Spine of the Dragon

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Iluris was empra of Ishara, all thirteen districts, all the priestlords, all the people, but the priestlords controlled the godlings, which gave them a different sort of power. Publicly, they swore loyalty to the throne, but that didn’t stop Klovus from justifying whatever he wished to do. Damn him!

  Iluris had not sanctioned this provocative raid, but the key priestlord did it anyway, supposedly for the good of Ishara. If he returned victorious, the empra would not be able to punish him, at least not publicly … and as leader of Ishara, how could she want the raid to fail? She was in an impossible position.

  But it was time to put the ambitious man in his place, to diminish his ill-advised victory. It would have to be done carefully, subtly, and for the good of Ishara. She would have to think along unexpected lines.

  With hawk guards outside in the corridor keeping her safe, Iluris paced in her tower chambers. She was forty-seven with ash-blond hair, her face still smooth despite decades of rule and three worthless husbands. Seasoned and experienced, she was more than a match for Klovus, who was ten years her junior.

  From the opposite high window, she looked inland toward the heart of her city, her gaze drawn to the temple quarter, where a vast foundation and half-constructed walls stretched over an area that would have encompassed an entire neighborhood, the first floor marked out and partially constructed. The priestlords had ambitions to raise it ten times higher, if she ever allowed them to complete it.

  The Magnifica had been a dream of the priestlords for nearly half a century. Beginning in the reign of her father, Emprir Daka, work armies had razed street after street, and the temple’s foundations were laid down with huge blocks of stone. From across the land, each district had donated materials, money, labor. Even in its initial stages, the temple inspired awe and pride, and the priestlords were giddy with self-importance. The Magnifica would host the primary Serepol godling, the Isharan godling, and make that entity the most powerful in the world.

  But the main Serepol godling was already immense and intimidating, and she worried what so much concentration of power would do to the entity. Why would the priestlords need the godling to be so strong? Were they even sure they could control it once the temple was finished?

  When young Iluris took the throne after her father’s death, she had been wise enough to see the danger and the consequences. Citing the war with the Commonwealth as the ostensible reason, she had halted construction on the Magnifica, hobbling the priestlords’ ambitions. The broad foundations and the half-constructed walls served as a temporary temple to house the Serepol godling. Enormous piles of construction material remained, enough to build an entire town, waiting for the work to resume.

  Klovus had been no more than a boy of seven when the Commonwealth war ended. The Magnifica temple had been stalled for most of his life. He had served as an acolyte, where he discovered he had a real affinity for the godlings, and that helped him rise quickly through the ranks. As a priestlord, he could control some magic, even if he let the godlings do the work for him.

  Iluris, though, had no discernible magic of her own, in spite of coming from a long and respected noble lineage. If the priestlords ever decided to battle her outright, maybe even try to assassinate her, she wasn’t sure she would survive, so Iluris protected herself in her own way. Her hawk guards, whom she called adopted sons, would give their lives to keep her safe, and she had developed her own deft skills and political maneuvers.

  She stared out the high window. Still no sign of the raiding ship’s return …

  As empra, she worried about the future of Ishara. She remained childless despite her three marriages, and she had taken no new husband in years, seeing no value in marrying yet again, not at her age. If she died without an heir, the priestlords would replace her with some starry-eyed puppet who would let them build their Magnifica temple and give extravagant power to their godlings.

  She was determined not to fail, because she owed it to herself and to her people. Isharans did not deserve yet another corrupt leader.

  Iluris stepped to the edge of the open tower window and looked down to the courtyard, dizzyingly far below. Placing her hands on the sun-warmed sill, Iluris watched the tiny figures down there. Such a long way to fall. This was the very tower, the very window, from which she had pushed her father. That was how she’d become empra at the age of seventeen.…

  Emprir Daka had been a hard and loveless man who killed two wives—not with a blade or poison, but through persistent emotional abuse. Iluris was the daughter from Daka’s second marriage, and after he destroyed his wife, his own daughter became his next target.

  The emprir had fathered three daughters, two of whom died in early childhood. Iluris had survived only because she was protected and cared for, watched every day by nannies, servants, and guards—of their own volition, rather than by any command from Emprir Daka. Only later did Iluris piece together the hints and realize that the servants were sheltering her because they knew the other two girls had not died by accident. Although Daka became resigned to having Iluris as his heir, he punished her simply for not being male. Soon enough, though, he took advantage of her for being female.

  When her monthly courses started flowing at age thirteen, the court advisors informed the emprir that Iluris had reached full womanhood and could be considered for a marriage alliance. Daka took the news a different way, however. With his wives dead, he began to slip into his daughter’s room late at night. He would lock the door and force himself upon her, telling her it was part of her training to be empra.

  She fought back, but he was stronger, not just physically, but because he had the power of command. Once, he brought in his personal guards to tie her down, then commanded them to witness as he raped her. She lay sobbing and screaming. And they did nothing.

  When she went to the priests and begged them to make her father stop, they chided her for trying to circumvent what the godlings wished. She wondered whose “wish” it really was. Despite her pleas, they gave Emprir Daka permission to continue molesting her. Iluris never forgave the priestlords for that.

  One night, when Daka came to her drunk, she was ready. She had hidden a drugged needle beside her bed, and when her father forced her down under his weight and his hot breath, she vowed that it would be the last time. She snatched the needle from the bedside and pricked his shoulder. He was so preoccupied with his passions that he didn’t even notice the scratch.

  The drug quickly took effect, rendering him dizzy and nauseated. Iluris coaxed him over to the window of the pinnacle tower, just for a breath of air. As he stood there, naked and sweating in the low light of the braziers, still swaying, Iluris pushed him. He toppled out of the high window and fell with only a low moan until he struck the paving stones.

  When the guards rushed in, followed by stunned priests, Iluris managed to summon tears without betraying that they were tears of joy. “He came in to give me a good-night kiss, but he must have had too much wine. He went to the window for some air and lost his balance.” She drew a breath. “Such a great loss for Ishara.”

  Thus, she became empra during the war with the Commonwealth, which ended shortly thereafter. Over the years of her reign, Iluris led Ishara to prosperity, despite lingering resentments against the old world. Her concern was for the thirteen districts, the cities, the people, the schools. She wanted to make Ishara a better home for humanity than the damaged old world her people had left behind so long ago.

  But now, without asking for her blessing or permission, the fool Klovus had launched a provocative attack that Konag Conndur was sure to answer. The priestlord had managed to sneak away with the godling from the harbor temple and a duped crew. A priest courier had informed her only after the warship was long gone, ensuring that she could not stop Klovus under any circumstances.

  Now, Iluris needed to assert herself and put the key priestlord in his place. Gazing out at the harbor again, she knew it might be days yet before the ship came home, and even once the sails were
spotted on the horizon, the ship would take many more hours to reach port, so she had plenty of time to take action.

  With her secular power, the most resounding punishment she could impose on Klovus would be to reallocate the stockpiled construction materials and tools from the Magnifica temple square. She smiled. For the past year, the priests had quietly added to the mounds of building supplies, enough to continue the project in earnest, whenever they thought they could get away with it. So many resources.

  Iluris decided to commandeer as much of the stockpile as possible in the name of Ishara and use the stone blocks and wood, paid for by the priestlords, to build schools to teach young Isharans their letters and numbers, to repair roads, to increase trade among the districts.

  Yes, that was it. Her land would thrive.

  Her dream was to keep Ishara a land of plenty. She would do what was best for her people. No matter what Priestlord Klovus desired, the last thing she needed was an all-out war with the Commonwealth.

  9

  LIGHTNING crashed and thunder boomed like a battle in the sky, unleashing a late-night downpour. Jagged white bolts danced among the clouds over Convera Castle, which sat high on a defensible wedge of land above the river confluence.

  Rain hissed against the latticed windows in Konag Conndur’s library, but a fire of seasoned oak in the hearth kept him warm and comfortable.

  Earlier, for dinner, Conndur had hosted a group of ambassadors, lords, and successful businessmen from around Osterra. The konag believed that diplomacy worked better in a relaxed situation, especially with roast herbed lamb. Other than minor boundary disputes and squabbles over tariffs, the three kingdoms of Osterra, Suderra, and Norterra had coexisted peacefully for many centuries. The open-hand symbol of the Commonwealth had been well chosen.

  During the dinner, Conn brokered a deal between a man who owned flocks of sheep and a lord who had idle spinners and needed the wool. Lord Cade, from the rugged northernmost county, presented a sack of perfect saltpearls and described how his brave divers retrieved them only by swimming deep in the dangerous currents.

  Prince Mandan, Conn’s elder son, had also attended the dinner, because the konag insisted that the prince participate in governance. Adan, Mandan’s younger brother, was king of Suderra and well liked by the people—quite a change from his predecessors—but even greater responsibilities awaited Mandan as the future konag of the entire Commonwealth. The prince had been schooled in geography and mathematics, culture and art, but he had no instinct for people, alliances, obligations, friendships, and enmities. Mandan was not at all ready, did not seem anxious for the throne, and had never shown the leadership abilities Adan had. At twenty-five, the prince was already older than Conndur had been when he became konag.

  After dinner, Mandan bowed out of the conversation as soon as he could, wanting to work on his poetry. The guests bade him good night, and he hurried to his quarters. Only Conn realized that his son was uneasy because of the thunderstorm brewing outside. The young man had always hated storms.…

  Now that the guests were gone, Konag Conndur relished the quiet time in the hours before midnight while the rain came down. Sitting in his chair by the fire, he perused a volume chronicling the deeds of konags from the past. The inscription read, Long life and a great legacy.

  That benediction summed up the greatest success any human could hope for, since their entire race was a secondary creation. When making humans to be their servants, wreths had not endowed them with souls, nor given them any place for an afterlife. They had to make their mark in this life and leave a legacy to be remembered for as long as possible. Their deeds would be their immortality.

  Conn skimmed the stories in the book. All the names were also recorded permanently in the great remembrance shrine in Convera City. The men and women in this chronicle had achieved that goal, and he hoped that when his own chronicle was written, his legacy could exist proudly beside those of his forebears.

  A roar of thunder rattled the windows, and the rain streamed down. He was glad he wasn’t out on a military campaign trying to sleep in a wet tent with water dripping through the seams. Such experiences were for younger and more foolish people—unlike stargazing. Unfortunately, the rain clouds would prevent him from going out on the rooftop platform tonight to study the stars, a cherished activity he had often shared with Adan. But with Adan on the throne in faraway Suderra for the past few years, those intimate times happened only rarely now.

  Conn had tried again and again to teach his other son the constellations, but Prince Mandan never could marvel at the lights of those other worlds created by the ancient wreth gods. Sighing, the konag closed the volume of history and leaned back in his chair. If only Adan had been the firstborn …

  Conndur himself was a second son who had never expected to become konag. It should have been his brother Bolam, the firstborn. As heir apparent, Bolam had been trained in statecraft, skilled in strategy games and the arts, a well-liked young man with many interests, great intelligence, a calm disposition, and a gift for negotiation. Bolam would have made a great konag.

  When war broke out with Ishara, their father Konag Cronin dispatched his two younger sons, Conndur and Kollanan, to lead the expeditionary armies. Conn the Brave and Koll the Hammer led skirmishes across Ishara for more than a year. While his two younger brothers were in the thick of the dangerous war, Prince Bolam remained home in Convera Castle, safe and protected … where he caught a fever and died.

  Devastated, Konag Cronin lost all heart for the war. With his oldest son’s body consumed by the funeral pyre and Convera City decked in black crepe, Cronin gathered every last warship in the Commonwealth, adding coastal passenger ships and swift Utauk trading vessels into a breathtaking fleet. That enormous navy crossed the ocean and converged on Serepol Harbor.

  But instead of burning the Isharan capital in rage and revenge, Cronin had sent a message to young Empra Iluris, calling for an end to the war. In his deep grief, he wanted nothing more than to bring his remaining two sons home safely, and the giant fleet sailed back home.

  Even though the war was never resolved, the Commonwealth retreated. Koll the Hammer accepted the throne of Norterra, where he settled down with his new Isharan bride and retired from military life. A disheartened Konag Cronin groomed his second son as his successor, and Conndur the Brave was crowned two years later.

  A long life and a great legacy.

  While Conndur brooded, immersed in the sound of drumming rain, the study door swung open and a tall black-clad man strode into the library. His cloak was sopping wet, and he pulled back his hood, shaking rain from his face. His steel-gray hair was plastered to his head.

  Startled, Conn rose from the chair. “Utho! You must have had a terrible journey in this storm.”

  Without speaking, but full of words to say, Utho removed his gloves and shucked off his finemail-lined cloak, which he hung on a peg by the roaring fire. His face carried the weight of terrible news.

  The konag braced himself. “What is it, Utho? Tell me.”

  “It’s Mirrabay, Sire. I … I did my best.”

  “You always do, old friend.” Conn ignored the rainwater that dripped from the Brava’s dark leathers onto the tile floor. “What happened?”

  As if breaking a latch that held his voice, Utho said, “The Isharan animals attacked in an enemy warship and”—the words caught in his mouth again. He made a strange sound. “They brought a godling, Sire. They unleashed it on our shores. The abomination killed hundreds of people, set fires, destroyed homes, and Isharan soldiers came ashore to finish the job.”

  Conn reeled. “But you drove them off? You defeated the godling?”

  “We fought hard, but there was so much damage. I managed to weaken the godling. I don’t think it could have survived much longer on our shores. When the Isharans returned to their ship, they carried off prisoners.” His dark gaze was haunted. “Probably to feed it.”

  Conn remembered that during the previous war Uth
o’s family had been killed in one of the early attacks. Ah, yes, in Mirrabay. “I’ll rush troops there to help them rebuild, and we’ll increase defenses so the Isharans can’t strike them again.”

  The grim Brava turned away. “That won’t be enough, Sire. We have to answer this attack with a counterstrike. Hit Ishara with our navies and make them hurt. Bring the ships we already have stationed at Fulcor Island.” His wide face showed great determination. “We could do more than punish the Isharans. We could wipe them out once and for all, take over their continent, set up our own colonies. We deserve it! That is where the Brava home should be.”

  Behind him, the crackling fire popped as a sap-filled knot of wood burst into flame.

  Conn tried to calm his thoughts, remembering to be the leader. “But, open war? The Commonwealth learned that lesson thirty years ago, and many other times before that. Ancestors’ blood, we can’t get carried away! What happened at Mirrabay—was this a real military strike, or just hot-blooded raiders acting on their own? Do we know that Empra Iluris sanctioned this incursion? That does not sound like her.”

  “Sire, they brought a godling,” Utho repeated.

  Conn paced, deeply disturbed. “The forefathers of the Isharans departed from here a long time ago and made a new home on the other continent, while we stayed here in the ruins. Why do they hate us? And why do we hate them so?” Though he had been given many reasons, he had never completely understood the answer.

  Utho stood close to the fire, and his wet clothes began to steam. “Because they’re animals, Sire. Because they use magic and imagination to create their own gods. And because we have none.”

  Conndur lowered his voice. “Is that reason enough for war between two continents?”

  The Brava stared at him as if the answer were obvious.