Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Epilogue

What’s Next?

Also by T. C. Edge

PROLOGUE

He could hear his son coming, long before he arrived. The heavy, marching step. The thunderous, bellowing voice. He is as loud as my father was, thought Ayrin, son of Varin. Louder, even. That same bold blood runs thick through his veins. That same insatiable spirit.

The king turned his eyes back down to his book, enjoying the last few moments of peace before Amron strode through the door. By the ringing of steel on stone it was obvious he was wearing his armour. He has come from his training, no doubt. Preparing for a war that I have long denied him. His blood will be up, and his tongue will be hot. It was the last thing he needed today.

A sigh slipped through his lips, stirring the greying bristles of his lengthening beard. Ayrin had not worn a beard as a younger man, not like his father and brother - and now his son as well - yet in his dotage the whiskers seemed to suit him. A scholar king, many called him. Ayrin the Peacemaker. Even Ayrin the Wise. True though that last might have been, he had always brushed the sobriquet aside. My wisdom was only a gift, he thought, granted by one greater.

The book before him was a gift as well, given by the same wise ruler. He had always counted it among his favourite tomes, a contemplation on the nobility of silence, and calm thought, and the great merits of taking one’s time, in every endeavour they should undertake. Though the author was officially a Rasalanian philosopher called Telys the Thinker, Ayrin had always wondered if Thala had written it herself. His mentor’s mark was all over the words; in the flow of them, in their nature, in the wisdom wrought into every page. Reading it he could almost hear her voice from beyond the grave. This world is dimmer without her. No light has ever shone so bright.

The footsteps were getting louder, smashing hard against the stone. When Amron of House Varin marched with such intent through the palace, the stonemasons wept, for they would have work to do. Not rarely did the man leave cracks in his wake. One of the masons had, in fact, requested that there be more rugs laid down through the halls and corridors to help soften the prince’s tread. A jest, of course, or at least that’s how Ayrin took it. The forced smile on the poor man’s face had suggested otherwise, however.

The footfall reached its thundering apex, and the doors to his study flew open. Amron stepped inside, armour misting, skin sweating. “Father.” He fell into a bow, sweat spraying off his forehead and the wet strands of hair, black as jet, flowing about his ears. In the side of his breastplate he had stuffed a cloth, which he removed to wipe himself down. “Hot out there today. The hottest of the year, I’m told.”

King Ayrin had heard that as well. “You’ve been training daily during the heat of the day, Amron. For long hours. Do I have to ask you why?”

“I think you know why, Father.” Amron headed for a side table and hooked a jug of water into his steel grasp, drinking straight from the flagon. It looked almost like a regular cup in his hand. At over seven feet in height, he made most things look small. “It’ll be a great deal hotter than this in Agarath.” He finished the jug, put it aside, and took up a flagon of wine instead. This one he did pour into a goblet. “Nothing to say to that, Father? You usually have a ready response.”

“I have no response that I haven’t given you a hundred times before. You know my thoughts on this. I have spoken to you of the risks.”

“The risks of doing nothing are just as severe. I understand your position, I do, and I respect it. But this peace cannot endure forever. We’re a warrior people. It’s in our blood.” He gulped his wine. “Are you having a cup?”

“Later. I prefer not to drink during the daytime, as you know.”

Amron nodded, finished the cup, refilled it and drank again. As with his grandfather, he did everything to excess - eating, drinking, duelling - without feeling the full effects as other men did. As they became drunk, Amron remained sober. As they grew fat, he remained thick with muscle, broad at the shoulder and trim at the waist. In the duelling yard he could fight on for long hours, beating back one opponent after another without fatigue. Not since Varin had a man been so utterly born to fight. Yet so far those talents had been restricted to the sparring yard and tourney grounds, to the woods and mountains where he would hunt for prey, to the nests and dens where brigands lurked. On occasion he had encountered opponents almost worthy of his skill, but those times were few, and he had grown restless. He wants a proper fight, Ayrin knew. He wants to slay dragons.

The silence lingered for several long moments, a silence that Amron did not enjoy. It was anathema to him, this absence of noise, though to Ayrin it had always been where wonders were done. A time to think, to consider, to determine the correct course. He sat for a time, pondering. It did not take long for his son to break.

“Well? Are you going to say anything or not?”

“I am saying something, Amron. Silence is speech.”

“Yes, so you like to say. I prefer words, however. They are rather more clear.” He finished off his cup of wine and refilled it once again. “Vandar gave us his body to make weapons and armour. Tools with which to defeat our enemies. Does that not suggest to you that he wanted us to make war?”

“Weapons are used to protect what one has, as much as they are to win what one hasn’t.”

Amron’s azure eyes descended to the desk. “Another quote from your book? Or one of your own?”

“I’m glad you think it’s quote-worthy. Yes, it’s one of mine.”