Villeen pressed through the Mad King's guards, but one grabbed her elbow. Skin flaked from his fingers, adding to the dust covering the island. A glimmer of intelligence lurked behind his eyes, but, like all Parched Ones, he lacked something.
"Don't go in there," he said.
"Why?"
Abennak had grown more volatile through the march, aided by Kleni's insistence that the army move faster. He flaunted his insanity, almost as if he were proud of it. His moments of lucidity dwindled, sucked into some part of himself that he wouldn't, or couldn't, speak of.
"Just...." The guard trailed off, unable to say more.
Villeen tossed open the pavilion's flap.
The stench of rotted flesh blasted her. Bloated corpses lay across the ground, piled atop one another until only a small pathway wound to the back. Lerrin's violin filtered through the air somewhere behind the corpses, sorrowful and lethargic, as if these stacks of flesh had become a musical score.
She stumbled through the sickening maze.
This isn't what I wanted!
Abennak giggled atop his throne, a decapitated head in his lap.
Villeen had watched the king drive himself to madness. She'd organized the attack on Targ, planned the murder of Helt, twisted countless other situations to her will. She'd done these things because she wanted nothing more than to stop her father. If pressed, she could admit she'd done it for vengeance, an idea that now seemed so feeble.
Kleni stood at the king's side, a half smirk on her face. She must've been birthed in an ooze of deception. She'd driven Rippon's army south, and she'd laughed—laughed!—as it drilled a hole through Renek's defenses. How she'd done it was even worse. She'd subverted every general but Rokand.
All the others now followed her.
Abennack cackled. "Isn't it delicious? This is what and what the world will become. It's how he planned it, but how and how could I refuse him? Aiiieee! Couldn't and couldn't! I will wallow in deca—"
"No!"
Villeen rushed forward, slipping and sliding across the gore and limbs. Pieces squished beneath her feet. Blood penetrated her boots. She halted at the base of his throne, attempting to speak with a gentleness she didn't feel.
"You can't keep doing this."
"The corpses deteriorate." He pointed like a child with a new toy. "They swell and swell until they burst. Look at that one. See how the flesh has bubbled? It'll expand and expand until I pierce it. Pow!"
Kleni caressed his shoulder.
A woman's corpse lay beside his throne. Purple skin stretched across her body. Her hands were clenched beside puffy cheeks, and puss oozed from her forehead. To her left, a boy groaned and half crawled, half slithered over the heap of bodies.
The pavilion's flap whisked open, and Villeen pivoted as General Rokand led four generals inside. They gaped at the bodies. Apparently, Kleni's hold hadn't completely subverted them.
The boy unleashed a groan, stretching out a hand to the men. They couldn't help him, couldn't even kill him, and they floundered their way to the back of the tent, then bowed to Abennak.
Villeen licked her lips, wincing at the coppery taste of blood. "Abennak, you can't—"
"They must flip and flop to their deaths in a certain manner." He spun the decapitated head across his lap like a top. "Slice them in a hundred places. Some only nicks, but others gush and gush for hours."
He lifted the head. Licked an eyeball.
"My king," Rokand said. "I once watched you play with your daughters, kiss your wife. You mourned when they died, and I mourned with you." He lowered his head and spoke in a mere whisper. "This is beyond you."
Kleni sneered. "Times change."
Abennak flipped up his trophy to plunge his fist through its neck. Eyeballs distended and popped from their sockets. Grayish-blue matter bulged from the openings, but he twisted and pushed farther, until a length of brains plopped onto his leggings.
He tossed it into his mouth with a loud slurp.
Rokand dropped to his knees and vomited.
Villeen wanted to do the same, but she fought back the bile rising in her throat. It wouldn't help pull Abennak from his madness, so she clenched her fists and glared at the ground, searching for a clue or hint or escape.
Anything to stop this.
The Mad King tilted his head. "I only remember or remember fragments. They whip and whirl and twirl, but I'm not sure if I'll ever see them. Will you join my family?"
Rokand stared his king in the eye. "If that's your wish."
"Come closer," Kleni said.
Villeen pressed her hand against Rokand's chest, though she spoke to the king. "We don't need to do this, Abennak. Don't listen to her! We've more important problems to deal with. My father—"
"Is now my and my problem," the king hissed. "You did what you thought best, but you spilled and spilled the wrong blood." He split his face into a joyous grin. "We'll hang confetti and banners everywhere!"
Kleni smirked.
Rokand tugged Villeen's hand from his chest. He clasped it within callused palms, perhaps aware of what would happen next. "I never agreed with you," he admitted. "I thought this was a bad idea from the start."
He'd been right, just as Fier had been.
Now everyone paid for her failure.
Abennak squeezed out another line of brains. "I once met a man who peddled cow and pig, told and told me the taste of flesh soothes our tongue. Ah, but do you know or know why?" He held his hand out to the general. "Because we were meant to eat it."
Rokand shook his head.
"Eat it!" Kleni hissed.
Again, Rokand shook his head. "I'd march to the bottom of the sea for you, my king. Yesterday we razed Renek to the ground, and I'd hoped that was proof. But this has gone further than simple war." His expression twisted to one of anguish. "We killed everyone! It's worse than I could've imagined, and I won't order my men to do it again."
"You're certain and certain?"
Kleni stepped forward, a dagger gleaming in her fist.
"Yes," Rokand said, his voice full of pride and resignation. He puffed out his chest and sneered at Kleni. "Do what you must, bitch."
"No!" Villeen shouted. "Void take you, Abennak. My brother begged me to find another way, but I didn't listen to him. I wouldn't. Couldn't! Don't make the same mistake."
"My lovely little melon, you heated and hammered me into this. Should a forge be or been blamed for the weapon it smelts? Nope. That is and is the blacksmith's fault."
Kleni's dagger rose. It fell.
Villeen gripped her gentahl, then twisted out eight strands and plunged them into Abennak, Kleni, the generals, Rokand, herself. She needed to flee and search for Fier, wherever he may be hiding.
They'd discover how to stop Abennak.
The caverns beneath Rippon leapt to mind, but her gentahl rocked against the idea. She'd never attempted to manipulate so many minds at once. She wasn't strong enough and, like the torrents of a rushing river, their thoughts smashed her.
Forced her to her knees.
Kleni ripped the dagger free to plunge it home again.
This isn't what I wanted!
Rokand sank to his knees.
Strands of Villeen's gentahl whiplashed.
Abennak's voice pierced the haze as she slipped from consciousness.
"Now we weeble and wobble and wait for the Kilnsmen."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Irreor touched the tip of his Synien against his forearm, pushing until it broke the skin.
Drops of blood leaked.
He stood atop Farren's Spire, which towered one hundred paces above the city. An iron railing lined the spire's uppermost edge, and he leaned against it to peer at the streets below. Normally, only the richest men were allowed up here. As a child, he'd imagined sitting and gazing across the city.
What would he see? What distant lands would this height reveal?
The answers were simple, and far less glorious than he'd imagined—dev
astation, starvation, and the promise of Abennak's armies filling the horizon. Now they used this tower as a lookout.
-You think killing ourselves is the solution?-
"No, but it would be interesting, wouldn't it? What would you do if I killed myself? Would you scream in frustration or weep for what you've lost?" Irreor pulled the dagger from his skin. "Pain reminds me that I'm myself."
Somewhere far in the distance, a child shrieked.
-And what will we be when we understand that we're not you, but that you're us?-
He'd attempted to hide from that question over these past days, choosing to focus on the city, on the training of his army. Yet the Prophet had ground it into his mind like pepper into an eye—relentless, stinging, forcing him to recognize it.
The Prophet didn't enjoy Irreor’s answer.
"Dead," Irreor said simply. "It won't change, no matter how many angles you see it from."
He offered a smirk, unaware and uncaring if the Prophet could sense it. The wind shifted, cooling both the blood dripping from his skin and the anger that pumped in his chest. This city was his home, despite its desperation and devastation. So he dealt with the Prophet, refusing to throw himself from this tower or stab his Synien ever deeper.
But it would've been nice.
"Tell me about the man Bran's sending to meet me."
Another drop fell from his forearm....
-I know everything about him.-
"Then what—"
-I also know nothing.-
...and splattered.
"Games won't help you." Irreor clenched his fists, flexing until blood dripped faster. "I'll send Abennak back to Rippon with or without you."
The Prophet's thread jerked, and that man—or demon or bastard or himself—it laughed:
-Do you want it because it's what you want? Or because we decided you would desire it? Blood splatters from our forearm, but it's our blood. These thoughts and decisions and ideas are ours.-
I don't care.
-Now we don't care. Perfect. Those shrieking children, those burning bodies and smashed homes—we don't feel the urge to save them?-
"That's not what I meant!" Irreor's voice echoed to the street below, and he continued with a growl. "I'll save them, but I don't care if I'm the same as you. I am what I am, nothing more and nothing less."
He gripped the railing, pressing until steel bit into his palm. Pain felt good. It reminded him that he was himself. The Prophet couldn't take that from him.
-Then we are one.-
Burn on a pyre.
The Prophet's thread twitched with a snicker:
-We will.-
Irreor ground his teeth, wishing he could've driven them into his brain, where the Prophet's voice snickered and giggled. Maddening. However, his insanity wouldn't change.
No.
Like a carpenter's glue, it stuck to Irreor. And like glue, it was being used to craft him into something. But what? A sculpture or a statue or a mistake? The man he wanted to be, or the man the Prophet claimed he was?
Pointless thoughts.
Light footsteps mounted the stairs behind him, and the wooden door creaked open. Irreor swiveled to the sight of a red-haired, tattooed man, who waited in the doorway with one hand upon the latch. He held a purple flower in the other.
-He's my son.-
Irreor froze, attempting to ignore the Prophet.
Bran had insisted Irreor meet this man, but he hadn't expected what stood before him. The tattoos, the angle of the chin and eyebrows... Irreor remembered this man's sister. She'd burned Targ, slaughtered hundreds of its people. If not for her, the island wouldn't be preparing for war.
More than that, this man was the Prophet's son.
Irreor crossed his arms to hide bloody skin.
"I'm Fier," the man said.
Irreor pointed to the tattoos that swirled like intricate whirlpools. "Symbols of something? I heard people in the Inner Empire—"
Fier touched his cheek. "No, not symbols."
"What then?"
"Reminders of a time long past. I got them older than I should have, but younger than I deserved. I thought they'd hide me but, like so many other things, they failed. I—"
"It doesn't matter."
Silence.
-What will you do?-
I don't know.
Irreor threaded the Synien through his belt, pretending to ignore the other's flushed expression. He'd agreed to meet this man because of his trust for Bran, but those tattoos, the piercing, introspective eyes—they forced him to envision Targ. His friends, Helt and Proysa, had been cut down by Fier's sister.
The same could happen here.
Fier must've understood the power Abennak possessed—his sister certainly did, and his father also knew its secrets. He'd teach what he knew, or Irreor would drive him from Farren.
Irreor's father had always said, 'Know your enemies from the inside, boy. Their strengths. Their weaknesses. It's the only way to defeat them.'
Saliva wiggled down his throat.
Fier approached the railing. "It's strange to see the city from so high. The buildings are half torn down, and the people are still weak, but they're so far away, as if the swipe of a finger could clean the streets. A single loaf of bread could feed them all."
"Indeed."
-We'd play hide and seek in the caverns, when he was a boy. Neither he nor his sister could hide from us in the twisting halls or low corridors. We knew how their minds felt.-
And their mother?
-They weren't birthed by a woman. We created them, and we thought them to be our greatest moment. Ah, but we couldn't hug them after they discovered what we'd done. They hated us. Mother!-
Like the scales of a lizard, the Prophet's thread scraped Irreor's neck. It spat that final word again and again, each syllable pronounced with ever-growing harshness. So much hatred and pain and despair.
But Irreor had never known his mother. He couldn't even remember her face.
He gripped the railing, wishing he could jab the point of his dagger into his forearm, dull the voice, and garner some peace. But he couldn't. Not with Fier watching. If anyone discovered his budding madness, they wouldn't trust him to lead the city's army.
"Where do you fit into this?"
Fier twisted his flower's stem, flicking it back and forth. "I can't reveal my secrets. I can't even tell you why. But I'll lead you, if you'll allow it, and—"
"No one leads me!"
-No one leads us!-
"Some men are born to greatness," Fier said. "Take Bran, for example. Some claim he's great because he killed Kylen Crest. I think he's great because of the peace in his heart."
What will he do if he discovers I know who he is?
-Don't! It would be...-
"I watched a woman order a village burned." Irreor stared Fier in the eye. "She sliced a pregnant woman's throat, then stabbed her husband in the chest. Do you think she's like Bran? Did she do those things with peace in her heart?"
Fier plucked the petals from his flower, then watched the purple leaves drift to the city below. "That's her trail to take, and I wish her the best on it. My path is different."
-We should've never agreed to meet him.-
Why?
-Because we're a fool, and now he suspects. He and my daughter searched for years to find me. My empire was too important. I couldn't let them find me, couldn't let them judge me for what I'd done.-
So be it.
Fier could help. He'd understand the voice.
Irreor opened his mouth, preparing to spew every word the Prophet had ever whispered.
But he couldn't.
Something snatched away his words, just like when he'd tried to tell Bran about the voice. It was impossible to tell anyone about the Prophet—not his father, not the blacksmith, not Fier.
-Long ago, we agreed to never speak of ourselves. It's part of who we are.-
Irreor forced another wad of saliva down his throat. He was alone
in this, just as he'd always been. Did that change anything? No, he couldn't let it.
He forced himself to say, "Then what is your path in this?"
Fier remained silent, peering across the city.
The horizon appeared the same as always—a splatter of gold washed over blue eternity, with white sponges to soak up both—but now it was darker, more ominous, as if dusk had swept between the buildings and sun.
"I try to salvage as much as possible." Fier heaved a sigh. "I'll do it with your help, or I'll do it alone. I don't know what else to strive for, so I grasp at anything, everything, and hope for the best."
Irreor couldn't believe he was the Prophet, but the cocky man who'd saved Kipra, who'd overcome Kylen Crest, who was the son of Eenan Ark—that man demanded more than simply waiting for Abennak, waiting for insanity.
He would grasp at anything, everything, and hope for the best.
"What do you suggest?"
"Enlist the Kilnsmen. They might have the strength to stop Abennak's army. If they don't, we're lost. But we're doomed without them, so in a way it doesn't matter."
"Nothing matters."
"Trust me," Fier said, a curve of pleading in his tone.
"I can't do that."
He couldn't even trust himself.
***
Some men ran. Others hurtled crude wooden barriers, while yet others slapped their swords against one another in an imitation of combat. They sweated and bled and cursed, near exhaustion, yet they lurched another foot, cleared another barrier, rang steel against steel.
Irreor watched.
-They're not ready.-
They are.
Fier peered at him from the far side of the hill, removed enough to not anger Irreor, but close enough to watch and listen and judge. He'd kept clear of Irreor this past day, seemingly content to watch events unfold.
Memories of Targ's destruction had faded, allowing Irreor to again consider what the tattooed man had suggested. He snorted to himself. His army didn't need the Kilnsmen. They were whirlwinds with a blade, furious and unyielding, but his father had kept him away for a reason.
Farren's army would serve well enough.
Dusk fell like a cloth over a flame, and Irreor squinted at a band of new recruits.
The army swelled with each passing hour, and Yekkin trotted behind them, urging them onward with shouts of encouragement. Their muscles were strengthened from the food Gar Tsi had found, but not enough.
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