The Long Summer

Arvan didn't know how long the meeting had gone on for.

Hours? Yes, of course. How many hours? He couldn't say. Likely for as many hours as he had on his left hand, and unlike his right, that had the full complement of five. The Council of the Crown debated everything from food, to ships, to war, to faith. All in the service of Skaarsland, and its holdings on Eurodia. All in the service of the House of d'Amphere. All men and women who, in theory, had pledged their lives in service to the king. All men and women who, in practice, only served him for as long as his interests coincided with theirs.

There were, of course, people within the kingdom whose interests didn't align at all. As his shadowmaster explained however, those people were being dealt with appropriately.

"...and in conclusion, I believe we'll have all dissidents rooted out from Oxbram within the month."

Light clapping greeted Shadowmaster C'Vare's declaration. None of it from Arvan. C'Vare often made such declarations every time dissent was found within Skaarsland. He'd get the job done, but it always took longer than predicted, and the rats would always crawl their way back into their nests. More metaphors than he could count had been used to describe the proliferation of rebels within this country, and he'd lost the tongue for them.

Just like many rebels had.

"I now hand my time over to Lord Commander n'Dell."

C'Vare took his seat, and the lord commander sat up. A brief glance was exchanged between her and Arvan. A silent acknowledgement perhaps, that he already knew what she was going to say? Or something as simple as general apprehension? He didn't know. Having sat in these chambers for at least five hours, he had little patience.

"Lords," she said. "Ladies. As I speak before you now, our armies-"

"Stop."

All eyes turned to Arvan.

"Your grace?"

"I said stop," he said. "I know how this goes."

Before n'Dell had begun talking, his patience was running out. As soon as she'd begun talking, it ran out.

"Your grace, if I may-"

"Armies are making progress in our re-conquest of Eurodia," he said. "Resistance stronger than anticipated. Harassment of our supply lines. Morale remaining high. Lady n'Dell, I've heard it all before."

She had the gall to look affronted. "Your grace, I assure you, the details of our campaign cannot be boiled down to-"

"You're dismissed."

A silence fell over the council chamber - those in it knew better than risking sharing n'Dell's fate.

"Your grace?"

Even if she didn't.

"You lost your ears, lord commander?" Arvan asked. "Do you want me to write it down?"

She had the gall to appear confused, as she said, "your grace, I know that we've had setbacks, but-"

"We?" Arvan leant forward, resting his chin on his fist, smiling. "Who's we?"

n'Dell remained silent.

"There is no we, lord commander. I put you in charge of my armies, while I've governed from this island. I've given you free reign to resume our reconquest of the continent. And in the month that I've given you, I've received naught but excuses."

"Your grace..." n'Dell appeared at a loss for words. "One month is not enough time to change the situation on the ground. I-"

"Go, n'Dell. And take your head with you."

"Your grace?"

Arvan leant back in his chair. "I'd so hate for you to leave it behind."

Her face pale, her voice low, n'Dell bowed. Whispered, "your grace," before heading out of the chamber. Her footsteps echoing off wood and stone, as if seeking to remind those remaining of her presence. The fourth lord commander Arvan had appointed in the last one and a half years. Only after the door to the chamber closed, and a good half minute passed, did anyone dare speak.

"Well," murmured Seamaster r'Lak. "This may change things. My ships-"

"Can wait." Arvan got to his feet. "Five hours, ladies and gentlemen. Five hours I've listened to you prattle on." He looked at one of the council's windows, the green of trees and the blue of sky lying beyond. Tempting him. "Go. We're adjourned for today."

The council members got to their feet - a bit too quickly, Arvan reflected. All bowed their heads, and whispered, "your grace."

"We'll convene here next week, by which time, I'll have a new, more competent lord commander for you. And in exchange..." He trailed off, trying to think of a good way to end that sentence. Tried, failed, and thus muttered, "just don't waste my damn time."

Without sparing a second, he headed for the door, slamming it in the councilor's faces.

Some people might call him petulant.

But then, Arvan d'Amphere, King of Skaarsland and Emperor of Eurodia, had gotten rid of those people a long time ago.

Despite being right-handed, Arvan clutched the glass of wine with his left.

It had happened 24 years ago. An assassin had come for him while he'd been walking along the walls of the royal palace. At the age of 15, he was old enough to know the ways of the sword, but not so experienced as to the ways of the world that he had realized the importance of keeping his royal guardsmen close. The assassin, who'd whispered the name of Agathien upon her lips, had done her best to stick a sword in his chest. What followed was him sticking his own through hers and kicking her body off the walls, but not before losing his right pointer finger to her blade. Since then, he'd learnt how to wield a sword as best he could with a finger short. But from writing, to drinking, to eating, he'd come to rely on his left.

Not a huge loss, in the greater scheme of things. People lost hands and other appendages every day, whether it be in the factories, on the field of battle, or as punishment for their sins. But it was a reminder of what had happened when he'd let his guard down. A reminder that the world his parents had spoken of was not the world that actually existed. And a reminder, in this case, to let his taster sip the wine before moving onto it himself.

"You're dismissed, Doray."

She bowed, and exited his quarters. Leaving her king alone to sip the Gallican wine.

Here's to the fruits of victory, Arvan thought to himself as he took another sip. Here's to the spoils of war.

His quarters weren't devoid of luxuries and art, and it was to the latter, a giant map showing Eurodia and northern Afrique, that he turned his gaze to. To one country in particular - Gallica, located across the channel from Skaarsland. It had been one of the Skaar's first conquests centuries ago, and one of his first reconquests after he cleared up the mess his parents had left him. As it turned out, the Gallicans had quite enjoyed their last two decades of independence, and weren't keen on Skaarsland re-establishing control over their home. So far, the campaign had bogged down there - just like it had in Hispanugal to the south, and Nordavia to the east. The idea at the time was to close in on all fronts - re-solidify Skaar control over Eurodia, before the disparate kingdoms and tribes reunited to fight off their former conquerors. So far, such unification hadn't occurred. But nor had reconquest.

There was a knock on the door. Arvan sighed, and muttered, "enter," before putting the wine down on his table, and clutching a dagger in his belt.

"Your grace." The man walked in and bowed. "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not C'Vare. Your presence is always welcome."

It was a lie, and C'Vare knew it. You didn't become shadowmaster by being incompetent. Which was more than he could say for some people on the council, but alas, this was an imperfect world, run by imperfect people.

"I am glad to hear it." C'Vare looked around the room, as if he'd never been in here before. He eventually moved over to the window, looking out over the royal palace, and the capital city beyond.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Arvan snorted. "It's always a beautiful day."

"For those of us born during the Long Winter, I can attest otherwise. Still, the Annabelles are working."

"For our enemies, as much as ourselves," Arvan murmured.

"Yes." C'Vare looked at Arvan. "Your mother was a good ruler, your grace. Ruled by the heart more than her head in her later years, but-"

"My mother is no longer your concern."

"Given how many of my spies report people whispering the name of Ajin d'Amphere in secret toasts, I beg to differ." C'Vare took a step towards Arvan. "Your mother was beloved by the people before you took the throne, your grace. And much of that love remains."

A shadow passed over Arvan's eyes. "Why are you here, C'Vare?"

The man smiled. He looked at the goblet of wine, and without asking permission, poured himself a cup.

"I was born in the Long Winter, your grace," he said. "For decades, Skaarsland was gripped by snow and frost. Crops failing. People succumbing to hunger, or cold, or disease, or some combination of the three."

Arvan knew all of this. What he didn't know was why C'Vare was telling him.

"Of course, when Ajin returned with the Outlanders, that changed. They brought the Annabelle with them, and changed the weather like that." He clicked his fingers, illustrating the point. "In an instant, the sun shone again. In an instant, winter left our shores. At the hand of science, summer returned to Skaarsland and in time, Eurodia beyond."

"And so came the Long Summer," Arvan said. "For our people. Bountiful crops, all year round. No hunger, no cold, nothing like that. A golden age."

C'Vare took a sip. "A golden age," he said. "One where the Annabelle technology was spread across the continent, as your mother sought to uplift all of Eurodia."

"Yes," Arvan said. "And Eurodia now possesses the same technology as we do. It's always summer here, so we can press our campaigns all year round. Problem is, so can they. My mother squandered the biggest advantage the Skaar ever had, and now, I'm picking up her pieces."

"Or shattering what she built."

Arvan gripped his dagger as C'Vare took another sip of wine. Slowly, cautiously, he whispered, "whatever you have to say, spymaster...release it."

C'Vare chuckled. "Oh if it were only so easy with the people I interrogate." He sipped some more wine, before putting the cup back on the table beside them. "Fine. I'll be honest. I think you're leading us down the wrong path."

Arvan grit his teeth.

"I think your plans of a new Skaar empire are unneeded, and will bring naught but ruin on Skaarsland and the continent. I think you're too impatient with your commanders. I think attacking on three fronts was a grave error. And if I may say so, your grace, the day you usurped your parents from the throne was a dark day for this country."

Arvan stood there, aghast. Long enough for C'Vare to take another sip of wine.

"But that's just me," C'Vare said. "I am your shadowmaster, not your advisor. And you are my king. And I am honour-bound to serve the throne." He bowed. "Good day, your grace."

Watching C'Vare head for the door, Arvan was solely tempted to stick his dagger in the man's back. He honestly wondered if C'Vare wanted him to do that. He'd spoken treason, and yet, expected to leave this room alive. A lesser king would have killed the spymaster then and there, lest he find a blade in his own back.

"C'Vare?"

But, as Arvan d'Amphere reminded himself, he was not a lesser king.

"Why serve me then? Why not put someone new on the throne?"

C'Vare, who'd turned to face Arvan, smiled. "Were you not listening to me, your grace?"

"Remind me."

"I said I was loyal to the throne. That is where my allegiance lies."

Arvan frowned. "I don't follow."

The spymaster sighed. "I am bound to Skaarsland," he said. "I serve the country, which means, I serve whoever is upon the throne. In my lifetime, I served Cor and Orestiana d'Amphere, before the king replaced his beloved wife with Agathien. Then, after their not so untimely deaths, I served your mother, along with her husband, Darcon Leah. And in light of your early coronation, I serve you."

Arvan scoffed. "So why not kill me then? Pick a better ruler?"

"I serve rulers, I don't replace them."

"And it's that simple?"

"That simple," C'Vare said. "Perhaps too simple. But alas, the world is not simple. Though there was a time, I admit, where I dreamed it might be. With the coming of the Long Summer, of Queen Ajin's rule, of peace for the Skaar...I dared to dream."

"Peace," Arvan scoffed. "What is peace to the Skaar? We are warriors, C'Vare. We were born to be warriors. We-"

"...were made to be warriors, your grace," C'Vare said firmly. "No-one is born a warrior. The world makes warriors. Climate and culture made us warriors. Your grandfather and mother led warriors against other warriors, costing thousands of warriors their lives. Your grandfather paid the price for such transgressions with his life-"

"...and my mother returned, dethroned The Usurper, and made Skaarsland a magic place of bread, honey, and rabbits," Arvan snapped. "I know this, C'Vare. I've been told the story a thousand times."

The man had the gall to look sorry. "'Then perhaps there is nothing more I can say," he murmured. He bowed. "Farewell, your grace. I expect that at the next council meeting, I will be reporting to a new lord commander."

And with that, he left. Leaving Arvan alone with two glasses, one goblet, and no company save the countless books he had on his shelves. Works of history, reminding him of the glory the Skaar once had. Of the winter that had reduced them and their empire to ruin. Of the coming of the Long Summer, and how, at the dawn of their rebirth, his mother had squandered it.

He walked over to the table, pondering C'Vare. If this was any other member of court, he'd had C'Vare work his magic and have a new head on a pike on the palace walls by the morrow. But this was C'Vare himself. So either the man was extremely stupid, extremely bold, or something else. Something he couldn't work out, because gods damn it, working things out was C'Vare's job.

First my finger, Arvan thought, holding his glass of wine in his left, while looking at his right. How long until my life?

The wine had no answer. Nothing did, as he slammed the now empty glass on the table. Perhaps no-one did. Except...

No.

It would wound his pride. It would harm his standing. But it might just keep him alive, and his rule intact.

But to do this...

He sighed, and headed for the door.

Some things were more important than pride.

Which meant, it was time for a visit to his mother.

It was fair to say that Ajin d'Amphere lived in a velvet prison.

The carpets. The curtains. The books. The wines. The chocolates. She had an entire tower to herself within the royal palace. Close enough for him to keep his eye on her. Fortified enough that any Skaar with ideas of whose rump was better rested upon the throne would be dissuaded. Or, for those who thought they could rescue their former queen from the proverbial Tower of Londan, doomed to suffer death, or capture, followed by death. Their heads ending up on pikes along the walls of the palace either way. Dying painful deaths while their queen lived a life of luxury.

But still a prison, Arvan reminded himself. And his mother had not forgotten it in the nine years since he usurped the throne.

"Are they treating you well?" he asked.

She answered him not. She continued to stand there, her gaze fixed on the city beyond.

"I imagine when you blundered in here all those years ago to be apprehended by your stepmother's wolfmen, you didn't expect to be incarcerated again in such a manner."

Still, she remained silent.

"I am not the Pretender, mother. At least give me that."

Ajin scoffed. "I gave you the world, Arvan." She turned and looked at him, a wisp of hair covering her eye. "And what did you do but set it ablaze?"

The words cut deep, as did her gaze. But, as Arvan reminded himself, he was the king. Ajin was a failed queen. She had no power over him. And no true power over the people.

"The fire, as they say, is always burning," Arvan murmured. "All I did was stoke the embers."

Ajin scowled. "You did far more than that."

"Yes, I did. I've spent the last nine years picking up the pieces you left me."

She looked ready to strike him with that assertion. And he didn't doubt that if she wanted to, she could cause all sorts of harm for him. Those guarding Ajin d'Amphere were loyal to him alone, and would burst into her quarters at his command. But there was every risk that his mother might take his life before they could save their liege. You didn't command the armies of the Skaar at the age of twenty without being as deadly with a blade as your mind.

"Why are you here, Arvan?"

He didn't answer at first. He took the time to look at her. Truly look at her. And, try as he might, not to feel pity.

Portraits of his mother could be found within the royal palace. The largest being in the same line that showed every ruler of the House of d'Amphere. All male, up to her - yes, portraits of queens existed in the palace as well, but none prior to his mother. She had taken the throne, and even after marrying his father, kept her name. And from that portrait alone, he had to acknowledge his mother's beauty. Her strength. Two attributes that were now bereft from her - her once golden hair now wispy white, her body now home to robes rather than armour. Some had called his mother the Sun Queen, in part for her bringing back summer to Skaarsland, in part due to her appearance. But as the sun shone over Skaarsland, Ajin d'Amphere was forever cut off from it. And she appeared resigned to that fact.

Nevertheless, she had inquired as to his presence.

"I need your help."

And so he answered.

His mother scoffed and turned back to the window.

"My commanders are failing me. The reconquest of Eurodia stalls. I-"

Ajin held up her hand in a fist. He fell silent.

"You are failing," she said. "You started a war, and now you can't finish it."

"I can finish it mother. I just need-"

"What you need to do, my child, is stop this insanity." Ajin looked round at Arvan - in one eye, contempt, and in the other, pity. "Your path is leading your people to ruin. And while you obviously care nothing for me, I'd like to think that part of you cares about those under your care. The fathers you send into battle. The children they are forced to leave behind. Their wives, and mothers, who-"

"Spare me, mother. You did the same when you were younger than me."

"I did. And do you know why? Because it was necessary. The Long Winter had gripped this continent, and the Four Lands appeared our only recourse." She sighed, walked over to a cupboard, and pulled out a glass, and flagon of wine. "We're both warriors, Arvan. But don't mistake our actions as being equivalent."

She began to pour. Without taking out a second glass.

"But perhaps I think too much of you," she said, turning back to face him. Sipping from her cup. "My child, my joy, usurped me nine years ago, and took his father's life in the process. Weak, you called us. Leading us into ruin, you said. Look around you, Arvan. Look at the ruins your armies have made, and look at the ruin you're leading us into."

Arvan folded his arms. "Very droll, mother. But all I'm doing is picking up the pieces you left me."

Ajin lowered her glass. "That I left you?"

"Yes, that you left me. Plus that Outlander whom you let into your bed."

Ajin threw the wine in his face, and for a moment, he was tempted to draw out his dagger and plunge it through Ajin's heart. The only reason he didn't was that his mother looked ready to do the same to him. And dagger or no, she might just do it.

"Don't you dare..." she whispered, wiping something from her eye. "To speak of your father like that...Darcon...he-"

"My father was from another continent and not true Skaar. And thanks to your choice of father, there's people to this day who call me bastard-born."

"You are a bastard, Arvan. Oh yes, you're of royal blood. You're proof of so many things - love conquering war, enemies coming together, blood proving stronger than all the waters of the Tiderace." She took a breath, as if to cut her insults short. "But you are a bastard. A king killer. One who committed patricide. And while part of me will always love you as the child I brought into this world, I'll be damned if I help you salvage the mess you've got yourself into." She sipped what was left of the wine and returned to the window. "Leave me."

Arvan stood there. It was suddenly cold in here. The hairs at the back of his neck stood up. His right hand was shaking. With his left, he adjusted his crown.

"Mother..."

"Go, Arvan."

"Mother, you must understand, you are the one who lost Eurodia. You let our empire disintegrate. Yes, my father was a good man in some respects, but it was with him that you let Eurodia go its own way. It was with him that you distributed the secrets of weather control." He sighed "By all rights, perpetual summer should make it easy for an army to fight, but my...our, enemies, have the same technology. And that is on you."

Ajin chuckled, before that chuckle turned into a laugh.

"Mother?"

A deep, throaty laugh that echoed throughout the chambers.

""Mother, what humours you?"

"Oh, my son." She wiped her eye, and looked back at him. "You understand nothing, do you?"

Arvan stared at her.

"We don't need Eurodia. We don't need an empire. Empires are for men who cannot be satiated, or for people whose needs have outstripped their means. We lost the need for an empire the moment Shea Ohmsford activated Annabelle. There was more to gain from the mainland through trade than conquest."

Arvan shook his head. "You're mad."

"No, Arvan, this is wisdom."

"You were once a great warrior, and-"

"Stop, Arvan." She took a step to him. "I was not a great warrior. There are no great warriors. Great warriors are people who exist when society has failed. A great warrior will be unneeded in a great kingdom. And you, my son, have run this kingdom into the ground. You've launched a war you cannot win. You got it into your head that the Long Summer meant armies could march over fields year round, rather than letting those fields flourish year round. You betrayed me, you took the life of a man who loved you, and from what I hear, you've removed every competent lord commander from your council because your grasp of strategy is as solid as your grasp on morality. And by all the gods, I'll be damned before I help you."

A silence lingered between the two of them. Ajin couldn't stop herself from shaking. Arvan only barely managed it. She was taller. He was stronger. He was king. She was queen. And he?

"Then you are damned."

Said his final words, and departed.

Slamming the tower door behind him. Pausing in the hallway, to compose himself. To steady his breath. To whisper the truths he had told himself for a decade, and reassure himself that they were, indeed, true. To resist the temptation of regret.

And then he marched down the stairs.

Back to war.

A/N

So I've detailed my thoughts on The Last Druid elsewhere, but two points of contention. One, for those of you who've read my other Shannara stuff, yes, I was completely wrong in guessing that Ajin would be the titular Last Druid. Second, I can list many gripes as to the book, but one thing - restoring the weather of Skaarsland, I was left to ask, what now? Do they become peaceful, or do they tighten their grip on Eurodia? Could Annabelle be used as a weapon? Dunno. But drabbled this up at least.