Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  What am I?

  He attempted to stand but couldn't. His muscles tingled, and he swallowed out of instinct. The images—watching as he dug amongst his parent's bodies, grinning at the blood on his hands, laughing into the night—they flickered in his mind. They taunted him. They cuddled him.

  He dug his nails into the desk and hauled his body up.

  Fier had vanished.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Abennak's carriage rumbled toward Farren.

  Soft cushions lined its benches, and Kipra shifted her weight to find a comfortable angle. Redwood fittings held its inhabitants close, and banners and small, sparkling lines, harvested from the king's pavilion, fluttered above the windows. They twinkled in the morning sun, and Kipra dropped her gaze to her lap.

  More twinkles.

  Her golden fingers, fashioned by the Mad King, clinked and rattled as the carriage struck a stone. She threw a quick glance at Abennak, searching his gnarled face for a reason why he'd returned her fingers.

  He simply offered a long, ragged snore.

  They'd traveled a full day and a half, but the memory of Ark's face carved into Renek's slab hadn't faded a bit. His absurd grin, the way his thumb jabbed skyward as if he approved.... She thrust the thought from her mind.

  She'd forced herself to remain silent as they approached Farren, choosing instead to listen as the army of Parched Men marched beyond the carriage. Their boots stomped and scraped, and her sister's coos and threats urged them on.

  Farren waited, and tension hung in the air like a gnat waiting for blood.

  And with it? Ark.

  The assassin, Wisk, strode alongside the carriage, next to Kleni. In a handful of hours, the man had become hers, paid for with a single night... and promises of more. They'd awakened in the same tent, and Kipra hadn't needed to guess what happened in the darkened hours. His smirk said enough. Ridiculous! The man was supposed to watch Kleni, not become her pet.

  Another stone, another clink and rattle and twinkle.

  "What's there to fear from a twinkle?" Villeen asked.

  Like a pig, Abennak attempted to snore, but it was fake. The man didn't sleep. He never did. He'd ordered Villeen and Kipra to remain in his pavilion last night, and he'd spent the entire time pacing and murmuring and giggling.

  "Come now," Villeen said. "You're—"

  "Burn on a pyre." Kipra smiled her sweetest smile.

  Fier's sister appeared haggard, little more than a clump of loose skin, bone, and ink. She looked like a chunk of limestone left too long in the sun and wind. What had she done to become so withered?

  When Fier had shown Kipra his father's book, he'd also told her something of Villeen. Anger and vengeance drove his sister, a sentiment Kipra might have understood once. She still did, in a way.

  Did she want to become the same?

  Villeen nodded. "'And in those moments, when fear is at its highest, she'll snap and snarl. She'll fling obscenities and wish they were walls. Twinkles will flash from her eyes.'"

  "I'm not your plaything," Kipra said. "I won't be used. I'm the woman—"

  "Who matters least, and also the one who matters most." Villeen lowered her face, pitching her voice to barely overcome the creaks of the carriage. "You can't understand the mistakes I've made. Void take me, I don't even understand them."

  Abennak giggled, though his eyes remained closed.

  "But they're here," the woman continued. "I hate what's happened, the war and the death and the sorrow. I even tried to stop it, but I couldn't. Demon-damn! I doubt I'll ever see my brother again."

  "You hate your father," Kipra said.

  She flexed her hand, listening to the chimes of her fingers, feeling them vibrate against her skin. Void-forsaken hand. Hatred she could understand. Bitterness and anger she could swallow. Like chunks of sugar, their sweetness melted on her tongue.

  They were also worthless.

  The tattooed woman nodded. "Since I was a young woman. My brothers and I were to help him forge what he considered the perfect world. We didn't recognize it at the start. How could we have? This is far from perfection."

  "Perfection," Abennak mumbled.

  Villeen frowned at him. "He's another of my mistakes."

  "And me?" Kipra asked. "Or my sister? We're hardly queens, no matter how much my fingers twinkle. She's no general, either. We're fakes, and yet we sit and play your game. For what?"

  Villeen shrugged.

  "Answer me, you void-forsaken whore!"

  "What's there to fear from a twinkle?"

  Kipra clamped her mouth shut, pressing her teeth together until they ached.

  "Nothing to fear from a twinkle," Villeen said, and she withdrew a book from her robes. "'It will flutter like a moth and armor us in its light. Ever higher it will lift and ever brighter it will shine. Ah, and it will despise my general. I mustn't forget how much she'll hate him.'"

  Kipra sat stark still. The other woman meant Ark.

  King's cock, I'm no bloody twinkle. Demon-damned Ark! He's cracked, not sane. Her fingers felt like ice against skin, but she clenched them tighter. He needed help. Needed to talk. But Bran said.... How could I lose you both?

  "He's different, isn't he?" Villeen said. "There's something about him, a mannerism or a confidence, that everyone is drawn to. Is it how my father designed him? I suppose that doesn't matter. But what I truly haven't understood is why you hate him."

  Kipra's throat tightened.

  Abennak cracked his eye open and split his face into a grin. "She doesn't hate him. She loves him."

  Tightened.

  Villeen pursed her lips. Something in her eyes—a confidence, a weakness, a question—glided over Kipra's skin. It took in the curve of her breasts, the smoothness of her skin, and latched onto her face.

  It felt like the gaze of a Parched One, but this woman understood more.

  "Keys unlock doors," Villeen said. "My father's notes say they must be opened in the midst of summer, and we'll allow gusts to clear out dust and mold. But which key are you?"

  "Summer is beyond and beyond us," Abennak said, and he stuffed three fingers into his mouth. He withdrew them with a slurpy pop and held them up. "I feel a wifty, wafty breeze."

  They rode in silence for several hours. The countryside rumbled past, a bleak splattering of trees and shrubs and dust. Farren loomed beyond the horizon, prepared for war, prepared for blood and violence and sorrow. Ark would stand on its walls, striking invaders down while Kipra sat in this rolling monstrosity. She'd watch as Parched Ones attacked her city's walls and slaughtered her people.

  Kleni's voice pierced the carriage. "To the top of the hill!"

  Kipra allowed herself a grim smile. This army would attack Farren, but she'd not be helpless. She sat in the heart of the demon and, just as Ark had taught her, one must feed a demon to draw it out.

  It devoured memories, hopes, dreams.

  Again, Kleni's voice reached her. "Halt!"

  Abennak jumped from the carriage, skipped and hopped at the bottom of its steps as if he were attending a ball. He laughed a vile laugh. With an exaggerated wave, he gestured for the two women to follow.

  "I didn't want this," Villeen whispered.

  Kipra shrugged, unable to believe the woman. "What did you want?"

  "To kill my father."

  "That makes it better?"

  At that, Villeen simply looked to Kleni, and arched an eyebrow.

  Outside, Farren's walls reached higher than Kipra remembered.

  Abennak ordered the army to wait on the hill overlooking the city, the same hill Ark had trained her and Bran on. The remnants of Farren's training camp littered the ground—discarded tent poles, exhausted fire pits, a stray sheet of canvas.

  Wisk lingered near Kleni, and she moved among the soldiers, issuing a quick word to some, a glancing touch to others. Few noticed these things. They peered at the city.

  "Who will find what they crave?" Villeen murmured. "I didn't."

&nb
sp; The army fanned out behind Kipra, thousands of Parched Men waiting for a chance at emotion. Like Yaron Kenn, they strove to understand the bitterness of death, or the flame of love, or even the lightness of happiness.

  Kipra sighed. Lack of emotion hung in their chests like the void itself. It nibbled and nibbled, yet nothing could fill it.

  Not death. Not love. Not happiness.

  Before her, Farren waited like a silent giant. Countless Parched Ones lined its walls, their whitened skin gleaming against the stone's dusty darkness. Somewhere within that seething mass, Ark prowled. He watched this army, perhaps even saw her with Abennak. Did the fool yearn to save her?

  Bloody Ark.

  Kleni stepped to her king's side. "We're ready to—"

  "Prove yourself inept?" Kipra snapped, and she laughed at her sister's scowl. "Who taught you to be a general? Do you understand the details involved? I don't. Will you strike from the north, where the walls might be tallest—but with the least defenders? Or will you—"

  "Kylen Crest taught me—"

  "How to die? Ah yes, and he did it so well."

  Again, like days earlier, Abennak thrust a hand between them and flicked the air. He cocked his head to the side as if listening, then shook his head. "Nope and nope, not yet ready."

  "How long?" Villeen asked.

  "My daughters always squibbled and squabbled. They weren't old or bold enough to understand what they meant to one another." He poked himself in the eye, then squinted at Kipra and Kleni. "A blind man can see and see you two mean nothing to each other, but I'm only half blind."

  "We're ready to attack," Kleni murmured.

  "Then do and do so."

  Kipra turned away as Abennak's army rushed Farren—a whitened, frothing wave against a blackened, rocky beach. She couldn't watch it. These Parched Ones wouldn't find what they craved.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  What have I done?

  -Everything.-

  Where did Fier go?

  -Fled, if he's half the man we made.-

  He can't have fled. Scour the countryside, the city, the cellars and lofts. I'll send men after him, to find him, to force him to—

  -To teach us? That door has been opened, my general. It's swung wide, and the child has escaped.-

  Void take me, what have I done? When I forced him to teach us, I couldn't have imagined I would find that. It's like a dream in the dark, with whitened fangs and reddened eyes. Except it's me.

  -Let our son go. Rest now.-

  What about the third piece of us? Kelnak. What about him?

  -Released.-

  To where? I don't feel him. I don't see—

  -We will. Void take me, please forgive us.-

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Irreor stood atop Farren's wall, appraising the besieging army. He clenched his longsword and the Synien, but they offered no comfort. They'd struck down countless men today, but still they hungered.

  His father's words floated in his head, weak and distant. 'Boy, strengthen your chest to hold the blade steady. The muscles work together. They're like a dance—one moves and the other follows.'

  Irreor shook his head.

  -Those people were lies. The parents who tortured us were true memories. It was so clear to us. We crafted our lies for a reason, though it now seems faint.-

  "You crafted them for a reason," Irreor hissed. "Not me. I wouldn't have done it. I never would've even thought those things were possible. We killed our parents."

  And that truth seared.

  Abennak's army had lit hundreds of campfires, and those dots hovered beside the city like fireflies, dancing and winking, with stars and darkness as their theatre. Corpses littered the ground below the walls, many with spear wounds, some with slashed throats, others with crushed skulls.

  Are they all lies?

  -They're as real as we are.-

  Pernik and Gar Tsi had retired to the Spire for the night. In ways, they might have felt the pain of this day's battle more than Irreor, for his own sorrow was muted, hanging beneath a mask of realization; he'd killed his parents as a boy. He'd orchestrated all of this.

  His mother and father, whom he'd always thought of as Kilnsmen, were lies.

  Something deep in his chest growled.

  -We let it out, showed it to itself, and now it hungers. How to stop its hunger? How to stop its anger? Can't think... can't guess.... Aiieee!-

  Irreor swallowed hard.

  -It took years to mend our madness. We never truly recovered, did we? That was yet another lie, one we told ourselves when the despair grew thickest. Ah, but we promised him love. We promised him happiness.-

  Like a gnarly burr, the child, Kelnak, scraped Irreor's chest. Lungs and heart heated and itched, felt as if they would sear through his ribs. He clawed at his skin until red marks stretched from collar to navel, but it continued to burn and scorch.

  A child shrieked somewhere far in the distance.

  "No," Irreor whispered. "I am me!"

  But he wasn't.

  Something new prowled his mind. He'd grown accustomed to the Prophet over the years, but this thing didn't move the same. It didn't feel or taste or smell like the Prophet. It felt like an ember. Tasted like ash. Smelled like dust.

  -That's how it knew itself. Each time we saw our father's whip, our third piece glowed like an ember. When it burned out and we again felt the darkness press in, he became ash. Cool and powdery to hide in the cracks of our prison.-

  Irreor unleashed a growl and stomped from the wall, but the Prophet's voice followed him, a constant explanation that whispered against his neck. The child also followed, but it refused to speak. Instead, its claws sank ever deeper into Irreor's chest.

  Its fire burned ever hotter.

  He strode through the streets, glancing into windows and down alleys, heading toward the Spire. At one house—shrouded in shadows, with windows blinking like a monstrous face—he stopped, then moved closer to press his forehead against foggy glass.

  Candlelight flickered within and bounced from the walls, and a man, woman, and girl sat huddled around a table. The father wore a ragtag soldier's uniform, the best Farren could produce in such a short time, and a hooked, notched sword lay on the floor beside his chair. His daughter had lifted her hair into a ponytail, and she scooted closer to cling to his arm.

  "Their faces are so gentle," Irreor whispered, careful to keep the family from noticing. "She'll laugh as her father tosses her in the air. At the end of the night, they'll gather around the fire and tell the stories of their days."

  -Indeed.-

  "They'll imagine wondrous sights."

  -And I shall forge an empire.-

  The girl smiled and looked up at her father. "Will you play with me?"

  "And what would you like to play, my daughter?"

  Her smile widened, and she pulled a doll from behind her back. It was stained with dirt, and one of its fingers had been hacked off to reveal dingy stuffing. With a type of pride, she proclaimed, "I'm Irreor Ark."

  Her father laughed in a deep baritone. "To slay the Mad King? To save the island?"

  She bobbed her head up and down, plopped the doll onto their table, and tilted it from side-to-side, as if to somehow force it to walk. "Play with me! He'll protect us, I know it."

  Her father pulled his daughter into his lap.

  Why would they do that?

  -They've a piece of us inside, each and every one of them. When we created them, we couldn't hold ourselves apart. So demon-damned difficult! Strands of us entered their minds, like grains of sand in a saltshaker.-

  Irreor stumbled from the house, leaving the girl and her family to their game.

  "You said before that they're echoes."

  -Incomplete, unable to fully think or feel.-

  "And the doll?"

  -Some days, it was how we viewed ourselves. We wished, truly wished, we were filled with stuffing. It was the only thing our parents allowed us in the pit. Well, that and th
e book.-

  "But the doll...."

  -Stuffing doesn't feel. It simply squishes down, regardless of the weight atop it. And when it's cut, it doesn't bleed. Simply frays. We wished and hoped, oh so furiously, to be like that doll.-

  Irreor released a slow breath. "Incomplete, unable to fully think or feel—the Parched Ones. Kipra knew it. Somehow she felt it, and she tried to tell me. Warn me. I couldn't see it. Demon-damn, why can't I see it!"

  -Because we're ourselves.-

  "That doesn't make any sense—"

  -We created an island for ourselves. Regardless of the fact that gentahl allows things to truly be created, some would call this place a lie. And after long enough, men believe their own lies. Ah, but we crafted this one for a century. Years and decades to dig it deep. We even used our power to strengthen it so that none could break it. Or so we thought.-

  "Then why can Kipra see it?"

  For a long moment, the Prophet remained silent:

  -We built her with special care, a mansion of the highest quality. Sturdy beams, straight bricks, higher and higher to meet the sky. She and Bran, Villeen and Fier—they all had specific tasks. They required more and more and more. We didn't plan their ability to see.-

  "Damn you, how do you create a person!"

  -They needed some type of emotion—that much we knew. Happiness and sadness and joy and rage, so many other things we could only imagine. For you see, we'd never felt those things, burrowed beneath our parent's floorboards, bathed in our own waste. No.-

  "How then?"

  -In the end, we simply guessed.-

  ***

  Irreor didn't sleep that night. The Prophet's thread didn't let him, nor did the child's claws. He paced the lowest level of the Spire, waiting for Gar Tsi and Pernik to awaken.

  Through darkened hours, he imagined Bran's face.

  The image came unbidden, like a tavern song that wouldn't be forgotten. The blacksmith smiled. Within moments, Kipra joined him and, not long after that, his mother and father—the Kilnsmen—appeared. They surrounded him, smiling and laughing as if they weren't lies.