Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  He let her, though he trembled.

  He wants me to say yes. Void take me, he'd leave everything. Does he even understand what he's asking? I wish Bran were here. He'd know what to say.

  "I can't," she whispered.

  He drew a haggard breath and pulled his fingertips over her arm. "Years have gone by, but the voice in my head still asks why. Choices are choices. They can give us something or they can take us from—"

  "Irreor." His name sounded right, felt right, and she savored the taste of it. She pulled his hand to her chest, lowering her head to kiss the back of his palm. "No."

  And still he trembled. "Why?"

  "I'm in the heart of the demon, lodged between Fier and Villeen and Abennak and Kleni, and I can watch them. You taught me the way to overcome a demon is to speak of it. Feed it. I'll learn from them and use it against them. Today, Villeen told me—"

  He laughed—joyless, saddened—and pressed his forehead against hers.

  She scowled at the interruption, then smoothed her face and continued. "I can almost see its face. Once I see it, once I understand it, then I can overcome it. I need time. I need you to trust me."

  "Trust!"

  Something invisible and furious, like an unseen hornet’s sting, plunged into her mind, and it yanked and twisted. Candles flared brighter, and everything in the pavilion—the bed, the tables, the tiles beneath them—they shuddered.

  "Can't trust," he muttered. "Can't do it. Aiieee!"

  Irreor attempted to pull away, but she gripped his shoulder tighter. His breath puffed against her breasts, quick and hot and humid, and again he attempted to pull away.

  No! Her nails dug into his arm as she clenched him, and one of his scabs broke to ooze blood across her fingers. "I won't let you go," she said. "Not again."

  "They trusted me." He moaned a low moan. "'Irreor Ark will protect us,' they said, yet I cut them down all the same. I couldn't stop him. Void take me, they stare at me with such accusation. I did this, all of it, and I can't stop it."

  He rocked back and forth.

  "Hush now," she murmured. "It's okay, I prom—"

  Again, the thing in her mind jerked, and every candle but one dimmed. The pavilion plunged into a deep shadow, with only the faintest orange flicker on the canvas. Two tiles shattered, then three and four and five, sharp, as if cracked by a hammer.

  "Not her," Irreor said, and he whimpered. "No, void take you, not her!"

  Another tile burst, and a shard of stone bit deep into her arm.

  Blood dribbled.

  Kipra grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. His cheeks were drawn and sunken, his eyes wide and fearful, his skin dried to the point of cracking. Candlelight reflected from his face, and he blinked in an attempt to block it out.

  She gulped past a tightened throat.

  She hadn't believed Fier and Abennak when they told her who Irreor was. Not truly. Why should she have? Just because Fier found a stupid book and a doll, it didn't mean Irreor had been tortured as a child, nor did it mean he was Abennak's brother.

  Not really.

  The madness in his face, however, proved it true.

  Void bloody void, I'm losing him.

  "You're still Irreor Ark." Her voice trembled as she continued. "Repeat it. For the love of everything you hold dear, repeat it."

  He didn't.

  "Repeat it!"

  "I'm still Irreor Ark," he echoed, and his tone livened as he repeated it. "I'm still Irreor Ark. Ark and Irreor and Ark. It seems faint, like I've heard it a thousand times, but never truly until now."

  The candles returned to life.

  "To the core of your bones."

  "To the core of my bones."

  His fists clenched, unclenched, and he drew a deep, steadying breath. Again, his hair drifted across his forehead, and much of the tightness fled from his cheeks. His eyes weren't as dark as a moment before. He twitched once, hard, then calmed.

  "Nothing you do can change that," she murmured. "You're who you are."

  "No, nothing."

  She grinned, pulled the hair from his forehead. "And I love who you are."

  Ah, how easy it had been to say that. How natural.

  A smile split his face, one she remembered from years past, one she'd hoped to see again. Yet it was also different—shy and longing. She looked past the scars and scabs covering his arms, into his eyes. So demon-damned deep and brown. Her skin tingled with the faintest reminder of her past, but she ignored it.

  "What now?" he asked.

  "Let's take this night. It's ours, freely given." She hesitated, fighting the urge to pull her hands back. "I've never known a man."

  "And I've never known a woman." He kissed her forehead. "I couldn't—wouldn't have been willing—to look for another. To me, you were all that mattered. Your hate, your anger, your love."

  She twined her arms through his, held him tight.

  As if to himself, he whispered, "Yes, this is what it feels like."

  Beyond the tent, the Parched Ones sang.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Light pierced Irreor's eyelids.

  He grunted and covered his face with a hand. He began to pull the other up, hoping to escape that cursed light, but a weight pinned it to the bed. His fingers tingled. Soft yet firm, both blanket and weight trapped him, and he cracked an eye open to peer at them.

  Kipra shifted and mumbled something.

  His arm was lodged beneath the curve of her neck, and he gently lifted her head to free it.

  She grumbled something else, her voice thick and slurred with sleep, then turned her back and unleashed the opposite of a ladylike snore. Deep and hungry, it was like a hound before starvation.

  One candle still burned in its holder, fighting dawn's dim light, which streamed through the pavilion's flap.

  Flicker and stream, stream and flicker.

  Outside, a man hacked a cough.

  Irreor swung his legs over the bedside and lurched to his feet. His clothes were scattered across the tiles—clumps of leather armor, woolen tunics, boots and belts and bracers, other things that were unrecognizable in the dimness. Kipra's clothes lay with his, and he separated them with slow, hesitant motions.

  The sight of them returned memories. Kipra's touch. The taste of her mouth and the motion of her body, cautious yet driven, hungry yet reserved. Then they'd slept in each other's arms. Such delicate memories, like a sunflower on the cusp of blooming, yet they were also feared.

  He'd almost lost control and set the child free.

  The last time it had broken free, it had slaughtered a family—no remorse, no judgment, just plain murder. What was worse, he'd remembered it. He'd washed the blood from his skin before coming to Abennak's camp, but that dark, corrupt memory remained oh so real.

  The daughter's face as she’d screamed, the father's rage as he watched.

  Irreor shook his head to clear it.

  -It was glorious. Everything we've done was worth it. We hadn't ever imagined Kipra's touch could be so gentle, so loving. Ah, my general, look at what we've accomplished.-

  You consider a woman's touch worth a war? Was it worth the death of that family?

  -Wasn't it?-

  Irreor couldn't argue. He tried, but.... The thoughts should've been so easy to form; of course it wasn't worth this! Yet something blocked it. Did he himself block it, or did the Prophet hold his thoughts away?

  Did it matter?

  No.

  -No it doesn't matter, or no it wasn't worth it?-

  No.

  He yanked his leggings up, buckled them, and slipped into his armor. Its leather was cool, and tiny bumps rose on his arms. As he snapped the last clasp into place, the flap whipped back. Abennak stood in the opening, his back to a canvas of black sky tinged with orange streaks. Farren rose beyond it, a deep and tall shadow. Dawn hadn't yet struck, but it nibbled the island's edges.

  Abennak's goat bleated at his side, and he held its reins loose in one fist.
>
  "It's time you left and left," the king rasped.

  Irreor cast one final glance to Kipra, wishing he'd awakened her to say goodbye. Yet she slept, and she probably hadn't done that since Wisk had delivered her to the Mad King. She deserved a night's rest.

  "Now and now," the king said.

  The goat bleated.

  Irreor cursed himself, swung around, and strode past the king. The aroma of roasted pig flesh still hung heavy in the air, and the two armies still mingled, though Pernik rested at the fire closest to the pavilion. The old officer wouldn't have wanted to remain far from his general.

  Irreor walked to the man's side and nudged him with his boot.

  Pernik rose to his feet as if he'd never been asleep. "It's time?"

  "Gather the men and ready them to reenter the city."

  The old officer nodded and poked three other men in the arms. They dispersed amongst the camp, a soft word here, a jab to the ribs there, the clank and rattle of armor. The ranks slowly formed.

  From behind Irreor, Abennak said, "Remember and remember what I said?"

  The king had forgiven him, but how did that help now, with their armies on the verge of clashing? Why not simply call off the attack, if he was truly forgiven? And what, for bloody void's sake, had the king forgiven him for?

  Irreor hadn't lied when he'd told Kipra the king had simply spoken three words.

  Everything else?

  I've no demon-damned clue what he wants.

  -He wants us to accept his forgiveness.-

  But why!

  -Nak....-

  The Prophet's voice withdrew, and the child pressed against Irreor's chest.

  Abennak's identity was another secret, one that, if released, would free the child. That's what the Prophet had told Irreor to tell Kipra. Secrets—the large, the small, it didn’t matter—were one of the things that freed the child.

  Death and havoc and misery, all for a blasted answer.

  Abennak's men awakened even as Irreor's gathered, and Rippon's soldiers formed a half-circle around king and general. Nervousness shone in some expressions, happiness in others, and sorrow in yet others. They'd enjoyed their evening, and it seemed few of them wished to draw the blood of a newfound friend.

  Who could blame them?

  Farren's army snapped to attention, Pernik tall and dignified at their lead.

  Irreor turned to the Mad King. "There's no other way to resolve this, you and I? There's something here, isn't there? Between us?"

  The king's lips wilted to a sad smile. "Climb and climb your walls and we'll meet again with the dusk. I'm sorry or sorry, but this ends today. Tomorrow we'll mourn. Hurry and scurry!"

  From within Rippon's army, a violin sprang to life. It sang an energetic song, but also one tinged with danger, tension, and a promise. It rose higher, higher, until its notes grazed the orange dawn.

  "Mourn today!" Villeen shouted.

  She emerged from between Abennak's soldiers, Kleni and Wisk on her heels, and a host of at least twenty soldiers at their backs. Lerrin moved between soldier and mistress, and his violin squealed out in anticipation. Kipra's sister wore light leather armor, and two slim daggers jutted from her belt. The assassin's garb was the same as always, though his knives had been polished.

  -This isn't what we'd planned.-

  But you didn't plan any of this! It was all wrong, wasn't it?

  -Not what we'd expected.-

  After Helt, you didn't know—

  -Void and bloody void. Curse our daughter!-

  Far in the distance, a child screamed.

  Kleni and Wisk moved closer, and the soldiers behind them clutched long wooden poles, taller than two men, with a heavy canvas rolled around the shafts.

  All wore grim expressions.

  Abennak swung around. "Vill, no!"

  "It's too late, dear uncle. I promised Torden—promised him!—that I'd see an end to this, and I will. I held Fier's hand last night as his eyes drifted closed. He's gone."

  Uncle—that word should've held meaning.

  What did she mean?

  -Nothing. Everything.-

  Damn your puzzles!

  Pernik snatched his sword from its sheath and strode to Irreor's side. With him, three thousand Alkarian blades whisked free. On the walls of Farren, all movement ceased for a second, then the soldiers knelt to sweep up bows, then bent them back. Merriment was lost. These Ripponese threatened their general.

  "Step back, woman," the old officer growled.

  She cast him a quick glance, then returned her gaze to Irreor, sweeping it up and down as if furiously searching for something.

  "Step back!"

  "No."

  "You'll bloody do it, or I'll have you pierced by a foot of—"

  "Sheath your sword, Pernik," Irreor hissed. He spun around to shout, "All of you, put up your blades! I don't want to see a shimmer of steel within three seconds. One. Two. Three!"

  Not a shimmer remained.

  "I'll not stand and watch you cut down," Pernik said.

  -Steel us.-

  "You'll do what I tell you," Irreor snapped. The child clawed at his chest—wild, more furious than before—and each breath burned his lungs. He leaned close to whisper in the old officer's ear. "Now go stand with the men, and don't let them do something stupid. Abennak's army will slice us into ten types of steak without Farren's wall."

  Pernik grunted and did as he was told.

  -Armor us. We're the steel butterfly. We're the flippy flappy fly. Irreor Ark will protect us, protect us, protect us. Irreor Ark will—aaiieee!-

  Uncle. Uncle.

  And the child clawed.

  "Can't you feel and feel it?" the king said, and he stepped to Villeen's side. "I'm sorry about your brother, truly and honestly, but let Kelnak have his war! He's so close to actually feeling, and we can't—"

  "That monster is wrong," she said with a snarl, and she pointed at Irreor. "I'll end your brother, and you'll watch and watch and watch. We'll all watch!"

  Brother. Brother.

  Irreor dropped to one knee. Trampled, once-grassy ground thudded against bone.

  Abennak is our brother.... Why didn't I see it?

  -Protect us and armor us and flutter us away.-

  "Spread out in a circle," Kleni, forgotten until now, commanded her men. A sly smile curled her lips, and her eyes glittered in the emerging sun. "Drive your poles into the ground and unfurl the canvas."

  The assassin peered at Irreor with something, wariness or anticipation? A lifted eyebrow. A thin smile. Hands to knives. Kleni’s men swept to the sides—quick, confident, rehearsed—and encircled Irreor in a ring twenty paces across.

  "Don't do this, Vill," Abennak said. "It's not what your brothers would've wanted."

  The child hammered against Irreor, shrieking a soundless shriek. Irreor struggled to his feet, but invisible fists forced him back to one knee.

  Must stand. Where am I? Must escape.

  Abennak was his brother.

  "Make sure no one can see," Villeen said, and she moved to the king's side. She snatched a dagger from her robes. "You can't know what my brothers would've wanted. Can't! I'm sorry, Abennak, but you deserved a better brother."

  She stabbed him deep in the neck, just above the ridge of his armor.

  He crumpled. Blood pumped. Sorrow flowed like a river of rubies.

  His goat bleated in terror and fled.

  -Can't hold him. Aiieee!-

  "Release the canvas!" Kleni shouted.

  Rippon's soldiers thrust their poles into the ground, unfurled the canvas. They spread it out like a wall, hindering the sight of everyone outside. It was tall enough to block out the men on Farren's battlements, thick enough to obstruct all eyes.

  From beyond that barrier, Pernik's voice rang out. "Save our general!"

  Two swords clanged, then three and four, then hundreds and thousands.

  Wisk advanced.

  The assassin whipped a knife at Irreor, then
another.

  Irreor dropped to his side, rolled, and lurched to his feet. Demon-damned slow, but the child screeched and clawed and seared. They reached for gentahl at the same instant, yanking the thread like two mutts tugging the same rope.

  -Kill and kill! They murdered Nak!-

  Irreor knew he should've surrendered.

  He'd just watched his brother—his true brother—stabbed. The urge for revenge coursed hot and unchecked. Kill! Yet if the child took him, it wouldn't be satisfied with one death. It never was. No, it hadn't been satisfied with the death of his father—it had demanded his mother.

  Hacked off her fingers.

  Over ten thousand people would die. Beyond this pavilion, the child wouldn't allow any to live, it would simply cut and kill and laugh. Its gentahl would tear them to pieces.

  Madness. Total, stark madness.

  Not today! He gritted his teeth and thrust the child aside with all his strength. It felt like rolling a boulder up a hill. It won't happen today, you bastard.

  -Kill!-

  I'll kill, but you must let me!

  The child calmed, and yet it waited like the calm before a river's rapids.

  Two knives sped at Irreor's throat, and he rolled to the side. One grazed his ear and the other tore through the canvas to the battle outside. Shouts and screams filled the air, yet still the assassin circled.

  Wisk reached over his shoulders to slide two shortswords free. As in Abennak's courtyard, he stalked Irreor. Shortswords lanced out again and again, sometimes meeting steel, sometimes tearing through empty air.

  Still he advanced, a grinning-skull smirk stretched across his lips.

  What would happen if this man killed Irreor? Kleni would order Farren burnt to the ground. Tens of thousands dead. And Kipra slept in Abennak's pavilion. Had she heard the clashing blades? Had she already joined the fight, trying to rescue him?

  Kleni would never let her sister live.

  "Damn you!" Irreor snarled.

  He blocked a slash, lashed his longsword out, skipped to the side of a riposte, and thrust with his dagger. Synien met flesh and blood blossomed beneath the assassin's sleeve. Irreor continued the maneuver, pivoted to the opposite side, and whipped his longsword at the other man's ankle.

  -Kill!-

  The assassin grinned, and a thread of gentahl snaked from his mind to touch Irreor's. He hopped over Irreor's attack, launched two knives at Irreor's chest, then three and four. Irreor deflected them, watched them skitter across the hard-packed ground, and returned his attention to the assassin.