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

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