The Iron Throne
by
Simon Hawk
prologue
The Eve of the Dead. The winter solstice. The longest night of the year. It was a fitting night to mourn. Aedan Dosiere, Lord High Chamberlain of the Cerilian Empire of Anuire, stood at the arched window of his tower study in the Imperial Cairn, looking out across the bay at the flickering lights of the city. The palace stood upon a rocky island in the center of the bay, at the mouth of the River Maesil.
The city of Anuire lay spread out before him on either bank and spilling over into the bay itself, across dozens of small islands connected by a web of causeways and bridges.
Tonight, every window in the city was illuminated with the glow of candles that would burn until dawn.
It was like looking at the dying embers of a gigantic campfire, spread out across the bay and rising on the hillsides of the banks. A dying flame. An appropriate if rather maudlin metaphor, thought Aedan. He sighed. The weight of his years rested heavily upon him. He was weary and wanted very much to sleep.
But not tonight. Only the dead slept on this night.
Each year on the Eve of the Dead, the people of Anuire would lock their doors and light their altar candles, fasting and keeping vigil until dawn, for the constellation of their god had vanished from the sky.
On this cold, forsaken night, when the Crown of Glory slipped beneath the southern horizon and Haelyn’s Star lay hidden, the Shadow World drew ominously near. And this year, for the first time since the old gods died, the Iron Throne stood empty. The empire crumbles, Aedan thought.
The dream has died. And so he mourned, for what was, and what might have been.
Why is it, he wondered, that we never think of growing old? When we are young, we feel immortal.
Death is merely something to be challenged, never feared. But one can only challenge death so many times. Depending on his moods, of course.
Death was an indifferent gambler. Sometimes, he allowed but one throw of the dice. And sometimes many He was content to let the dice fall as they may, because no matter how the game progressed, in the end, he would always be the only one left standing at the table.
Tonight, Aedan Dosiere felt very mortal. He had seen many others die, more than his share, their lives snuffed out in battle or by disease or age or bloodtheft, and now he felt the spark of his own life gut a tering like the candles on his altar and his writing desk. Death stood across the table, smiling with anticipation. Not tonight, thought Aedan. And probably not tomorrow, or next month, and perhaps not even this year. But soon. The Reaper was a patient player, and Aedan was growing weary of the game.
At the next autumnal equinox, celebrated in the Anuirean Book of Days as the Veneration of the Sleeping, he would be sixty-nine years old.
It was appropriate that he should have been born on such a day, though he had never truly understood that until now. There was much that he had never fully understood until now, for all the good it did him. If youth was wasted on the young, he thought, then wisdom was squandered on the aged, for they could no longer profit by it. They could but lecture youth in their frustration, who, being young, would never hsten. Michael was like that. He had been born on the Night of Fire, during the summer solstice, which was always marked by a shower of falling stars. And that, too, was appropriate.
A shooting star, thought Aedan. Yes, that was Michael Roele. He had burned brightly from the very start, with an incandescence that was blinding.
Everything that Michael was, Aedan had longed to be. Except the royal scion. No, he had never wanted that. His own fate had carried responsibility enough.
He was the firstborn of the House of Dosiere, standard bearers to the royal line of the Roeles, and his path in life was set from the moment he first drew breath. It had been his destiny to become the lord high chamberlain to the next Emperor of Anuire, who had yet to be born when Aedan came into the world.
His Imperial Majesty Hadrian Roele IV had married late in LIFE and, up to that point, had sired only daughters. He was in the twilight of his years, and there was a certain amount of urgency to the production of a male heir. The beleaguered Empress Raesa, who was younger than her husband by four decades, had spent most of her married life in almost constant pregnancy. Finally, after gifting him with seven daughters, the emperor’s young wife bore him a son.
Doubtless, much to her relief. It had been an occasion of great rejoicing and no small amount of trepidation as the empire held its collective breath to see if the child would thrive. However, it had little reason for concern. From the first angry cry that had erupted from his tiny lungs when the midwife slapped his bottom, Michael Roele had stormed into the world with an aggressive energy that would not be denied.
Aedan could still recall that day with vivid clarity.
That was another peculiarity that came with age, he thought. His memories of long ago were easily accessible, and yet, for some strange reason, he often struggled to remember something that had taken place just a week before. But that day had been a memorable one. On the day that Michael had been born, Aedan’s father brought him in to see the infant prince, lying cradled in his mother’s arms.
“This is your lord, my son,” his father told him.
“Kneel and pay him
