Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  The faintest of memories emerged.

  His mother had once taken his hand, walking with him through Kiln's streets. She'd worn a single blade in those days, with neither dagger nor shield to balance it. She'd flipped her hair back every few moments, but still, her eyes... he couldn't remember them. The feel of her hand, so soft and firm and loving, had guided him through the village.

  This village, but not this village.

  The homes from his past had stood taller, wider, with more majesty. A massive fountain had dominated the square, with clean white stone stacked in a careful circle. Crystalline water had flowed from its center, splashing against the edges in a gentle babble. The memory of that patter, as water sloshed from the edge of the rim....

  He'd reached too deep, attempting to touch the bottom of that twinkling pond.

  His mother had yanked him from the edge as he toppled in, and he'd emerged with water dripping from hair and tunic and leggings. He'd laughed, filled with a simple joy only a child could know.

  And she'd laughed with him.

  Now, however, rickety stands teetered before the homes, cradling weapons, meats and vegetables. The blades gleamed, but flies swarmed over the flesh and produce, which emitted a faint rotten odor. Decrepit men and women hovered behind each, contemplating the two outsiders.

  It's not how I remember it.

  -We weren't meant to come here. We weren't meant to remember her face.-

  Is that supposed to be an explanation?

  -Yes.-

  Irreor trudged onward, struggling to reconcile the village's blight and his father's tales of an unconquerable people. They passed a series of low stone statues, men who stood a full head taller than Irreor, roughly carved from a tan stone. Jagged edges marred what should've been flesh, with black lines dug deep into the rock. Stone blades shone in each unmoving fist, and each mouth screamed an eternal battle cry.

  They'd been the heroes of Kiln.

  Once, long ago, these men had defended the village. Now, they were immortalized. But their cry was one of despair. Sludge coated their bases, and the leg of one statue had been shattered, its fragments littering the ground. Patches of mold grew over the stump, the fallen thigh, and the base.

  No one had bothered to clean it, nor thought to repair it.

  "These are the best warriors on the island?"

  "Don't judge your people just yet," Fier murmured, following his gaze. "The blademasters of Kiln are no lie, but they flinch beneath the Mad King's eye and strive to cast off his grin. Many fail."

  "It's Abennak's fault, then?"

  "Yes. No." Fier heaved a sigh. "Perhaps."

  "My father wouldn't have let this happen." Irreor slowed as their guide halted before a larger home. Its planks sat in uneven angles and light shone from between wide gaps. He stepped to the sentry's shoulder. "He's here?"

  Grimek climbed the creaking steps.

  They entered a dim room of high ceilings and simplistic furniture. A man sat with his back to the entrance, peering between the cracks to the village beyond. Floorboards squeaked as Irreor stepped in, and the man swiveled to face him.

  Fier sank into the shadows near the entrance.

  "Sverden," Grimek said. "This man claims he's Irreor Ark."

  The Sverden leaned into a line of daylight. Stern, commanding eyes nestled within an aged face. Narrow scars crisscrossed a shaven jaw, with an ample line stretching from eyebrow to earlobe. A sheathed longsword lay beside the chair and a dagger jutted from his belt.

  I remember him.

  -You shouldn't have.-

  He taught my father, watched me as a child. He knew my mother.

  -All knew your mother. Remember the steel, my general. Remember the armor and the butterfly. We'll need those things. Ah, how we'll need them.-

  "Leave us, Grimek." The chair squeaked as the Sverden rose. "You want to know more about her, yes? I've wondered how long it'd take before you arrived. Longer than expected. Your father thrives?"

  "He's dead," Irreor said in a flat tone. "Eight men against his single blade, and he killed them all."

  "I'm never happy to see good men—"

  "It doesn't matter." He cleared his throat, bowed. "Sverden, I need our people's blades and minds. Rippon is preparing for war. Abennak prepares to crush Farren, and—"

  "Call me Garhund." The old man approached Irreor with a feeble step, hesitation punctuating his speech. "Sverden is a term used by Kiln's swordsmen, which you are not. It seems your father failed as a teacher."

  Irreor bit back a retort.

  This man and these people weren't what he'd imagined. A hint of rust speckled the Sverden's dagger. It hadn't seen oil or care for many days. Another burst of sunlight shone through the home's cracked walls, and Irreor stepped back to evade it.

  Fier lounged beside the door, examining both men as a hawk examines its prey.

  "Who are you to judge him, or me?" Irreor asked the Sverden.

  "I'm no one."

  "Then—"

  "Eenan was the best of our generation, but he shouldn't have been. If... if only it hadn't happened that way. He could've been Sverden if things had been different." Garhund thrust a finger at Irreor. "Skai loved him. Pure as winter's first veil, she loved him."

  The words summoned Kipra's face—soft cheeks, midnight eyes and hair, and a fierceness to sear Irreor's blood. They also summoned his mother's face—full, clear, with sparkling eyes that laughed as he'd pranced in their simple home.

  She'd... she'd loved his father.

  She shouldn't have.

  "Skai was a skilled blademaster," Garhund murmured. "Did you know that?"

  "I knew," Irreor said, and he waved his hand. "But these stories can wait for another time. Please, listen to me, Sverden. Abennak marches on Farren, and the entire island will fall. Kinslek can't help us. No one can help—"

  -Steel and butterflies.-

  Be silent!

  "Your father was a hard man," the Sverden said, ignoring Irreor's protest. "He wouldn't accept that he'd never been embraced as a warrior. He'd never received the marks. Yet he trained, day after day, simply as an attempt to mimic our movements."

  Irreor froze.

  "He never told you, did he?" The Sverden sighed. "No, and I suppose he wouldn't have. Your father was a Kilnsman, but not a warrior. He should've been a hunter, or a baker, but never a blademaster. For years he stole our secrets, and he'd become our most skilled man before we'd realized it."

  Silence.

  Thoughts of Farren fled.

  Irreor should've said something, anything, and yet his teeth felt as if they'd been wired shut. His father was a lie. This village was a lie. The maneuvers, what he'd grown up learning day after day, they'd been his father's stolen secrets.

  In a choked, ragged voice, he said, "And my mother?"

  Garhuld smiled a light, winsome smile. Again he said, "Skai loved him. Pure as winter's first veil, she loved him. But you don't know that, either, do you? He rarely let anyone witness his emotions, and I doubt he would've wanted you to see the love he reserved for her. No. Many of our people thought he should've been driven from the village, but not her. She insisted he remain. Your father—"

  "Was a murderer," a man spat from behind them, and Irreor pivoted to the youngest of the sentries, who fumed at the entrance with two drawn blades and a heaving chest. "Eenan Ark deserved nothing!"

  -And they flutter through the air. What could be more perfect than their colors, their sparkles, their smoothness? Nothing. It was how we'd planned it. But now the butterfly has grown teeth. The blade dulled. The armor cracked.-

  Who is he?

  -In a way, he's our cousin.-

  Irreor frowned.

  "Terik, no!" The Sverden pushed the younger man from the house. "Your father died for reasons of his own, reasons you may never know for certain. We've talked about this. Again and again we've talked about it."

  Terik jerked his head to the side as Irreor stepped into the street. A ragge
d crowd had already gathered in a half circle. Many of the younger villagers cast sympathetic glances at the sentry. Others simply watched.

  "I demand Sverd Ta," Terik said.

  Fier gripped Irreor's elbow. "Deny him! It isn't why we came."

  Irreor yanked free.

  According to his father's stories, Sverd Ta had only occurred twice in the past decade, though its details were clouded with uncertainty. Kilnsmen rarely spoke of it, and his father had refused to provide details. They considered it sacred—an act witnessed by obscure, divine energies—and only demanded it after the fiercest grievance.

  Irreor's forearms itched, the newly formed scabs tingling with each pulse of his heart. He addressed the sentry. "Tell me what happened and, if necessary, I'll make amends. Don't throw your life away."

  The Kilnsmen grinned. One laughed outright. "He's Terik, fool! No one has beaten him in five years, not even the Sverden. You don't have a bloody chance, and he'll rip your head from—"

  "He'll be dead."

  His father had taught him stolen secrets, but that didn't change anything. Irreor was better than any man alive. He twined his fingers together until pressure whitened his knuckles, thrust one foot closer to his cousin, and spoke in a low, gentle tone. "We'll find another way. Greatness is forged by trust. Trust me, and we'll forge it togeth—"

  "No!"

  Terik shoved Garhund aside and leapt forward. He angled his attack wide, slicing toward the tender flesh of Irreor's gut. Kiln's crowd fell silent, anticipating the piercing shriek, or the fountained blood, or the fallen entrails.

  -She never had a choice. The tip tore into her stomach, purged her last breath. He spat in disgust as her eyes glazed. Ah, she couldn't stop him. Too many wounds. Too much anger.-

  Irreor snatched his blades from their sheaths, swept them across his assailant's, and pivoted to the man's back. His father had taught him to fight without emotion, to delve into the core of logic and counter with tranquil swiftness. And so he retreated a pace, blades crossed in defense, beyond the reach of the Kilnsman.

  His cousin pivoted to meet him.

  He's balanced, swift, dangerous.

  -Indeed.-

  "Your father didn't deserve her." Terik barked out a laugh and spat at Irreor's feet. "He slaughtered his own brother for her. My father! She was a bloody whore, but your father was a heartless monster. He took what he wanted, including her, including my father's life."

  Terik again leapt to the offensive. Swords angled wide and shrieked close, caressing the Synien's defense. The battle flowed for several moments, four blades squealing and sparking and flashing in a harmony of death.

  -Even before she birthed us, she loved us above all else. At least we hoped she did. But there were so many wounds, so much blood, and she never had a chance.-

  Silence!

  -We know love to know sorrow, and I've devoured many nights thinking of which should come first. When does sorrow equal agony? When are they the same, and when do they deserve glory?-

  He stumbled backward, jolted his head from side to side, but still the Prophet murmured, introspective and deceptive and unstoppable. Irreor skipped to the side as Terik's blade carved a gash into his shoulder. Blood splattered. Kilnsmen grinned. They shuffled forward a pace, peering with wide eyes, as though they'd lost all sense of what had once forged the island's greatest swordsmen.

  Some few held back.

  Terik examined his sword's bloodied edge. "It's the same as his blood. I've waited years for this."

  Imagined, nameless faces flashed—bandits, rogues, brigands, men who claimed goodness but enacted vileness. Men like Kylen Crest or Abennak. They'd deserved death at his hands, but this....

  "You don't need more of my blood," Irreor said. "My father is dead. Assassins cut him down. They flooded his veins with poison. He died without—"

  "He died as he deserved!" The Kilnsman lashed a drop of Irreor's blood to the ground, stomped it into the dirt as if to bury Eenan Ark. "I wish I could've seen it. Kiln's greatest master, struck down by a group of thugs. Priceless."

  The man lifted frigid eyes to Irreor.

  -I'm so, so sorry. We didn't think we had another way. We couldn't find another path. We should've searched harder! Should've watched it better! Ah, it doesn't matter. It's too late now.-

  "After she denied my father, and yours slaughtered mine, I opened her belly as she bathed in a mountain stream." Terik grinned. "This blade spilled her guts into the water. She never had a chance, cousin."

  Time congealed.

  The crowd's gasps were distant and faint. Irreor clenched his teeth until they threatened to shatter, but it didn't matter. Sunlight warmed his flesh and glittered from his blades, but it was irrelevant. Fier shrieked at him to stop, but it was unimportant.

  He bolted forward, deflected two lightning strikes, and rammed his Synien into Terik's chest. The blade he'd won on the dawn of his father's death sank deep. So deep. Crimson gore pumped over his hand, but Irreor snarled and twisted it deeper.

  Silence.

  Terik's swords struck dirt.

  He killed my mother!

  The man worked his mouth, struggling to expel a denial, but his lifeblood spilled between his teeth. He stumbled back a half pace, gaped at Irreor, and gagged on his own fluids.

  -Steel and butterflies.-

  I didn't think... I didn't anticipate....

  -They flutter and dance and spark.-

  Irreor leaned close, squeezed Terik's neck with one hand, gripped the Synien in the other, and hurled the Kilnsman to the ground. "Many things I would've forgiven, but not that. You'll rot and I won't mourn."

  He strode from the stunned circle.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  A hammer pounded a comforting clang as Irreor stomped near the smithy. His muscles ached with emotion, and he halted. He should've listened to Kipra and never come to this place. An hour had passed since he'd killed his cousin, but he'd simply wandered, unable to return to either Fier or Garhund.

  Void take me, I didn't want that.

  He slumped against the smithy, the vibration of the blacksmith's hammer reaching through the lopsided wall. He'd witnessed death before, and this was nothing different. If only he could convince himself of that.

  It wasn't....

  Yet it was.

  The Prophet's strand surged, not with the pitiless, unrelenting tone Irreor had grown accustomed to, but with an unexplained humbleness:

  -Oblivion and madness. They're what we are, but I've no desire to watch my world fall to it. I wanted something better for my people. I wanted them to love, but I couldn't understand it. How do we wish for a wish?-

  For two hours the hammer pounded.

  Children scampered amongst the buildings, peering at him with gaped mouths. Others avoided his eyes. They saw his rage, his sorrow. Through it all the sun lifted ever higher. The reek of rotted meat strengthened.

  He attempted to think of anything but his father, anything but his mother, but wishes were little more than specks of hope. Hope... it had vanished. How could he tell Kipra of what he'd done, of what his father and mother had done?

  And the hammer pounded.

  He killed my mother!

  -For a purpose, though it seems so cloudy now.-

  You twice-knotted bastard, how can my mother's death have been for a purpose? What possible reason—

  -I told you she was an idea, and I didn't lie. Ah, this is so liberating and terrifying. Fier opened the cage with his use of gentahl, and now we remember it all. Can you picture what happened?-

  Irreor concentrated, wracking his memories.

  -We were tortured as a child, my beloved general. Little more than a boy who understood only pain and sorrow and the sense that there should've been something more. Love? Empathy? We couldn't understand it, for we'd never known those things, but we felt as if we should've been able to touch them.-

  My parents never—

  -Not these parents. The ones before.-

/>   Irreor's head ached, but he ignored it to examine the Prophet's claim. If his mother, Skai Ark, hadn't been his true mother; if Irreor really was the same man as the Prophet; then there would've been people before—a mother and father who birthed him and gave him life.

  -They never loved us.-

  Why—

  -Why and why and why! Aiieee! Such a simple question, and yet it's tickled and teased us for a century. They beat us and beat us, and we sank within ourselves to find solace. Ah, solace, what a strange thought.-

  Irreor shivered. Ever since he'd awakened after the battle with Crest, he'd known the Prophet wasn't completely sane, but now the Prophet's madness lashed his shoulders. He ached to thrust the Synien into his skin, to allow pain to wash everything away.

  But no. There were too many people here, all staring as if he'd murdered one of them.

  -The third piece of us never sank within. He was terrified of us, and who could blame him? He named us outsiders. Named us imposters. How can a man be an imposter to himself?-

  The Prophet chuckled, soft and bitter:

  -You don't remember anything, do you?-

  Nothing.

  -Then you'll be our sword, my general, and I'll be our shield. I'll hold the third piece of us at bay, and you'll finish what we originally intended. Do it quickly. Pierce Abennak's side and bring him low. Nothing else matters, for, if we fail in that, then we'll lose it all. No more memories of fake parents. No more Kipra. No more Bran. He'll take it all from us.-

  And you?

  -I'll imagine an idea. I'll pretend we know how to love.-

  The Prophet's voice faltered and vanished.

  Irreor hugged arms to body, wrapping himself tight to protect himself from what he'd learned. This was worse than anything he could've expected. Like a tick, it burrowed beneath the skin to suck his life away one bloody drop at a time.

  Eenan and Skai hadn't been his real parents.

  Maybe they hadn't been real at all.

  Maybe they'd been fakes.

  How to grip that, come to terms with it, accept it? He couldn't. His mother had held his hand as they'd walked through the village. She'd loved him. His father... his father had taught him the blade, forging him into a man with stolen lessons. Those memories were solid, as real as the dirt beneath his feet, as vibrant as the waves in the bay.