1
“THERE are things you must know as konag,” Utho told the young ruler. “The future of the Commonwealth depends on your leadership.” His voice had the force of a battering ram, implacable, because Mandan needed to face his new reality after the murder of his father. As harsh as The Brava might sound, he would not coddle the former prince. Some actions were simply necessary.
Looking younger than his twenty-five years, the new konag appeared doubtful and overwhelmed. His large hazel eyes, red-rimmed with tears in his narrow face, avoided Utho’s gaze. Ever since that terrible night on Fulcor Island, nightmares had harried Mandan like crows.
Utho spoke firmly to his ward. “I trained you all your life, and that training must continue. But it is no longer a mere exercise. From now on, everything you do becomes history. You rule the Commonwealth, like Conndur the Brave before you.”
Long life and a great legacy.
Under Utho’s stern regard, Mandan seemed to dredge a core of steel from the rubble of his personality. Good. The young man would need to get through his dead father’s remembrance ceremony. Going through the motions, the konag donned his regal clothing, topped by a crimson cape trimmed with snowfox fur.
Though he had known he would someday rule the three kingdoms, Mandan was clearly still frightened inside. The grisly sight of Konag Conndur’s butchered body had devastated him, but the bonded Brava was his strength, his mentor. Utho would guide him into the obligatory war against Ishara, a true vengewar.
At last!
Clad in his usual black Brava tunic, leggings, and finemail-lined cape, Utho pulled on his black leather gloves. “Come, Mandan. Your people need to see their true konag.”
As the young man followed, he said in a small voice, “How can I be what they need when I am so alone?”
“Not alone, my konag—never alone while you have me.” They left the royal chambers.
Convera Castle stood at the point of a high bluff that overlooked the confluence of two great rivers. In the main city below stood the remembrance shrine, an imposing stone building that preserved the names and lives of countless generations.
Humans built such shrines in every village and town to memorialize those who had lived before and the descendants they left behind. Families took great care to commemorate their loved ones, paying for written records, stone engravings, or painted tiles to be kept in the shrine through the ages. Once a person’s life and works were forgotten, it was as if they had never existed.
Convera’s shrine was the largest in the Commonwealth, seven stories tall, with records dating back almost two thousand years, to the end of the last wreth wars. Two stone lions guarded the entrance, each one nearly as large as a dragon. The shrine held many storage chambers and reading rooms with shelves crammed full of ledger books. The most prominent names were chiseled into the smooth marble walls and floors. A basement vault held scrolls for poorer people, who paid scribes a few coppers to record the names of their loved ones.
Crowds had gathered in front of the great shrine, where the remembrance ceremony would take place. Stonemasons had already prepared a slab of white marble, which looked as slick and pure as boiled bone on the raised entry platform between the two stone lions. A skilled mason had already engraved the name of Conndur, and covered his work with a canvas, leaving only a few strokes to be completed for the ceremony. The man stood ready, with his eyes down and his hair mussed. He held his mallet and chisel, looking nervous as thousands of people stared at him.
As Mandan and Utho approached the remembrance shrine, the crowd responded with a swelling murmur of appreciation, respect, and sorrow. Utho doubted the young konag would ever earn their cheers or adoration—it wasn’t in his character—but the people would follow his commands. Hatred for the murderous Isharans would bond them.
Chief Legacier Vicolia emerged from the open doors of the towering building and took her place next to the covered marble slab. She was a tall, thin woman with pinched lips and an expression as serious as her duties; she wore a brown legacier’s robe trimmed with gold at the sleeves and hem. Resplendent in his cape and crown, Mandan joined her, while Utho waited respectfully off to the side by one of the stone lions, a dark figure with steel-gray hair.
“The Commonwealth remembers Konag Conndur the Brave,” announced the chief legacier. Her voice was deep and rough, as if she had breathed too much dust from her books. “He leaves a great legacy for us to remember.”
“My father’s life was too short,” Mandan blurted out, and then he stepped forward, facing the gathered crowd. The people fell silent, sensing this would not be a traditional ceremony. “Conndur fought in the Isharan war thirty years ago, but in recent days, he mistakenly decided to trust those animals. He believed the Isharans might actually want peace.”
His eyes sparkled with spiteful tears, his skin paled further, and his voice was wrong. “My father met them on Fulcor Island to negotiate the end of hostilities.” Mandan visibly shuddered. Utho was proud of him. He did not mention the wreths or the dragon Ossus, the real—if ill-advised—reason Conndur had been so desperate to speak with the Isharan empra. “And they chopped him to pieces! They hacked off his hands, gouged out his eyes! They … they cut out his heart!” His voice broke, and he degenerated into shivers and sobs. “I saw it!”
The crowd remained as silent as death itself, and the chief legacier fidgeted. Utho let Mandan weep publicly for a few moments before he came forward and stood as a bastion of strength by the new konag. He gestured to the stonemason. “You know your work! Let the marble preserve Conndur’s legacy forever.”
The mason pulled aside the canvas covering to reveal the marble and the bold, impressive letters. With a bright percussion of steel and stone, the mason used his chisel to follow the charcoal lines and finish carving the last letter in CONNDUR THE BRAVE. Vicolia watched like a schoolmistress, nodding in cautious approval.
When the mason finished, Mandan stared at the name as realization struck him anew, and dropped to his knees in front of the marble, weeping.
Placing a black-gloved hand on the young man’s trembling shoulder, Utho said in a low voice, “You can grieve only so much, my konag. You have a kingdom to rule.” He increased the pressure, squeezing until Mandan managed to compose himself. “And we must prepare our war of vengeance against the Isharans.”
* * *
Even before the Commonwealth ships departed from Fulcor on the night of the murder, Utho had set his plans in motion. The Brava was saving the three kingdoms by preventing Conndur’s awful, naïve proposal to seek peace with the Isharans. Such a choice could cripple humanity’s future. He had done what was necessary, as appalling as it was.
Conndur had been his friend, and secretly murdering him was the most difficult thing Utho had ever done. But that act, and placing the blame on the Isharans, had provided the necessary trigger to unite Mandan and the whole Commonwealth in destroying their enemy. Everyone believed Empra Iluris had ordered the despicable crime.
Still reeling from the horror he had witnessed, Mandan deferred the planning to his bonded Brava, who was happy to take the reins. In the name of the konag, Utho ordered numerous Commonwealth ministers and advisors to catalog the resources the three kingdoms could bring to bear for a full-scale war. The main army needed to be armed and supplied, and the vaults of stored armor, swords, arrows, and spears beneath the castle had been emptied and inventoried. Soldiers would be recruited from across Osterra, Norterra, and Suderra. Since the enemy was across the ocean, he required ships—hundreds, if not thousands of ships—to strike the other continent like an executioner’s ax.