Chapter 1

King Ertide Hostain stared down at the handkerchief spotted bright red with his blood. His chest burned. His ribs were too tight crushing his heart. His breath rasped in his throat as he fought for air. His vision danced, swam, flared bright and then dimmed. He was dying.

The door to his quarters opened and the clamour of servants outside flooded in. Jertis, his manservant, strode inside and closed the door behind him.

“Heaven’s Light, sire,” the whip crack of a man sketched an informal bow, then quickly set about cleaning up the clutter of the previous night’s festivities.

Ertide stifled another cough, wiped the last spots of blood from his lips, then crushed the handkerchief in his fist. He couldn’t let anyone see, they couldn’t know. Not even Jertis. The merest hint of infirmity and the wolves would circle, ready to pick apart his corpse and everything he had built with it.

He had yet to choose an heir. It had simply never seemed important. He had never truly felt old before. But it was a decision he would have to make soon before the choice was taken away from him. If the angels had their way, he had no doubt they’d put Caran on the throne after he was gone, and then what would happen to the empire? Ertide loved his third son, but he had never liked him. Caran was a pious, bureaucratic lickspittle. The throne needed iron, a ruler willing to stand up to divine requests, or at the very least someone smart enough to circumvent them. Sometimes Ertide felt he had been doing that his entire life. He sometimes remembered a younger man, a man known as the Crimson Prince, who had rode into battle, cut down enemies, protected the empire’s borders. So long ago the memories felt more like stories he had once heard.

Ertide glanced down at the bloody scrap of cloth crushed in his fist. Surely God must already know of my illness. He sees all, knows all. Doesn’t he?

Ertide crossed to the fire and threw his bloody handkerchief to the flames, watching the fabric flare and burn away. “What’s on the cards today, Jertis?”

Jertis cleared his throat pointedly. “Well first, sire, I suggest a change of clothing.” The man was busying himself in the bedchamber, tidying things away, laying out a dark green suit and black britches. “I would normally suggest a bath, too, but it’s already mid-morning.”

“God’s Breath, it is?” Ertide shook his head. He’d had a lot to drink last night. It was Ylnaea’s fault. Bloody woman was too young for him by half, but the king needed a queen and she was determined to give him one more son before he became too old to try.

Jertis crossed into the living chamber, a slight smile on his lips. He threw open the curtains and bright light streamed in, dazzling Ertide.

“Is it really so late?” Ertide said. “That woman will be the death of me, Jertis.”

“Yes, sire.”

Jertis busied himself about while Ertide moved into the bedchambers and stripped from yesterday’s clothes and into the fresh suit. It was new, he realised. Slimmer than he was used to, better suited to his frame as he wasted away with old age. He opened his wardrobe to find all his clothes were new. When did that happen? Damn, Jertis knew him better than he knew himself.

Ertide glanced at himself in the mirror. He’d always been tall, but now we had a slight stoop. He hadn’t swung a sword in years and that was starting to show in his shoulders and arms. His skin sagged around his jowls and had lost much of its vibrancy. The healthy brown quickly turning a dull, dusty shade. It all seemed to be happening so quickly, as though age were a snake he’d run from all his life, but it had snuck up on him and now it was constricting him tighter and tighter.

Jertis let in the servants and they brought food and breakfast wine. Ertide ate quickly, quail eggs with brown toast. There were fruits, pastries, bacon, preserves. He ignored them all. He didn’t have the appetite he used to, and the pastries were too rich for him these days, as like to upset his stomach as not. Not that he would tell anyone that. He missed them, truth be told. Missed the feeling of soft pastry flaking away in his mouth, and sweet preserve setting his tongue alight. But they weren’t worth the burning acid in his stomach.

“The cards, Jertis?” Ertide asked as he ate.

“There’s a delegation from the Ice Isles, requesting new terms on the trade deals for leviathan oil.”

Ertide gave a noncommittal grunt. The Ice Walkers were always after better terms. He’d have marched a few legions up there and made the land part of the empire if they had any actual lands to secure. But the ice was made of thousands of floating islands and only the Ice Walkers knew how to traverse it safely. Previous kings had tried to take the isles, and previous kings had left a legacy of failure. Ertide would not fail.

“Architects have arrived from Everheim to discuss the restoration of the Grand Samir courtyard.”

Ertide pushed aside his plate, his appetite fled. The Grand Samir Courtyard had long ago fallen into disrepair. They’d once used it to stage plays and poetry recitals, but the Third Age had ended and with it had gone the need for such luxuries. They were living in the Fourth Age now and the focus had shifted. A decree from Heaven, from God himself, delivered by his winged servants. A decree I could not refuse. They were living in the Age of Exploration now, and he’d since spent half his life diverting funds and workers to building ships and supplying expeditions that never returned. Whatever lay beyond the borders of the Sant Dien Empire was apparently quite dangerous.

“What’s this?” Ertide asked. There was a white paper half hidden under a pastry.

“A note from Prince Rikkan, sire,” Jertis said.

Ertide broke the seal on the note and opened it. It was his son’s handwriting, messy and rushed. Just like Rikkan, if it didn’t have a blade on the end, he cared little for learning it. Ertide had despaired over his penmanship many times, but his eldest son didn’t care and was as stubborn as a pegasus.

The letter contained only two words.

‘He’s here.’

Ertide could feel his son’s frustration through the ink. He crushed the note, more fuel for the fire. Stupid man, writing it down. But then words were just as dangerous spoken as written. The God was everywhere, saw everything, knew everything.

Only the thoughts in my head are sacred. Those at least, he was certain the God did not know. If he did, he’d have had Ertide’s crown removed long ago.

Jertis continued with his list. Union bosses from the maintenance guild to discuss the pilgrimage paths up to the Overlook. An ambassador from Aelegar no doubt to claim innocence over recent banditry in the south. A request from the Deepwater Exploring company to part fund an expedition into the caverns beneath the Cinderspire. At no point did the man mention the Rider, but Ertide knew Rikkan would not lie. The Herald of the Fourth Age was here, and he would no doubt bring new holy demands.