A Reign of Steel

CHAPTER TWENTY

Erec quickly climbed the endless stairs leading to the top of the highest peak of the Southern Isles, looking up as he went, his heart warmed at the sight of his father’s fort. There it sat, on the highest point of the island, just as he’d remembered as a child. It was a beautiful structure, like a small castle, yet square and low to the ground, adorned with turrets and parapets. It was built of ancient stones quarried centuries ago from these cliffs, and its presence was imposing. For Erec, it was home; yet it also embodied a special place in his dreams, an almost magical place.

Erec approached its massive copper doors, tall and rectangular, shining so brightly in the sun he had to squint, with their huge carved handles that brought back memories. Erec had forgotten that the Southern Isles were a land of copper, its bountiful copper mines yielding an endless amount of material, so much so that nearly every structure in the Southern Isles, even the poorest house, had some element of copper in it. His father’s fort, the most beautiful and elaborate structure here, had so much copper on it, shined so brightly, that it was visible from nearly any point on the islands. It was designed to leave people in awe—whether friends or enemies.

Erec was breathing hard, his legs burning, as he finally reached the plateau and approached the place—he had forgotten how steep the Upper Isles were, how the entire island was basically one huge mountain range, a series of elevations, rising and falling, people constantly having to climb endless steps carved into the stone to reach anything. His father’s fort, most of all. Erec realized that, whatever shape he was in, it was still not the shape of the Southern Islanders, where all the men—and women—had legs of tree trunks, accustomed their entire lives to climbing and descending.

As Erec approached the doors, Alistair at his side, half a dozen soldiers, dressed in the uniform of the Southern Isles, head to toe in copper armor, weapons, shields, shining like the fort, immediately stepped aside and pulled open the doors for him. They bowed their heads low, offering him a reception fit for a king. It gave Erec a strange sensation; it brought home the fact that soon, his father would be dead—and he would be King.

Erec had never been treated like a king before, and he realized he did not like the feeling. He was a humble man at heart, his entire life devoted to being a loyal soldier, a warrior, a knight—not to politics or pomp. His life was devoted to serving others, to serving the Ring, to be the best warrior he could be. He cared for little else.

Seeing all these people in the Southern Isles treat him with such a reception made him realize that his life was about to change. He would soon be spending less time with his weaponry, less time in the field, and more time being a ruler, in halls of politics. He was not sure if he liked the feeling. Was that the natural evolution of a warrior? he wondered. To rise up from the field of battle, a place of honor, and to enter into the murky field of politics? Erec felt that there more honor in battle, and that the deeper one waded into the politics and power, the more one risked one’s honor. Was evolving from warrior to ruler the natural evolution of responsibility? Or was it a de-evolution, a tarnishing of one’s honors and virtues?

Erec did not know the answer, and a part of him did not want to find out. He wanted a simple life as a warrior, defending his kingdom, living amongst his people. He did not want to rule them. And yet he was his father’s firstborn, and everyone on the Isles, including his father, would expect nothing less of him.

If there was any saving grace to being King on these isles, it was that Kings here were different from Kings anywhere else in the world; to be King here meant that one not only had to picked by lineage—one also had to earn it. To earn the Kingship, Erec would have to be tested on the field of battle, by his own people. A contest would be called, and any commoner would have the right to challenge him. If any one of them defeated him, then the Kingship would pass to them. At least Erec, assuming he won, would be King through merit—and not through lineage alone.

Erec marched down the corridors holding Alistair’s hand, their footsteps echoing off the copper floors, attendants and soldiers lined up, bowing their heads as they passed. More attendants opened another set of doors for them, and they turned down another corridor, and another, and finally, before them were the doors to his father’s chamber. One last soldier opened the door, and Erec braced himself, nervous, anticipating what state his father might be in.

Alistair stopped with him before the door, tugging his hand.

“My lord, shall I enter with you?” Alistair asked, hesitant.

Erec nodded.

“You shall be my wife. It is fitting that you meet my father before he dies.”

“Yet you have not seen him since your youth. Perhaps you want some time alone with him.”

Erec clutched her hand. “Where I go, you go.”

The two entered the room and the door closed behind them, leaving just the two of them in this room with the King, along with the attendants lined up solemnly along the walls.

For the first time since he was a boy, Erec laid eyes on his father, and his heart sank. His father lay in bed, head propped up on silk pillows, silk covers up to his chest despite the warm summer day. He looked so much older, frailer, smaller than Erec remembered. The sight pained him to no end.

In Erec’s memory, his father was as a tall, broad-chested great warrior, a fierce and tough man, wise and calculating, respected by all who looked at him. He was a man who had managed to grasp the throne in his youth, to out-fight others who had royal lineage by sheer strength, determination, and fighting skill.

As he was a warrior and not a ruler, a man who did not hail from royal blood, all the islanders had been certain that he would not be able to hang onto the throne, and would not be a great ruler. But his father surprised them all. He turned out to be not only the best warrior in the Isles, but also a great and cunning ruler. He managed to hold onto the throne—and strengthen it—his entire life, and in the process, made the Southern Isles a much stronger place. He was the one who had discovered the copper mines, who had brought them all wealth, who had helped build most of the copper structures on the island today; he was the one who had extended the fishing fleet, had reinforced the cliffs, had made the islands prosperous and bountiful—and who had fended off all attacks on his islands. He had succeeded all these years, despite the predictions, and he had, unpredictably, become the greatest King the Southern Isles had ever known.

And now he lay dying, this mountain of a man, and Erec knew there would be huge shoes to fill. He did not know if he, or anyone, was capable of filling them.

“Father,” Erec said, his heart breaking as he stepped forward and stopped by his father’s bedside.

The King opened his eyes slightly, then at the sight of Erec, opened them more widely. He leaned his head forward, just a little, looked at Erec, and reached out a frail hand.

Erec clasped it and kissed his father’s hand. It was wrinkly and old and cold to the touch. It felt like death.

“My son,” he said, longing in his voice.

Erec admired his father as a king and as a soldier; but he had mixed feelings about him as a father. After all, his father had shipped him off at a very young age, had sent him away from everything he knew and loved. He knew his father did it for his benefit, but nonetheless, a part of Erec felt as if his father did not want him here. Or was more interested in being a king than a father.

A part of Erec, he couldn’t deny, would have liked to stay here, to be close, to spend his life with his father and his family; a part of Erec, he had to admit, resented his father for this forced exile, for choosing his life for him.

“You have reached me before my death,” his father said.

Erec nodded, his eyes glistening at the sound of his father’s weak voice. It did not seem fitting that such a great warrior should be reduced to this.

“Perhaps you shall not die, Father,” he said.

His father shook his head.

“Every healer here has seen me twice. I was supposed to die months ago. I have hung on,” he said, breaking into a fit of coughing, “to see you.”

Erec could see his father’s eyes glistening, and he could see that his father did indeed care about him. It struck his heart deeply. Despite himself, Erec felt a tear form. He quickly wiped it away.

“You probably believe I did not care about you, having sent you away all these years. But it is because I did care about you. I knew that a life with the MacGils would gain you fame and reputation and rank beyond what you could ever have achieved here, on our small islands. As a boy, you were the finest warrior I had ever seen. Dare I say, I saw myself in you. It is true, I did not want to deprive the MacGils of your skills; but between you and I, I will tell you, it was also that I did not want to deprive you of the power you could achieve there.”

Erec nodded, touched, beginning to understand, to look at his father in a whole new light.

“I understand, Father.”

His father broke into another fit of coughing, and when he stopped, he looked up and saw Alistair. He waved her over.

“Your bride,” he said. “I want to see her.”

Erec turned and nodded and Alistair stepped forward tentatively, then kneeled beside Erec, reached out, and kissed his father’s hand.

“My liege,” she said softly.

He looked her up and down, carefully, for a long time, then finally nodded with satisfaction.

“You are far more than just a beautiful woman,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You are a warrior, too. Erec has chosen well.”

Alistair nodded back, seeming to be touched.

“Treat him well,” the King added. “You will be Queen here one day soon. A Queen must be more than a devoted wife. Treat my people well, too. People need a King—but they also need a Queen. Do not forget that.”

Alistair nodded.

“Yes, my liege.”

“I must talk to you now,” he said to Erec.

Erec nodded to Alistair, and she bowed and quickly turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“All of you, leave us,” the King called out.

One by one his flock of attendants hurried from the room, closing the door.

Erec and his father were left alone, and the silence felt heavier. Erec clutched his father’s hand, freely allowing a tear to roll down his face.

“I do not want you to die, Father,” he said, holding back tears.

“I know, my son. Yet my time has come to an end on this earth. Few things matter to me now. What matters to me now, most of all, is you.”

He coughed for a long time, then leaned forward.

“Listen to me,” he commanded, his voice suddenly firm, bearing the strength Erec remembered as a child. He looked up and saw a glimmer of the fierce determination in his father’s face that he recalled. “There’s much you must understand, and not much time to learn it. My people—our people— they are more complex than you think. Never forget our roots. Hundreds of years ago, our islands were a mere colony for prisoners, outcasts, exiles, slaves—all the people that the Ring did not want. They shipped them here to die.

“But we surprised them all, and we survived. We became a people in our own right. And over centuries, we have evolved. We have become self-sufficient, and the greatest warriors anywhere in the Empire. We have become adept sailors, fishermen, farmers, even in these rugged cliffs. Now, centuries later, we have gone from outcasts to a crown jewel, a nation of bounty and warriors.

“Our relationship with the MacGils mended over the years to the point where we sent them our warriors to apprentice and they sent us theirs. The MacGils want our warriors. There’s always been an unspoken alliance between us. In times of great trouble or danger, they expect us to come to their aid. But what you must understand is that our people are divided. Some consider us indebted to them, and will remain loyal to the death. But a good deal of us are isolationists. They resent the Ring, and do not want to help.”

He looked at Erec meaningfully.

“You must understand your people. If you try to rally them all to the defense of the Ring, you may have a civil war on your hands. They are proud, and stubborn. Try to lead them all, and you will lead none of them. You must lead carefully. Do you understand? It is you as King who must decide.”

His father broke into a prolonged fit of coughing, and Erec sat there, trying to process it all. He was beginning to realize that his people and their politics were much more complex than he’d thought.

“But Father, the MacGil family took me in as one of theirs. The Ring is my second home. I have sworn to come to their aid if ever they needed it—and I always keep my vows.”

His father nodded.

“And now you will come to realize what it means to be a King. It is easy to give your word—and to keep it—as a warrior; it is much harder to keep it as a ruler. If your people will not follow you, who exactly are you ruling?”

Erec thought of his words, as his father suddenly closed his eyes. He lifted his hand and waved Erec off. Erec wanted to say goodbye to him, to hug him.

But that was not his father’s way—it never was. His father was a cold and hard man when he wanted to be—even abrupt. And now Erec could see that he was through with him. Erec had served his purpose.

As Erec turned to walk out the door, his father coughing and coughing, Erec knew this was the last time he’d ever see him, and he was left wondering. His father had left him as heir to his kingdom—but did he truly love him as a son? Or did he only love him as heir to his affairs?

And even more so, the thought that struck Erec like a knife in his chest: if being King meant compromising one’s word, one’s honor, for the sake of the masses, was that something Erec could do? Erec had lived his entire life for honor, and he would give up his life for honor, no matter what the cost. But as King, could he afford that luxury? He would destroy himself for the sake of honor—but could he destroy a kingdom?