinsa reached out with his power and touched the man’s mind.
“All right,” the guard said, stepping out of his way and motioning him through the wicket. “He’ll be in bed by now, but someone in the castle can find a place for you to pass the night.”
Grinsa smiled. “Thank you.” He started through the stone archway leading into the castle.
“Hey now!” another man called, from the guardroom. “Who’s he?”
With an inward curse, Grinsa halted and turned again.
“He’s here to see the duke,” the first man said.
“I’m sure he is. But how do we know the duke wants to see him?”
The guard faced Grinsa again. “You say he sent for you?”
“Yes,” the Qirsi said, gently tapping the man’s mind a second time. “In the message I just showed you.”
“It’s all right, Trent,” the guard said, looking over his shoulder at the other man. “He showed me the duke’s message.”
Grinsa held his breath. He didn’t want to risk using his power on a second man.
“Fine, then,” the second guard called at last, turning and stepping back into the guardroom. “Let him go.”
Once more Grinsa smiled, before hurrying through the gate and into the castle’s first ward.
He used the same story, and the same magic, at the inner gate on the south side of the castle. Once more, he only needed to use his power on one guard, who then convinced the rest for him. Even so, he felt himself growing light-headed with the effort. At this point, however, he had no choice but to press on. He was surrounded by guards and the great stone walls of Kentigern Castle. And the hardest part of his task still lay before him.
Kentigern, Eibithar
H
e should have been asleep. The gate bells had rung some time ago and a deathly stillness lay over the castle. But Fotir could only lie in his bed, staring out the chamber’s small window at the stars. Judging from the way Xaver was tossing in his bed, it seemed that he couldn’t sleep either. It wasn’t as though they had much to do during the day to tire them out. Since Kentigern’s duke had barred them from seeing Tavis, there was little any of them could do other than sit in their chambers or wander the grounds of the castle. And worry. They had plenty of time for that.
Javan, who had seemed immune to the passage of time in the years Fotir had known him, appeared to have aged ten years in the past few days. Suddenly his face was lined and his back stooped like that of an old man.
“He’s dying,” he had said today, staring out the window, as he seemed to do all the time now. “My boy is dying and there’s nothing I can do for him.”
Fotir wanted to reassure him, to offer some comfort, but his duke deserved more than empty words and false hope. So he kept silent, even as he seethed with frustration and outrage. In truth, he thought it likely that the boy was already dead. A few days before, he had overheard several of the guards speaking of Tavis’s torture at the hands of Brienne’s father and his dogged refusal to confess. He couldn’t be certain that they weren’t saying it all for his benefit, but their stories had the ring of truth to them. Tavis was just past his
Fating, and though he was strong and capable for his age, no boy could survive torture for long.
He didn’t say any of this to Javan, of course, but he felt certain that the duke knew, as did the MarCullet boy. In the last day or two, it seemed that all three of them had abandoned their hope for the boy’s release and begun a vigil for his death.
The knocking was faint at first, as if whoever had come feared waking them. It was only when the first minister heard soft footfalls in the corridor that he realized the first knocks had been at Tavis’s door. When the sound commenced again, on their door, it was unmistakable.
Xaver and Fotir sat up in their beds and exchanged a look.
“Light the lamp,” the minister said, his voice low.
The boy fumbled with the flint and steel for several moments before finally striking a flame. Fotir dressed and stepped to the door.
“Who’s there?” he called quietly.
“An ally,” came the reply. “And a friend to Lord Tavis.”
The minister glanced back at Xaver, who raised an eyebrow and drew his sword. Fotir nodded his approval before opening the door.
A tall, powerfully built Qirsi man stood before him. He looked vaguely familiar, though Fotir could not place him.
“First Minister,” the man said softly, offering a slight bow.
Fotir narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”
Before the man could answer, Xaver took a sharp breath. “The gleaner,” he said. “From the Revel.”
The minister began to nod slowly. “Of course. We met at the Silver Gull.”
“Yes,” the gleaner said, glancing from side to side. Clearly he wanted to enter the room, but Fotir wasn’t ready to let him in just yet.
“What is it you want, gleaner?”
Their eyes met.
“I want to help,” the man said, sounding earnest.
“You knew this was going to happen!” Xaver said. “You saw it in Tavis’s Fating, and yet you let him come here!”
Fotir raised a hand, silencing the boy, but he kept his eyes on the man’s face. “The Revel is in Galdasten now, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you came all this way just to help Lord Tavis?”
“Master MarCullet is right. I did see something of Lord Tavis’s fate. Or more precisely, of his future.”
“An interesting distinction,” Fotir said. “Perhaps I wasn’t as far off as you and your friends made it seem when I asked if you had misled him with the gleaning.”
He heard voices approaching. The gleaner looked in their direction, then faced him again. Suddenly he looked frightened. But still Fotir did not allow him into the chamber.
“You asked me if what he saw was real,” the gleaner said. “Obviously it was. I had reasons for not showing him his true fate. You must believe that I meant him no harm. I intended what he saw as a warning.”
“Your warning nearly cost young Xaver here his life.”
“I know that.” He looked past Fotir to the boy. “I’m sorry for it.”
The voices were quite close now. Guards, no doubt. They’d be turning the corner onto this corridor in a few more seconds.
“Why did you come here?” Fotir asked again.
“To help!” the man said, desperation creeping into his voice.
“So you’ve said. How?”
“By freeing Lord Tavis from the prison! But I can’t do it alone!”
It was the last thing Fotir expected him to say. Indeed, the minister was so surprised that he nearly left the man standing in the corridor for too long.
Seeing the flicker of the guards’ torches on the corridor walls, he quickly stepped aside, allowing the gleaner to hurry into the chamber before closing the door. They all remained silent as a moment later the guards walked past the doorway, their voices echoing loudly off the stone ceiling and walls.
“What’s your name, gleaner?” Fotir asked, when the guards voices had faded.
“Grinsa jal Arriet.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’ve lived in Eibithar all my life.” He said it proudly, as an Eandi would, or as Fotir himself had on many occasions. “The duke is to be my king,” he went on a moment later. “I wish him and his family no harm. The night we met at the Silver Gull, I offered to help you search for the boy. Now I’m offering my aid again.”
“I remember your offer,” Fotir said. “I also recall that you said you were a gleaner, with no deeper powers. What makes you think that you can free Tavis from the prison?”
The man hesitated, his eyes straying to Xaver. “I’d rather not say. You just have to believe me when I tell you that I can.”
“Shouldn’t we speak with the duke about this?” Xaver asked.
Grinsa shook his head. “Your duke shouldn’t be party to this, Master MarCullet, any more than you should. Even involving the first minister is risky, but I need another Qirsi, one I can trust.” A look of deepest sadness flitted across the man’s features and then was gone. “If we fail,” he continued, appearing to gather himself, “it would be far better that we fail alone. The duke of Kentigern can blame it on Qirsi conspirators, or some such thing. If you or your duke are involved, it becomes grounds for war.”
The gleaner was right, though it made Fotir vaguely uncomfortable to admit it. He also found the mention of Qirsi conspirators disturbing, but he kept that to himself. “I have to agree, Xaver,” he said. “We should say nothing to the duke, at least for now.”
The boy took a step forward. “You’ll need help, someone to stand watch while you help Tavis.”
“No,” Fotir told him. “The gleaner was right about that as well. You can’t be involved. If this can be done, we’ll do it. And if it can’t, we’ll have an easier time avoiding capture if it’s just the two of us.”
“You can’t just expect me to stay here,” the boy said.
Grinsa smiled at him. “I showed you a fine future at your Fating, Master MarCullet. The first minister and I don’t want to do anything to endanger it.”
Xaver frowned, but after a moment he gave a small nod.
“Try to sleep,” Fotir said, stepping to the door. “And no matter what happens, don’t say anything about this to anyone. If someone asks, you thought I was going to a tavern.”
Again the boy nodded, this time with more conviction. “All right,” he said. “May the gods be at your side.”
The minister grinned, then led the gleaner into the corridor and to the nearest set of stairs. At the entrance to the stair tower, however, he stopped and faced Grinsa.
“Before we go any further, I want a better explanation of what we’re about to do.”
Grinsa blinked. “I’ve told you,” he said. “We’re going to free Lord—”
“Yes, I know. But how? The boy’s not here—it’s just the two of us. Now I want the truth, Qirsi to Qirsi.”
Once more the man hesitated, although this time he did not look away. “I can’t tell you everything. It’s enough to say that I am more than I told you. I can heal and shape as well as glean.”
“Why did you lie to me that night?”
“I wasn’t certain that I could trust you,” he said with a shrug.
“Trust is one thing, but why lie about your abilities, especially when you were offering your help?”
Grinsa took a breath, and again it seemed to Fotir that his expression was one of profound grief. “There are divisions among our people that run deeper than I ever thought possible. Even the simplest gestures of trust can be dangerous. You and I know nothing of each other except that we both wish to save Tavis’s life, and even that we’re each taking on faith. I joined the Revel as a gleaner and told no one of my other powers. I had my reasons for doing so, and if I had told you more than I told Trin and the rest, it might have gotten back to them.”
It was the second time since their arrival in Kentigern that someone had spoken to him of the rift that existed among the Qirsi as if it was something new. In a sense, though, these divisions dated back to the Qirsi Wars and the betrayal of his people that ended them. His parents, particularly his father, had spoken of Carthach, the traitorous officer who helped the Forelanders defeat the Qirsi army during the ancient wars, as if he had been a demon sent by Bian from the Underrealm. The traitor Carthach. It might as well have been the man’s name. Certainly Fotir had never heard him referred to any other way until he was well past his Determining. Traveling with the Revel because both his parents were gleaners, he constantly heard men like his father, and like Trin, their tongues loosened by wine, railing against Carthach and the Eandi. And like Trin, Fotir’s father and his friends saved their harshest words for those Qirsi who served in the Eandi courts that the Revel visited.
It was funny in a way. At least it was until Fotir’s Fating. His mother did the gleaning, rather than his father. Fotir was sixteen, and had long since begun to challenge his father’s narrow view of the world. They barely spoke anymore. Which was fortunate, for had it been his father summoning the vision of his future from the Qiran, Fotir might never have seen his true fate. As it was, his mother cried out at what she showed him. An Eandi watching the gleaning might have thought that she saw an early death for her son, or some unspeakable disgrace. But no, it was just Fotir, grown into manhood, serving an Eibitharian duke.
Fotir left the Revel that night. He never saw his parents again,
though he and his mother exchanged letters until her death several years later.
The unrest of which Shurik and now Grinsa had spoken might have been new, but the feelings behind it—the irrational resentment and prejudice—were as old as Carthach’s memory, as old as the kingdoms of the Forelands. Fotir wanted no part of this fight. He never had.
“You’re still not answering my question,” Fotir said, unwilling to be swayed simply by talk of Qirsi resentments and conspiracies.
“No, I’m not. But I swear to you on the memory of my wife, whom I lost to the pestilence six years ago, that I wish you and the duke no harm. I came here to help Lord Tavis and will do so with or without you. We both know, however, that I have a far better chance of succeeding if you help me.”
Fotir considered this in silence for some time. Whatever had driven Grinsa to come to Kentigern, he did appear to be their last hope for saving Tavis’s life. If it could still be saved. The first minister exhaled loudly, allowing himself a small smile. “You can be persuasive, Gleaner. Did you know that?”
Grinsa grinned. “Actually, yes. Did I forget to mention to you that I have mind-bending magic? That’s how I got into the castle in the first place.”
They started down the stairs, stepping lightly and keeping watch for more guards, but Fotir could not keep his mind from returning to what Grinsa had just told him. Mind-bending was a powerful magic, one that worked best on the Eandi, who had no way of protecting themselves from Qirsi power. But more than that, with gleaning, shaping, and healing, the mind-bending magic gave the man four types of power, an uncommonly large number for even the most powerful Qirsi. The very idea of it raised a staggering possibility, one that Fotir had not considered for many years. Abruptly, he understood Grinsa’s reluctance to tell him the truth.
At the bottom of the winding stairway, Grinsa led them toward another corridor rather than out into the ward.
“Don’t we want to go this way?” Fotir asked.
“Not unless we want to be seen by the castle guards.”
Still the minister hesitated, abruptly unsure of whether he’d been wise to follow this man.
“I know of a sally port,” Grinsa explained. “You didn’t really think that we’d just walk into the dungeon and free him?”

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