Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (46 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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But these were extraordinary times. The House of Galdasten was still recovering from its terrifying brush with the pestilence, which had killed the duke and his entire line. Under the rules, the new lords of Galdasten would have to wait four generations before they could lay claim to the crown once more. The House of Thorald, tragically robbed of both its duke and his brilliant son, did not have to wait as long as its rival to the south, but still it could place no heirs on the throne for another generation. With the land’s most powerful families removed from the Order of Ascension, stability vanished, but not the rivalries that still existed among the other major houses and the outrage engendered by Brienne’s death and Tavis’s imprisonment. A duke of Thorald, and even Galdasten, might be convinced to give up the crown in circumstances such as these, knowing that under the Order of Ascension their houses, the preeminent houses in the land, would reclaim the throne in the foreseeable future. But for the men of Curgh and Kentigern, whose houses gained the throne but once or twice in a given century, abdication was out of the question. Javan could be expected to guard jealously Curgh’s newfound status as the kingdom’s highest-ranking house.
“Do you think Javan would renounce his son if Aindreas agreed
not to take the throne himself? That way Javan would rule, but when he died the crown would fall to Aindreas’s boy.”
Wenda shook her head. “That would only work if Aindreas was willing to accept Javan as his sovereign, and Javan was willing to acknowledge Tavis’s guilt. And if those things were possible, we wouldn’t be worrying about civil war.”
Paegar muttered a curse and propelled himself out of his chair. “So there’s nothing at all we can do.” He offered it as a statement, but he looked from Wenda to Natan, as if hoping one of them would contradict him.
“There’s nothing we can do without a king,” Natan said. “Under almost any other circumstance, I’d be in favor of sending messages to all the houses, telling them of Aylyn’s state and asking them to allow his successor to take the throne. But we can’t even do that right now.”
The midday bells tolled from the city gates, their peals echoing among the great towers of Audun’s Castle, and drifting into Aylyn’s chambers like sweet spirits of the Underrealm. The priests kneeling at the king’s bed climbed stiffly to their feet and stepped somberly from the room. Obed remained, however.
“I’ll return later,” Paegar said, his mouth set in a hard line. He glanced once at the king, then left, though through a different door from the one used by the Ean worshipers.
Wenda stood as well and smiled down at Natan. “I was thinking of walking to the marketplace. Join me?”
The archminister shook his head. “Perhaps another time. I’d like some time with Aylyn, and after that I need to rest.”
“I understand.” She took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. A moment later she was gone as well.
Natan pushed himself out of his chair and crossed to the king’s bed to stand next to Obed.
Noting that the prelate was in the middle of a prayer, the archminister kept his silence, looking down at Aylyn. The king was so pale, his hair so white and thin, that he could easily have been mistaken for a Qirsi. Even as an older man he had looked as an Eandi king ought to, handsome and tall, with icy blue eyes and strong, angular features. But now he just looked old and sickly, his hair disheveled and his cheeks so sunken that his skin seemed about to tear. His lips were cracked and dry, and his chest rose and fell unsteadily, with a high, rasping sound. Eibithar needed a miracle; it
needed its king. But looking at him now, Natan knew that Aylyn would never open his eyes again. The most for which any of them could hope was that he would outlive the crisis on Kentigern Tor.
The prelate finished his prayer and rose, brushing off his robe. “He looks worse every day,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Your healers can do nothing more?”
They weren’t his healers, of course. They were the king’s. But they were Qirsi, and so his in Obed’s eyes.
“He’s an old man,” Natan said. “If it were just the sickness they could heal him. But the king’s body has given all it can.”
Obed nodded. “I heard some of what you and your ministers were saying. Are you as concerned as the others?”
I should be, but I feel nothing
. “The danger is real enough. It remains to be seen whether Javan and Aindreas will follow through on their threats or come to their senses.”
“I’ve met both of them,” the prelate said. “Neither has much sense.”
Natan laughed, and after a moment Obed joined in. The archminister had known many prelates in his years and as far as he could tell, Obed was the only one of them with any humor. Their laughter faded quickly, and they stood, wordless, watching the king.
“It’s time for my devotions,” Obed said at last. “Be well, Archminister.”
Natan nodded. “And you, Father Prelate. Pray for our king’s long life.”
He couldn’t help feeling that they were being watched, that someone was marking their progress through the ward, wondering what they were doing together. He knew he was being foolish. No one would think twice about one of the king’s Qirsi ministers speaking to one of his Qirsi healers, not when the king was so ill. Certainly none of the Eandi would notice. Most of the guards still didn’t recognize him, and he had been living in Audun’s Castle for nearly eleven years. To them he was just another Qirsi advisor. He could count on one hand the ones who knew enough to call him high minister as he walked by. He had nothing to fear from them. Nor did he have cause to worry about his fellow ministers. Only the day before he had seen the archminister speaking with a healer, just as he was doing now. He
shouldn’t have been nervous at all. Yet Paegar had to walk with his hands behind his back so the healer wouldn’t see how they trembled.
“The king’s master healer is very protective of his patient. He won’t allow any of us to attend to the king unless he’s there as well. As I said before, there’s nothing I can do. With Natan insisting that you and your fellow ministers sit vigil with the king, you are the best choice to see to this matter.”
Paegar nodded, but offered no other response. What they were asking of him went far beyond anything he had done for them before. Perhaps he should have expected it, given what he had heard of others doing, but somehow he thought that it would be different for him. Aylyn was old, and he was dying. The minister wanted to believe that they could wait half a turn for Bian to take him. But after all that he and the other ministers had discussed the past few days, it had become clear to him that they couldn’t wait at all, not even a day.
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.

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