Salarahan did not shout or struggle but watched his father as though he knew what was about to happen. Perhaps he did. Shran’s last breaths were spent in an attempt to right what was so obviously wrong in his family, but his gasps were ignored by the elder brothers. Theba drowned their minds with whispers, plots for how they might have the kingdom for themselves, and their father died.
“Still in the thrall of the dread goddess, the brothers restrained Salarahan and dragged him to the dungeons. But Theba’s plan was a more sinister one even than this. It was not enough for her that Salarahan should suffer his father’s loss and the loss of the kingdom. He had disappointed her, and showed himself now to be the son of the woman she had forced him upon and not her own. For Theba, all faults were mortal ones, and what half of Salarahan was mortal would suffer sorely for his ignorance.
“Salarahan was shown no more mercy than a slaughtering animal when his brothers lashed him to a rack and carved out his heart. Theba told them that the possessor of Salarahan’s heart would live in health well beyond his own years so long as Salarahan was restrained, for he could neither die nor live a full life without it. His howls fell on ears that were filled already with Theba’s cruel promises.
“When their work was finished, the brothers told their people that Salarahan was dead. He was buried in a state befitting a king’s son. His tomb was sealed, for the brothers feared mightily what Salarahan might do if freed.
“But Salarahan would not for many years yet walk again the roads of men. Other, higher roads he sought, plagued all the while by the poisonous tongue of Theba. She came to him in his tomb when he could neither defend himself nor deny her. Though he looked a man gone to his last sleep, Salarahan was tormented by the truths she revealed to him about his own nature and her part in it. Perhaps this is why he was so many generations lost to the living world while his brothers slayed each other in turn so they might possess Salarahan’s heart, extend their lives and their rule.”
The hour was not so late that I would not have been permitted the remainder of Salarahan’s tale, but there were shouts coming from the edges of the camp, and growing nearer. Gannet, who had not seated himself throughout the telling, stood alert and was joined soon by several of the guard, eyes turned all towards the approaching commotion.
I could not have been more surprised if it had been the specter of Salarahan descending on us than I was to see my brother, Jurnus, restrained by Antares and fighting still. I got to my feet. I knew as soon as I laid eyes upon him that he had meant to deliver no message and had come instead to rescue me, no doubt against my parent’s wishes and his own limited good sense. His head was ringing with his thoughts, and they sounded like raucous bells to me: his desire to fight, his unexpected terror, the knowledge that more of our people waited outside the camp, idiots all.
Morainn rose and had only to narrow her eyes before he was released. Antares, however, did not stand away from him.
“What are you doing here?” Morainn bristled so it seemed her curls stood on end, and even Gannet shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other, shoulders thrust forward as though preparing to strike. In that stance he appeared taller, but Jurnus was taller still. Whether bravado or bold stupidity drove my brother’s next words, I did not know.
“What is she doing here?” Jurnus’ eyes flashed, gesturing at me. His voice was sharp, slashing against the silence as surely as his words created it. “Is she your slave? A trophy? A whore?”
Antares proved himself a man where my brother remained a boy and stayed his blade at this insult. Before he could do anything else, and before Morainn’s temper commanded he do something else, I crossed quickly to Jurnus.
“You need to leave here,” I hissed. Everyone