It hadn't solved anything.
Ark coughed and clenched his jaw.
In the battlefield, twenty more soldiers slumped to the ground. They'd never awaken, never laugh or cry. They didn't understand their emotions, and clutched at them like a feather in the breeze. But what if they could've learned?
"Can they?" Kipra asked.
Ark followed her gaze, must've known what she meant, and she didn't need to see him nod. She felt it, the slight lift and bob of his chin, and her skin didn't tingle. Not a tremble, not a shiver—his skin touching hers felt as if it belonged, just as when he'd made love to her. Oh so gentle, oh so warm and gentle.
The Parched Ones....
They could learn emotion. They deserved to live.
"I must die," Ark said, and he smiled a thin smile.
"Kill him!" Villeen screamed.
Kipra took up her remaining shortsword, ignoring Villeen's knife, and she set it to Ark's throat. He took her hand, re-angled the blade so its point rested beneath his chin and the hilt was close to his chest. He pressed it upward. Blood trickled around the steel and he jerked his hand away.
He truly can't do it.
Another fifty died—silent, peaceful.
"Pierce my brain," he murmured. "No other way to stop him."
"End it!" Villeen screamed.
"I'm not doing this for her," Kipra said, and she once again brushed the hair from his forehead. It was so soft, yet it smelled of dirt and sweat and... and what? Love? "I'm doing it for you, because you asked it. I love you."
If....
And he smiled.
She kissed his forehead, tasting the salt of his life.
Then she plunged the blade deep.
Epilogue
Kipra walked to the top of Farren's western hill, the weight of two books in her hands. They were heavier than her blades, yet they cut just the same, once she'd recognized them for what they were.
Oh, how they cut.
Two days ago a battle had taken place, and blood still stained the soil. It had been a horrific sight, though thankfully the corpses had been removed, the tents had been cleared away, and only trampled grass remained. It was half brown, half green, and it struggled for life in the fading sunlight.
Far in the distance, Farren's Spire rose above the city.
A pyre stood at the hill's highest point. Ark's body rested atop it.
Today she'd deliver his Eulogy. Later tonight, when the moon rose highest and the stars burned brightest, they'd burn him. Just like the Mad King had once claimed, they'd mourn.
Abennak, Villeen, Gar Tsi, Teel, Yaron Kenn, and the entire city followed her. Slow. Solemn. Except for Villeen, their expressions were saddened yet relieved, for each of them understood what had truly happened.
Ark was dead, but they'd been given emotion.
They felt.
Villeen, however, wore a tight expression, and she gazed at Ark's distant pyre with something akin to satisfaction. She still knew only vengeance. The bitch didn't accept what Ark had given, and that's why her skin still peeled and flaked to the ground. Some people said Villeen needed to be killed, but Kipra knew Ark wouldn't have wanted that.
So she lived.
Still, Kipra hoped that the woman would find another place to live. No one wanted to see her remain in Farren, for they remembered her as the woman who craved the death of their savior.
Abennak poked Villeen in the arm, then skittered away. He spoke in a tiny voice, "You were so close to letting it go, but you can't forgive and forgive?"
She scowled.
"Leave her be," Yaron Kenn said gently. "It's not her fault."
The Mad King giggled.
Kipra sighed as she peered at him.
With Ark dead, he was the one person on the entire island who wasn't Parched, and now the differences were more apparent than ever. His skin was smoother, his eyes slightly deadened compared to a Parched Man's brightness. However, she couldn't decide if the last was because of his madness.
His madness did indeed remain, though it was more subdued. Where it had once been harsh and furious, it was now tender and soft. It was the brush of a child's skin.
"It isn't being required anymore," Gar Tsi had told him the night before. "You did what your brother was needing, so you can let it drop."
Abennak hadn't.
A jagged scar rose from the skin of his neck, though he claimed a purple bubble light had taken the pain away. The mushy gushy heart had repaired itself, he'd said. The steel was solid and the butterfly still flapped and fluttered.
Ark's final blast of gentahl had saved his brother.
Few remained in Farren after Ark's madness and the deaths that followed it, barely fifteen thousand total. That included the soldiers from both armies, in addition to the townsfolk. He'd killed the rest. Rather, part of him had killed them, then he'd begged Kipra to end him.
It had been the only way to stop him.
Kipra knew that now, though it wasn't easy to accept.
Despite Abennak's madness, the king had explained it all. He'd told her of Ark's life before, of the torture and the pain, and what had driven him to this. He told her how he and Ark had learned gentahl, though his brother excelled because of the madness. The insane knew no limits, he'd said. It made sense. Once he'd driven himself mad like Ark, he could use the power far more effectively.
Everything else—the sacking of Renek, the mindless slaughter of countless Parched, all the tiny pieces that led to this point—he'd done them because his brother expected it.
It was a gruesome tale, and she'd forced him to stop several times.
Newfound emotions made it even harder to accept. Still, she'd listened and learned, and scribbled everything he said into her notes.
Ark's Eulogy deserved it.
She drew closer to the top of the hill, halted and turned. Ark's pyre waited at her back. It waited to be lit, but first she needed to speak of him. Thousands of Parched faces peered up at her, and her voice was ragged and harsh as she began.
"'They'll stand amongst the corpses of the beloved.' That's what he said at the end, though I never considered myself one of the beloved, not at the beginning. I was simply a terrified woman then, but now... now I understand. Maybe I wish I didn't."
She sighed. "Void take me, this is so demon-damned hard."
Abennak lurched to her side, and he rested his forehead on her shoulder. "Keep talking and talking about the beginning. It's always easiest that way. What was he to you?"
She twisted her lips, remembering. "In the beginning, he loved me and I hated him. Irony, it twists and twirls like a lover's song, but this is hardly a lover's tale. It's one of blades and blood. I wish I could've seen it sooner, but I suppose that would've been too easy. I wouldn't have learned to truly love him.
"Love," she murmured. "That's all he wanted."
Her voice strengthened.
"In the beginning, he adored his father. Oh, how quickly that was snatched away. But it's different, because he took his father from himself. He had to teach his own lessons, just as he had to teach us ours. If only they hadn't ended with so much bloodshed. If only it would've stopped there, but he never admitted how much the death of his father devastated him. Maybe things would've been different if he had. Maybe, ah, I don't know. Maybe it's pointless to think about. I couldn't have done anything to change it, anyways. I doubt he would've let me."
Abennak shook his head. "He wouldn't have."
She nodded, forcing herself to continue. "In the beginning, he was a Kilnsman like his father. No, he'd never stepped inside the village, and no he'd never met a Kilnsman besides his father, but that didn't change who or what he was. He was a Kilnsman, and that meant something to him. The honor of it. See, these things were at the core of who he was. In the end, he was more than his true father. That's why he never relented. That's why he's dead."
Thousands of Parched faces stared at her, unblinking, their skin rough and whitened, their eyes full of car
ing.
They waited.
"In the beginning," Kipra said slowly. "None of you understood this. I didn't either."
Parched Ones looked to one another. They hadn't heard Abennak's tale, and they only knew what they felt within their minds and chests. They knew what Ark had done on a base level, but they didn't understand the intricacies.
"It's okay," Abennak said, and he moved to her back. He placed his chin on her shoulder and gazed out across the Parched Ones. "They'll listen and listen."
"Void take me."
"Talk and talk."
"He's only been gone two days, but I feel as if it's been a lifetime. I still remember the angle of his smile. The slant of his brow. Isn't that absurd? He's gone, and I remember an angle."
"I'm also remembering it," Gar Tsi said.
Villeen rolled her eyes, and a pulse of anger shot through Kipra. She shook her head, forcing the emotion aside. How had she survived without this? How would she survive with it? Yes, she'd thought she knew emotion before, but she'd been wrong.
Ark had proven her wrong.
"It... it doesn't matter," she said. "We have what he's given us, and we'll do the best we can with it. I remember training with him on the hill to the west of Farren, how he'd never let me take the easy path." She lowered her gaze to the trampled ground. "Indeed, he took the hardest possible. I'm sure he wouldn't agree with me if given the chance, but he was also a fool and I'll not blame him for it. For you must understand that, when he chose to travel with the merchant, he thought he was running away."
Gar Tsi nodded.
"He wasn't running. He was digging himself deeper."
Again, Gar Tsi nodded.
"Oh, and the weight of that must've been crushing." She lifted her gaze to stare the merchant in the eye. "Gar Tsi, do you remember the quickness of his step? So fluid, like a dancer at the pinnacle of balance. Demon damn but I miss that. He protected you and your wagon, and he protected us all."
"I do be remembering it, and he did," he said.
"Villeen," Kipra said, and she turned to the tattooed woman. "Do you remember his fierceness, the way he refused himself? No, I suppose you wouldn't. You were too intent on your vengeance, and you're thrilled to watch a good man fed to the flames. Know that he rejected it to the end. And this was a bitter end indeed, bitter for me, bitter for so many of us."
Villeen frowned. "I don't think—"
"That's past us, isn't it?" Kipra asked, uncaring that she'd cut the other woman off. "Good."
Abennak grinned and patted her on the head.
"More than that," she continued. "I still remember his lilting smile—as if something dwelled within it, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. I always go back to that. The image of it doesn't leave, nor will it ever."
"Smile and smile," the Mad King murmured.
"Hah! Smile and smile."
"It was a mushy gushy mess."
"Yes," she said sadly. "It was a mushy gushy mess."
"You're forgetting his rage," Villeen muttered.
Kipra took a moment to think of it. "Rage. It filled him in a way none of us can truly understand. He did horrible things in Farren, and it was rage at the core. Killing. Torturing. Planning and whispering of death. Sure, he tried to pass it off as saving us, but anger drove such a large part of it."
"Demon-damn, it was all of—"
"No! Don't talk to me—you lost that right two days ago."
Villeen clicked her mouth shut.
"It's impossible to appreciate his level of anger unless we've experienced what he went through. I can't even begin to imagine what it must've been like. I guarantee none of us have come close."
Abennak whimpered behind her.
"No," she admitted. "Maybe that's wrong. Abennak might have understood a sliver of anger, for your king knew exactly what he did. He felt it. He knew he'd lose his family, his entire family, and that he'd be forced to madness, yet still he accepted it. Void take me, what kind of a man is able to do that?"
"A tipsy-turvey one?"
"A noble one."
"Then what and what was he?" Abennak asked.
"Yes, now we come to what he was. Ark was the Prophet. There. I said it." She lifted the tomes. "These are his books, and everything is contained within. One of them was my favorite, and the other is filled with his notes. One is easy to understand, the other nearly impossible. One is me. The other is him, and he named it Eulogy."
She gave a slight smile. "Fitting, isn't it?"
She swept her gaze across the Parched Ones, forced her voice louder to reach the furthest ear. "I'm a story of myself, just as all of you are stories of your selves. He tried to write a story of his self, but he failed. At least, some would say he failed. I'm still not sure what to believe, and I suspect it will take several years to understand... if I ever do."
They nodded.
"He planned the attack on Farren," she said, and her throat tightened as she continued, "all of the deaths here, and he knew it would happen. He also knew he'd die. Yes, Villeen thought she'd managed to draw him out. She still does. But she's a bitter, foolish bitch, and she doesn't understand the first part of what drove him."
Villeen stiffened. "He—"
"He didn't do this because he hated us. He did it because he craved love."
"That's not why! The bastard—"
"It was as simple and complex as that, just like these two books."
"No," Villeen spat. "He caused all these deaths."
Kipra bowed her head. "The deaths."
"Yes, you void-touched bitch. The deaths."
"Void take me, the deaths."
"That's all you'll say?" Villeen peeled her lips back. "Your precious—"
"Part of me wants to hate him for what he did to Bran, and a piece of me—admittedly small—wants to hate him for what he did to Kleni, just as many of you surely want to hate him for what he did to your families. Abennak lost his wife and daughters. Villeen lost her brothers. So many of you lost sons and husbands."
Many of the Parched nodded.
"Why!" She lowered her tone, though it projected across those gathered. "Ask yourselves this: Did you understand love before he died? Did you truly? I didn't. I thought I did. I thought I felt it with him on our last night together, and a shard of me might have. However, it wasn't until he left us that I truly understood."
Again, the Parched nodded.
"Love doesn't judge. It doesn't curse or bite or snarl. It simply is, and it's to be accepted. There was a part of him that none of us saw, we only felt it through the deaths of our loved ones. That part of him was ugly and dangerous, and I'll admit it craved the sight of a corpse. It knew nothing else."
"My brother..." Abennak whispered. "How I miss and kiss you."
Kipra touched his arm, drawing his attention to her face. "Yet where would we be without that last part? Would we even exist? I suppose that's another question that will be asked for years to come. We'll ponder at it, poke and prod at its meaning."
"Poke and prod," he said. "Proddy woddy and poky woky."
"In the end, the answer will be different for each of us."
She gestured across the gathered Parched and the city beyond. She circled, ever so slowly, to point at the entire island. "All of you are the beloved. Know that. Beloved of him, beloved of ourselves, and beloved of each other. Accept it as he wouldn't accept himself, for you are more than a simple human. You're Parched, and that means something."
A thousand throats murmured, "We're Parched, and that means something."
"He gave you life."
"He gave us life."
"He gave you love and sadness and every emotion between those. More than that, more than I can even fathom, he gave you something mere humans don't have." She ducked down to grip a handful of crimson sand. "A sense of peace, true as the dirt beneath my feet and wild as the wind in my hair."
A thousand hands bent to grip that same crimson sand.
"We're more than we thought we
were," Kipra said, and she allowed the sand to drift from her palm.
A thousand hands let that same sand fall.
"We're the Parched Empire."
And the Parched Empire roared.
---The End---
Acknowledgements
There are so many people I'd like to acknowledge for helping make this book a reality. Starting at the start: Patti Conklin, Matt Conklin, Kesh Conklin, Lane Diamond, Michael Brown, Sarah Shaw, Margaretha Krug Aase, Kamilla Krug Aase, Cory Macher, Eldon Thompson, Moses Siregar III, Mona Nakashima, John Allen, David Farland, Ann Crispin, and more that I'm sure I'm forgetting. Oh right, and me. I'd like to acknowledge myself. Thanks.
About the Author
D.T. Conklin is a writer, and he uses words. Some days, he likes to think he uses them well. Other days, he cries. The poor guy loves fantasy, and he’s rigorously dreamed of being published, recommended, and perhaps even worshipped. He’d also be very content to clean Patrick Rothfuss’s shoes. Lofty goals. Maybe. You can visit his website, or find him online at Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads. Become a minion, and he can raise his minion count to 17. He’d like that.
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Eulogy Page 54