The Iron Throne

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 till 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 blood-theft, and now he felt the spark of his own life guttering 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 listen. 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 homage.”

Aedan was only six years old then, but he already knew his duty. He had understood that the tiny, wrinkled creature lying nestled in its mother’s arms would become the most important person in his life.

He had bowed his head and gone down to one knee before the empress, who was lying propped up by pillows in the large, canopied gilt bed. He could still recall how radiant and beautiful she looked, with her long, golden hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

“What is my lord’s name, Your Highness?” he had asked.

The empress had smiled and said, “Michael.”

“Michael,” Aedan murmured softly to himself, repeating the name now as he had then. Almost as if in answer, a sudden gust of wind blew in through the window and the candles flickered.

Sensing a presence in the room behind him, Aedan turned from the window. In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight, he saw a tall, dark, and slender figure appear in the center of the chamber. His full-length, hooded cloak billowed in the dissipating wind of his arrival, then settled down around him, giving the brief impression of wings being folded back.

“Am I intruding on your vigil, Lord Aedan?”

The voice was unmistakable. It was deep, musical, and resonant, with the old, familiar, lilting elvish accent.

“Gylvain!” said Aedan. “By Haelyn, is it really you, or am I dreaming?”

The elven mage pulled back the hood of his dark green, velvet cloak, revealing handsome, ageless features. His thick, silver-streaked black hair fell almost to his waist and framed a striking face. His forehead was high and his eyebrows thin and delicately arched. His nose was fine and blade straight; his cheekbones high and sharply pronounced, typical of elven physiognomy. The long hair partially concealed large, gracefully curved and pointed ears; the mouth was wide and thin-lipped; the strong jawline tapered sharply to a narrow, well-shaped chin. His eyes, however, were his strongest features, large and almond-shaped, so light a blue that they were almost gray, like arctic ice. With his dark coloring, they stood out sharply, and the effect was magnetic. Aedan stared at him, and the years seemed to fall away.

“The world of dreams is no less real than the waking one,” Gylvain replied. “However, I take it your question was rhetorical.”

“You have not changed,” said Aedan with a smile. “How long has it been? Twenty years? No, by Haelyn, more like thirty. Yet you are still as I remember you, even after all this time, while I… I have grown old and gray.”

Aedan turned and glanced into the full-length gilt-framed mirror mounted on the wall. Behind him, Gylvain Aurealis stood reflected, looking just the same as he remembered him. By contrast, Aedan had changed enormously. His hair, cropped short as he had worn it since his midthirties, when he began to lose it, was a grizzled, iron-gray stubble. His thick, full beard was streaked in shades of gray and white. His face was lined with age and scarred from battle. The stress of his responsibilities had given him dark bags below his eyes, and years of squinting through a helm into glaring sunlight had placed crow’s-feet at their corners. There was a weary melancholy in his gaze that had not been there only a few short years before. Once slim and muscular, he was thicker in the waist and chest now, and in the perpetual dampness of the castle on the bay, his old wounds pained him.

Gylvain’s reflection smiled. “You will never seem old to me. I shall always see you as you were when we first met: a shy, ungainly, coltish youth, with the most earnest and serious expression I have ever seen on one so young.”

“Your elven vision is far more acute than mine,” said Aedan wistfully. “I have looked for that young boy in my reflection many times, but I no longer see him.” He turned to face the mage. “Is it too late to ask for your forgiveness?”

Gylvain cocked his head and stared at him with a faintly puzzled expression. “What was there to forgive?”

“Is it possible you have forgotten?”

“I must confess, I have,” Gylvain replied. “What cause had I to take offense?”

“Sylvanna,” Aedan said.

“Oh, that,” said Gylvain with a sudden look of comprehension. “I never took offense. I merely disapproved.”

“Of me,” said Aedan.

Gylvain shook his head. “No, of the situation, not of you.”

Aedan turned, biting his lower lip, and stared pensively out the window. “How is she?”

“Well.”

“As beautiful as ever?”

“She has changed but little.”

Aedan stood silent for a moment. “Does she ever speak of me?”

“Yes, often.”

“Truly?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Aedan turned. “No, you never have. You were always a true friend. But I had thought I crossed the boundaries of our friendship with Sylvanna.”

“True friendship knows no boundaries,” Gylvain replied. “The only boundaries you had crossed were those of reason. I tried to make you see that, but you were thinking with your heart and not your mind. It was the only time I ever knew you to be just like Michael.”

“Had you told me that back then, I would have considered it the greatest compliment,” said Aedan. “I wanted so to be like him.”

“Be grateful you were not.”

Aedan snorted. “There was a time I would have bridled at a remark like that,” he said, “but now I understand. Michael and I were like two sides of the same coin. Each stamped differently, but meant to complement the other. I feel my worth diminished by his … absence.” He shook his head. “But I am being a poor host. May I offer you a drink?”

“Anuirean brandy?”

“But of course.” He poured them each a gobletful from a decanter on his writing table, then handed one to Gylvain. “What shall we drink to?”

“Why not absent friends?” said Gylvain.

Aedan nodded. “To absent friends,” he toasted. They drank, and as the brandy flowed, the two old friends sat vigil and remembered.