Copyright (c) 2026 by Waqas Khan.
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Chapter One
Ciaran Ryker looked down and thought: The fat tub of lard sleeps like the dead.
“Edwin.”
There was no answer.
“Edwin. Wake up.”
Still nothing.
“Edwin! Wake up! The Gods have risen. The Farseer’s fled. Save yourself! Save yourself before the Pale Rider takes you!”
Lying in a shallow puddle at his feet was a lumpy sack. Inside was a particularly useless member of his clan. A feint snoring could be heard. But its unfortunate occupant, that being cousin Edwin, remained fast asleep.
Ciaran squinted in the bright morning glare. The sand and shingle beach peeled from the realm’s northern shore like a dirty secret. It was waterlogged much of the year so rarely received visitors, but that suited him just fine. Sun-blasted chalk cliffs raced away to the east and west. Looming over them like a deathly pall was the Black Tower. The castle reached into the sky like a crooked hand. It really was a lovely day. He considered letting his cousin sleep a while longer so he could enjoy it. But this wasn’t a social call. He had dragged the ignoramus here for good reason.
Ciaran counted all of five breaths before giving the sack a swift kick.
His boot collided with something hard — a shin or forearm maybe — and with a hacking grunt cousin Edwin spasmed into life. The outline of a boot lumped one end of the burlap, pudgy hands the other. Haggard groans and grunts were heard. Clearly his cousin was still getting his bearings. He was quite content to let him find them in his own time.
With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his lambswool coat, he watched the waves froth and steam. A gentle breeze brushed his cheeks and mussed his hair. Fishing boats bounced over the rolling currents. A flock of gulls wheeled towards distant cotton clouds. The fishwives and whalers would have you believe that gulls preferred soil over water, and only ventured out to sea to die, but while he couldn’t say if there was to be a funeral at sea, there very well might be one here on land.
The sack grunted. Edwin thrashed. There were cries of “Help me!” and “I’m trapped!” and “Wot’s going on?”
And the penny finally drops on the fools head. He got down on one knee, jostling the pebbles, and tugged the knotted string loose. A moment later cousin Edwin bundled out with all the grace of a beached whale, scratching and clawing at the stones and sucking air. The fool pawed his throat; apparently under the impression he was suffocating. Though calling this crude ball of spite his cousin was a tad generous. Edwin was three or four branches along the old family tree, depending on how you counted. He stepped back to give the billowing moron some air.
Eventually his cousin propped himself up on a meaty forearm and squinted into the morning sun. His round face was screwed up like a man who had swallowed a sour liquorice. Ciaran stepped to his left so his shadow spilled over Edwin’s face.
“Coz?” Edwin said.
“Edwin.”
“Wh-What’s going on?” His cousin croaked every word, still rubbing his unharmed throat. “Where am I?”
“You’re on the beach, coz,” The air was thick with salt and the gritty scent of sand. “It’s a lovely day. I thought me might chat.”
Edwin craned his neck to look around, mouth agape, as if he hadn’t spent his entirely useless life just a stone’s throw from this place. The wind blew stringy orange hair over his eyes. “I was…” he began before trailing off.
“You were at the Merry Sailor.”
It was a few moments before his cousin caught up. “Aye,” he said, blinking groggily into the morning. He was rubbing his head. “How’d I get here?”
“Now that, coz, is an interesting story. But first, take a step back. What were you doing at the Sailor?”
“What?” Edwin pronounced his what’s like whor’s, as if he had lost the letter t, or its existence had been kept from him. “I dunno… having a pint… what’s going on?”
Ciaran put his hands behind his back and bent over to look down on his carrot-haired cousin as if he were speaking to a child. You might argue he was, if you accounted for Edwin’s intellectual age. “Think, coz. Think back to last night. Who were you with?”
Edwin glanced at the waves, then back at Ciaran. “I dunno. I don’t remember. What’s it matter?” He tried groping to his feet but his legs buckled, sending him arse first into the puddle with a splash. His silk tunic and the heavy leather belt that ringed it were stained with sand and dirty water. Edwin looked down at the mess he had made of himself and sagged.
“Oh, would you look a that,” Ciaran said. “Your tunic’s ruined. Isn’t that Lamorian silk? Must have cost you a fist of silver.”
His cousin looked down at the dark spots and sandy tracks littering his clothes with feint unease. “What business is it of yours what a man does with his silver?”
There was a lie buried in that question. They both knew it. He had no silver, and those among their kin whose pockets bulged were disinclined to lend him theirs because none of them liked him. So for a man of Edwin’s meagre means to be sporting such fine garments was unusual to say the least.
“No business at all. I was just curious, coz.” Ciaran smiled. “It’s just that I had no idea you were so wealthy. Care to let me in on how you acquired said riches?”
The onion-shaped twerp ran a spotted tongue over his teeth. He coughed up a dollop of phlegm and spat, wiping his chapped lips with his sleeve. “Trading. Whalebone.”
Ciaran took note of how Edwin had neglected to look him in the eye. “Is that what you were doing at the Sailer? Trading?”
Edwin scowled. “What do you care? What are you doing out here anyway?”
“Chatting to you, cousin.”
“You’ not supposed to be outside without permission.” Edwin’s lips twisted into a piggish grin. “Uncle won’t like that, little coz. Uncle won’t like that at all.”
If his benighted clan excelled at anything, it was the underhanded and the devious. In word and deed, Rykers could always be counted on to deliver a trick or scam at the drop of a hat. The traditional Darkling virtues of courage, honour, justice, and kindness were, for the most part, unknown to them. The blood ran thin, you might say. One might be given to wonder how such a clan of miscreants and chancers could find themselves rulers of the realm. Well, it wasn’t quite an accident. There was a time, in the days of Ricard, of Roland One-Eye, of Yorik Redbeard and Corin the Clever when their cup runneth over with men of quality. But those halcyon days were long behind them. The ugly truth was sitting in an inch of muddy water, dishevelled and confused and garbed in dirty clothes, barely able to parse a coherent thought aside from that kernel of the good old Ryker slyness that still shone bright to this day.
At any rate, his cousin’s bumbling attempt at intimidation was wasted. The Farseer wasn’t here to put Ciaran back in his place.
“I’d wager uncle would like what you were doing at the Merry Sailor a lot less, coz.”
Edwin’s grin vanished. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then perhaps I can help you. You were at the Sailer last night. And you were trading. But not in whalebone. You were dealing something else. Something you shouldn’t.”
“What?” That whor again. Ciaran found the sound irritating to the ear. “How would you know?”
“I was there.”
“You followed me?”
“Indeed I did, coz. I was at the Sailor last night. I would have said hello, but you and your friend were having such a merry old time I thought it best not to disturb you.”
Edwin’s eyes suddenly had a glassy, distant look about them, as if he were thinking really hard. Or as hard as his mind would allow. He began rubbing his temple. “My head hurts,” he groaned. He also had a habit of missing his h’s, so what Ciaran heard was my ed urts.
“That would be the dwale I slipped in your wine.”
“You,” Edwin pushed a chubby finger at his face, “you poisoned me.”
“No, cousin. You’re not poisoned,” but only because I need you alive, “it’s a sleeping draught, that’s all. What you’re feeling are the after effects.”
“Uncle will hear about this!”
Ciaran gestured at the castle. “Be my guest. And while we’re at it you can explain this too.” From his breast pocket he drew a leather pouch, letting it sway in the breeze.
His cousin’s eyes widened into saucers. They both knew what was in the pouch, so there was no need to explain, but sometimes a good plan well executed deserved a little commentary. After all, what was the point of being clever if no one knows about it?
“It was the tunic that gave you away. ‘How could simple cousin Edwin afford Lamorian silk?’ I asked myself.” Ciaran swung the pouch in little windmills. “You’ve been selling darkroot on the black market. Your drinking buddy’s your fence.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
He dangled the pouch over Edwin’s head like a noose. “There’s an ounce in here. Tell me, coz, what are the chances that exact amount is missing from the family stores? And don’t forget your pal. Won’t be too hard to track the pimple-faced cretin down. I wonder how much he’ll bear before he betrays you?”
Edwin paled. His mouth fell open and he made a sound that was almost but not quite a squeal. “What are you going to do?”
“The only thing I can. You know the law. Trading the darkroot is forbidden.”
Edwin shook his head. “No — please.”
“Darkroot’s the realm’s lifeblood. My father sacrifices his life for it. His lifeblood. This is unforgivable, Edwin. Whatever were you thinking?”
“Now hold on a minute. I—” Edwin trembled, his voice shook. He reached out a fat hand. “Look… cousin… listen. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.”
Ciaran raised a brow. “I don’t know what you mean.” He did, in fact, know exactly what he meant.
Edwin dropped his gaze like a scolded child and ran a finger through the puddle. “Well, you know, coz. Willem and John… and the others. Well, me too I suppose. We’ve… we treated you badly at times, coz.”
“Why, whatever are you talking about?” Ciaran stepped closer. “And be specific.”
“All those things we did…”
“Remind me.”
“Those times we, well, you know, when we used to push you around… and make fun and all…”
“Oh,” Ciaran whispered. “All that stuff.”
“It was Willem’s doing,” Edwin said in a hurry, then seemed to catch himself. “And John,” he added. “Aye. It was John. More than Willem even. Hand on heart it was always John. I played my part, but more than once I told ‘em to knock it off. A bit of horse-trading is all in good fun. But I didn’t like it going too far.”
“You mean like the time you shoved me into horse manure?” he asked. “Or the time you dangled me out the window by my legs?”
“I told ‘em it was wrong. Ciaran’s blood, I told ‘em. You shouldn’t treat him so poor like. But they wouldn’t listen. I always liked you, coz. You know that, don’t you?”
Ciaran returned his gaze to the sea. Crabs picked through the dead fish, broken shells, seaweed, and whatever else washed up on shore, unwanted by the Gods. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Uncle has to know.”
“No! Please!” Edwin wailed, throwing all pretence out the window and throwing himself at Ciaran’s feet. “Please, coz! I’m beggin’ you! Don’t tell on me! Pleeeeeeease dooooooooow-hurgh-hurgh-hurgh…”
Ciaran couldn’t help but smile as Edwin collapsed into hacking sobs and vague grunts and snorts. The sun glittered off the bronze buttons lining his coat. The day was warming up nicely. “Edwin, you know the law, ” he said, shaking his head. “I am sorry, cousin. I take no joy in this, but Menshe Ryker must be told.”
“No,” Edwin begged. “No.”
Seeing his flesh and blood grovel like a dog should have filled him with revulsion, but as he looked down on his spineless cousin, he could only conclude that this is who they were now. A clan of sycophants, cowards, and bullies, limping along on past glories, trying frantically to keep the facade of competence in tact. But anyone that bothered to look behind the curtain of Ryker power would find nothing. They had fallen hard since the days of the first Ryker king, Ricard. With each new generation the proverbial blood thinned until they were reduced to begging for their lives on a beach. The one exception was probably Menshe Ryker. Their uncle was the only living member of their clan that could stand in the company of legends without feeling like the dim-witted cousin at the ball.
“He’ll probably throw you off the tower,” Ciaran went on, quite happy to twist the knife. “Or perhaps you’ll catch him in a generous mood, and he’ll only hang you from a tree?”
“Please, coz! You’ve got to help me!” Edwin pulled up, still on his knees, doughy hands grasping up Ciaran’s legs. “I’ll do anything! Anything! You can have my silver! All of it! The silks too. And the silversteel dagger I got from Angus. And my whalebone ring. But that’s all I have. I swear it on Saint Frieda. It’s all yours, Ciaran, if you just don’t tell on me.”
The way Edwin’s buttery hands were groping his legs filled him with a cold disgust. He yanked himself free and walked away, leaving Edwin in his puddle, and looking out towards the grey horizon as if deep in thought. “I don’t know, coz,” he said, finally. “I’d like to help you. I really would. But then I become your accomplice. And share your fate.”
“No one has to find out,” Edwin yelled behind him.
“If only there was a way.” Ciaran gave another heavy sigh and paced the sands, hands pressed into his hips and kicking the pebbles. “If there was something you could do for me.”
“Name it, coz. Anything!”
He kept his gaze on the sea, trying not to laugh, then finally turned and fixed Edwin with an intent look. “Take the Chair, coz. Take the Chair in my place.”
Edwin froze. His bottom lip quivered and his eyes were milky. There he remained, caught in that look of stupid surprise until finally something left his lips. “The Chair?”
He strolled back to his cousin, kneeled and patted a lumpy shoulder. “It won’t be so bad. At least you’ll be alive.”
“But… but…”
“Taking the Chair is like being asleep. It’s like dreaming. A really long dream. My father took it. His father took it before him. They say there’s no pain. Best of all you’ll be a king. King Edwin the First. How’s that sound?”
“I—I don’t know…”
Ciaran snapped to his feet. “Have it your own way then.” He strolled away. “If you don’t need my help I’ll be off.”
“Wait! No!” Edwin yelled. “Please, coz. I don’t want to die!”
He stopped, glanced back to find Edwin sagging like an old sack. His cousin’s glassy eyes looked past him, towards the sea, with the thousand-yard stare of a man who knew he was beaten. This time he made no attempt to hide his pleasure, practically beaming as he marched back. “You made the right choice, coz. It’s better this way.”
The ground beneath his boots began to tremble.
Pebbles clicked and rattled. He heard a sound, the distant rumble of hooves, soft at first but rising quickly. Growing louder with every heartbeat. Closer.
From the western end of the beach, where the dunes bent towards the city, a shadow pounded the dunes. A furious black smear between the grey sky and the umber sands. For a moment Ciaran was possessed by a delirious idea that the Pale Rider himself had come to collect his soul. But that fancy was shattered as the rider drew closer and he realised who it was. He almost wished it had been the spectre of death and not his bastard of a cousin. Willem’s pale face was hard as stone. His eyes were black beams. The great onyx destrier he rode kicked up sand, stygian mane whipping the air, grunting and snorting. For a split second when Ciaran feared his cousin meant to run him down. His heart leapt into his mouth.
Willem was only yards away when he veered, missing Ciaran by an arm’s length, racing past in a hail of sand and thundering hooves. Caught in the wake of the charge, he spun like a rag doll, slipped and landed on his arse. Pain ran up his arse. Willem looped his destrier back around and rode ride back to them. He slowed to a canter, then a trot.
“I spent half the bloody night looking for you,” Willem yelled. The target of his ire was Edwin. He yanked on the reins, bringing the overlarge animal to a halt. “Where have you been?”
“Coz,” Edwin stammered. “I can—”
“Shut up, you fool.” Willem swung off the saddle. His cow-hide boots thumped the sand. Bronze buckles snapped up his black doublet, white ruffles puffing from the opening at the neck. His black gaze fixed on Ciaran. “Why are you here?”
There were times in a man’s life — and Ciaran had faced such moments over the course of his twenty-one years — when he had to make a decision under great pressure. This was one. He knew that because his chest felt like it was in a slowly tightening vice. He clambered to his feet, brushed sand from his trousers and clapped his hands clean. “We were having a heart to heart, in fact.”
Willem cut Edwin a sharp look. “About?”
“Edwin was making his way back to the castle after an evening of wetting his tongue down in Hallow’s Vale when he was attacked by brigands.” Ciaran gestured at Edwin. “How many times have I told you to never leave the castle without guards? He never listens. Fortunately I happened to be passing by and was able to fight them off.”
“You?” Willem spat. “You fought off brigands?”
“Aye, coz. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Edwin and I have hardly seen eye to eye over the years. But he’s kin. Seeing my blood in danger lit a fire in me. I had to act. And before I knew it my cutlass was in my hand,” he raised a fist, “and swinging with abandon.”
Willem’s brow was furrowed in disbelief through every word.
Ciaran went on: “In the hours since much has been said. We spent half the night walking the city, and the beach, and before we knew it the sun had risen.” He smiled down on Edwin. “I suppose you could say we buried a few hatchets last night. But then Edwin did something that shocked me. Something I never thought I would hear.”
Willem’s horse snorted and shook its head. His cousin snatched at the creature’s reins. “What?”
“He offered to take my place, coz. Can you believe it? Edwin wants to make the sacrifice.”
Willem’s hair roiled in the wind like seaweed. He scowled at the slack-jawed Edwin, who was still on his knees. “He did what?”
“I couldn’t believe it either, I admit I made a half-hearted attempt to talk him out of it. But he insisted. He said he owed a blood-debt and there was only one way to pay. Well, I still wasn’t sure, but who are we to argue against his honour?”
“His honour?”
Willem dropped the reins. Ciaran barely had time to wheeze before the bastard was on him. A two handed thump sent him into the sand. He whimpered, tried to crawl away, scraping and kicking. “Wait,” he stammered. “Willem, wait!”
“You little runt.” Willem kicked his feet. “You think I care what you agreed?”
“It’s between me and Edwin!”
“You’re taking the Chair.”
Edwin sprang to his feet, grinning, his fat hands balled.
“No,” Ciaran spat. “I won’t!”
Willem froze. “No? No?” He drew his longsword. Pale sunlight shimmered off the silversteel blade. “You’ll take the Chair or I’ll gut you like a pig.”
The voice came from behind him: “You’ll do no such thing.”
Willem’s gaze snapped up past Ciaran. He craned his neck back in search of the owner. It was Romney. He thanked all the gods he didn’t believe in. His uncle was several yards away on the dunes, hand casually pressed into his side, navy pea-coat blowing in the wind.
“This is none of your concern, old man,” Willem said.
Romney adjusted his tricorne. “When you threaten my nephew, boy, it’s my concern.”
“I’m warning you,” Willem hissed. “I’m here on my father’s word.”
“So what?” Romney asked. “Doesn’t mean we can’t duel. I was just in the mood, in fact. How about it? You and me. Shall we wet our swords?”
Willem’s face darkened. A bead of sweat inched down his temple. He was no scholar or sage, his cousin, but he had enough between his ears to think hard on this. For a heartbeat Ciaran was sure the bastard would cut him down simply out of spite. But then Willem sheaved his sword and trudged away. He collared Edwin, pushing and shoving their cousin back to his horse. Edwin was grovelling and apologising — for what exactly, he could not say. But he would think on that another time. Willem mounted and trotted off without looking back. Edwin scampered along on foot.
Romney pulled up beside him. His uncle was a shadow ringed in glowing light.
Ciaran raised a hand to protect his eyes from the glare. “Impeccable timing as always, uncle.”
“We need to talk, lad.”