A huffing laugh heaved from his son’s chest. “A rearrangement of something Queen Thala said, no doubt. So, we protect our own. Yes, I agree with that. But what about those already fallen? What about your own father? What about vengeance?”

“Vengeance is hollow. A dark hole that can never be filled. In the end it only leads to more killing.” The king felt weary already; they’d had this discussion a hundred times before. “I know you hate to hear this, Amron, but…”

“Don’t say it. Do not try to convince me that the killing of Varin was necessary. He was your father. How can you persist in believing that?”

“It is hard to hear, I know. A terrible thing to even say. But that does not make it untrue, son. Had my father lived, he would have sought to dominate the southern kingdoms. Lori and Dor sensed this ambition. And in their fear…”

“They murdered him,” finished Amron, looking down at his father with distaste. “They killed him during the parley, during the very signing of the peace treaty…and you tell me it was just.”

“No. I did not say just.”

“You might as well have.” He finished his wine, smashed the goblet down, refilled it to the brim once more. All aggressive. All loud. They cloak him like a mantle. “Do you imagine those treacherous bastards would have killed him if Uncle Elin was still alive? No, they only did it because Elin was dead, and you were heir to the throne. They saw you as weak, Father. That’s an opinion others share.”

The king did not let the words of his son wound him. He had heard them all before, in rants and raves and muscular demands, but never did they move him. Through Thala he had learned temperance, another gift of the Far-Seeing Queen. And not a quality my son possesses. Nor my father or brother before him. Oh, Amron might become a great man, and a great king one day, yet if so it would not be as a wise ruler, but a warrior, and a conqueror, revered for his body and not his mind, for strength and not sagacity.

Enough time had passed. Ayrin had not moved his gaze away from his son all the while. “Men are welcome to their opinions,” he said, in a calm, even voice. “They change like the wind, Amron, blowing one away and then the other. In the course of time, our legacies will solidify. Yes, to some I will be known as weak. A weak king who did not avenge his father. But to others, I hope, I will be seen as the king who rebuilt a kingdom, after a hundred years of war. Who strengthened and consolidated his borders and developed deeper bonds and ties with his allies. Who rejuvenated the land, re-sowed the fields and orchards, built new cities and castles, farms and market towns and monuments. How, I ask you, would more war have served us then? More men dying. More money siphoned into the forging of arms and armour. You see the world only from your own vantage, Amron. You see the great light of war, the nobility in it, the triumph. But every light that shines makes a shadow, and in that shadow, people suffer. Those are the people I looked to when this crown was placed on my head. And I hope you remember them, when it comes time for you to wear it.”

Amron’s jaw was tight. “I will,” he said, as though his sense of civic responsibility was being called into question. “I am a man of the people as well. They cheer my name when I ride through the streets. I have Prince Amron ringing in my ears. I remind them of Varin, I’m told.”

Ayrin smiled softly, proud and yet somehow sad at once. “You look like him. And you have his strength and boldness. These are qualities people love. I only wish you could show more balance, Amron. Perhaps when you are king, you will.”

“When I’m king, I will do as you did. I’ll build, and expand, and make this kingdom even greater. I’ll raise a great new city at the mouth of the Steelrun, to watch over the Red Sea. And monuments, those too. I’ll build one for you, Father. A great monument, a whole city of them, to celebrate all your deeds.”

Ayrin studied his son; the shape of his mouth, the playful light in his eyes. “You oughtn’t tease, Amron. Was I a little too boastful there, listing out my achievements as king?”

His son smiled broadly. “It was rather unlike you, I must say. But none of what you said was untrue.” His voice softened. He stepped in. “And I mean it, Father. I will build you a city when you’re gone, and I will have it filled with monuments to you. You are a great king. We might look at the world differently, but I would never diminish what you’ve done. You were the right king for the right time. But times…they’re different now.”

Different, Ayrin thought. Worsening, and growing more bitter. As sad as it made him to think it, he knew that war with Agarath could not be kept at bay forever, something Thala had always known. Though the Far-Seeing Queen was reluctant to speak of such things, he had learned to read her well during his years beneath her wing. Whenever the subject of war came up, he would watch her gaze, listen to the shift in her tone of voice, perceive the truth that she was unwilling to speak out loud. He had spoken to Ilith of it too, during their private councils, when the great blacksmith king came to Varinar, or he journeyed to Ilithor to see him. Often did they speak of Thala, and the future, and the heavy burden she refused to share.

“She cannot,” Ilith had told him once. “Else she break her bonds of trust with Rasalan. Should that happen he will shut his Eye, and deny her from peering through his pupil. Thala has tested those boundaries more than once before, Ayrin. She tells us only what she is able to say, and we mustn’t ask for more.”

Ayrin had heeded the king’s advice, much as he found it difficult to do so. Now he wished Thala was still here, so he could ask her about his son. Will he renew the war with Agarath? Will he seek vengeance for my father’s fall? She would not have answered those questions, he knew, but all the same, he’d have seen the answers in her eyes. As I see them in the eyes of my son…

“Is there anything I can say that would dissuade you from this course, Amron?” he asked. “This way to war. Is your heart set upon it?”

The prince’s eyes were steel. “You are the king, Father. Only you can call our armies to war. As long as you live, I will obey your commands. I can wait, if I must. In respect of your achievements, I’ll stir no war until I wear the crown. That I promise you. But after…”

“You will have your war.” Ayrin nodded. That would be for his son to decide. “You have always been an honest man, Amron. Another might have made false promises.”

“And you’d only have seen right through them. This…this is the best compromise. Only…” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “It’s what I want. Battle, glory, I’ll not deny it. And vengeance for Varin too. But knowing it will only come at your death, I…” He shook his head again, looking away. “It will not be the same. Every son wants to make his sire proud.”

Ayrin stood from his chair. He was a tall man, as men went, even in his advancing years. Not nearly so grand in might as his son, yet strong all the same, and a brilliant swordsman once too. He stepped around his desk and put his hands on his son’s broad shoulders. “I am proud of you, Amron. I have always been proud of you, and I will always be proud of you. You are my son, and I love you. And when I’m gone, you must follow your own path. If that means war, so be it. I will not be there to stop you.”

Amron nodded, eyes down. “I wish it could be different,” he murmured. “I wish you did not disapprove of me so.”

“Disapprove? I do not disapprove of you, son. It is the very nature of war that has earned my disapproval. I was born during a century of it. In my youth it was all I knew. That shaped me, Amron, growing up in such a world. We have lived a different experience.”

The prince gave that some thought. “Then is it any wonder how I have turned out? You were born to war and turned to a path of peace. I was born to peace and so yearn to seek out war.” He let out a sigh. “It calls to me in a way I cannot explain. I don’t feel complete without it. I have never felt complete.”

“You are the reflection of your grandfather. He would have said the very same thing.”

There was a long pause. Amron gave a light huff to himself, then said, “That was Ilith’s fault. If Varin wasn’t complete, then the blacksmith was to blame…”

“That blacksmith built the world, Amron.”

“I know. And I respect that. But he also…he also betrayed Varin. He was his friend, and he betrayed him.”

This again, Ayrin thought. “He did not betray him. He protected him.”

“Protected him? From who?”

“Himself. Ilith was wise enough to see that my father could not be trusted with that power.”

Amron snorted. “That power would have saved countless lives. That power was not Ilith’s to hold. You lost a brother and a sister and how many others because Ilith did not share his secret. A hundred years of war, Father. All of that could have been avoided.”

It was a familiar debate, a well-worn discussion, and Ayrin was tired of it. They were never going to agree. “Come with me,” he said.

Amron frowned. “Where are you…”

“Come,” the king repeated. He made for the door, robes trailing in a blue billow behind him.

Amron followed, clanking heavily in his plate armour. The guards outside bowed at the king’s passing, and that of the prince, then began to trail behind them at a distance as they made their way through the palace.

It was not far to the throne room. When they arrived, King Ayrin told the guards to remain outside. He stepped within with his son and asked that the heavy doors be shut. The hall was a vision of grandeur. Fluted pillars of grey-white marble rose high overhead, veined in blue. The tall frosted windows sparkled as sunlight flowed in from outside, each pane of glass a different colour. Blues were favoured, and shades of silver, the colours of the kingdom, but there were some reds and greens and golds as well, shining across the tiled stone floor. Banners hung down between them, depicting heroes of the old wars, their triumphs and victories and conquests. At the end of the hall rose the stage upon which the throne misted, forged of pure godsteel. Sitting there, a king would be enshrouded in the Soul of Vandar, given power by his presence, or so it was said. It wasn’t true. Ayrin had never felt the God King’s strength when sitting the throne. Those mists just make it hard to see, he thought, when I look out upon my subjects.

Amron had grown impatient. “What are we doing here, Father? If this is some kind of lesson…”

“Sit the throne, Amron.”

The prince hesitated. “Father?”

“Go ahead. Seat yourself upon the chair from which your grandfather declared his wars.” He waited as his son climbed the steps and took perch before him. “How does it feel?”

Amron had never liked those sorts of questions. He was a direct man, not one of deep thought. “Like I’m sitting on a throne. How should it feel?”

“Do you feel his power? Vandar’s?”

Amron thought a moment. The mists poured from the arms and the back and the base, swirling and rising, only fading when they reached up to the high vaulted ceiling. Ayrin had always felt small in that throne, but Amron filled it well. Small wonder, the king thought. His own father had enlisted the finest of Ilith’s Forgeborn to craft it, its every feature made to fit his grand, imposing proportions. Proportions Varin had shared with Elin, his eldest son, the brother who had died before Ayrin was born. And with Amron too, the king thought. Varin, Elin, Amron…they were all much alike.

At last his son gave answer. “Yes,” he said. “I can feel it.”

It felt like the answer he was expected to give. “And of Varin? What of history, Amron? Do you feel its weight on your shoulders?”

“I feel pauldrons on my shoulders. Just what are you trying to get at?”

Ayrin had a meandering way about him sometimes, people said. A charge he accepted. He liked to lead a man to a conclusion, rather than saying it outright, but his son was right. This was no time to be long-winded. Time is no longer a luxury I have.

“In that very seat, your grandfather complained of the very same thing as you do,” he said. “For hours he would rage of Ilith’s obstinacy, how he would not do as he demanded and reforge the Blades of Vandar. Sometimes it felt like it was the only thing in the world he wanted. It became an obsession to him, and nothing else seemed to matter, and every time Ilith came to visit, he would make his demands and requests. Sometimes directly and angrily, sometimes in a quieter, more pleading way, but always the same. And do you know what Ilith said? He said no, Amron. Every single time. He said no.”