“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.”
“Fool,” Amron grunted. The mists swirled about him, obscuring his face, and in that moment Ayrin saw Varin there, not Amron, saw his father and not his son. “With such a weapon we would be unstoppable. You want peace, Father? Who would dare seek war with us when we have such power in our grasp?”
He will never see. He is so much like his grandfather. Too much, the king thought. “Absolute power is a curse. It is how tyrants are made.”
The prince huffed. The sound echoed through the quiet of the chamber. “Tyrants are weak,” he declared. “Varin would never have become one. He would have ruled with a strong fist, yes, but fairly. He would have let the worthy thrive.”
“You speak as if you knew him. You never met your grandfather.”
“You don’t need to meet a man to know him.” The prince slammed a fist against his breastplate, the clang ringing between the pillars. “I feel him in here. He speaks to me, Father, from his Table Above. I am his true heir, the people say.”
People who never met him either, Ayrin thought. Varin had died almost two hundred years ago. There was no one left living who had known him. Only me, Ayrin thought.
“You don’t trust me,” the prince said in an indignant voice. Ayrin looked at him. Amron’s eyes were hard as diamonds. The mist swirled about him, moving angrily. “Same as with your own father. You think I’ll become a tyrant if I combine the blades.”
I know it, a part of him thought. “I don’t think that,” is all he said.
“Then why? Why do you deny me, Father? Why?”
“I do not deny you. I do not have what you seek. Ilith took the secret to his grave, Amron. Those blades may never be reforged.”
