King Arban, a pint of Ison Mead in his hand, lumbered like a mountain seeking somewhere to rest. His nose wrinkled as he tasted the brew he'd been given by one of Prince Relastin's more attractive female servants.

Even as the taste grated on him, he still nodded to the young woman in approval and even checked out her firm behind hidden under her rough spun tunic. The king waited until she'd left him and his son alone in the quarters reserved for His Supreme Highness on the rare occasions when his Majesty decided to grace Ison with his presence.

"You should consider her for breeding stock," King Arban spat. "But this? This swill is not worthy of any royal palate in Imeron," the king grumbled like thunder. But he still drank, even as some escaped his mouth and drenched his beard. "My son should do better with his hospitality. This tastes like pure honey. Something a woman would drink. A proper Imeronian Ale would have been appropriate to serve me."

Any sign of blind obedience on the prince's part melted away once they were in private. Now that they were alone, the prince took a blunt tone with his father. "It is our special brew. The same you drank when you ruled Ison. The men enjoy it. It is low in the fattening elements of the brew you now prefer, along with the rest of the principalities. Keeps my men from getting fat and sluggish."

"I suppose that's why Ison is always one of the best at protecting Imeron." The king sat heavily in his throne, once more moved to where he was currently residing. His large and muscular frame draped over it. "Our warriors always did know the value of being fit for battle."

"I can tell you've taken more of a liking to the less healthy elements of life since ascending to the Hight Throne, Father." Observing the softer definition of the king's muscles since the last time the prince had seen the king. It was subtle. But to a warrior, born and bred, quite noticeable.

The king finished off his mead in two powerful gulps. "I could make the Gates again tomorrow. If I had to prove my worth once more to lead Imeron. I am not past my prime. Do not forget that, son."

"Father," the prince addressed the king in a way that, had it been done publicly, would have resulted in his beheading. "I do not want the transition to be difficult when the time for my ascension comes."

The king's laughter roared. "Your ascension? You arrogantly assume you will be the one to make the Gates first. And defeat a Guardian on top of that feat? I warn you, there are others who contend for the honor you seek."

"Surely you don't think my brothers Prince Grom or Prince Sorn? They will—"

"I do not speak of them. Both, as you are aware, are half the men you are. And combined at that." The king cast down his empty mug with a clatter. "I speak of Prince Zar."

The growl Prince Relastin exuded was not polite. "Prince Zar is nothing. He is but a pretender. A mask and someone can never be allowed to claim the High Throne."

"I agree. Yet, Prince Zar is well on his way. You may not have heard, but he's gone as deep into the Abyss as you have. And his exploits against the Koronai are growing more numerous. None of the other princes dare attack Ivorn. Leaving him free to pursue the depths of of the Abyss itself."

"I will make the Gates before he does. I swear it." The prince straightened like a steel rod preparing to be forged in fire.

The king's beard hid his smile. "Good, see that you do. I will not interfere. Either for or against you"

"And if I make the Gates of my own prowess, you'll step aside when I do?" the prince asked.

The king did not allow for any silence or thought on the question. "I did not say, nor commit to that."

"But—"

"I am King Arban, Son of Xorvis. Do not forget that, Son. As High King of Imeron, I have every right to challenge to keep my throne if the time comes that one of my children claims to be worthy of taking it from me."

"You would risk Ison loosing claim to the High Throne? And for what? Pride?"

Now it was the king's turn to growl. "You speak as though you are uncertain that you could defeat me. That is a weakness and trait unbecoming a High King of Imeron. I suggest you correct that weakness."

The prince recovered, realizing what he'd said. "I have no doubt I could defeat you. I do, however, think our battle would be bloody. Possibly even leaving myself as the victor so wounded that I would be an easier target for anyone who eyes the High Throne and during the Challenge of the Ten Sunrises."

"Then impress me enough," the king mocked, "during your Reading of Deeds, to make me cower and not seek to challenge you."

The prince wanted to bow his eyes under his father's ardent stare. But he held out. "I will not disappoint you, Father."

"Good. I heard that you supposedly soundly defeated my feats in the Abyss during Princess Lyla's wedding hunt. Tell me it's all true?"

"It's all true, Father." The prince puffed his chest proudly. "And next, I will make the Gates."

"A prince is only as strong as those that serve him loyally. Tell me about this Karo Shar of yours and I watched defeat my champion today. Particularly the weapon he wields."

"It was a gift from someone," the prince admitted. "Rotting my weapons case. Given to me when I ascended to the Throne of Ison. I never knew much about it. Figured it was Illeron in design. Those in the southwest always preferred poles and spears."

"It's called a Rohs Fang," the king replied. "And I also have one. Likewise, given to me when I ascended to the Throne of Ison before you. And I also do not remember who gave it to me."

"He has become very skilled with it."

"Indeed."

"I know that tone," the prince said. "What do you know of it?"

"It is of Ieron design."

"Ieron? No."

"Yes, Son. The Sava Warrioresses are sending us a message. A message that they intend to fight for the right to rule Imeron."

The prince clenched his fists into white hot balls. "I will have him executed for treason against all the Thrones of Imeron."

"Do not act so hastily," the king warned his son.

"He wields a weapon of our most ancient enemies. This cannot be allowed to stand."

"He is your Karo Shar, and yet you don't trust him?"

Prince Relastin sighed. "I trust him as far as I trust a Black Rohs in the night."

"So, about as far as I trusted your mother?"

"What does mother have to do with this?" The prince was taken aback by the comment he hadn't expected.

"I never told you, but her and her two sisters, whom I bedded to sire you, your brother, Prince Kolad, and your sisters Lyla and Zaria, were all adherents of the ancient religion of Sava. Self-described Sava Warrioresses. They all believed they could subvert me and take my place. None of them have ever succeeded. Obviously. I saw to that. Some strategically cut tendons rendered their bodies unsuited to physically challenge me. But I fear their minds are still not in line."

"Why would you bring would-be traitors into our blood line?"

"Why?" The king began stroking his beard. "So that the blood of the Sava Warrioresses may run through you. Just as my father did the same, and allowed the blood of the queens of old to run through me. It is why you do not need to take essences to defeat most of your enemies. It was a tactical move. Nothing more. Heed my advice, son. Keep your enemies closer than your allies, and you will come out on top."

"I believe you have a lot of explaining to do, Father." The prince was obviously not happy to hear what he'd just learned.

"I explain myself to no one, Son. I am the High King of Imeron. For now, and as long as I choose to be."

"We'll see about that, Father."

The king cocked an eyebrow at his son. "Is that a threat?"

"A threat?" The prince shook his head. "No. That would be treasonous. Consider it a prediction, and nothing more."

The king laughed heartily. "Ah, my boy, you will make a fine king."