again, voice cracking with strain and dismay. Ghaul shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Khirro wondered what a warrior thought of such a display—likely that it was no way for a man to behave. Anger rose in Khirro’s gut, nearly overpowering his sadness. Did this man have no feelings? If being a soldier meant dispensing with compassion, then he was glad to be called farmer after all.
Khirro shook his head realizing emotion tainted his opinion. How could he possibly know what Ghaul thought?
They waited in silence, each lost in their thoughts as Athryn unleashed his grief and sorrow again and again, cries echoing across the ocean, to be lost amongst the waves. Finally, his wailing ceased. Minutes passed. The silence quickly became more uncomfortable than his sorrowful wails.
“Should we go to him?” Khirro didn’t know if he would want comfort or solitude were it him.
“No,” Elyea said. “Leave him be.”
Ten more minutes passed; each of them found unimportant activities to occupy themselves. Ghaul sharpened his boot knife; Elyea rolled a piece of grass aimlessly between her fingers; Khirro rubbed absently at the scar on his shoulder left by Ghaul’s arrow. It was Ghaul who alerted the others with a grunt when Athryn rose from his dead brother’s side.
The magician crossed the sand with slow, deliberate steps, the new pink scar on his belly gleaming in the sun. He carried Maes in his arms like a babe, the blanket which had covered him left behind. When he reached the brace of trees where his companions waited, he knelt and lay the body on a patch of yellow-brown grass as though setting down something infinitely delicate. Tears glistened on Athryn’s cheeks, but composure showed on his face. He stood, head bowed.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, voice raspy but stronger. No one said anything. “Please.”
Elyea sucked a breath through her teeth as though inhaling the strength to tell Athryn the story. She paused, holding the air in her lungs, then told him of the one-eyed thief who appeared from nowhere in the night and his attempt to stop the man. Khirro’s throat dried up as he listened, remembering how his thoughtless glance had given Athryn away. That made Maes’ death his fault. How many more deaths would he be responsible for?
As Elyea told Athryn how the assassin’s stroke opened his abdomen, his hand went to his belly, fingers stroking the smooth scar. Her voice broke with emotion as she described how Maes uttered indistinct words and opened his vein to save his brother, not allowing them to stop or interfere. When she finished, they stared at each other in awkward silence. Athryn’s face remained slack, eyes gleaming, but he shed no more tears. Khirro shuffled his feet, disturbing the dry dirt beneath them.
“Can you bring him back?” he asked breaking the silence, feeling stupid for having asked.
“There is nothing I can do.” Athryn shook his head. “I am but the speaker of the words. It was my brother who had the power of magic.”
Khirro’s brow wrinkled, unsure what Athryn meant. Does he mean Maes was the magician, not he? He opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Ghaul put his thoughts to words first.
“But what of your burns?” the warrior asked sounding more angered than surprised. “You told us you survived dragon’s breath.”
Athryn sighed a breath heavy with memory.
“Maes faced the fiery breath and lived when he should have died.” He closed his eyes, reliving those memories or trying to force them from his head. “The killing breath was meant for me, but Maes saved me. I was left burned, touched by the flame, but not enough to have killed me. To gain the power of the dragon, one must live when they should have died. Maes should have been roasted alive, yet escaped unscathed.”
“You lied to us,” Ghaul said, his voice lowered to a growl.
Khirro glanced at him, at the anger lined upon his face, but didn’t know what to think himself. Did Athryn tell them he was a magician, or did they assumed?
“It happened when we were young; Maes kept it hidden as long as he could,” Athryn continued as though he hadn’t heard Ghaul’s accusation. “When it became clear the king would have Maes’ tongue out for the magic he called blasphemy, he taught me what words he could, wrote the others on my skin. When my brother could no longer speak, we became as one magician split between two bodies, one wielding the power, the other the