Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  "What does my father have to do with me?"

  "I want what's best for Kinslek and Alkar. Nothing more. If you're half the man Eenan Ark was, then you'll want the same."

  "What if I'm not?"

  "Then I've misjudged you both."

  They fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. Ogdhen led Irreor to the castle's guest quarters—a room of simple, yet efficient, wooden furniture. A window on the far wall overlooked the castle's courtyard and stables, and Irreor leaned against its frame.

  "Someone will come get you for dinner," Ogdhen said, and marched from the bedroom.

  Irreor released a slow breath and rubbed his cheeks. Sometimes the silence of a room, of his own thoughts and emotions and choices, they calmed him. His quarters contained a silver tray filled with stale, waxy cheese and dry, grainy bread. The sheets were clean and fresh, the floor swept and bright, but a thin layer of grime coated the window's wavy pane.

  He plopped down on the bed and placed his head on the pillow.

  The eagle figurine he'd won from Gar Tsi jabbed his thigh, and he tugged it from his pocket. It reminded him of his days in Farren, of the friends he'd left behind. Krayr had requested a trinket, and he deserved one.

  -Eagle. Eagle. It's unimportant. How will that castle come to be? It must have a history. Everything must have a history. My world will be a contrast—those who strive for goodness and honor and those who will sink beneath the tides. Ah, so many threads. So many knots, but will I have too many?-

  Maddening.

  The voice paused, almost as if considering. Its invisible thread and raspy tone caressed Irreor like smooth silk against a jagged edge. They brushed him, receded, and brushed again.

  -Maddening. Abennak will be maddened. Perfect.-

  Irreor closed his eyes, fighting to block out the voice.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "There are simply too many people," Kinslek told Gar Tsi. "We're overrun with mouths, all of them with stomachs beneath. Farren is the worst. Last week, I couldn't believe it, but the mainland halted all shipments to Svart Harbor"

  The merchant lifted an eyebrow.

  Irreor and the others sat at a stout marble table, cushioned chairs beneath them. A skylight high above allowed the last hints of dusk to shine in, and the scent of roasted potato and shrimp filled the room. Yet the food tasted of graphite and dust, and it sat uneaten atop delicate white plates.

  Leena took a dainty bite, seemingly recovered from her earlier outburst. However, she chose not to look at the merchant, his wife, or Irreor, and she kept her gaze pinned to her plate. "The Inner Empire claimed that their ships were attacked."

  Kinslek unleashed a curse. "It sounds true, if you're an imbecile. Have you ever seen a thousand people packed onto a single ship? Well you won't, either. It was no attack, but the blasted thing still sank faster than I would've thought possible."

  Gar Tsi puffed his cheeks in consideration. "What will you do?"

  "I've got to impose some type of order, lest the entire island drop into anarchy." He threw a quick, sympathetic glance at Irreor. "Farren may have already fallen. I haven't received any word from their council in over a week, and their last message spoke of danger."

  -My general must become stronger than his father. Once he faces his past, he'll find the determination to face the future. Ah yes, and he'll rally them.-

  Be silent!

  -Sleep. Ah, my head, it bursts. I can't.-

  "I sent two of my best men," Kinslek said. "But they haven't returned, and I'm hesitant to send any mo—"

  "Crest." Irreor gripped his Synien, which reminded him of his father, of how their lessons had helped him protect Gar Tsi and Teel. It also reinforced thoughts of what he planned to do for Farren. But, more than those things, it brought to mind the man who had taken his father's life. "He probably controls the city."

  "I've heard the name," Kinslek admitted. "I'd hoped it wasn't so, but it's possible."

  Void take me, don't let it be true.

  "That place is being a cesspit, anyways," Gar Tsi said. "Being so ever since Eenan Ark was murdered. No one has had the nut to stand up for themselves."

  At that, Irreor couldn't find anything to say. As Gar Tsi claimed, he hadn't stood up for himself, or his friends, or his city. Now they all suffered because of his weakness. But it wouldn't stay like that.

  He'd change it.

  "It's the only home I've ever known," Irreor whispered to himself.

  Memories of Farren—the delicious scent of fresh bread, the nights spent wandering the streets, the familiar clangs of the smithy—they tugged at Irreor's heart. News of the city's fall only tugged harder.

  "Demon-damn," Kinslek grumbled. "Farren was the hub of my kingdom, and I thought he was strong enough to do what needed doing." He threw his fork at the table. "But first I need my island back."

  "You give me the coins," Gar Tsi said, "and I'll sneak myself into that city. I'll bribe folks. I'll coerce them. I'll be giving you all the secrets you could ask for."

  Teel frowned, but held her tongue.

  "What good are secrets if you can't use them?" Kinslek asked. "I don't command much of an army, and I doubt anyone can steal Crest's men from him. No, I need you for other things. Farren will need to act alone in this, despite the loss to my kingdom. I can't spare anyone to—"

  "Send me," Irreor said. "I'll return it to you."

  They swiveled to him—brows furrowed, mouths slightly parted. Realization struck Irreor; they didn't believe him. His father had been a man of importance, but he'd done little to prove himself.

  Except murder men. I'm good at that, it seems.

  -Their engraved breastplates—black starbursts against polished iron—the Keepers will wear them with pride. Ah, and Kinslek will never pick a lazy glutton. He'll choose the best. The elite.-

  "Make me a Keeper," he continued. "Give me a sack of gold, enough to get started at least, and I'll return the city to you."

  Kinslek lifted an eyebrow.

  Gar Tsi lowered chin to chest and mumbled a curse. "Farren's got a real problem. You're both knowing it as well as I. Damned island's rotting more than my dog's ten-year-dead carcass. You're sure you're wanting to do this, Irreor?"

  Irreor's stomach churned, but he pulled his gaze from his plate to peer at the king and queen. They awaited his answer with calm, regal expressions and straightened backs, though fury swirled within the queen's eyes.

  "Yes," Irreor said, and a strange finality dwelled in that single word.

  "This is absurd," Leena said. "This man is little more than a boy. He hasn't been tested, so how can we know if we can trust him? Give him a bag of gold and send him on his way? You'll never see him again!"

  "He's not being a boy," Gar Tsi said. "He's proven that well enough."

  "He's a worthless—"

  "Woman," Teel hissed. "If you spit one more word from that crevice in your face, I'll bloody you like you've never been bloodied." The queen's jaw dropped, and Teel leaned across the table to seize it in a travel-worn hand. "He's lost a finger. More, he's lost his innocence, and he can reclaim neither. If you want to speak poorly of him, you'll do it away from me. Are we clear?"

  Silence—stunned, aghast. It held them for several seconds, the queen looking to her husband for assistance, but he fixed his attention on a stack of roasted potatoes.

  A strange pride swept across Irreor, something he hadn't felt since his father's death. Teel was right. He'd sacrificed himself, but he'd gained his friends' respect in return. It was worth the loss of a finger. The fact that he'd murdered men to protect them? It was worth that, too.

  Teel jerked the queen's face closer to her own. "Are we clear?"

  Leena swallowed hard, and Teel returned to her seat.

  Kinslek searched Gar Tsi's face. "You're certain he's up to this?"

  "I was seeing something in him the last day of Abennak's tournament. It weren't right, but it was being ferocious. Like a bloody lightning strike, but it was als
o being frigid like a shard of ice. Haven't never seen the like." The merchant scratched at an armpit. "He's also being the best blade I've ever laid eyes on."

  Except the assassin.

  Pride, fear, anger—Irreor wasn't sure which to feel. He'd done what he needed to save his friends, nothing more. He'd do it again and again if needed. However, the merchant's answer seemed enough for the king.

  "You've a plan, Ark?" Kinslek asked.

  -His life will be so lonely. Filled with rage. How can I do this to him?-

  "My father always taught me to clench my emotions tight, especially anger," Irreor said. "Nothing good comes of it. I suppose in some ways he was right. But this is different." He shrugged. "He might've been wrong."

  "That isn't being a plan," Gar Tsi said gently.

  "How long until Abennak marches south?" Irreor said. "And how many men has he gathered?"

  "Two months," Kinslek said. "Three at the most. He's acquired a half-trained army, but even half-trained they'll swarm us. I'll be lucky to muster a quarter of that. Still, I'd hoped you could tell me how many he's gath—"

  "Two months, then—it's pointless to hope for more. How many men can you raise in that time?"

  "Maybe three thousand."

  Irreor shook his head. It wasn't enough. "Abennak will have at least three times that."

  "In such a short time?"

  "He's not planning a party," Gar Tsi said. "The man's done stripped his kingdom clear of bodies, and he'll be throwing each and every one at you. He's not being right in his head."

  The king paled.

  "So I have two months at the most," Irreor said, "with no one to help me, and a mad king breathing down my neck. What else do I have? Ah yes, Farren is full of starving bellies, weakened arms and a tyrant. Bloody perfect."

  "What you hoping to do?" Gar Tsi said.

  Irreor glared at the king. "Gather what you can of an army as quickly as possible, then march them north. Train them with sticks and stones, if you must—anything is better than noth—"

  "Void's tit, man, what's your plan!"

  "I'll kill Crest," Irreor said easily.

  The voice whispered in his mind one final time that day, full of self-confidence and pleasure and ego. This was how islands and worlds were forged. Nothing could change it. Nothing could help it.

  -General.-

  Part Three

  Rage.

  It filled him in a way none of us can truly understand. He did horrible things in Farren, and rage was at his core. Killing. Torturing. Planning and whispering of death. Sure, he tried to pass it off as saving us, but anger drove such a large part of it.

  No! Don't talk to me—you lost that right two days ago.

  It's impossible to appreciate his level of anger unless we've experienced what he went through. I can't even begin to imagine what it must've been like. I guarantee none of us have come close.

  No. Maybe that's wrong.

  Abennak might have understood a sliver of that anger, for your king knew exactly what he did. He felt it. He knew he'd lose his family, his entire family, and that he'd be forced to madness, yet still he accepted it. What kind of a man is able to do that?

  A noble one.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Irreor stood on the low rise overlooking Farren, the same hill he'd taught Bran and Kipra on. He allowed himself to imagine their faces, how they'd changed, what they might've become after more than a year of his absence. What of the blacksmith? Did he still live with his parents and work in the forge? Kipra... had she continued to practice?

  He'd need them in the coming days.

  From this distance, not much had changed in the city. The walls remained low and thin, the colors drab and subdued. Folk moved through the streets as if nothing were different. And yet, something was indeed different—a pall, a sense, something he couldn't quite touch.

  Like an anger or a sorrow.

  He'd ridden a tall brown mare here, a gift from Kinslek, and his saddlebags held the armor of a Keeper, as well as a heavy sack of coins. How many people would heed a Keeper? Ten? Twenty?

  More?

  They'd be more likely to heed the jingle of coins. The merchant had added thirty gold to what Kinslek had already supplied. It was an enormous sum, more than Irreor had ever dreamed of. Close to a hundred coins. No, few in Farren would be able to resist its jingle.

  Gar Tsi and Teel had remained in Alkar. They'd wanted to follow Irreor to Farren, but he'd forbidden it. They were safer with Kinslek, far away from what he'd have to do. This city was his problem, and he'd solve it without them.

  Teel had lightly kissed his cheek as he'd prepared to depart, and told him, "You'd best hope she's worth it."

  Gar Tsi had grinned, and Irreor had blushed.

  The mare nudged his arm, eager to descend into the city and indulge in the promise of grain. He climbed into the saddle and clicked his heels to her side.

  It'd be suicide to announce myself if Crest commands the city, wouldn't it?

  The voice hadn't spoken much these past days, but it rarely made sense when it did—an explanation of why this trail needed to be laid here, why those mountains must be so high. Nothing but drivel.

  The city drew closer.

  The gateman who approached Irreor wore a coat of rusty mail, with a pitted, etched sword at his hip. Once, long ago, it would've gleamed in the sun. A handful of men shuffled their feet at his back, glared up at the new arrival, then returned to a game of dice. At five paces, the first gateman called out in a hoarse voice, revealing yellowed teeth.

  "What you want in the city?"

  "A meal, a warm place to sleep, perhaps. What's your name, soldier?"

  "No soldier, but my name's Gell. I'm just a gateman. 'Tis the only work I can find."

  Irreor sniffed his armpit. "Gell, I could use a bath."

  "Hah! There isn't a tub in the city without a coat of dirt. You'll hop in, thinking to get all clean and pretty for your lady, but you'll come out darker than the planks on that there building."

  He pointed to an old, half-fallen structure that had once been a weaver's. Blackened shutters drooped from it like soggy crackers, and a small group of people huddled within it, cooking a cat over a small blaze.

  "No helping it, really," Gell said.

  "It's that bad?"

  "There's not an inn that don't have eight bodies to a room, and they told us the grain ran out two days ago. There's nothing for bread. Folks say Abennak's ready to march an army down here, take our homes, and slaughter us. That might prove itself better than this."

  "Oh?"

  "Crest and Lerik do what they can, but for sure we're suffering."

  "True, but I doubt you'd enjoy the Mad King on your doorstep." Irreor's cheek twitched as he fought to calm himself. "He's worse, but that doesn't matter right now. What's Crest done to help? And who's Lerik?"

  Gell shot a glance back to the other guards, who bent over their dice, chuckling at one another, before speaking in a hushed voice. "Lerik's the new High Seat. And, I ain't the one who told you this, but Crest ordered us to steal shipments from the mainland. We'll take anything that comes out of Svart Harbor or Alkar. It's kept us alive for the past weeks."

  That helped explain why the Inner Empire refused to send more ships.

  A cluster of children rushed past the weaver's, their gaunt, skinny bodies jolting across the hard streets. They whooped and shouted, but their voices were strained, as if something had stolen their happiness. At the same time, a merchant shuffled out the gate, tugging a skeletal horse and an empty wagon.

  The city had indeed fallen.

  "Lucky to leave with his life, he is," Gell said. "Ain't enough of us to protect them, even if we wanted. They're fools to come here, all of them. Crest sure isn't going to take food from the people's mouths, and those idiot merchants are dangling it in front of us." He bobbed his head at Irreor's blades. "You know how to use them, man?"

  "Better than most, perhaps worse than some."
>
  "You'd better, and you'd best watch your back. This ain't no holiday." Gell shuffled back to the other guards, again muttering, "No bloody holiday at all."

  Irreor nudged the mare, and together they clomped into the city.

  Everywhere, people eyed his horse, licking their lips and limping forward as if to yank him from his saddle and devour the animal in the middle of the street.

  Irreor eased his dagger from its sheath, held it in a loose fist, and rode onward. The once familiar, comforting streets now ran deep with stacks of garbage. Heaps of rotten debris pressed against the homes, piled nearly to the windows, reeking of shit and piss.

  The cityfolk had shoved it from their doors, creating trails through the refuse.

  He angled his horse down a wide alley. Not as many people examined him with hungry stares here, but those that did scuttled away as he shifted the Synien. Not many wanted to risk meeting a blade.

  Void take me, is the entire city like this?

  Irreor's shoulders tingled from the stares of hidden eyes. His nose itched from the overpowering stench. A child groaned inside a seemingly abandoned home, and Irreor set his jaw and rode onward.

  Through the past year, he'd not thought much of what to tell Bran, should he see his friend again. Irreor had tried, oh so hard, to ignore it. He couldn't ignore it anymore. He'd need to do things—murder, coerce, deceive—and he needed his friend's support.

  Bran despised violence, feared it, like the whispering of an unknown shadow on the darkest of nights. Throughout his childhood, he'd proven stronger, bigger and more dangerous than other children. He'd accidentally broken a playmate's arm once, snapped it like a twig in three places. Those things were hard to forget.

  Sure, he'd trained with Irreor and Kipra, but he'd done so because of friendship.

  He'd never intended to use those skills.

  Irreor needed a base, a network, and a deeper sense of what had happened to the city. Things had changed too much for him to simply waltz in and declare himself a Keeper. Crest's men would laugh, then they'd plunge a blade in his guts—not the best of starts.