The General's Legacy

Chapter Two: The Meeting of Minds (part 1)

The Battle of Haliford 1821 — 'The Battle That Was.'
People's and Kingdom Army of Valendo, led by Mercenary General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra.
Deaths: Approximately 1200.
Kingdom Army of Nearhon, led by King Kaligan Ferand the Second.
Deaths: Approximately 2500.

— Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo

Prince Pragius, eldest son of King Ceoric of Valendo, now in his twenty-eighth year, contemplated the role he now played as he pulled on shiny, calf-length black boots. He often contemplated what he was doing with his life on days like today. His had been a life largely insulated from the outside world — until his thirteenth year and the Battle of Beldon Valley. It had all changed then. Valendo was becoming an increasingly complex country to govern. The days when the king's word was law were now a distant memory only for the older generation. Now there were three representative's elected by the people to deal with. People with needs, expectations, dreams and fears.

Despite loyalty for the monarchy in the capital city of Tranmure, there were calls for the northern region to have their own representative. Theoretically, the monarch had final authority. In practice, the culture of Valendo had changed and 'the will of the people' forever played off the leadership as Valendo stumbled forward into her future.

Pragius fastened the shining silver buttons on his blue velvet jacket, inspecting his shaving efforts in a polished mirror. Once the top button was fastened, he rubbed his hands over a now-sensitive face and looked into his green eyes in the mirror. He winked at himself and combed the fingers of both hands through rebellious brown hair before heading out of his bedroom door.

Pragius took a casual walk down the corridor; holding his hand out, he slapped palms with his brother passing the other way.

'Hey, Seb.'

'Hey, Prag! Don't let the reps get you down,' Sebastian replied.

At times, dealing with the representatives was like dealing with three young boys. His father's words, not his. Pragius hadn't got around to the 'finding a wife' bit of his responsibility as heir to the throne, so he had no children of his own. His father was speaking from experience. You couldn't give one something and not the others. The tantrums of little boys could be dealt with by shutting them in their rooms until they calmed down. A representative and his electorate were so much more complicated to deal with. Pragius worked with his father much of the time 'in apprenticeship' to become king. It was an accepted duty, a birthright, but deep down, in a place he no longer spoke about, being king was not really something he was interested in.

Fifteen years ago, while on a tour of the kingdom, he had travelled to Breen — or, as it was most often called, 'Mage Island'. It was an independent island where, on rare occasions, some people discover their mind's ability to sense and connect with magic. These people then stay to study and develop their magical ability in a controlled environment. A future king has other responsibilities, a duty to leave the island behind and go home. Pragius barely remembered Breen's golden beaches, the palm trees lining the pathways or the whitewashed sandstone buildings sprawling across the grassy island. However, Pragius did remember observing the awakening ceremony in a dry sandstone cave lit only by a glowing white sphere suspended in the air. He remembered the scratching between his toes as he curled them into the sand while watching the barefoot candidates fidgeting nervously on the spot. The magical sphere's light stretched their shadows long on the cave floor. He remembered the abrupt end to the old archmage's chanting and the sudden, blindingly white light only he could see that sent pain lancing through his head so fierce he fell to the sandy floor, clutching his head. None of the other teenagers at the ceremony reacted. The surprise awakening of Pragius' mind to magic could not be left behind. It could not be undone.
It was there right now, all these years later, a part of him as surely as the head upon his shoulders. He wished he had refused the old archmage's kind invitation and never gone into that cave on the island. He knew his hatred of that green-eyed old man with the flowing grey hair and beard was irrational. He wished his awareness had never been opened to what was there, glowing brightly at the edge of his mind. It was an opening to a place that seemed everywhere to Pragius but few could perceive, and it was where the power of magic lay. He had to ignore its presence now. At least this is how he dealt with it, ignoring it and focusing on what he was expected to do as the heir to the throne.