She frowned, but held her tongue.
"We're here," Bran said. "We'll stand beside you."
Irreor swung back to the council. "Listen to Kipra, heed her advice, and get the demon-damned city prepared." He smiled grimly. "You won't live to see Abennak at the walls if you don't do as she says."
"Where are you going?" Yaron asked.
"Out to the city."
"Now?" Bran asked. "I don't think that's a good ide—"
"I need to see what's changed, and I can't do that here or at the smithy. Time is against us, and we'll need every advantage we can find."
***
Irreor sighed, unable to ignore the aching in his bones, the pounding in his head.
A full, beaming moon glowed behind a cloudy veil, illuminating the city in a hazy shimmer. People wandered the streets even at this late hour. Children held their parents' hands as they cast nervous glances at Irreor, only to scurry on. Kinslek's standard shone upon many of their tunics, as if unity could somehow protect them. They used whatever they could find to paint it on: mud, in many cases.
The children, the men and women, these very streets—he'd save them.
He turned down a wide alley of brick and dust, heading to the slums at the far western edge of the city. How he remembered this place. It was the same alley he'd walked with Bran, so many times, as they'd delivered wares to Kipra's father.
He walked for hours, strolling from one street to the next, one huddled group of people to the next, one thought to the next.
In the morning, many of Farren's people would train in the militia. Others would enter the woods to the northwest of the city, searching for any type of food. Survival was all that mattered, and Irreor wouldn't give them a choice. They would need to demolish several buildings at the city's outskirts and use their stones to reinforce the walls.
Fletchers to craft arrows.
Blacksmiths to forge weapons.
Cooks to prepare soups and breads.
The Mad King was simply that—mad. It was unlikely that he'd mount an organized attack, and far more likely that he'd simply throw his men against Farren's walls. He'd watch them crumple against stone and dirt, attempting to rise to their feet, and he'd probably munch on a melon as they died. Walls were the solution. Build them up, train the people, and survive the siege.
Irreor approached the slums.
-We didn't see Farren like this when we first imagined it.-
How did you see it?
-Gleaming spires. We wanted them to sparkle both day and night, a constant symbol of what we'd created. More than that, we wanted thriving families, with children who understand what their parents had sacrificed.-
Irreor stomped a patch of dust. "Nothing gleams here. No thriving families."
-Perhaps.-
His path slanted upward to a series of squat tents, constructed of wooden poles and leather hides, and held together by coarse strings. Candlelight flickered between the gaps and, from behind the canvas, low sobs pierced the night.
You designed this entire island?
-We did.-
Irreor clenched his fists. He was still unwilling to believe the Prophet had done this, unwilling to accept that he'd somehow done it. But it was a rickety, absurd unwillingness. This place was his. It had always been his. Other men would've avoided Farren. They would've joined Abennak or fled.
Not Irreor.
A sudden thought struck him. If you built this island, and I'm you... it doesn't add up. I'm a young man, but I saw you above Targ, shriveled and bent, your robes stretched across your spine. You're ancient.
The Prophet’s laugh was jagged and bitter:
-That's one of the last memories we have of ourselves, before we used our gentahl to shift our body. How we saw ourselves in that life... it's almost like a dream, seeing it through your eyes.-
How did you do it?
-We discovered a power, and we called it gentahl. It was an accident, at first, and we've never decided if it was good or bad. Probably both. If only you could remember our arguments. Ah, but I can't say more. We hid those secrets deep, hopefully deep enough.-
The Prophet hesitated:
-They're with the third piece of us. It's better for us, this way.-
Why!
A naked boy stepped into the moonlight. Wasting skin hung from his arms and legs. A dark bruise stretched across his jaw, and he whimpered as he touched his face.
Irreor halted and swallowed hard.
The boy jerked to face him, yelped, and scurried between two tents.
-I think we were like that boy, terrified and starving and beaten. He's similar to the third piece of us, but I can't understand why. He only knows fear and anger and injustice. I wish I could answer our questions. I wish I could use gentahl to turn it back. Fix everything. Start over. Ah, but it's impossible.-
Why can't you? This doesn't make any demon-damned sense!
-Because our memories are with that third piece. So dark and cold. A house without a door. Knowledge like ours is too dangerous, so we locked it where no one could ever find it, not even ourselves. But he's breaking free. Void take me, we can't stop him.-
Is Abennak causing this?
-Nak....-
You know him?
-I... I can't remember.-
Chapter Fifty-One
Kipra steepled her fingers and pressed forehead against thumb. She sat alone in the Steels' home, using this single hour to collect her courage. Very soon, she'd meet with the council.
What had Bran said? She needed to confront her fears?
Fine.
A copy of her favorite book, Sojourns from the Inner Empire, rested on the bedside table with its pages opened to the middle. Its parchment was beyond crinkled, the leather cover marred from years of use, and it smelled like a sheep too long dead.
A book couldn't help her deal with the council.
It told the tale of a young boy who rose to become emperor of the Inner Empire. He conquered kings, defeated armies, and proved himself an unparalleled leader. In other words, he was too much like Ark. And yet she'd loved the story as a child. Part of her still warmed at the thought of reading the book, but it mirrored what was happening in Farren.
Armies were about to clash. People died.
I've had enough of that for today.
She laid her head back, touching skull to pillow, and closed her eyes. Again, like so many other times, she'd treated Ark poorly. It was almost as if she didn't have a choice in the matter, like some divine hand shoved her to annoyance.
It was an absurd thought; no one on the island believed in gods.
If only she could touch him without itching, or look at his face without frowning. Impossible! But what if it was possible? Would she burrow into his arms as they admired a purple-splashed sunrise? That sounded nice, in a way, but it wouldn't happen soon.
Abennak first.
Ark, Bran and Pernik trained the militia today, supposedly running them through many of the drills she’d learned in her years of practice: clumsy maneuvers, misplaced feet and hands, and an unwillingness to truly digest what Ark said. Flashing blades. Secretive smiles.
They were years to be remembered.
Rather than training, Kipra would meet with the council today.
That thought wiped the smile from her face, and she forced her fists to relax. Yaron Kenn accepted Ark's leadership to a point, but the High Seat obviously didn't care to take orders from a self-appointed savior. He steadfastly refused to inform Kinslek that Farren was preparing to stand against Abennak no matter the cost, and he balked at the thought of tearing down Farren's homes to stack on the wall.
It was her problem, and she'd handle it.
A knock sounded at the door, and Haral poked his head through.
"They're ready for you."
She rose from the bed, cast one final look back to Sojourns from the Inner Empire, then followed him from the room. In the kitchen, Paien handed her a loaf of grainy bread, smelling of fl
our and yeast and corn.
Kipra turned to leave, but Haral’s voice halted her.
"We're proud of you, you know." He fidgeted with a steel band on his finger. "I know I made poor choices, but I trust you not to do the same. You're better than I."
"Better than both of us," Paien said.
Haral chuckled, low and saddened and knowing. "A year ago, or even months ago, I would've forbidden you from doing this, but you're a woman with steel in your heart and fire in your veins. Do what you've got to do."
Pride. What an interesting idea.
She'd struggled to find it her whole life, for she'd never seen her true mother or sister as deserving it. The feeling should've been easy to find, especially in comparison to what Kleni had done. No. It only took saving a city to feel a scrap of pride and, even then, it vanished like a wisp of smoke.
Fier met her in the Steels' garden. "You're ready?"
Ark declared the council was her problem, but that didn't mean she needed to do it alone. Fier exuded a calmness, a sense of serenity, like a mountain pool after a shower. He wasn’t the same as Ark or Bran, but he provided his own sense of respect.
In a way, nothing else mattered.
They took a wide street that angled toward the Council House at the city's center. Thanks to Pernik's efforts, trash had been cleared from the cobblestones. A stench still lingered over Farren like a misremembered idea, but the smell was bearable. The old officer had ordered many buildings gutted—the cobbler’s shop, the candlemaker’s, and countless others—and his men herded the Parched Ones into them. They'd built makeshift cots, and torchlight twinkled behind every window.
For now, at least, Farren could breathe.
"Yaron Kenn won't like tearing down homes," Fier said. "Many of them are owned by the council, and they're unlikely to enjoy watching their prizes shattered. Our general may be making a mistake. If he makes a mistake... well, I'd rather not think of it."
"Kenn won't have to like it. He just needs to do it."
"What if he refuses?"
"I'll crush his Parched throat."
He chewed the inside of his cheek. "There are ways other than violence, you know. A word digs deeper than a fist, and I've never known anyone to frown at a smile."
"Then smile. See how far it gets you."
"Kenn will suggest anything but tearing down those houses, even resorting to the ridiculous. The Parched Ones, as you call them, aren't content to merely live here, especially Yaron Kenn. It's almost as if he's the next generation of Parched. He envisions something greater for this city, but he doesn't know how to reach it."
She grunted.
"This is important, Kipra." He pointed to his left, where a house bulged from the number of Parched within. Eyes peered from its windows, questioning and uncertain. "They're more like a baby in the womb. They can't understand what they are, so they're happy to simply exist. Kenn, however, is something different altogether."
"I know that, but—"
"But you don't truly acknowledge it. My father—" He bit back a curse and dropped his gaze, then continued in a lower tone. "He was a man of great, though warped, vision. Over several years, he built a model of a city, and he filled it with tiny parchment figures to represent people. Chiseled every face. Touched every smile and frown."
"This has nothing to do with Farren."
"Nothing and everything, yes. You see, my father's mind was sick, and he couldn't understand his model wasn't real. He couldn't acknowledge that he'd built it in his head, and only there. I tried and tried to tell him but, to him, it was real."
"And the High Seat? I don't understand how this is linked, or what—"
"Yaron Kenn is real. He's not a figment of imagination or a model, and he's far different from the other Parched Ones. He's lost." He paused as he mounted the steps to the Council House, his hand on the door handle. "Understand that, respect it, and you'll gain his trust."
She furrowed her brow. "Of course the man is real, what else could he be? I can see him, smell him, touch him—those things define reality, don't they? He's not human, but he's real."
"Remember it," he said softly, and he opened the door wide. "I'll wait here."
"Here?"
"You don't need me to muddy these waters. I can provide advice, but it's ultimately your responsibility."
She swallowed hard and strode through the opened door.
Inside, the High Seat sat alone. His forearms rested on the empty table, his back bent to press forehead against wood. He rocked back and forth slightly, clenching his hands into fists, then releasing them. As the door clicked behind Kipra, he lifted his face, and a purple bruise marred his cheek where Ark had struck him.
Clenched and released.
"I sent the council away." His expression hardened, and he bit off each word. "I figured they'd want a final day in their homes, before they're torn down. Why can't you demolish something closer to the city's center?"
Kipra took a seat across from him. "We don't have the time to carry the stone that far, and—"
"Abennak is coming from the northwest, right? Yes, yes! What if we took stone from the walls on the southeast? Use it where we'll be attacked, and we lose nothing."
"No."
Fier had been right. Kenn would use any excuse to keep Ark from tearing down those homes. Ridiculous! If they lowered the other walls, Rippon's army would simply strike there, instead. Abennak was insane, but he must've still held a glimmer of intelligence. If nothing else, his generals should've understood the fundamentals of war.
She licked her lips.
Bran had told her to confront her fears and face the council, and Fier had, for all intents and purposes, backed up the blacksmith. And Ark, the unknowing bastard, had firmly plopped her here.
So be it.
Kipra spoke in a low, reassuring tone. "I understand what you're feeling, but we don't have a choice. Reports say Abennak has finally emerged from Rippon. We've a week, at most, before he reaches Renek. How many days until he marches on our walls? It won't take long."
For a long moment, the High Seat remained silent.
"How is it possible to know what I'm feeling, when I only feel a lie?" he asked. "I should be angry. Furious. I rule this city, not Kinslek and not Irreor Ark. Yet when I try to muster an emotion, I'm filled with emptiness."
And words dug deeper than fists.
When Bran's father was murdered, she'd felt what the High Seat described. A strange hollowness, like a hole sucking in sadness, had followed her for days. Weeks. It had never truly vanished.
How did I get past it?
"It doesn't matter if you're angry or sad or happy," she told Kenn. "Those things are meaningless. They don't matter, you understand? Fier said you want to see this city as something more than it is?"
"I want it to be an empire to rival all others."
"Then tear it down to build it up."
***
Kipra breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door to the Council House. Inside, Yaron Kenn prepared a statement for the other councilors—he'd demolish their homes and stack the stones on the wall. The entire length of Farren's battlements would rise three feet over the next week.
Kenn didn't like it, but he'd finally seen the wisdom behind it.
"It's done?" Fier asked.
"It is."
"Teel came while you were in there. She has something to show you in the northern district."
Kipra stiffened. "The woman can burn on a pyre, for all I care."
"You're so like my sister," he said with a gentle smirk. "Stubborn, illogical, and often wrong. Good news, though! We found where your sister used to be. Kleni isn't in the city anymore. That much we know for certain."
"How can you be sure?"
"The merchant and his wife know their jobs. They understand their pleasures even better, I'd imagine. Most people do. They know how to talk to the whores and coax them to speak in return."
Yet another reason to despise them.
<
br /> "If they say your sister is gone," Fier said, "then I believe them."
"Fine, she's gone. I'm not going to the northern district."
He crossed his arms. Sternness lived in his expression, in the tightness of his lips and the angles of his tattoos, like a father with his child. And yet, it wasn't the kind of sternness that forced her into a corner or prompted her to break free.
This was almost safe.
"Are you afraid of them?" he asked.
She was, though she couldn't admit it. The sight of the merchant and his wife sent shivers down her spine, and the thought of them with Ark, warping him with their flagrant disrespect....
"I've a sister." Fier's face softened. "She's always hated something she shouldn't. I couldn't convince her otherwise. I tried, but she wouldn't listen."
"And?"
"We used to play in the forest outside our cavern. The sunlight was so bright and warm, the dirt so cool against our feet. Those were the days before hate ruled her. Her face was peace. That's the best word to describe it."
"I don't want to be peaceful, Fier. It's not what I am. I'm—"
"No, you're a whirlwind and a question, and none of us can find your answer." He looked away, chewing his cheek and narrowing his eyes. "My point isn't what she was, but what she became. I lost her forever, and I want those forest days back."
Kipra rolled her eyes. "You sound like Bran."
"And is he normally wrong?"
At that, she could only frown.
"Who will lose you," he asked, his voice gentle as cotton against skin, "if you let bitterness rule you?"
***
Farren's northern district was ugly as ever.
Bugs and rats scuttled through the trash piled near the houses, and a flock of vultures circled, occasionally diving down to snatch a hunk of rotted meat. The Parched Ones who'd once followed Crest wandered aimlessly. Not many were left, as most had decided to accept Ark's leadership, but even one was enough to spark unease.
Kipra marched on the main street, hand close to hilt, eyes watchful. Fier's directions led to an old two-level building, which had once been a miller's workshop, and she slowed as she neared it.
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