Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  He still had a goal. It was the same as before, but cords of understanding now reinforced it. Defeat Abennak, for the Mad King had been designed to scorch the island beneath a wash of flame and madness.

  Save Kipra, Bran, and himself.

  And after that?

  I'll find a cave and never emerge.

  Fier's voice pierced the clanging. "It's not an easy tale, is it?"

  "No," Irreor said, aware that they spoke of two different things.

  "Do you want to—"

  "My father slaughtered his brother, my cousin cut down my mother, and I sent Terik to the void. There's not much to talk about. My father left because, without my mother here to speak for him, they called him a thief. I know... I know now that my mother loved him. It was real, just as she loved me." He swung around and glared into the other's eyes. "Who's the villain here? Your father or Abennak?"

  "Both."

  Irreor tugged a sliver from the wall. The wood felt good between his fingers, sharp enough to pierce, smooth enough to comfort.

  Is he right? Did Abennak bring them to this, or did we do it?

  -A bit of both. Perhaps neither. Abennak's power is wild, like a gusting hurricane. Who can say what it will smash? We planned him that way.-

  And us?

  -We're something else.-

  The Prophet's explanation answered nothing, but the feel of the thread, the fear in his words—they were worse than Abennak. They were the surge of a volcano. Irreor's island stood at the edge of an eruption.

  "Find the Sverden," he told Fier. "Have him gather every single Kilnsman in the square. I'll be there soon."

  Fier kinked an eyebrow, sucking his cheek in consideration. He drew an appraising gaze over Irreor, then thrust himself into Kiln's dusty streets. Over the next hour, nearly a thousand people streamed into a meager square where a single, filthy fountain stood.

  Villagers packed into it until their unkempt, unwashed bodies bled into street and alley.

  Irreor strode through them as a wrathful ghost.

  They parted before him, crammed closer to each other to avoid his glare, and washed over his trodden path like two released dams. He leapt atop the fountain's wide rim, the same rim he'd fallen over as a child, and peered across the gathered mass.

  The Kilnsmen's murmurs ceased.

  -Ah, how we must look the general. Do you remember the notes? I wrote, 'And he'll assault them with the straight back of confidence, the harsh glare of fury, and lash his words into a populace eager to shatter the Mad King's grip.' I never meant these people.-

  Irreor thrust his voice into the stillness. "I am Irreor Ark, son of Eenan and Skai Ark. Some of you know of me, many of you watched me kill Terik, but all of you should heed me."

  Snorts sounded from the crowd.

  Irreor circled the rim, glaring across tattered men and women. Some returned his expression, while other's shuffled their feet. "Look at yourselves! I see defiance within you. It simmers and awaits a blaze to boil it. My father told me little of Kiln. He told me you possess something the rest of the island doesn't—unbreakable pride, intelligence, inherent skill."

  Two men bobbed their heads.

  "Where are those things now? Your food is rotten, your homes are shattered, and your clothes are little more than rags. This fountain once flowed with water clearer than the sky, but now it's little more than a pile of sludge. Is this what you've fallen to?"

  Sullen murmurs sounded from the crowd.

  "My father taught me the necessity of intelligence. We clench our emotions when we fight, yet act as if they drive us. We hone them with intellect until we command them. We anticipate the moment, use our minds, and then strike."

  "Your father taught you stolen secrets!" a man cried from the back.

  Irreor gripped his Synien's hilt, staring down at the Sverden. "And you all knew it, didn't you? Secrets are only secrets if they're untold. Where's the anticipation? You don't expect to strike, but you wait for the blow to land."

  Garhund clenched his jaw, as did many in the crowd. They peered at one another with uncertain, sour expressions. Some grasped their weapons, others crossed their arms. All listened.

  "What would you have us do?" the Sverden said. "We weren't always like this."

  "How long?" Irreor asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "How long since the village fell to disorder? How long since the blades at your sides have known rust and disuse? How long since the statues of your heroes began to crumble!"

  Garhund frowned. "A year. Maybe two."

  It made sense. Rumors of the Mad King had first surfaced about that long ago, and Fier claimed that these people had been unknowingly beaten down. Just how strong was Abennak's grasp, that it could turn these people against their most basic principles?

  An unpleasant thought.

  Irreor swept his hand north. "That's what we fight. Abennak. Madness. I see it in the shadow at the edge of sight, and I hear the despair in your voices." He sighed. "The Mad King ground you into the dirt, but you don't even realize it."

  His words roared through Kiln like wildfire. The younger villagers licked their lips and scuffed their feet against the sand. They didn't want to believe him, not after he'd killed their friend and champion, but what other choice did they have?

  The older people simply frowned.

  A cold breeze drifted through the streets, slipped beneath tailored hides, and nibbled skin as if to guarantee Irreor's words. Their hushed voices ceased as the wind vanished, and Irreor expelled a growl that seized the crowd's farthest ear.

  "Fight back! Terik was a fool, a prideful and skilled fool, but he did something the rest of you have forgotten. He fought. Some battles are too overwhelming to fight alone. An infant can't defeat a giant, and pride is only useful when accompanied by thought."

  The Kilnsmen staggered as if struck.

  "Bring anything you can carry, but not so much it slows you down. We're preparing an army to purge Abennak, and you're too close to Rippon to organize anything here. They'd notice within the first day." He lifted his voice higher, higher. "See your homes clean once again, your statues proud, your fountains gleaming. Join us!"

  The crowd parted as Irreor stomped from the square, leaving a provoked hum in his wake. He glared straight ahead, ignoring the Kilnsmen's dismayed cries, their questioning shouts, their uncertain stares.

  -What now, oh great leader?-

  I don't know.

  ***

  "You think they'll listen?" Fier said.

  Irreor shrugged. "That's for them to decide."

  "Do you want them to?"

  "I wouldn't have spoken the words, had I not."

  They sat within the Sverden’s house, facing one another across a frail table. Light pierced the wall's crooked boards, and the village vibrated with anticipation. Three hours had crept past. Three hours of waiting for the Sverden to return, of attempting to decide the next step.

  "My father's stories made the masters of Kiln seem like legends," Irreor said as he fingered his Synien. It wouldn't return his parents, nor even the idea of them. "Something a man can imagine exists, but an idea he can't touch with hand or eye."

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Which one? The loss of my parents?" He snorted, still struggling to believe Eenan Ark hadn't been his true father. "Or the loss of an idea I held as truth? I thought this place was more than it is. They both burn me, but which is more devastating?"

  -Which indeed?-

  Fier nibbled his lip. The man had said very little since Irreor's speech.

  Irreor worried at that silence. So many little secrets, like the flies that zipped across the village's rotten food.

  What does he know that I don't?

  -I don't know. And that's almost more terrifying than anything.-

  "It changes nothing," Irreor said. "This place is what it is, and my mother never had a chance at life. Her fate was organized."

  How it hurt to say that.

&
nbsp; The door creaked open, and they swiveled to the Sverden. A group of children peered from beyond the entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of Irreor Ark, the son of a thief, and the man who had just killed Terik.

  Garhund closed the door and sighed. He tugged a dagger from his belt, lifted and twisted it in a beam of afternoon sun until the light sparkled. "This blade has split the skin of countless men. I'd consider it an honor if it marked yours, as well."

  -Don't do this.-

  Why?

  -Because those cuts will bring out the third piece of us. They'll remind him of what we went through, and he'll stumble to the door, peer out, and wonder if it's safe. It isn't safe. Not yet, not ever. We can't release him.-

  Irreor drew his fingers over his neckline. They'd never wanted his father, so why should he accept them? Yet something—his father's laughter, or his mother's smile, or something even deeper—surged within his heart, demanding he accept.

  This was what he was meant for. So what if it was a lie?

  Gentahl creates reality, does it not?

  -Yes.-

  Then this is real. My memories are real, and my father and mother were real.

  -Perhaps.-

  Will our perhaps become a perhaps?

  The Prophet fell silent, and Irreor thrust out his chest. "Do it."

  Garhund's blade flashed twice and split the flesh above Irreor's collarbone. Blood seeped from the wound, trickled beneath his tunic, and trailed down his chest and stomach. The cuts burned, and yet they felt as if they belonged. As if they—

  "You're a Kilnsman, as we are," the Sverden said softly. "Your father's tales were not lies. I should've... I should've stood up for him. I should've added my voice to Skai's, but I was too weak. You've found his path, and we will stand on it again. You have my promise."

  "Kiln marches?" Fier asked.

  Garhund sank into an empty chair. Weariness lived in the motion, as if he hadn't slept for days. "We do, though some still think it a foolish idea. They were friends of Terik, and they don't believe we should—"

  "I don't care about the politics," Irreor snapped. "How long before you leave?"

  "Three days. Two, if I can manage it."

  Farren needed these men now, not tomorrow, and certainly not weeks from now. Irreor cursed to himself, aching to claw his forearms. How much could the Kilnsmen forage on the road? How much more would they weaken as they marched?

  "Fier, can you take these people to Farren like you brought me here?"

  "That's not possible."

  "Why?" Irreor asked, but the other man dropped his gaze to the table, unwilling or unable to answer. "Damn your secrets. This is more important than holding your tongue. Tell me what you know, or we'll never have a chance."

  Fier remained silent.

  -He can't because he's not strong enough. He barely brought us here, and the strain of altering that many minds would break him. Our power is a finite thing. It's a long stretch from all-powerful.-

  Something uncoiled within Irreor's mind, something other than the Prophet's thread. It crawled—slow, insidious, slimy—like a slug over a smooth log. The Prophet groaned, and Irreor attempted to thrust the voice to the back of his mind.

  "Can you return me to the city?" he asked Fier.

  The tattooed man nodded.

  "Then tomorrow you'll do so."

  "And us?" Garhund asked.

  Irreor dabbed at the blood on his neckline. He hadn't wanted this responsibility, yet he was all that these people had. "You'll prepare to march. And all of us will hope you arrive in time."

  Softly, the Prophet spoke:

  -Can you feel him at the door?-

  Somewhere far in the distance, a child shrieked.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Villeen struggled to keep herself alert.

  She sat upon a backless chair and, to her side, Abennak fiddled with her hair. The pavilion stretched above them, capturing the sun's heat, and it reeked of stale blood and viscera. Streamers and banners hung from the support poles, purple and red and white.

  Kleni lounged on a cushioned bench to the other side of the Mad King. Yellow silk was draped across it, and it whispered as she shifted. The bitch yawned wide, tilted her head to one side, and gave Villeen a lazy smile.

  No generals remained to oppose her. She'd murdered them all.

  She'd enjoyed it.

  Servants stood at the corners of the pavilion. Some were naked. Others wore clothes, but their lips had been sewn shut. They hung their heads low, careful to watch only the ground. They knew the danger of a lingering glance.

  Villeen imagined the jagged walls of the caverns beneath Rippon. She'd been picturing those walls for days, but Abennak wouldn't allow her to leave. On the rare occasions he allowed her beyond his sight, he made certain at least ten people accompanied her—too many to use her gentahl.

  He caged her without bars or chains.

  The Mad King commanded a mind like a whip, and he'd lashed her each time she attempted to use gentahl in his presence. So demon-damned powerful. He denied her alterations with a quickness and subtlety that rivaled her father. Twice he'd sent her into blackness, and the memories of those days were hazy and painful.

  The flap of the pavilion edged open and three men, scouts assigned to watch the road to Farren, stepped through. Parchment Men. Their flaking lips twisted in grimaces, and their charcoal eyes squinted with fear. They moved with jerky, crackling steps. The odor of decay emanated from them, and they gaped at the blotchy red patches on the ground. They took hesitant steps, their boots pressing bits of flesh into the dirt.

  The first, whom Villeen knew as a man named Krown, stifled a whimper. Two of every ten men ordered into this pavilion never returned, and those that did bore heavy tales that verged on impossible. He must've known he wouldn't survive.

  The man to his left stepped on a finger, hopped back, and gagged.

  "Perfect!" Abennak said. "Our guests have already begun and begun to arrive. Whistle and wobble over here! Just in time, yes indeed. Do you want some wine? Kara enjoys a delicate white, but she's crazy for it."

  The king gestured to a naked servant, who blanched and scurried from the tent. He returned with a tray of six glasses, and he offered Abennak the first. After delivering the others, he pressed himself against the canvas.

  "You'll never guess what I've planned and planned. Jugglers to whip and whirl, fire breathers to suck and blow, and I've dissected a horse so we can see what they look and look like inside. Squishy and slimy! Curious creatures those, all gangly legs and pot-bellied, with eyes that can see you anywhere." He giggled. "My daughters can't wait or wait to see what their brains look like."

  He lifted his glass and gulped down its contents.

  Krown shrugged at his companions, licked his lips, and sipped his wine.

  The other of the scouts grinned and swallowed again. He inched closer to the throne—more at ease, perhaps hoping to find favor—but he hesitated as Villeen shook her head in a tight, abrupt motion.

  You fool! He shows his madness. Nothing more.

  Abennak pointed to Krown. "Have you ever seen or seen what a horse's brain looks like? Is it like ours? They're stupid beasts. They can't look like ours. No matter or patter or batter! We'll soon find out."

  Krown opened and closed his mouth, uncertainty clear on his face. Abennak saved him the trouble and jabbed a finger toward the other man, the brave one who'd thought to inch closer.

  "Brown's the color of stupid and dumb, you know. Yes, yes indeed it is and is. They must be brown. No alternative, really."

  Villeen dropped her gaze to her lap, then forced herself to look back up. These men were her father's creations, his playthings, but they held a shred of humanity. How long had it taken to realize that? Too many days. Too many tears. They didn't deserve what had been done to them, just as Villeen hadn't deserved invisible shackles.

  Void take me, be silent. Please be silent.

  "Actually, Your Majesty," the man said, an
d he bit his lip, "they're more of a purplish color. See, I saw one on a campaign three yea—"

  "Liar," Kleni said.

  The Mad King pointed to an axe propped against the far corner. It trembled, at first ever so slightly, but then he whipped his finger to the man. The weapon tore through the space between king and scout, severed the top half of the man's skull, and clanked to the stone.

  Kleni clapped—slow, polite, amused. Piss drenched the remaining scouts' leggings, dribbling down to pool at their feet. Their glasses tumbled from their hands, adding another splash of red to the dirt.

  Abennak was Villeen's fault.

  Her father's notes had said, 'As the tents flap and the sun beats down, as that blood dries, as those claps sound, I'll feel sadness for my daughter.'

  I didn't want it to come this far! She shook her head, attempting to ignore the thread of gentahl that suggested she flee. No, not this far.

  Another thread, far more powerful than her own, tinged with madness and sorrow and fury, fluttered in her mind. Abennak lifted his hand and, with it, the severed half of the scout's head floated to him. He gripped the place where cheek had once covered jaw and thrust his other hand into the makeshift bowl. He extracted a sludgy mass, plopped it into his lap, and tossed the skull over his shoulder.

  "Ah ha, just and just as I suspected. Brown!"

  The two scouts shifted nervously as Abennak petted what was once their friend. Yet they didn't flee. The king would inflict far worse on them if they did.

  Wind pressed against the canvas, and the streamers and banners fluttered.

  "Scout leader Krown," Kleni said. "I believe you're here to report? I've waited oh so patiently, and I'll not wait longer. It's Kara's birthday."

  Villeen felt herself stiffen, felt her fingers twine and grip one another, as if to clench a ledge that didn't exist. Kleni had never used Kara's name, but these last days the woman had grown closer to the king.

  She's playing him. She's playing us all.

  "Farren's preparations progress with each day," Krown said, and his voice cracked as he continued. "They've built the wall higher, strengthened the gates, and managed to find enough food to feed the city. Many still starve, but the army eats."