Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  And the funeral pyre grew.

  If only I'd heard about it sooner! She snorted to herself. She wouldn't have been able to do anything. She couldn't gather an army, and she couldn't lead it even if she had one.

  "Pernik, what would you do?"

  "About?"

  "That." She pointed north to Rippon, to the Mad King. "I can't just ignore the reports."

  "I'd lay down my sword and find a rock to hide beneath. Abennak isn't one to dance with, if you take my meaning. Nothing good will come to our slice of the island, I can guarantee you that."

  She scowled. "That's not an answer—"

  "Lass, I don't have one. I wish I did."

  "After my father died, I asked myself so many questions," Bran said, and he rubbed his arm. "They swirled and swirled in my head like a horde of angry wasps. Why him? What can I do? Buzzing."

  "What's your point?" Kipra snapped.

  "Inside, we know what to do. We're just afraid." He held up a hand to silence her. "You knew it the first time you recognized a need to protect yourself. In answer, you found Irreor and asked him to teach you. You were afraid, but you did it."

  She crossed her arms and glared at him.

  "Why are you afraid of the council?" he said.

  "I'm not—"

  "Ask yourself that question, and you'll find an answer."

  She hadn't mentioned her meeting with Yaron Kenn. In a way, it had been too personal, but Bran must've sensed it. The blacksmith had always understood far more than he revealed.

  "Conquer your fear of them," he said. "I know they're Parched Ones, but—"

  Pernik sputtered, "They're what?"

  "Nevermind," Bran said, and he waved the question away. He moved closer to Kipra and whispered, "You and I know they're different. I understand your reluctance, and I feel it too. They're unnatural, but at least they listen to you. I'm not sure they heed Fier enough."

  She pulled away from him, again remembering the Parched Boy's face.

  "King's cock," Pernik growled. "I'm not going to be kept out of this. I can't guard a half-drowned cat if you won't let me know what's going on."

  The old officer wouldn't—couldn't—understand the Parched Ones. However, the man deserved to know what she knew, and he could do what he pleased with the knowledge. As she opened her mouth, searching for an explanation, someone shouted from behind them.

  "Master Stonehand!"

  They swiveled to Bran's apprentice, who barreled through a crowd of Parched Ones. The boy, also Parched, stumbled closer and wiped a hand across his forehead, as if to wipe away sweat that didn't fall.

  "Master Stonehand," he said. "He's awake."

  Somewhere, far in the distance, a child screamed.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  "Drink the bloody soup," Graelina said.

  Irreor pushed her hand away and struggled to sit up, squinting at the Stonehands' table. Sunshine filtered through the window, and a cauldron of broth simmered over the fire, filling his nose with the smell of vegetables. Graelina, once again healthy as ever, smiled as she twisted a bowl of soup in her hands.

  How long have I slept?

  Silence.

  His head ached as if a hundred men marched across it, feet stomping, spear-butts digging into his scalp, infantry-drums pounding. He kneaded his temples to relieve the pressure, but the drums only pounded louder. Spear-butts dug deeper. Feet stomped harder and harder.

  Graelina muttered, "Irreor, you drink this soup or else—"

  "How long have I slept?"

  "Nearly three weeks." She shuffled back to the fire and tossed his soup, bowl and all, back into the cauldron. "I've sent Bran's apprentice off to find the others, and they'll be here soon."

  Irreor groaned, but not at the loss of food. Three weeks was too long. He hadn't readied his men, hadn't found enough of Crest's hideouts. More needed to be done, and he....

  Images flashed—the battle at the warehouse, the slaughter of his men. Like an uncatchable fly, the thoughts taunted him, landing on memories only to zip away at the slightest shiver.

  Void take me.

  Another cloudy, uncertain vision surged to the surface: Targ burned. Soldiers killed Proysa, then Helt. Perhaps it truly was a dream. Yet the way it coiled his mind... its raspy tone, its words.

  Irreor gagged.

  I'm you, and you're me.

  -Yes.-

  Why are you talking to me? You've never actually spoken before, just rambled and rambled. Promises. Plans. Ideas. Some true, others far from true. What changed?

  -I'd buried myself so deep in our mind, and I never thought to come out again. I'd never wanted to. The light is so bright here, the voices too loud. My daughter thought she failed in her attempt to draw me out, but she was wrong. What you heard throughout your life, the voice in your head, was simply echoes of ourself.-

  The voice paused, almost as if it sighed:

  -It will all crash down. So many plans, so many ambitions. I wanted my people to feel because I've never felt anything at all, but now that's a shimmer of a wish. I've never felt. And my son, ah, where's my son?-

  Irreor sucked a deep breath. Spear-butts dug into his head. Drums pounded. And the Prophet was insane. Did that mean he was insane? The Prophet answered his questions, but he was obviously mad. Could Irreor trust him? If so, how much? Perhaps—

  -Will our perhaps become a perhaps?-

  King's cock, what's that supposed to mean—

  "Hey!" Bran said.

  Irreor's friends spilled into the shack. Bran and Pernik grinned and pulled chairs to the edge of his bed, but Kipra held back with a frown. Not that he expected her to skip to his side, fling her arms around his neck, and shower him with kisses.

  "How are you feeling?" Bran asked.

  "Like someone stuck my head in your forge." Irreor shrugged, wincing at the motion. "What happened afterward?"

  "After Crest pulped you? I, ah... I kind of...."

  "Bran threw the bastard into the flames," Kipra murmured, and a strange sense of pride smoothed her sharpness. "He ended it. Crest's men vanished into the crowds, then we brought you here."

  -She's more beautiful than we imagined.-

  "Bran ended it?" Irreor said, though he choked on the words. "I hadn't expected that. Pernik maybe, Kipra sure, but not our loveable giant. Hah! Well done, Bran."

  Bran glanced to the floor, and his cheeks reddened.

  Irreor lowered his tone. "And Farren?"

  Silence.

  Finally, Pernik heaved a sigh. "Abennak's preparing to march south, and we've few men to stop him. We're not even certain how many soldiers he's gathered. Our people have already begun to panic, but there's nowhere for them to run. It's not pretty—we've a city full of half-starved, desperate folk."

  "Void bloody void."

  "It's worse than that," Kipra said. "The council is sort of rebelling."

  "Sort of?"

  "There's no other word for it. The High Seat was murdered, and the new man doesn't consider Kinslek his king."

  "You told him otherwise?"

  She stiffened. "I tried."

  "And?"

  "He disagreed."

  The council had always floundered, even when his father had been captain. They'd wallowed in mistake after mistake, almost as if they enjoyed failure. Twice-knotted fools! Now, however, he couldn't let them further their idiocy. If Abennak was truly ready to march, then every second proved precious.

  He swung his legs over the bed, ignoring the pain in his head. "Where is my armor? I'll—"

  "Void's tit, I'll be sending you people to an early grave!"

  The door was flung open to smash against the wall, and Gar Tsi marched through. He grinned a wide grin, strode to Irreor's bedside, and wrapped him in a tight hug. Teel followed with a hug of her own.

  "I'd not been expecting you to awaken for days," the merchant said. "Things weren't looking so good for a minute or two, but I was never being scared. I knew you'd make it." He glared at Kipra
. "You could've been telling me he was awake."

  She shrugged.

  Irreor could only sit, stunned. For a moment, the pounding in his head receded, though it still ached, and he managed a breath. "How in the bloody void did you get away from Kinslek?"

  Teel laughed. "He doesn't rule us, and we'll go where we please."

  "But why come here?"

  "You were needing us, man," Gar Tsi said, and his face hardened. "And I'd not be leaving a friend to the wolves. It isn't being right. It's not mattering, anyways—Kinslek's a downright idiot. That blasted woman at his side is steering him all-kinds-of-sideways, and I wasn't desiring no more part of it."

  "Oh?"

  "She's being terrified, and not wanting Kinslek to leave the castle, much less do what's needing to be done. Someone needs to string her from the ceiling, if you ask me. Let her hang a few days and think about what Abennak will do, if he's getting ahold of her."

  Teel gave a firm nod.

  "There's no more aid coming from the king?" Pernik said slowly. "That's not what you told us earlier. If something has changed—"

  "I didn't say that. He's working behind her back, but his bitch is being doubly suspicious when myself and Teel are there. It worked better for us all if we left. Kinslek will have you more men, of that you can be certain, but it'll be a bit longer."

  "How long?" Irreor asked.

  "Weeks? Not more than a month or two, I'm sure."

  Kipra expelled a curse. "We'll be a pile of mush in two months! A bug. A splat. A nothing."

  "Might be ending that way." Gar Tsi stroked his bristly beard. "However, we're not having much choice in the matter, are we? We've been given our pieces, and we'll be playing them the best we can."

  Bran grunted. "He's right, Kipra. We can't order a king to do anything."

  Kipra snapped her mouth closed and shifted her gaze to Irreor. His memory of the warehouse was faint, though he remembered her beneath Crest's blade. It had almost fallen, but he'd saved her.

  Had that somehow displeased her?

  It was something more. The Prophet had always claimed she'd despise him.

  But you were wrong before. Your instrument died, and I'm not exactly what you wanted, am I? I remember the look in her eye, the night the warehouse was attacked. She cared for me. Perhaps—

  -Will our perhaps become a perhaps?-

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Talk to me.

  -And say what?-

  Why'd you do this? What did you hope to accomplish?

  -Ah, we'd hoped to accomplish so much. We imagined Farren's Spire standing as a symbol of an empire. We lifted the eastern mountains high, a shield against the Inner Empire and all it represented. We wanted more.-

  More than what?

  -The emptiness that filled us.-

  But no emptiness fills me. I think, I trust, and I feel. Sometimes, it's so much I think I'll burst from it, and nothing lessens it. This isn't emptiness, it's an overflowing bucket, and—

  -It's exactly as we'd intended, in a way.-

  I didn't do this! I wouldn't have planned a war to kill my friends, just as I wouldn't have wished this on any enemy. It's wrong!

  -To make this world better, we had to make it worse. We argued, oh, how we argued, but in the end we agreed. You, my soldier, convinced me. This is the way it needed to be.-

  Why?

  -To stop the third part of us.-

  Chapter Fifty

  Irreor flung open the council doors.

  Councilors, with Yaron Kenn at their head, jerked to face him as he stomped into the room with Kipra, Bran and Pernik close behind. Irreor's body still ached from weeks lying on a cot, but he allowed anger to knit and strengthen muscle. If what Kipra claimed was true, these men had accomplished next to nothing.

  "How close is Abennak?" Irreor demanded.

  Yaron Kenn shrugged.

  "Where is Kinslek?"

  The High Seat stood, but again he shrugged.

  Irreor backhanded the man, sent him crashing to the ground. It didn't matter that Gar Tsi had already told Irreor of Kinslek's plans—or lack of them—the High Seat should’ve attempted to discover the king's intentions.

  Things would change, or Irreor would shatter the council.

  The High Seat lurched to his feet, blood leaking from a cut lip, but Irreor spun to the other councilors. "What have any of you accomplished? Nothing?"

  Silence.

  Irreor muttered, "This is unbelievable, impossible."

  He sank into the High Seat's chair, uncaring that the man scowled down at him. Pain lanced his fingers, digging down to his toes. It wouldn't relent, wouldn't allow him to think.

  -I never intended them to exhibit much true leadership. Look at their faces. They're terrified. But I can salvage this. Abennak shouldn't leave his castle, and I can find him.-

  Be silent!

  -There's a third part of us.-

  The Prophet had said this earlier, but had refused to explain it. Why? What did he mean by a third part? Irreor closed his eyes, and the Prophet burrowed into his mind like an earthworm, deeper and deeper, until it seemed as if bone and skin would split.

  You're lying.

  -He thrives when we kill a man. Can't you feel it, the reason for our anger? He's always so cold, but then, I suppose he would be. He gave Kipra her hatred, Bran his fear. He's too powerful for the both of us.-

  I don't—

  -We couldn't stop him.-

  "I don't care!"

  He opened his eyes to the council's wide eyes, gaping mouths, and fingers nervously tapping the table. Kipra and Bran stepped forward, but Irreor waved them away. They couldn't help him with this, and, despite what he'd just said, he did care.

  More than he wanted to admit.

  Keep my friends out of this!

  -It's too late.-

  "You shouldn't be here," Kipra said. "It's too early and you're too sick."

  From the far side of the table, Pernik said, "There's nothing wrong with taking the time you need, man. We've all been injured, and it's not fun for even the best of us. Let us handle this, and we'll—"

  "Like you handled it before?" Irreor snapped.

  The old officer frowned.

  Kipra clasped Irreor's hand. "You damned fool, it's too soon for—"

  "We've already waited too long."

  He let her hand linger on his, enjoying the warmth of her fingers and the tingle of her closeness. She'd held back in the shack, but this felt nice, like an impossibility turned possible.

  -We didn't build her to truly love, but as an idea of love. Think of that word, love. It's so distant and so close, like a full moon in the midst of winter. That's her. In the beginning, you needed something to strive toward, so we gave her to you. She was supposed to be perfect, but then Crest was supposed to kill her.-

  But he failed. Is that another of your mistakes?

  -So it seems. In the end, you were supposed to strive toward her memory.-

  You've no hold on me, and I'll do as I like.

  "Trust me," Irreor told Kipra. "I'm ready for this, and I'll prove it."

  She nodded and pulled her hand away.

  Irreor flicked his gaze to the council, who still waited with uncertainty, eyes cast downward. "Gather every man you can find. The strong will join our militia. The weak will cook or clean or stack pebbles on the wall, if they can't do anything else. Send the militia to the fields to pract—"

  "You'll take the roll of tyrant?" Yaron Kenn asked. "We can govern ourselves."

  "No, you can't. And yes, I’ll be a tyrant if I must. Kinslek won't help us, and we'll receive no more aid, no more food, and no armies. We'll fend for ourselves, or we'll die. Simple, yes?"

  "Tyrants are men, too." Bran leaned against the wall and tucked his hands into his pockets. "They hate the things they do, but they do them because no one else will. If you would've acted, we wouldn't need a tyrant."

  "How do you plan to feed them?" Yaron said. "We've no grain, no crops
, no—"

  "Then many will die!" Irreor surged to his feet, rounded on the High Seat to shove the man against the wall. "The people starve because you followed Crest, then refused to heed Kipra."

  Yaron huffed, but nodded.

  Pernik smacked his lips. "My men have finally gained enough order in the streets to move forward, and I'll send out small groups to hunt and forage. It won't be much, but it'll be a start."

  "Find any hunters you can, too." Irreor released the High Seat. He gave the man one final, hard look, before returning to his seat. "They're sure to have an idea where the game hides. And, for void's sake, would someone send scouts north? Discover what Renek's plans are, and find out how far away Abennak is."

  "I'll see to it, General."

  Irreor rubbed his temples again as the old officer snapped to attention and marched from the room. Irreor's pain wouldn't dissipate, no matter how much he calmed. It simply sliced, like a shovel against frozen soil.

  There was so much to do.

  He'd ordered Gar Tsi and Teel to the northern district's brothels. If anyone knew how to find Kipra's sister in a place brimming with whores, it was those two. They'd probably enjoy it. They were also supposed to search for something to use against Abennak—an idea, a stash of Crest's hidden weapons, maybe even some food.

  Anything would help.

  "It will be as it must." The High Seat pushed free from the wall. He gave Irreor a strange look, part respect and part fear, and bowed his head. "But I'll not submit to Kinslek. He's not our—"

  "No, you won't submit to him." Irreor pointed at Kipra. "You'll submit to her, as you should've done from the start."

  Yaron stuttered to silence, then tilted his head. "She's different. I could... yes, we can follow her."

  "Ark!" Kipra jerked her head to the side. "These people aren't... they're not.... Demon-damn! You wouldn't believe me anyways. Do you even know what you're doing?"

  "I know how to stop Abennak." Irreor dropped his chin to his chest, uncaring if the council listened. "I failed with Crest. I didn't think about who he was, what he could know, how much of the city he owned. I won't do that with Abennak."