Banners and streamers glittered, smacking against one another in the still camp. The two armies watched each another, aware of the slightest movement, anticipating the smallest hint of violence.
Don't ruin this, Ark.
Ark gave the goat a mirthless grin. "Gar Tsi told me you'd have a party with a goat, if it took your fancy."
"True and true," Abennak said, and he hummed a little tune. He knelt to give the goat a sloppy kiss, ruffled its fur, and stood. "You know what you are? You know why you're here?"
Ark hesitated for a long moment. He rocked back and forth, cast his eyes to the left, then the right. Widened. "I know pieces, fragments, but they're hazy and... fearful. I can't hold onto them, and I'm not sure I want to."
"You don't want to, but you'll have to."
"So it seems."
"And you're prepared for that?"
"No." Ark faced the king, and his skin was whiter, his eyes more haunted. He spoke in a whisper. "I can't silence them. Can't stop them."
Pernik moved as if to grip his general's arm, then stopped.
"No, you can't," Abennak said to Ark. "They're within you. They're part of you, and it's impossible to drown out their voices. You tried once, don't you remember? You thought this would work. It didn't."
"I'll drown them out," Villeen said grimly. "He'll burn on a pyre, and—"
"The next word you say might be your last," Abennak snapped.
Silence fell as the king's words fluttered away. They hadn't reached to the nearest soldier, but the sincerity in them—the truth and sadness and distress—they were worse than Ark's haunted face.
Do something!
"Ark," Kipra said. "You don't—"
"Hush, child," Abennak murmured. "You'll have your time, and it will be a glorious one indeed. We didn't have to be here, but we are. This is what we have." He pulled back Villeen’s robe and withdrew a book. "'These moments—fleeting and silent and wasteful—we'll cling to them.'"
"'Yet I'll lift them up,'" Ark said, as if finishing a passage. "'I'll forge an empire.'"
Villeen gasped.
Part of Kipra died in that moment. Like a plant in the desert sun, it withered and vanished, never to be regained. She recognized the book. It was the same as the one Fier had shown her and Bran.
Ark hadn't just cracked, he'd been right. Fier's father talked to him.
"Why am I here?" Ark said.
Abennak handed the book back to Villeen, then lifted the pavilion flap. "Come inside. Once we've talked, the tent is yours. Take your love inside. Whisper all the things you should've whispered."
"And then?"
"The sun will rise, and I'll hurl my army against yours. It's absurd, yes, but it's the only choice we have left. It's how you planned it. How you wanted it." The Mad King offered a sad, lopsided smile, then shouted to the gathered armies. "Tonight you'll drink. You'll eat and laugh and eat. As the sky lightens in the morning, you'll part as brothers."
The two vanished within the tent.
Ark.
He was so close—close enough to caress—and yet she'd let him slip inside without a word. She should've... should've.... Kipra shivered and looked back to the pavilion, but the flap was closed. No voices drifted from within. Did Ark know he and the king were brothers? What would he say or do, when he found out? How—
"Kipra?" Pernik flicked a nervous glance to Villeen. "You want me to stay?"
Two armies faced off, fearful of what could happen without their leaders. Their hands were close to weapons, their stances next to violence. Their whitened, flaking skin looked alike, and their jerking steps mirrored each other.
She held her breath, wishing she gripped a blade.
I shouldn't have let Ark go alone.
"Kipra?" Pernik asked again.
"No," she said at last. "Go with the army, and make certain they don't kill each other. Save that for tomorrow." She released a sarcastic little laugh. "Abennak said tonight is for laughing and dancing and telling stories of our lives."
He grunted. "I've had a rough life."
"We all have."
"It's good to see you again."
"You too, Pernik."
He gave one sharp, militaristic nod, and turned to Farren's army. "Let's go, lads. Find yourselves a fire and have a seat."
Parched armies mingled.
One of Rippon's men produced a tankard and offered drinks, though slowly, fearfully, as if a length of steel could sprout from his chest at any moment. Then another tankard was distributed, and another, and Farren's soldiers dissolved into Rippon's like water through a sieve.
Laughter sprang up, at first taut and strained, but soon more natural.
Still, theirs was the hollow laughter of Parched Ones. They sang and ate and discussed their lives, but only because they felt the need to, only because they knew nothing else.
They didn't do these things out of genuine emotion.
"What will they do?" she asked, more to herself.
"I couldn’t give a whitened shit what my father’s creatures do," Villeen snorted. "The bastard who killed my brother is inside this pavilion, but I can't touch him. Abennak is too powerful, and he'll never let me get close."
"I'd never let you get close, either."
Villeen shrugged.
"They're not like me," Kipra said in a low voice, gesturing to the Parched Ones. She didn't know what else to talk about, not with Ark so close. "They're not like Ark, weren't like Bran. I've watched them for a year, hid from them, ran from them, yet they've followed me."
Villeen offered a slow nod. "You see them?"
"Yes."
"And you understand what they are?"
Kipra pressed her lips together. How could she trust this woman whom she’d only known for a handful of days? Villeen despised Ark, that much Kipra knew. It was plain on Villeen's tattooed face, in the gritty way she spat his name. Added to that, she was Fier's sister, and he'd manipulated Kipra and Ark, maybe even Bran.
No, Kipra couldn't trust this woman.
The goat bleated as if to laugh at her.
I may not trust her, but I can use her.
Demons lived in the heart, in the mind, just as Ark had taught her. They were released by talking, by prodding. A single push here, a gentle shove there... not much would be required to pull Villeen's demons to the surface.
They already snapped just beneath the skin.
"Yaron Kenn, Farren's High Seat, told me he was different," Kipra said. "I can see the difference, smell it, yet something inside tells me it isn't true. Your brother told me your father built it all."
"Fier will breathe his last breath tonight, and it's because of our father. Torden... my Torden. We lived deep in the caves, but I didn't understand why. I didn't even question it. Now I know: my father was mad beyond all mortal ken."
"But Yaron Kenn—"
"Torden would put me on his shoulders, and we'd hike the forests beyond our caves, the breeze on our faces, sunlight lancing through the leaves. Fier would walk beside us, and we'd build forts from fallen branches."
"And?"
Villeen turned to her, face curled beyond rage. "The man you love murdered them. Why? Because Torden got too close to my father's madness. The bastard killed my brothers, and I'll watch his flesh bubble."
"Ark wouldn't—"
"It's the monster inside him. Kelnak. You're right, in a way—he built it all. The stones, leaves and dirt were all here before him. Before us. But you and I? Have you ever wondered why you hate your sister? Despise your mother?"
"Void and bloody void, what do you know of that?"
"Everything."
"Then you know enough to swallow your tongue, or I'll shove it down your throat."
"So what if they were whores? It's not the kindest of jobs, but it's all they knew. Ah, but you never cared about that, did you? All you know is anger, emptiness, and a desire for violence. It was tucked away, so deep you never realized it."
Kipra shook her head, curled
her golden fingers until they clinked together. The woman was lying. She'd cared about Bran and Haral and Paien, not to mention Ark, but she didn't dare say it. "Make your point."
"You're his."
"Whose—"
Villeen opened her book, flipped to the middle, and read aloud. "'And I'll make them all, down to the tiniest child. The men, the women, the loved and hated and adored, they'll all be mine.'"
"Your point?"
"We're Parched Ones."
Kipra laughed. "You're mad."
Villeen smiled a grim smile. "Do you remember your father?"
"My mother was a whore! He could've been one of any two hundred men. More, maybe. So no, of course I don't remember my father, nor do I care to. One shit parent was enough."
Silence—tickling, waiting, tickling again.
"I don't remember my mother," Villeen said. "Never knew her name, didn't even question where she was. My father stole that from me, because she never existed. It was only him."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
Kipra opened her mouth, struggling for something to say. Yes, she despised her mother and her sister, but there was a good reason for that. Wasn't there? It was... what? How they let men use them for pleasure? Their weakness?
She's wrong!
Yet uncertainty remained.
"You hate them because it's what he gave you," Villeen continued. "Nothing more, nothing less. Do you still love him? Will you walk into that tent and allow him to take you in his arms? Who is truly weaker, you or your sister?"
On the hillside below, Lerrin's violin took up a song. It was loud and joyous, without a hint of the tension that had once slithered through the camp. Kleni would be down there, surrounded by hordes of lustful stares, dressed in her gossamer outfit.
She must've danced, flirted, laughed.
Torches twinkled and sputtered from Farren's walls. Thousands of Parched Ones watched the party, listened to the song. And they joined in. Their voices lifted higher and higher, their crackling tones blending together in what sounded like a roaring bonfire. They sang a song of love and sorrow—the only song they could've sung.
Villeen sighed. "Ark put you through this."
No!
"I'll stop him," Villeen muttered, though it seemed more to herself than Kipra.
Kipra gripped the edge of the cushioned bench, pressed until the hard edges of her golden fingers tore through fabric. Still she pressed, tighter and tighter, and stuffing oozed between flesh and metal.
"I won't let you," she said.
Villeen shrugged.
The pavilion flap rustled, and Abennak stepped through. Kipra forced herself to look into his eyes.
He grinned and patted her on the head. "If my daughters still lived, I'd want and want them to be like you, all brimming with spitfire, but a shard of compassion to cut through it all. That shard will glow tonight." He held the flap open. "Go to him. He needs you."
She moved to obey, but stopped. "And you?"
"Me? I think I'll take a walk."
Villeen also stood, and she glared at him. Fier's ragged cough echoed from a tent down the hillside, and for a brief moment, king and woman stared at one another, hurling a secret back and forth like a child's ball.
"You trust me?" he asked her.
She didn't nod.
That moment vanished.
Villeen strode down the hillside, and the soldiers at the closest fire leapt to their feet to follow.
The Mad King's voice stopped them. "Let her go."
He winked at Kipra, then his expression hardened. "My brother and his army must and must return to Farren's walls by sunrise. I'll take the goat. You've this night, but no more. I'm sorry, but tomorrow we'll die and die."
"Ark will win?" Kipra asked. "You think Farren will—"
"The day after that, we'll mourn and mourn."
Chapter Eighty-Five
The scent of jasmine hung in the pavilion, and Kipra hesitated at the entrance, still holding the flap. Candles filled two tables to illuminate the room, and wisps of dark smoke rose from their burning wicks. Their dim glow mingled shadow and flame, revealing piles of pillows, a tiled floor and, in the center....
Ark.
He sat cross-legged, his head bowed, countless scabs lining his arms. His hair, dark and matted, had fallen across his forehead to obscure the top half of his eyes, but he didn't lift his head to look at her. The Synien lay in his lap. He drew his fingers over its steel, flipped and twisted it in his hands.
A tear dropped.
The memory of the Mad King's face as he bid her goodnight, the discussion with Villeen, the last weeks—they vanished as that tear splattered against his dagger. Kipra released the flap with a trembling hand, stumbled to him, and sat. The floor was hard, and its coldness seeped through her leggings.
She could've said anything, should've said something.
Instead, she reached out and tugged his fingers from the blade. She held to them, clenched them tighter than she'd ever held anything. He spared a single glance at her golden fingers, then gulped and looked away. They sat there for several minutes, locked together yet held so far apart.
Ark broke the contact, looking again to her hand. "Your fingers?"
She covered them with her other hand. It was absurd, yes, but she needed to hide them. "Abennak made them, somehow. I don't claim to understand it."
"How'd it happen?"
"Wisk," she snapped, struggling to stifle her anger at the assassin. Irreor taught her everything he could, and it was her own problem if she hadn't learned well enough. "What did Abennak say to you?"
He licked his lips and examined the pavilion's flap. Beyond it, the Mad King must've pranced through the two armies, his goat at his side. "He forgave me. That's it—three words. Then he simply sat and looked at me."
"He told you more," she said, careful to keep her tone light and airy.
"Some things are too close, too fearful to even utter, for, if I let them go, then others also break free. Those other things are terrible."
A shudder gripped him.
"I've missed you," she said, knowing she should've said it years ago, wanting to find a way to change the subject.
He caressed the dagger, then slid it into its sheath. Blade and sheath hissed together, and he unbuckled it from his belt to lay it on the tile beside him. Finally, he laughed—wry, sarcastic—and looked her full in the face. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're Irreor Ark."
"If only that were true—"
"You're the man I've trusted." She swallowed hard, forced herself to ignore the churning in her gut. These things needed to be said. "You're the man I've admired for longer than I can remember."
Again, he laughed that laugh. "And the man you've hated."
"At times, yes." She inched closer and grabbed both of his hands, unwilling to let him go. She'd have to release him in the morning, watch him walk down the hill, wonder if she'd ever touch him again. "I think, at times, we're all prone to hate. It's only human."
Outside, the Parched Ones' song grew louder, then dropped to a hum, crackling and low, like a boulder as it crashed down a mountain. The words weren't discernible, but the voices filled the tent.
"I'm more than Irreor Ark, more than what Eenan Ark made me," he whispered. "So many things, and they all swirl and curl in my mind. Can't separate them. I'm—"
"I don't care," she said gently. "We've all got things we'd rather see gone. Some days, they matter. But on days like this, they're one candle among many. Snuff it, and there's still light."
"You'd care if you knew what I am."
She believed she knew what he was. Kelnak—Fier and Villeen's father, the Prophet, the man who'd created this island and everyone on it. Impossible to believe, and yet it was true, wasn't it?
Would she let that rule her? Succumb to the hatred?
How easy it should've been.
Teel had once asked if she wanted to be a bitter old hag. At the time,
Kipra hadn't cared one way or the other. Toss a stick of shit on a fire and let its stench fill the air; it didn't matter.
But then she'd be the same as Villeen, that much was clear, and the pure, simplistic rage of that woman simply wasn't worth it. Not in a hundred years. Not for thousands of deaths. Eyes squinted in anger, life devoted to vengeance—I'll not end up like her.
So what if Ark had made her this way? Was that reason to despise him, as Villeen claimed? He’d given her the anger, the desire for vengeance, but he’d also given her friendship with Bran and the feelings she held for Ark himself. And in the end, he was just as broken as she.
He deserved more than a sharp word, more than anger.
"You're Irreor Ark to the core of your bones, and I don't care about anything else. You're stronger than it is. I know that even as I know I sit here. Take that for what you will." She shook her head. "What of Bran?"
"I burned him." His voice wavered. "I hadn't realized how much weight I put on his shoulders, but he bore it without complaint. He was a mighty man."
Farren's funeral pyre had belched smoke for so long. So many people had been lost beneath its flames, but never a friend. For several more seconds, she allowed sadness to fill her. The moments she'd rejected, the moments she'd forced herself to forget—the light fading from his eyes, the smile on his lips—they crashed against her chest.
Her tear matched Ark's.
"The city?" she asked.
"As ready as it will ever be. Gar Tsi made certain people can eat, but they're still weak. Pernik is able to bring another level of stability, one I couldn't have found. I'm not a leader like he is." He met her gaze. "I could take you from here. Fier taught me."
She nodded slowly—a cottage overlooking the western ocean, or a shack nestled in the Dull Crest Mountains, or perhaps even a home in the Inner Empire. There were so many possibilities. They could awaken without a war at their walls, hunt food without fighting for it, tell stories of their days while lounging beside a hearth.
They could live a lie.
She inched closer, until their knees touched. She slid closer yet, skirted around him until she sat beside him. Then she pulled him close, felt the warmth of his skin against hers, the rise and fall of his chest.
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