Chapter 2
Agrat stood at the foot of the bed, conscious of his father’s penetrating gaze. Even the scent of incense couldn’t hide the fetid smell of approaching death in the air. A slave wiped the perspiration beading on his father’s forehead as he stared at his son, his face grim. “You seek the crown before I am dead, demon son of mine,” said the king.
Agrat sucked in a deep breath. The demon insult thrown by his father was a knife wound to his heart. Fighting to show no emotion, he knelt and lowered his eyes, conscious of the constant murmurings of Galaden’s angel-faced mother who stood on the king’s right hand side. He doubted her prayers were for the king’s soul, more likely chants designed to weave around the king’s fevered mind like vines, poisoning him so that her angel son would be shown favor. On the king’s left stood his half-brother, Galaden, once his friend in the nursery, now a contender for the throne. Galaden’s blond hair was feathered around his face giving him a boyish look, but Agrat was not fooled, his eyes were as hard as crystals.
“Forgive me, Sire. As your eldest born son, I seek the crown once you have entered great Yahweh’s house. Not before,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Stripped of his weapons before entering the king’s chamber he saw that Galaden had his golden sword sheathed at his side. As the older and stronger brother he had bested Galaden when the brothers had trained as youths; but the angel son was a man now, strong in the ways of his mother’s folk and their corruption had spread through his veins. He would obey his father and king without question as male angels were bred to protect their creator and follow their lord’s wishes, even if that meant taking off his brother’s head.
The king shifted in his bed, his face grimacing in pain. The sweet, sickly smell of a wound that could not be tempered wafted from under the linen sheets toward Agrat. “You have committed a crime punishable by death. You have stolen my concubine.”
Sweet Phoebe. Her face flashed in front of his eyes. His father must have spies in his compound. Phoebe’s life would be forfeited if he was not alive to protect her. He knelt and bowed his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Father.”
The king beckoned him to stand. “Speak your reasons.”
When Agrat rose he saw his brother’s hand hover over the hilt of his sword. “All my life I have served you as both son and general, protecting you, your people and your lands. You are a just king. I ask on the eve of your life that you show mercy, forgive me my one mistake of loving the princess.”
His father struggled to a sitting position though, from the sheen on his forehead, the movement cost him dear. The linen sheets fell forward exposing his shift. Watery blood stained the linen and death scented the air. The king pulled an ornate ring from his forefinger, the Ring of Kingship, held it in the palm of his hand then closed his fingers over it. “Love? What would the son of a demon princess know of love? You were bred for war. By stealing my concubine, you move to take my kingdom before I am dead.”
His father valued his skills as a warrior above all else, directing his son in warfare from the moment Agrat had been old enough to hold a weapon. Even his wet nurse had been ordered to show him no affection so that he would grow warlike. Agrat could bear it no longer, his need to love and be loved rose up, choking him. “Not so, father. I have wed the princess but wish to continue in my duties as loyal son and soldier. I beg of you, forgive me this one thing.”
The old king turned to stare at Galaden. “What fools I have bred for sons who think to marry their own choice. Did you not learn from Galaden’s mistake? Love and obedience is in his nature. I have forgiven him, but he has been well punished.”
