Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  Irreor shrugged, unwilling to offer an answer they'd both know was a lie. He'd decided to use the men who'd survived Kylen Crest's attack on the warehouse, but they hadn't returned yet.

  King's cock, where are you Abennak?

  -I crafted tens of thousands of my people. It was more than I needed, but I found it difficult to stop, once I began. There was a certain jubilation when I forged my first—jittery and bubbling, an indescribable euphoria. The Mad King will sweep across my island with them. He'll burn and kill.-

  I'll stop him.

  -Not without our instrument, we won't.-

  Watch me.

  Irreor pushed the Prophet's voice aside, pointing to the two men at the front of the recruits. "Pernik, bring me those two. Have the others rest for ten minutes before they begin again."

  The old officer hopped from the stand.

  Irreor kneaded his temples. His head never stopped aching. Imaginary spears never ceased their grinding. Drums never ceased their pounding, and the Prophet's voice....

  It never ceased predicting devastation and failure.

  Nestled within those omens lay hints and clues—the size of Abennak's army, the Mad King's plans, the Prophet's original intentions. With that knowledge, Irreor hoped to counter the Prophet's designs.

  If only he could've learned gentahl.

  Hope was fickle, a wilting blade of browned grass measured against a thriving oak, but he possessed nothing else. Farren needed every possible advantage, so Irreor goaded the Prophet, pushing until hints and clues surfaced.

  -Do you know why you thought of a blade of grass? Why you take note of the dagger on your hip, or always seem to notice a merchant's wagon as it rumbles past?-

  No.

  -Ah.-

  Why would I?

  -Memories chip away our barrier. We used to watch those blades of grass through our window. Ah, the stench of that place! Wilting and browned, they swayed from sunrise to sunset. The wagons rumbled past, and they were one of the few things to take our thoughts from ourselves.-

  Do you remember where you lived?

  -In Farren, before we changed it, but the memories turn to mist. How much more can we remember? We'd best hope it's very little, for I feel our third piece at the barrier. He pokes and prods and grows stronger.-

  Irreor drew a slow, steadying breath.

  "General!" Two recruits dropped to their knees, smacked fists against chests, and peered to the ground. The shorter, a thin man with a scar above his left eye, said, "What would you have of us, sir?"

  "I'll be so sorry for my general," Irreor murmured. He looked to the side, to the sun that splashed warmth across his face, to the oak that towered in the distance. "No one should have to endure the things I'll do to him, but my people will grow stronger because of it. They'll grow so tall, so strong, so much emotion."

  The Prophet had once whispered those words, though Irreor had forgotten them.

  -Indeed.-

  What do you mean? How will your people grow stronger?

  -An empire.-

  Damn you, give me more than that!

  -I won't. Couldn't if I wanted. We've buried so much to protect ourselves, but we had to do it. Why can't you understand that? These pretty little soldiers won't stop the Mad King. They don't have it in them.-

  "Sir?" the recruit said. "Are you feeling right?"

  Irreor coughed, a hacking expulsion that burned his throat.

  Too many things demanded his attention. The army flailed and drooped, despite Gar Tsi's discovery of food. The Prophet deceived and warped, and was more than a touch maddened. The island fell apart, as if sunlight crisped the very buildings and turned them to dust, as if that towering oak dissolved as he watched.

  And those blades of grass, yet another hint from the Prophet....

  They shriveled, burned.

  Irreor swung back to the two kneeling men and growled, "What's your name?"

  The recruit yelped, again saluted. "Glynn, and this is my brother, Yekkin."

  "You're the fastest. Why?"

  "My brother and I used to acquire things from the shops. It was the only way we could survive, and we feel bad about it, but we did it." He licked his lips. "Days of running made us quicker than the others."

  Irreor chuckled to himself. I'll stop Abennak with an army of thieves. How's that work into your design? All your careful plans, all your plotting and yearning—they're only worth a thief's loaf.

  Silence.

  The two thieves-turned-soldiers licked their lips. They couldn't understand the voice in his head or the madness that now lurked within.

  That had always lurked.

  Irreor shook the thought off. "Lead the men in a run around the city. Push them hard, but not too hard, and find Pernik once you're finished. Tell him it's time you learned to use your weapons."

  Yekkin nodded. "Seems to me like we're soldiers now, so we should've learned on the first day—"

  "You weren't ready," Irreor snapped. "Void take me, you're still not ready, but we don't have time to truly prepare your muscles. Now go."

  They leapt to their feet and trotted back to the army.

  In just a few days, Farren's energy had shifted. Like a slug trying to reach the end of a field, it had once been lethargic. Now it hummed with a strange nervousness, as if something had jolted it awake.

  Kipra had ordered the houses nearest the wall torn down. For once, the council had obeyed. Rubble littered the streets and alleys and, where people would've huddled within their homes, they now grunted and cursed as they heaved rocks atop the walls. They used a watery grout, splattering it on rocks and pebbles to build the barrier higher and higher.

  It was a poor solution, but at least it forced people to do something.

  A group of sweaty men grinned and waved. Their recognition unnerved Irreor, but he tried to ignore the sensation. Had they always known of him, or had his recent acts against Kylen Crest prompted his fame?

  As long as they worked, it didn't matter.

  And somewhere in the distance, a child shrieked.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Kipra withheld a smirk as Yaron Kenn paced, a scowl on his face.

  Along with Fier and Bran, they overlooked the devastation in the western district. Thirty paces away, the houses had been torn down. Rubble was strewn across yards. Parched Ones were breaking hunks of rock and brick into manageable pieces.

  Yaron Kenn spun and marched the opposite direction.

  Pace faster, you bastard. It won't help your houses.

  She leaned against a boulder-sized chunk of brick, remembering how these homes had appeared before hammers and pickaxes gouged them. They'd been opulent, built from the finest materials. The western district housed the wealthy and influential, including the High Seat.

  Perfect for a wall.

  So Yaron paced, his parched skin cracking with every motion, gnawing his fingernails, glaring across what had once been his home. "Did we have to take down these houses? Weren't there others we could've done away with?"

  "There weren't others," Kipra said.

  "Some losses are truly gifts," Fier said. "You've lost your house—"

  "So my gift is everlasting happiness?" Yaron hurled a fist-sized rock. "I don't believe in that void-forsaken—"

  "No," Bran said. "Your gift is staying alive."

  Fier and the blacksmith glanced at one another, similar twinkles in their eyes, similar twists to their lips—their wisdom, their hatred of violence. They'd grown to understand one another these past days, their respect deepening with each passing breath.

  Fier had weaseled too close too fast, but his presence helped her think. He seemed to actually care about the city, and he'd been one of the first to support stacking the walls higher.

  "Every inch helps," he'd said.

  She'd agreed.

  Yaron flung his hands up and once again began to pace.

  Kipra shoved off the boulder to stand in his path. "You wanted direction, and now you'v
e got it. You snivel and whine, telling me you need a suggestion to work from. Well, you've got it, so if I hear one more—"

  "It's not that," he said.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  He stepped closer, but she pushed him back. "Say what you've got to say."

  "I want to feel angry at the loss of everything I've ever known. I can't. I look across this devastation and all I feel is this pit. No sadness. No sorrow. No anger. So I force myself to feel something, but I don't know if it's real."

  Kipra shuddered, not at his words or his tone, but at the emptiness in his eyes. "Yaron, I didn't want to hear this the first time, and I don't care to hear it now—"

  "No," Fier said. "This is very, very important. Kenn, what was the first thing you remember? I mean ever, the first memory in your mind. When was it? Where were you? Was anyone with you?"

  Yaron shuffled his feet in the dirt and dust. He licked his lips before whispering, "I was a child. We were all children, lying in a massive cavern. Thousands of us. So many I couldn't have counted them, even if I'd tried."

  Kipra envisioned that giant space with little Parched Children wiggling across the stones like maggots. It must've reeked of dust, flaking skin, and a thousand pasty-white bodies crammed together.

  She rubbed her arms to squash the rising bumps.

  "I don't think I was supposed to remember," Yaron said. "For years I didn't. Now, every time I look across these people who are like me, I remember that place. I hear his voice."

  "Who's voice?" Fier said.

  "He was tall, and so skinny I could see the bumps of his spine beneath his robe. I didn't see his face. When he spoke, he forced us to listen. He told us we'd build an empire together. Again and again, he muttered those words. They were maddening, worse than maddening. There's more, but I can't remember."

  Kipra examined Fier's face, the tattoos swirling across it, the frown, the passion in his eyes. Yet something felt wrong, like the well-intentioned lies of a gambler. He knew something. His questions weren't mere curiosity, but educated prods. He hid something about the Parched Ones.

  Something vile and sinister.

  When had he planned to tell her?

  She'd attempted to build a place, even if it was only in her mind, where she could feel safe, trusted, even appreciated. Bran and Ark had helped and, bit by bit, they'd mortared the stones and locked the bricks into place.

  It was an unsteady thing, but who could've expected better?

  She'd begun to hope Fier would help. And yet, she'd only known him a few days. His insightful manner put her at ease, but where had he come from? Why would he ignore Ark? He led the city, not her.

  Why latch onto her, of all people?

  And trust was just as unsteady.

  "What does all that mean?" Bran said. "I don't understand how the Parched Ones could've come from the same place. They're people, in a way. Aren't they born?"

  Fier said, "Perhaps it means—"

  "Yaron, go back to the council," Kipra commanded, and she rounded on the two remaining men. One was a friend, but the other was something else. "You've lied to us, Fier."

  "I am who I am, nothing more and nothing less."

  "I almost didn't notice it. Your smooth tongue and snippets of wisdom almost fooled me—the days of running errands that no one else wanted. Did you think to dance in here and expect me not to notice?"

  "Yes."

  "Why!" she growled.

  "Because you need me," Fier said. "More important than that, all of us—for a reason I haven't yet discovered—need you. You're the key to the Parched Ones. For all I know, you're the key to it all."

  Fier lied. She wasn't the key to anything. Anger seared her chest as if someone had plunged a blade between her breasts. Betrayal. It felt good. These past days she'd forgotten the security such anger provided.

  She inched a hand toward her shortsword. "Explain why I shouldn't gut you."

  Bran stepped beside her. "Because I wouldn't let you.

  And that anger seared, hotter and higher and brighter than the sun.

  "I meant to tell you," Fier said. "But I didn't expect this to happen so quickly. Please, come with me to the blacksmith's shack. All I ask is that you listen. If you still don't believe me, I'll leave."

  She yanked free of Bran. "Give me one reason why I should."

  He smiled—sorrowful, regretful. "My father did all of this."

  ***

  "I'm proud of you," Bran said.

  "I'm not," Kipra muttered. "I should've killed him where he stood."

  "That's why I'm proud."

  They followed Fier through the crowded streets, careful to remain a pace or two behind the tattooed man. Every moment another Parched One bumped into them, talking in its crackling voice, discussing the destruction of the city's outer ring, anticipating Abennak's arrival, and scouring to find something to eat. Their voices filled the entire city with a constant, nervous buzz.

  She huffed and shoved through the mass.

  The funeral pyre rose in the distance, a reminder of the countless Parched Ones who were dying while she wheedled out void-forsaken secrets. Had Bran's tenderness sunk too deep? She held no desire to watch the Parched Ones die without reason.

  "I don't know why we agreed to this," she said. "We've better things to do. Pernik still needs someone to reinspect the western gate, and—"

  "Those are excuses not to face something painful," Bran said.

  "Bah!"

  "And that was your attempt to use anger as a shield," Bran said. "Fier said his father did this, and no man can truly fake sorrow. I've known it. I've felt it, and I saw it in him. To me, that was reason enough to listen."

  She clenched her jaw, determined not to lash out again.

  Fier held the shack's door open, and she stomped inside to throw herself in a chair beside the rough-cut chimney. She crossed her arms, dug her nails into her skin, and waited until the other two found their seats.

  "Your mother?" Fier asked.

  "Finding food." Bran half laughed, half snorted. "You'd think with what Gar Tsi found, we'd be able to feed ourselves, but even a stocked cellar only goes so far. I suspect—"

  Kipra smacked the chimney with her palm. "You two natter on, but there are a handful of more important places I could be. Explain. Now. Or I leave. If that happens, you'll leave too."

  Silence.

  Fier nibbled his cheek. "I don't know everything. If I did, I wouldn't be here."

  She rolled her eyes. "Get on with—"

  "Decades ago, we're uncertain of the timeline, my father discovered something within himself." He frowned. "It's easiest to show you."

  Her heart thudded.

  A tickle or a nudge, or the tip of a fingernail whisked across the back of her neck—it occurred in an instant. She reached back to scratch it away, but halted as the tattooed man spread his hands. A book the width of his chest rested in his palms, and he exhaled a slow breath, cradling it like a child.

  Like a fine mist settling over a town, curiosity replaced anger. His robes weren't thick enough to hide a book, and she would've noticed something so big. Questions tumbled like a juggler's pins. She jerked her head to the side, but still they tumbled, rolling and bouncing through her mind. They multiplied with every impact, until she imagined ten pins, a hundred, a thousand.

  It was in his robes. They're thick enough. He pulled it out while I blinked. Or had I just never noticed him with it? Void take me, how did I miss him holding it?

  Thudded.

  One by one, the juggler's pins vanished, swallowed by an answer. And then....

  ...then neither question nor answer mattered. He'd always held it.

  "I've always wondered about your book," Bran said. "I didn't want to intrude."

  Fier drew his fingers across the cover, then slid it to them. "This contains some answers. I've always seen it like a blowfish—a delicacy if cooked correctly, but you'll die if you make the slightest mistake."

  Bold letters d
isplayed the title: Eulogy.

  Part Five

  These are his books, and everything is contained within. One of them was my favorite, and the other is filled with his notes. One is easy to understand, the other nearly impossible.

  One is me.

  The other is him, and he named it Eulogy.

  Fitting, isn't it?

  I'm a story of my self, just as all of you are stories of your selves. He tried to write a story of his self, but he failed. At least, some would say he failed. I'm still not sure what to believe, and I suspect it will take several years to understand... if I ever do.

  He planned the attack on Farren, all of the deaths here, and he knew it would happen. He also knew he'd die. Yes, Villeen thought she'd managed to draw him out. She still does. But she's a bitter, foolish bitch, and she doesn't understand the first part of what drove him.

  He didn't do this because he hated us. He did it because he craved love.

  It was as simple and complex as that, just like these books.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Renek burned.

  Villeen forced a deep, calming breath as she twined her fingers behind her back and stretched. Her muscles had tightened over the five-day march to Alkar's border. The Kurin Mountains, its glassy peaks and straight edges dusted with snow, now loomed over the Mad King's pavilion.

  Abennak's camp was planted several hundred yards from the city's meager wall, though very few soldiers occupied the tents. Less than a day had passed since the army had reached Renek, and they roamed it like wrathful demons. The march had energized them, given them a fury Villeen hadn't noticed in Rippon.

  She drew close to the pavilion, which was guarded by two of Abennak's puppets.

  She shuddered. She'd never meant it to come this far.

  Abennak hadn't given her a choice.

  He'd allowed Kleni to assemble the armies. That cursed, manipulative woman had been happy to do so. She couldn't recognize what was at stake, and she failed to understand that revenge for Crest wouldn't bring him back.