“I studied the route.” Forgetting about his dinner, Mandan walked to the lavishly detailed maps on the wall. “There are places in Osterra I want to see, vassal lords to meet along the way.” His gaze had turned steely, and his mind had gone from panic to an irrevocable focus on revenge. “I intend to take my father with me.”
Utho was startled. “What do you mean?”
“Konag Conndur was cut into pieces, which have been preserved. The entire Commonwealth must understand the barbarity of our enemy. What better demonstration than to dispatch processions throughout the three kingdoms so the people can behold the proof of what the Isharans did to our beloved ruler.”
Utho remembered exactly what had been done to Conndur’s body. After all, he had staged the scene to generate maximum horror. He had cut off the konag’s hands, gouged out his eyes, cut out the heart and placed it on the man’s groin. He had splashed blood on the walls of the chamber to imply the greatest violence, though in his only spark of mercy, he had at least killed Conndur first.
Utho nodded slowly as he realized that such a procession would continue to enrage every person in the Commonwealth. “It is a good plan, Mandan.”
The young konag beamed at the praise. “We will take my father’s heart with us and send the other pieces elsewhere.”
* * *
The procession departed three days later with supply wagons, tents, comfortable camp beds. With the banner-bearers and escort in the lead, Utho rode alongside Mandan of the Colors. His black Brava garb was in sharp contrast to the young konag’s multicolored cape, jerkin, and leggings. Behind them walked a pure white horse, perfectly groomed, bearing the colors of Conndur the Brave. Bound to the saddle was a gilded chest, evident and ominous for all to see.
The people came out to cheer the konag each time the procession arrived in a town, but as news spread of the grim trophy, the crowds grew more somber. Murmuring with respect, the people recounted tales of Conndur’s exploits, when he and his brother had led Commonwealth armies in Ishara thirty years ago.
On the second day the procession arrived in the county of Lord Goran, who came out to greet them with a retinue of personal guards. Goran had prepared fine quarters for the konag in his holding house above the river, and Utho did not doubt that Goran, who was a petty man, would assume the meeting bestowed great importance on him.
Looking at the crowd, the Brava saw some people wearing drab clothes and haunted looks. Many refugees from the devastated mining town of Scrabbleton had resettled here after the eruption of Mount Vada, but had not yet rebuilt a normal life.
Lord Goran had a high forehead, a cleft chin, and dark lips that gave him a pouting look. Standing in front of the procession, Goran turned his attention to the gilded box on the white horse’s saddle. He fought to maintain an expression of respect.
After dismounting, Mandan walked up to the small chest. “You want to see my father’s heart.” He stroked the horse’s mane. “Let me show you what the Isharans did.”
Goran bent closer as the young konag undid the metal hasp and raised the lid to reveal a wrapped lump in folds of blue velvet. Mandan spoke in a husky voice. “They cut it out of my father’s chest. They pried apart the ribs and reached in with their bare hands to rip out his heart. Then they shoved it between his legs, still leaking blood.”
Goran’s face went as pale as fresh cheese. “I … I’m sorry, Sire.”
Utho watched, pleased by Mandan’s performance. He had coached the young man, showing him how to add passion to this speech. The konag’s voice rose so he could address all of the people, not just the sallow-faced lord. As he described the events on Fulcor Island, he relived his nightmares and gave the listeners nightmares as well.
In the weeks since that night, Utho had seen a real change in the young man. As prince, Mandan had been shy and weak, bored and impatient with his duties, but now vengeance made him strong.
One man with thick arms and broad shoulders hung his head. “First Scrabbleton is destroyed, and now this terrible news! The world is full of evil and pain. What are we to do?”
Unpracticed, Mandan fumbled for words, and Utho interjected in a gruff voice. “You can help. You can be more than refugees. There is a war coming, and we are building our army.” He looked at the man’s obvious strength. “A person who spent his life breaking rock could be a great fighter. We’ll train you to be a warrior.” He raised his voice to the crowd. “Anyone who wishes to be part of the Commonwealth army is welcome.”
Standing beside the open box, Mandan looked at Lord Goran’s escort soldiers. “You already have some fighters that you will give to us.”
The sallow lord balked. “So many sacrifices, so much pain and suffering! The Isharan animals must pay for their heinous crime, but we are also in danger here in Osterra.” He flicked a glance at Utho. “My konag, you have this powerful man next to you, but I’ve lost my bonded Brava. Klea was my protector, but she selflessly joined the expedition to Fulcor Island, and she never returned to me.”
“Klea has other duties now,” Utho said, his voice hard. “She remains on Fulcor as the new watchman commanding the troops there. The Isharan animals are sure to come back. That is where she belongs.”
“But she’s bonded to me!” Goran said. “What am I to do without protection?” Beside him, his armed soldiers flinched, offended by the comment.
Utho had no sympathy for the man. Bravas could swear their loyalty to a nobleman or some other wealthy employer. “You will have to make do.” Though Goran needed no such protection, he had always basked in the prestige of having a bonded Brava at his side.
“I am so sorry for your great sacrifice, Lord Goran,” Mandan said with thick sarcasm. “I cannot imagine the pain you must be feeling. Does it compare to mine at losing a father, or that of the Commonwealth losing a beloved ruler?”
He shut the lid of the chest that held Conndur’s heart and fixed the hasp with a sharp click, letting his palm linger on the gilded wood as if he could feel his father’s heart still beating inside.
11
THE Fellstaff remembrance shrine felt like another home to Shadri. Proud of her new title as the queen’s legacier, the young scholar had spent many days there with books spread out on the long table, reading by sunshine or candlelight. She asked persistent questions, because she wanted to learn everything. Today, rather than studying alone, she was glad Queen Tafira offered to accompany her.
Silent and serious as the queen’s protector, with his black cape flowing behind him, the Brava Lasis led the two of them through the streets to the two-story remembrance shrine. Shadri continued talking, her conversation as erratic as a bumblebee in flight. “Maybe the legaciers will tell you more answers than I’ve been able to learn, my lady. Legacier Thooma seems impatient with me when I ask too many questions.”
Tafira frowned. “They should be pleased that someone is so interested in our history.”
Lasis broke his silence. “Perhaps they do not like it when they don’t have the answers.”
Shadri grinned at him. She was a sturdy and self-sufficient young woman who wore thick bundled skirts and layered upper garments, because they offered plenty of pockets to keep all the things she might need. When she had wandered the land alone, Shadri carried an enormous pack stuffed with supplies like food, notebooks, darning needles, sulfur matches, nubs of candles, a lead stylus, and little packets for specimens she found along the journey.