"No," Kipra said. "I knew his father!"
Abennak shook his head. "His father was the lie, not this, because he needed to understand love. The book showed it, in a way, and so he knew it should exist. But how can a boy who's tortured by his parents understand that concept?"
"You did," Villeen spat.
"They were gentler with me."
"That doesn't matter!"
"I felt their love before Kelnak was born, especially from our mother. Things went poorly after that. The mine closed, and our father blamed him. Kelnak never saw a spark of what I did. So he created this world, each and every one of you, in an attempt to discover something he couldn't understand. How do you understand an idea with no one to teach you?" He answered his own question. "You guess and guess."
"And you let him."
"He's my brother. He's endured tortures you can't imagine, from the very people who should've loved him most." His voice turned low, dangerous, insanity but a memory. "I'd do anything to see him happy."
Villeen surged to her feet. "Was your wife and daughter's death worth it? My brother's death wasn't, nor is Fier's pain. I'd cut my throat to see him dead. I'd ram a length of steel into his gut, watch him choke on his own blood. He killed my brothers!"
At that, the king’s expression soured.
"I don't give a rancid belch what you think he is." Kipra bared her teeth. "He's Irreor Ark, a better man than all of you combined. Try to touch him—just try!—and I'll rip your arms from your chest and beat you with them."
Villeen shrugged; the woman could think whatever she wanted.
It doesn't mean she's right.
Her father deserved to die for everything he'd done, and nothing, not even this newest revelation, would change her mind. He'd burn on a pyre, and she'd smile as the flames blazed higher.
Vengeance for Torden.
Vengeance for Targ.
Vengeance for Fier.
"I loved my wife and daughters," Abennak said. "I loved that he gave them to me. I mourned them, and I mourn them with every ray the sun shines. It will never end. But I'd sacrifice anything for Kelnak. Anything."
Villeen opened her mouth to call him a fool, to curse and scream and—
Outside, one of the armies unleashed a cheer. It continued for several moments, rose higher and higher, until its strength drowned out anything Villeen could've said. Perhaps that was for the best.
It ended.
Fier unleashed another ragged cough, and more blood stained his lips. He convulsed, clenched his gut, and groaned. "It's like a bucket of fire. I didn't think it would hurt so much."
Villeen knelt to take her brother's hand.
"It's okay," he said. "I chose this."
"Choices and choices," the king murmured.
The pavilion's flap was yanked back, and Kleni stomped inside. Her face was a thunderhead, and she delivered a savage kick to the bed's nightstand. "Bastard sent his blasted Kilnsmen to flank me. We lost most of our archers. Demon-bloody-damn, what kind of an idiot abandons a secured position?"
"One smarter than you," Kipra said softly.
Kleni turned on her. "Be careful, Sister."
"Or?"
Kleni smirked, but remained silent.
"You're finished for the day?" Abennak asked.
She delivered another kick to the nightstand.
"Go amongst our soldiers tonight, my little general. You're not needed here, nor are you wanted. This is a family affair, and it's time to prepare our party."
At his side, the goat bleated.
Chapter Eighty-Three
No sounds or voices drifted from below Farren's Spire. Neither the rumble of wagons nor the cluck of chickens. Neither the groans of the wounded nor the cries of the fatherless. Only the breeze whispered, but Irreor covered his ears to block it out.
He heard whispers too often. Sometimes he mistakenly listened.
-I'm not a mistake.-
The Prophet's thread slithered across Irreor's shoulders. It felt different, less supple and more firm. It had spoken softly, like a denial through gritted teeth. Memories accompanied it, though they flashed and vanished like heat lightning.
He was Kelnak.
He was the Prophet.
He was Irreor Ark.
But who was who?
"You'll be needing rest." Gar Tsi leaned against the railing with his head hung low, and the salty stench of sweat rolled from his body. Weariness tightened his eyes. "Let Teel make you some tea, or you'll—"
"No," Irreor said. "I can't sleep."
"Void's tit, man, you've not been sleeping in a good day and a half, unless I'm missing my guess. I'm being no stranger to exhaustion in a man's eyes. Close your lids and nature will be doing the rest—"
"Who ordered the Kilnsmen to flank Abennak's archers?"
"You weren't issuing any orders, so I did it myself. Seemed like it was being the best choice at the time, seeing as you didn't leave me with much of an option. You were... were...."
The battle must've been fierce, horrible, but Irreor remembered only fragments, a memory of a memory. His last clear thought was turning to meet the first attacker to gain the walls. He couldn't talk of the things he saw when he closed his eyes. Hundreds of slaughtered men, each blaming him, pointed their fingers and, with blood dripping from widened eyes to filthy cheeks, they howled.
This war was his fault. He'd somehow created them, thrust it upon them.
They were right to hate him.
Rippon's soldiers had withdrawn their attack as the mid-afternoon sun hovered, and their king promised that he'd not attack again until dawn. Gar Tsi had snorted in disbelief, but Irreor, unable to explain his trust, ordered his men to go hug their loved ones.
They had, leaving the city silent.
Candles danced in Farren's windows, just a faint flicker as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Within those houses, fathers told stories of their day, perhaps making themselves out as heroes. No one could've blamed them, if they did. Others might've felt sorrow and refused to speak of it. No one could've blamed them, either.
I don't have anyone to tell the story of my day to. I don't want to be alone.
-We're never alone.-
The Prophet had returned sometime after the battle, though he'd refused to explain where he'd fled. He'd claimed the sight of blood had revealed the child, and Kelnak had surged forward to steal Irreor's body.
It was true enough, for now.
"You're thinking of Kipra," Gar Tsi said. "I can't be saying it's a good idea. A man should be remembering his loves, but he should also be trying to save her. You won't be saving anyone without a wink of sleep. I know—"
"It's not Kipra." Irreor shook his head. He couldn't talk about so many things. They were too painful to speak of, too close to his heart, too far from his touch. "I need to walk."
"I'll be going with you."
"Find your bed for a few hours, at least until Abennak's party." He reached out to clasp the merchant's shoulder, just as the older man had often done for him. "Sometimes an owl simply needs to spread his wings and fly through the dusk. They fly alone."
"You're no owl."
"But it soothes me all the same."
Gar Tsi frowned at the scabs on Irreor's arms. "You're being certain of this? We'll be needing ourselves as strong as possible, once dawn strikes. We've got to count the arrows and ready the—"
"I'm certain."
Irreor pivoted away and marched down the Spire's winding stairs. He passed rooms packed with soldiers, men without families or homes. They fought because they believed it right to do so. Men better than Irreor. He strode past the massive, dead oak in the Spire's courtyard, and into the street.
He spread his arms wide, like the wings of an owl, to feel the air on his palms. Nights like this didn't require direction. They needed solace and peace, things he couldn't find.
-They're fleeting as a mouse at the edge of its burrow. We fly and fly, search and search, but it vanishes the
instant we glimpse its whiskers. Scurry, little mouse, scurry as fast as you can.-
Irreor chose a direction and walked.
Cobblestones whispered beneath his boots, free of garbage, and only a thin layer of dust remained. Farren's streets had been swept clean, even in the northern district. Who would've ever thought that could happen? Not Irreor. Earthen pots stood before random houses, and the first buds of autumn flowers sprouted in dark, damp soil.
Three months ago, when Crest still held the city, this would've been impossible.
Oh, how far they'd come.
Irreor's sword and dagger hung from his hips, swaying as he continued onward, and he placed hand to hilt in an effort to steady them. The taverns were mostly silent—people would rather spend this time with their families. And yet, as he walked through the silent, tranquil city, the child pressed against his chest.
-He burst free once.-
Then make sure it doesn't happen again.
-If only it were so simple.-
The child pressed harder.
A man and woman's voices rang from one house, his low and strong, hers gentle. Their words weren't understandable, but they laughed high and clear just before Irreor stepped beyond earshot.
Had that laugh sounded forced? Were they truly happy?
No and yes.
Irreor slowed, turned to the left. There, only paces away, stood the house he'd visited last night. The same father sat at the table, the same girl bounced on his knee, and the same doll, ragged and dingy, its finger hacked off, rested in her hands. At an iron stove, her mother stirred a pot with a long wooden spoon.
Scents of chicken and vegetables wafted from the house.
Mother turned to daughter and smiled.
'A man should be remembering his loves,' Gar Tsi had said. The tone of it, the subtle accusation.... 'He should also be trying to save her.'
The man in the home tried to save his wife and daughter. He fought for them.
-We could take Kipra with gentahl.-
"That's what you've done this entire time, isn't it?" Irreor muttered. "Whatever you wanted. You wanted to find something you couldn't see, so you made something you could. Love isn't seen, fool. I couldn't do that to her. "
-We've already done it.-
"We haven't done—"
-We forged her, just as we forged the others. We could unmake this island, remove everything but her and us, and we could know her touch with every sunset. Please and please and please.-
Irreor dug his nails into his forearms, allowing pain to clear his mind. Perhaps Kipra would touch him, love him. No, she wouldn't. She'd hate him if she knew what he'd done.
Just like that family would hate him, if they'd known.
Inside the house, the mother placed three plates on the table. The girl hopped from her father's lap, and the three of them took up bent, tarnished forks. A thick bandage covered the father's hand as he slurped food into his mouth. So much love lived here, and it was a thing Irreor had never experienced. His love had been fake, but this family was... they were....
A spot of blood dripped from the father's bandage.
Somewhere, far in the distance, a child shrieked.
Fury and hatred and longing erupted within Irreor. They forced him to dig his nails deeper, stomp his feet harder, clench his muscles tighter. They felt like the cry of that child. This family, in their tidy little house, with their perfect little father and mother and daughter—they didn't deserve happiness. No! They deserved what he'd known, and he'd known pain.
The child pushed harder, shrieked louder.
Void take me, what are we?
-You let me see the light. I remember her touch, her love.-
It wasn't for you!
-Mother?-
Irreor clutched his head and screamed.
He sank to his knees and beat his fists against the street. His knuckles split, and blood oozed to stain the cobblestones. The child screamed with him, and their voices echoed deep into the night, spreading across the city like the blankets so many fathers spread across their sons.
-Kill them.-
Was that wrong? Did they truly deserve to die?
Maybe they did.
Yes.
-Kill and kill and kill. Use our power.-
Irreor snatched a thread of gentahl, instinctively wove it into the family's mind and his own. With a sharp yank, he altered their minds. The door crackled, then shattered to mere kindling.
He strode within like a wrathful god.
The man surged from his chair, his expression tight and fearful. He lunged for the blade at his feet, but Irreor again twisted his thread of gentahl. Metal heated, first red then white, and smoke rose from the floorboards.
So easy.
The father yelped and scurried backward. He fanned his arms wide, protecting his wife and daughter behind his body, and they backed into the corner on the far side of the table.
Terrified. Wailing.
The girl lifted her doll like a talisman, and her tiny voice pierced the air. "Irreor Ark will protect us!"
Irreor thrust his thread deeper, harsher, and the table's legs turned to dust. He twisted the thread yet again, and the doll's head was crushed to the size of a pebble. Stuffing oozed from its bindings, and it burst like an engorged tick.
-Take their fingers first.-
Irreor Ark singled out four threads of gentahl, and he advanced.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Dusk fell as Kipra waited.
She sat upon the cushioned bench just outside the Mad King's pavilion. A group of soldiers stood nearby, watching to make sure she didn't escape. The idea was tempting, but something in the way Abennak had spoken of Ark, his moment of sanity, the kindness in his face and tone, they kept her here.
Minutes seemed like hours. Hours seemed like days, yet still she waited.
Blue sky drooped beneath approaching darkness, and orange splotches stained the sky, stretching to the city as if to embrace it. Then night cuddled them all, and the orange splotches receded as if sad to leave.
A cool breeze blew across her skin, carrying the scent of roasted pig flesh.
This was an evening similar to the last one she'd spent with Irreor, beneath the massive, deadened oak. Skeletal branches had stretched so high. His touch, his strange smile—it had been a rare night. She should've believed him when he'd told her Fier's father talked to him, shouldn't have allowed him to leave alone that night.
She'd been a fool.
Bonfires speckled the hillside above Farren, and the scent of hickory drifted through the air. Shouts of laughter rang through the army. Soldiers nibbled their dinners of pig and chicken and hard rolls, grinning at one another as if unable to believe they were at war.
Demon-damned Parched Ones!
These men didn't know if tonight's meal would be their last.
She hadn't eaten, despite the emptiness in her gut. She couldn't find the desire for food after Abennak's promise. She'd see Ark again tonight. She'd talk to him, tell him she should've believed him, and she wouldn't need to think about war, or death, or her sister.
A song sprang up from halfway down the hill.
~~~~~
Ye old merriment
Ye old delight
Cuddle us in your night
Let us know your light
~~~~~
These men, even the Parched Ones, knew peace for these brief hours. Banners rippled above each tent, purple and blue, white and green. They had dulled as the sun set, but their memory remained.
These people didn't understand the idea of peace, but they deserved to.
Far below, the city's gates yawned. Torches spilled from Farren in a massive, snakelike line. They twisted like the scales, blinked like the eyes. The men of Farren marched up and up to the camp, and the laughter of Abennak's army withered.
Silence.
Still Farren's soldiers marched up. Still that gate yawned. Still that snake blinked. Ark and Pernik led them, and Kipra'
s breath caught in her throat as they drew closer.
Ark's face was paler than a Parched One. Wounds—some half bleeding, others scabbed over—covered his arms. He marched to the pavilion, but his face was unreadable, as if someone had snubbed the light in his eyes.
Kipra stood to meet them as the first bumps of fear rose on her arms.
This wasn't the man she'd left beneath Farren's Spire. He'd changed, become hollow like a Parched One, but with even less life. How did a handful of days do that to a man?
As Ark opened his mouth to speak, Abennak thrust aside the pavilion flap.
The Mad King wore his customary armor, thick steel with rusty gouges, and he examined the Alkarians with wide, unblinking eyes. A goat bleated at his side, with a frayed rope looped around its neck.
He'd taken that ridiculous animal everywhere these past hours.
Villeen stood to the king's side, glaring at Ark, though she remained silent. Her eyes were dark and sunken, hidden in shadow, and her entire body was taut. Fier rested in a tent near the king's pavilion, clinging to life like a candle at the end of its wick.
It flickered.
Kipra took a quick step to the woman's side, preparing to snatch arm or face if she attacked Ark. Maybe, just maybe, if Ark had truly killed her eldest brother and injured Fier, he deserved her anger.
That didn't mean she'd watch him harmed.
"Ah!" Abennak shouted, and he spread his arms wide. "Our guests have arrived, yes. Would you care for a nibble of food? I have a pig and a pig and a pig! Ah, no? A sip of wine, perhaps? We've carried the best from all over the land."
Rippon's soldiers turned to them, peering up the hill and shifting nervously.
Ark's army stood at his back, lined up with squared shoulders and jaws, tight lips and darting eyes. Like a butcher's cleaver waiting to fall, tension hung in the air.
Again, Ark opened his mouth to speak. "I—"
"No, not really, but at least my wine is from Rippon." The Mad King shuddered. "Better than that Renek swill. Horrible stuff, that, and the city is better off having been swatted like a seed at the end of a stick. Flip and flop and fly! Have you come to the party?"
The goat bleated as if to say party.
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