I need her back.
-Impossible.-
"I need her back!" Irreor hissed. His hand twitched, and he clawed at it with the other. One scab broke and dribbled a crimson line onto his fingertip. "It isn't a question or a request."
Ah, if only he could've—
Paien dropped a bundle of limp carrots, and they smacked the floor with a note of finality. She gazed at him, eyes widened, hands held to chest, as she lurched back a step.
-They think you're crazy.-
Because I am.
"Ark," Haral moved closer to the younger man. "We need you strong. Lead the army. She's somewhere out there, but we won't find her without a host of soldiers."
"I need to see her room."
Haral hesitated for only a moment, then opened a door to the side of the kitchen. The scent of Kipra, a subtle hint of hair and sweat, wafted through the opening, and Irreor stepped inside.
He breathed deeply.
"I'll leave you alone for a few moments." Haral closed the door.
Kipra's room was simple, nothing more than a table, bed, and nightstand. Should it have been more extravagant, somehow mirroring the woman who lived here? Blankets were still tangled from the last time she’d slept here, and an open book lay face-down across the pillow. Its golden title stood against a stark, black background: Sojourns from the Inner Empire.
-We're all tales of ourselves.-
What do you mean—
-Not many books came from the Inner Empire, when we were a child. Indeed, not many books at all saw this island. Except one, but it was rare. Treasured.-
This one.
Kipra had often taken the book to their training sessions. After hours of practice, she'd read it atop the hill overlooking Farren, soft grass swaying at her feet, lips turned to a half smile. She'd rarely spoken of it, almost as if she wished to keep it to herself.
Irreor hadn't argued. Kipra's secrecy was nothing new.
Now, however....
What does it have to do with us?
-Should the first line be thin or thick, wavy or straight? Crafted from charcoal or ink, paint or putty? We envisioned what we wanted, but we had no idea how to begin. So we used the book.-
Irreor plopped onto the bed, muscles no longer able to keep him upright. The sheets seemed warm, as if Kipra had lain here only seconds before. He shook his head, clenched a handful of blankets, and—
-This book is a dangerous memory.-
Tell me, damn you!
-We can feel him at the door, can't we? Seeing with sightless eyes, feeling with an emotionless heart. Aiieee! This memory is so close to him, so close to us. It hungers, waiting to break free.-
I don't feel anything.
-Hold him back and back and back.-
Irreor's chest tightened, as if someone knotted the blanket around him. Tighter and tighter that knot was yanked, until air wheezed from his lungs in breathless protest. He groaned, but not the groan of an exhausted man.
High pitched. Terrified.
Somewhere in the distance, a child screamed.
-Aiieee!-
Irreor chuckled from deep in his gut, throaty and bitter. It didn't matter if the Prophet was in pain, just as it didn't matter if he felt the same tightness. Pain helped. He'd let it come, let it wash away the world beyond Kipra's room.
Tell me!
Between gasps, the Prophet did:
-We read the book as a child. Over and over and over again, we read it. Its pages allowed us to escape, and it offered an alternative to our life. At the door and door and door! No!-
There's more. Tell—
-We used this book as an outline. What Helt, our instrument, should've done... those ideas came from the book. Find a talisman. Gather an army. Defeat a king. They're things and things and things we should've— Aiieee!-
And Kipra?
-An untouchable love, like in the book.-
Irreor smashed his fist into the headboard, and its wood cracked. "Damn you to the void! Why? Why throw the entire island into a shitstorm? The people here don't deserve—"
-They were crafted by us, every single one.-
Silence, cold and calculating and lonely.
The full weight of what the Proph—what he had done, crashed into him. He'd designed this island from a book. Somewhere, lost in memories he could only dream of, he'd imagined this all, forced it into existence.
With help, of course, from himself.
I wouldn't do this.
-The island existed before us. We simply populated it, placed all the pieces, and set it in motion. Our daughter, or the woman we named our daughter, ruined it. She flipped our plans upside down and shook them, like a child with a new toy.-
No.
-Denying it won't change anything.-
Irreor jerked his head from side to side. "No, no, no!"
-The third piece of us opened the door because of your need to know. Can't you feel it? Bit by bit, inch by inch, he's pulled it back to reveal an eye. Can't let him emerge. Can't and can't and can't.-
I—
-Will be our sword. I'll be our shield.-
Irreor licked his lips and again cast his gaze across the room. Ragged, wonky shutters hung half-open, letting a shaft of sunlight pierce the floor, and the sound of marching feet drifted through. A burnt-out candle sat upon the table with red wax pooled at its base.
The tightness in Irreor's chest lessened, and he drew a full, deep breath. This room was more than a reminder of Kipra, more than a comfort.
It was a promise to himself.
He was beyond what the Prophet originally intended. He should never have remembered everything. Because of Villeen's interference, he'd become more than just a general. He was Irreor Ark, son of Eenan and Skai Ark, Kilnsman, and apparent creator of worlds. Could a king, no matter how powerful, stop him?
Unlikely.
He'd watched families slaughtered, some of them his own, and burned the only man he considered a brother. In addition, Abennak had Kipra. Did she cower? Doubtful. She must've glared back at him, no less furious than the Mad King himself.
What do I do?
Two heartbeats passed, then three.
-What we originally intended. Defeat Abennak.-
He would smash his forces against the Mad King's, mourn the death of countless more soldiers. Yet in the end, he'd find peace. He'd take Kipra's hand, caress her lips with his own. If only he could.... He'd take her away, as he should've done so long ago.
-And what of the third piece?-
The third piece of himself was nothing but a tightness in his chest, a shriek in the wind, a warning from the Prophet. It couldn't harm him, and it certainly wouldn't stop him from rescuing Kipra.
Gar Tsi's voice boomed from the kitchen. "Where's he being? Void's tit, I haven't been walking all this way for pleasure. Things to be doing. Armies to be ordering. Cities to be saving."
Irreor stood, cast one glance back at Kipra's book, and strode from the room. The merchant's worried face greeted him. Teel hung back near the entrance, nibbling her lower lip.
"Weren't planning on spending two hours to find you," Gar Tsi said. "What're you thinking, running off like that? People be needing you, man, and they can't be expected to be waiting for orders like dogs in the—"
"I did what I needed to," Irreor said.
"Well now you're needing to greet the Kilnsmen."
Irreor frowned. The Kilnsmen shouldn't have arrived for at least two days, unless they ran the entire way, which meant their muscles would be weary. Not the best for fighting.
He touched the marks on his collarbone, placed there by Garhund. The scabs were tough and rigid, but they didn't hurt. A pity. "How many?"
The merchant shrugged. "Been seeing myself fifty or sixty riders, all hawk-eyed and cheetah-limbed. None extra after that. They rode through the northern gate three hours ago, but I haven't been finding you since."
"You expected more?" Haral asked, and he gripped his wife's hand.
&nbs
p; "Yes," Irreor said simply.
"How many did you—"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does!"
Haral spun Irreor around. Fear and anger and something else—guilt or sadness—dwelled in his expression, and he jabbed Irreor with an uncallused finger. "I'll drop myself off a cliff before I let Kipra die."
Irreor peeled away the man's hand. "Then take up a sword and prove it."
He pivoted and strode from the home, Gar Tsi and Teel at his heels. He didn't have time to argue with Haral, for, if the Kilnsmen had truly arrived, then Abennak wasn't far behind.
A day? Two?
The merchant's donkey and wagon stood within a ring of soldiers, which parted as Irreor neared it. "Gar Tsi, gather the council, and bring the Sverden as well. We'll meet at the western wall."
Gar Tsi barked an order, and the soldier at his side scurried off in response. Merchant and wife took their places in the wagon, and snapped the reins over the donkey’s back.
Irreor tugged his cloak tight about himself.
Soldiers marched beside the wagon, their backs straight and their eyes alert. Farren's Spire jutted from the city's heart, a glistening spear in the bright sky. Pyre smoke rose beside the Spire. Yet a dark cloud hovered to the west, threatening rain within a few hours.
If he were lucky, it would wash away his life.
The city looked better than ever. People moved with purpose. Many of them wore flour-stained aprons, while others gripped bows or dense wooden staves. A few lucky ones even wielded swords and armor. They prepared, despite the futility.
"It's being amazing what men can do, given the right motivation," Gar Tsi said.
-They're echoes.-
How can they be an—
-They're so much more than flesh and blood and bone. Deeper and darker, like an infinite well, but also lighter. We couldn't define it, but we attached it to ourselves. The despair... oh, the despair. What will they become if he's released?-
The Prophets words reminded Irreor of Kipra's claim that Parched Ones inhabited the city. Of course, fool that he was, he hadn't believed her.
You didn't truly know how to make a man.
-No and no and no. Aiieee! Don't open the door any more. Leave it cracked. Protect, protect. Every memory and revelation opens it farther. Don't!-
The Prophet's voice broke off, sharp and sudden, like a hatchet through rock.
Irreor gripped his forearms and squeezed, uncaring whether Gar Tsi or Teel saw the blood leaking from his skin. It welled beneath his fingernails, sliding down to drip on the wagon's floorboards.
"We'll be finding her," Gar Tsi said softly. He handed Irreor a rag from the back of the wagon. "Be cleaning yourself off. It's not being so smart to meet the council looking like a pin cushion."
Irreor took the rag and wiped his arms. Gar Tsi and Teel didn't understand the battle in his mind. They couldn't feel the third piece claw or screech, or the Prophet's explanations, but they supported him without question. That was worth more than piles of gold or stacks of the finest blades.
The Council House drew closer, a squat structure at the end of the street. Two councilmen, the hems of their robes stained with dirt and dust—evidence that they'd assisted in the city's preparations—shuffled into the building as the merchant's wagon stopped and Irreor leapt to the cobblestones.
Gar Tsi and Teel followed.
"You can talk to us, if you need to," Teel said, glancing at Irreor's arms. "Anytime. Anywhere."
He nodded, knowing he never would.
***
The Council's Chambers smelled of fear, an earthy scent that filled Irreor's nostrils.
Unoccupied chairs circled the table, and a bowl of spongy fruit sat atop it. Yaron Kenn and Garhund sat at the head of table, and they turned as Irreor, Gar Tsi and Teel entered.
Irreor nodded to the Sverden, and the scabs on his collarbone pulled tight.
The Sverden retained a stony expression. His weapons had been polished, the rust scrubbed away. He wore them as if they belonged at his side, and they probably did. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his hair was wild and uncombed.
I was right. They traveled day and night.
He waited for the Prophet to respond, but the voice remained silent.
So be it.
Yaron Kenn's face was fixed in a worried frown, and he swayed back and forth. Stains covered his clothes, further evidence that the council hadn't stood idle as Irreor traveled to Kiln, then burned his friend.
Fier leaned against the far wall, his tattooed hands hidden by the folds of his robe. He kept his head bowed, his eyes half closed, his ears no doubt at the ready.
"Where's everyone else?" Irreor asked.
"Back at work." Kenn cast a poisonous glance at the Kilnsman. "If he would've brought more men, I wouldn't have needed to. What can we do with fifty?"
Garhund clenched his jaw.
"Sverden?" Irreor took a seat at the far side of the table, and Teel and Gar Tsi sat to either side of him. He gave Garhund a hard look. "You promised more than fifty."
"I did what I could," the older man answered. "Many wouldn't come."
"Why n—"
"Said you murdered Terik."
Irreor arched an eyebrow. "Sverd Ta is murder, now? Fools! The man attacked me and I defended, nothing more. No, no, no, this can't be happening. I trusted you. Those were your customs, Garhund."
"The customs are yours as well, Irreor. I gave you the mark. In addition, the men I brought are the best, tried and true."
"Farren commands one hundred times that," Yaron Kenn hissed. "Fifty is a drop of piss in the bucket."
Garhund fixed the High Seat with a cool stare. "Are your five thousand trained? Have they done this since childhood? Tell me, city man, did their parents give them wooden swords as toys?"
"They're—"
"City folk!" Garhund spat at the other's feet. "One of mine is worth fifty of yours."
Yaron Kenn sucked a massive breath and puffed out his chest, and he balled one hand into a fist. Against the larger Kilnsman, he was a puppy against a wolf. No matter how he bared his teeth or lifted his hackles, he'd be torn apart.
The Sverden’s hand inched toward his blade.
Irreor surged to his feet. "Enough!"
"He's being right," Gar Tsi said. "We've already got ourselves an army on Farren's doorstep, we aren't needing bloodshed within these walls."
"Cocks always want to prove themselves the hardest," Teel murmured to her husband. "Let one castrate the other, and we'll be on our way." She waved a hand. "On with you."
"Woman, I'm not thinking that's the best—"
She cut him off with a roll of her eyes.
Irreor placed his hands flat on the table and leaned over to glare at the two men. "I'm tempted to agree with her. Fifty isn't what I'd wanted, but I'll take everything I can get. Or do we go with Teel's plan?"
They deflated.
Irreor he retook his seat. "What are the reports from Renek?"
"We're expecting a scout any moment," Kenn said. "Last we knew, Abennak waited at the base of Renek's bluff, and he hadn't moved in days. Just sat there. Don't know why."
"Has anyone seen Kipra?"
"A black-haired woman was taken to Abennak's pavilion. She wasn't happy about it."
A chill swept across Irreor, but he forced it away. He'd already known the Mad King held her, so this changed nothing. "Garhund, how exhausted are your men?"
"We took every horse in the village to move quickly, but the men need rest after a day and a half of hard riding."
"Find Pernik, my sub-commander, and tell him to find you bunks. Tomorrow, I'll expect you to work with Farren's soldiers. Teach them everything you can. After that, we'll hope for the best. I doubt—"
The door jerked open, and a skinny man stuck his head through. "I've news from Renek."
Irreor waved the man in, dread pooling in his stomach.
If Abennak marched within the next day, it barely gave F
arren enough time to shore up its defenses, integrate the Kilnsmen, and hide the citizens in the city's center. But then, everyone had known this would happen, and the Mad King, for whatever reason, had supplied them more days than they could’ve hoped for.
It was enough.
"They've marched, haven't they?" Irreor asked the scout.
The man nodded and stepped into the room. "There's more."
"How much more can there be?" Gar Tsi said.
"Abennak destroyed Renek."
"Pah! We've already been knowing tha—"
"No." The scout shuddered. "He erased the entire city. Tore every building down, reduced everything to nothing, like it never was. Then he built a slab of stone, taller than Farren's Spire, and carved our general's face into it."
Fier shoved himself from the wall. "What do you mean?"
"I watched it from a far hill, but even from that distance something wiggled in my head. I felt it."
"Void take me," Fier whispered. Then, in a louder voice, he asked, "How many people saw this happen?"
"His whole army, over ten thousand men."
"Void bloody void, he's more powerful than I'd ever imagined."
Chapter Seventy-Two
"This is a bad idea," Fier said. "Nothing has changed."
-I agree.-
Irreor tossed the man a grim smirk. "Everything has changed. Understand this: I smell Abennak on the horizon. Teach me, and I'll do everything I can to save Farren. This city won't end up like Renek!"
"No."
They sat to either side of a sturdy desk, in the Spire room with the painted eagle. The bird still soared above Irreor's head, but it no longer mocked him. He'd needed a quiet place to confront Fier, and this place served as well as any.
Time bled down the hourglass.
Fier gazed at Irreor with absolute calm, his hands spread evenly on the table, his face relaxed and watching. Not a twitch. Not a doubt. A single candle sputtered, the only sound Irreor had heard for hours.
How long until Abennak splattered Farren across the map?
Not long enough.
"I buried Bran today," Irreor hissed. "Can you possibly understand what that means? He was like a brother."
Fier's face wilted, and his skin paled. "I understand."
"Then teach me!"
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