Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands by David B. Coe Page A

conversation was over.
    “Is that all, Father?” Tavis asked, putting on a smile of his own. In some ways they were so much alike.
    “Yes. Go put on some clothes.”
    The two of them turned and walked to the door.
    “I look forward to hearing about your Fating, Tavis,” the duke said, just as the young lord pulled the door open.
    Tavis didn’t turn, but he did pause on the threshold. “Of course, sire.”
    Fotir was standing in the corridor just outside the door, the torchlight making his eyes shine like those of a great owl. Tavis nodded to him, but said nothing as they walked past.
    “May the stone glow with the glory of your fates, young masters,” the Qirsi said.
    Xaver glanced back at him. “Thank you.”
    They were back outside a moment later, crossing the inner ward to their quarters. Tavis muttered to himself as he walked, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. Xaver knew how angry his friend was, how humiliated, but he couldn’t keep his own anger in check.
    “You really would have asked me to lie for you, wouldn’t you?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the ward.
    Tavis stopped as well, but at first he didn’t reply. When he finally did he looked puzzled. “What?”
    “In there, with the duke. You tried to pull me into your fight, even though it meant pitting me against my father.”
    The young lord sagged. “Not you, too.”
    “I’m sorry, Tavis. But you can’t treat people this way, at least not your friends.”
    “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