XXIII. THE IRONOAK

  Asho tightened his grip on Hellion’s reins as the massive warhorse came dangerously close to decapitating a few heads. Iornore’s narrow streets that switchbacked through the city had not been built to contain the sheer amount of people. The city had swelled with the population who had amassed for the triumph’s arrival from the surrounding villages. Men bowed their heads and pressed up against the legionnaires’ shields as they maneuvered past the wooden cabins. The wooden walkways that connected the cabins above the streets were bustling with children dangling their legs over the planks. They waved purple strips of cloth. Asho smiled up at them. He had always felt welcomed in Apki’s mountains and among his people. This had been his home for three summers, and he basked in his arrival after the long journey.

  I’m finally home. He thought. He cherished the crisp, cool mountain air as Hellion’s hoove dug into the next switchback. The crowd roared upon spotting them. After another tedious hour of winding through the dense cabins, the Triumph crested the ridge. The air grew cooler still, more ancient, more potent, as they left the screaming crowds behind them. The prince coaxed Hellion forward as the Ironwood trees on either side of the road swelled in size. We’ve entered the land of the gods now. Asho thought as they came upon the legendary Ironoak.

  The prince’s mind could never conceive where the Ironoak truly began, and where it ended. It simply was. Roots shot through the clumpy red soil as thick as horses, digging and rising through the earth. Asho ran his hand along a root as Hellion ducked to pass underneath the overhang. The rust brown tree’s bark was as hard as metal. His ocean eyes craned upward. The legendary tree’s branches reached far out over the forest like a dancer’s limbs. With it being midsummer, the Ironoaks forest green leaves shaded the entire clearing. The base of the mighty Ironoak was preposterously colossal; the perimeter easily the length of two triremes. It rumbled with the same ancient, undeniable power as Thrysne Island.

  The Governor’s great hall had been constructed on the forest floor and extended up the Ironoak with a series of platformed structures. The following rungs were connected by a series of ladders, bridges, and stairwells. The platforms roofs were slanted, built with the strong ironwood to fuse with the organic structure. The prince had always considered the Ironside’s home to look like a pinecone, with the middle rungs bulging out before narrowing at the ninth rung.

  The prince shifted on Hellion with anticipation as the triumph fanned out. The Governor’s party was already waiting for them. Governor Ream Ironside was a stout, burly man, with a rust red beard that had begun to fade grey in the two years since Asho had last seen him. The Governor approached the Conqueror’s horse and kissed his knuckles. He was followed by his wife, the Lady Maple, and his children. Kohl gave Asho a lopsided smile as he met his eye. Even from atop Hellion Asho could tell that his friend had grown considerably taller. His hazel wood eyes almost hidden by his overgrown rust red hair and beard.

  A candle lit within him at the sight of his younger sister. The prince hungrily drank in Morgane’s juniper green dress as it hugged her curves. A bronze hair clip pushed her fire red curls behind her ears and exposed her freckles and mossy green eyes. She had filled out in their years apart, her face losing the roundness of adolescence.

  Asho ran a thumb against his chin and the beard growing there. He flexed his arms when he caught her looking. The prince smirked as her face turned beet red. Morgaine never could hide her blush.

  The next three days were blissfully quiet. After months marching northwest, Asho relished the opportunity to relax and reconnect with the Ironsides. His meals were spent at the Governor’s table. Ream Ironside loathed court life, and his preference to dine privately with his family was well known. Without a hall of eager retainers, it was effortless to melt into easy conversation. Governor Ironside filled the table with his carefree banter, often getting so drawn into a story that his wife would have to throw him a rope to pull himself out. Even the Conqueror, for all of his stiltedness, would grunt in amusement on occasion. After a couple of drinks, Ream’s hearty laugh rumbled throughout the wooden walls of his fortress.

  After dinner one evening, Asho followed Kohl up onto the ninth ring of the Ironoak. High above the forest floor, as the wind whipped his hair, Asho felt more at peace than he had for a long time.

  “Here, brother.” Kohl said, passing over a skin.

  Asho accepted the mead and took a long sip. He leaned over the platform’s railing, starting out into the dark clearing below. Up above, the stag was so close that the prince could trace the stars with his fingers. He passed the skin back to his friend. “How is the legionnaire life serving you?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “The coast is bare and desolate. The nearby villages have reported that no one has attempted to cross since, well.” Kohl shrugged. “But enough about my boring station. How goes your travels?”

  Asho thought of the bootlicking Ditas and the other magistrates who vied for his attention. “They are a poor substitute for your company.” He said shortly. “The march here was long, eight, twelve hours a day of heavy riding. We only stopped to sleep when we ran out of daylight.”

  “Surely you prefer it over Aegtrys. In your letters you said you loathed it.”

  “It was the two most boring years of my life, truly. Sea life is not for me.” Asho sighed, thinking back of the two years spent patrolling Aegtrys’ coast and the parties he had held to starve off the loneliness he felt. He didn’t want to mention his pursuits in front of Morgaine’s brother.

  Kohl took a long swig of the mead. “Well. I’m glad to see you now. Even though the Governorship is dreadfully dull. All my father does is attend meetings and listen to the people complain about their taxes. But I will do it, on your behalf—” Kohl paused dramatically. “While you marry my sister and make disgusting little babies.”

  Asho’s ears grew hot. Marry Morgaine? As if! Morgaine, who had gone from Kohl’s sister into a beautiful spitfire of a woman. Who made Asho’s insides burn red hot every time her moss green eyes landed on him. He let out a choked laugh. “The Conqueror has promised me to some Pi-Yenjan princess by the end of the year.”

  Kohl cleared his throat. “You could marry the princess off to your cousin.”

  “Admrilia?” Asho snorted. “I doubt the priestesses would take kindly to that.”

  “What? She acts like a man anyways!” Kohl snorted. “If she was here now she would be ordering us around in our own home. Remember that one time when she flung you into the harbor.”

  “Yes, Kohl.”

  “And when you finally surfaced you had kelp on your head.”

  “Yes, I was there. And that was years ago.” Asho said exasperated.

  Kohl smiled and settled against the wall. “Those were the days.”

  Asho took another swig and stumbled as he stood. “Asho—” He snapped, raising his voice to match Admrilia’s unchanging pitch. “You must respect your position and act like a true heir to the empire. Why I single-handedly sent three hundred poor pirates to the bottom of the Semperimar today.” He flicked his imaginary hair back. “The Conqueror will be so pleased. Cousin, I made water flow uphill today, what have you done? Nothing.”

  “Wait!” Kohl shook his hand through a fit of laughter. “Asho, what was that last part?”

  Asho sat back down, growing serious. “The Conqueror has made Admrilia and I swear an oath to the Stormlord.” He whispered, sentencing his friend to know his damning secret. “He will only select one of us as heir if we are able to tap into the wyrd. The magic that has killed the rest of our line. I’m scared, Kohl. Admrilia has already begun to figure it out. Because of course she has. She’s perfect at everything while I’m a dynastic disappointment.”

  “You are not a dynastic disappointment, Asho.”

  “I’ve spent the past two years hosting parties on a senator's barge and turning every noblewoman in Aegtrys against me.” Asho said. Kohl raised a knowing eyebrow as Asho continued. “And I’ve sworn this oath to my bloodline. And my god. And I think, I think I will not fulfill it. The Conqueror doesn’t favor me. He will choose Admrilia. And I will rot away in some Pi-Yenjan court if Admrilia doesn’t get to me first. I will fade into nothingness!”

  “Asho, you need to stop.” Kohl ordered, any earlier mirth replaced by steel. “You are catastrophizing. You will become Emperor, and if it truly comes between you and your cousin, my family will stand beside you.”

  “It already has.” Asho stared up at the stag as it ran from the hunter. “I declared her my rival in Sugia.”

  Kohl whistled. “I’m sure she took that swimmingly.”

  Asho hiccuped.

  “Asho, your grandfather is a wyrdling. You are a literal descendant of the gods. Your lifeblood is tied to the very Skytops! But you are also human.” Kohl offered him his trademark smile. “And to be human is to challenge the gods. You will be alright. I swear it. And think, you are in the Horned Gods land. In his very seat of power. The wyrd flows through this tree. Where else would you get a better opportunity to practice?”

  “Thank you brother.” Asho said. He exhaled, composing himself. Steeling himself. Eyes hard. Like the Conqueror’s; Like the Stormlord’s. “Now tell me what I have missed since I have been gone.”