Eulogy Page 3

  Now he would.

  "Release him."

  Chapter Two

  Remn unleashed a low chuckle. "Eenan Ark’s little prodigy. Came at a bad time, eh? Where’s your father, off prattling to the council? Trying to stop us with words? Or maybe—"

  "You’re not welcome here. Leave, and I won’t tell him."

  Irreor cursed himself. He’d not intended to mention his father, but the words had spilled from his mouth before he could snatch them back. These men disrespected his father as much, or more, as they did Haral Steel.

  Remn’s companion grabbed his sword’s hilt and yanked free an inch of blade. Waited. The tension of that moment—the shallow breaths, the squinted eyes, the pounding blood—it hung in the air like an overfilled balloon.

  "Kill them," Remn said.

  Bran hopped back with a startled yelp.

  Irreor ripped his blade free before the other man drew half a length of steel. Yes, Remn had managed to strike Kipra, but Irreor wasn't Kipra. He arced his attack down, muscles loose like his father had taught, yet infused with a quiet rage. The pig-faced man recoiled as two of his fingers smacked the stones, followed by the clang of his sword.

  Irreor reversed his angle and carved the first layer of skin from Remn's jugular.

  Remn's companion wailed, plunged to his knees, and swept up his severed fingers. Blood seeped from his knuckles and painted the toes of his boots. He tried to stanch the bleeding with his other hand as he rocked back and forth, moaning.

  Irreor held his stance, blade to neck, just as he’d held it in the courtyard with his father, and attempted to swallow past a dry throat. He'd practiced swordplay most of his life, but never drawn blood. Instinct, or perhaps the countless hours of training beneath his father's eye, had forced a reaction.

  "Leave," he told the men. "Don’t look back. Don’t return. If I ever see you here again, I’ll take his entire hand, and I’ll cut far, far deeper into your neck."

  Still Remn stood, eyes wide and terrified, blade biting into his neck. His companion wailed and clutched the mangled fingers to his chest. Silence again reigned in the market, but it was shocked, speechless.

  "Irreor," Bran whispered, touching his friend's shoulder. "I think they'll leave. Either that or take them to your father. But demon-damn, lower the sword."

  Irreor slammed his sword into its sheath. No, he wouldn't take them to see his father. Let them scurry back to Crest. Let all of them understand what's happened. Let them fear.

  "Run," he snapped.

  Remn touched his neck and gaped at the blood staining his fingers, then nudged his companion with his knee, and they fled.

  Bran muttered a curse. "Void take you, Irreor, you didn’t need to do that."

  "I did." Irreor hesitated, anger still warming his skin. "I’m... not sure you’d understand."

  "I’m glad you did," Master Steel said. "But do you know what you've done?"

  The merchant shuffled toward his daughter like a beaten dog, and Irreor winced at his agonized features. The market buzzed with talk again, and many people continued to gaze within the stall.

  "I did what I had to," Irreor said.

  He took an uncertain step toward Kipra. Another. She breathed, her features calm and gentle... for now. She'd be furious when she awakened—furious because she'd been struck, even after all her training with Irreor, and more furious because he'd seen it.

  If only he could've talked to her.

  She wouldn't allow him to touch her, he knew that. Just as he knew he'd best be gone before her eyelids cracked open. She didn't care for men, nor did she care for women. She tried to hide it, yet the fires burned hot and unchecked.

  Three years earlier, amidst an early spring shower, Irreor made the mistake of laughing as she slipped in a puddle. He should've known better. Mud had drenched her leggings, all the way up to the curve of her back, and his chuckle had escaped before he could think better of it.

  Now he knew better.

  She'd leapt to her feet, anger and shame twisting her features like two magnets against the same nail, and lashed her practice blade at his face. He'd barely blocked the attack, and yet she pressed forward, ever faster and more furious. Still he forced her blade aside, and her attacks never reached the mark.

  She didn't speak to him for a week after that and, when she did, she offered him an apology. It was a soft thing, gentle and knowing, like a newly hatched butterfly perched on the edge of a steel shard. She must've known what she'd done, had known her earlier reaction was unwarranted, yet she hadn't been able to stop herself.

  It was the first time he'd witnessed the true woman within Kipra. It was the first time he knew he loved her.

  Demon-damn, woman, why do you need to be so difficult?

  He sighed to himself; there wasn't much to do about it.

  "True, you did what you had to, but not many men would." Haral knelt to cradle his daughter’s head. "Others would've fled or shook or pissed themselves. They would've done what I did. Nothing." He cursed to himself. "There will be trouble to pay for this."

  "I did what I had to."

  Bran rolled his eyes.

  Master Steel brushed the hair from Kipra's cheek and hugged her close to his chest, taking advantage of her semi-conscious state. She never would've let him hold her otherwise. It was easier to touch an ember.

  He looked up. "You're Ark's son to your bones, aren't you? Why'd you come?"

  "I came for…." Irreor shrugged, partly to Bran, partly to the merchant. He kept his gaze away from Kipra. "This isn't a good time to say why we came. We shouldn't bother you with—"

  "With saving me? With saving her?" Master Steel barked out a laugh. "You've done more than ten men would bother to do. And you can be sure I know what you think of her."

  Irreor shrugged, unable to voice it. Kipra was an enigma—a leaf that whisked on a windless day, a drop that fell from a cloudless sky. She knew how much he cared for her, yet she wouldn't let him close. Training... their relationship consisted of nothing more than that.

  "Why'd you come?" Master Steel asked again.

  "To see the Synien."

  "The sword’s spoken for, or I swear I’d give it to you, but a Synien dagger is in the chest behind you. Take it. I’ll tell your father about this next time he’s in the square. But you'd best watch your back. Crest won't take this lightly."

  Irreor hesitated. "You're sure?"

  "I've known kings with less courage than you, man." Master Steel shook his head. "No one does what they need to, not even me. Those that do are paid with nothing—empty promises and barren bellies. Take the blade."

  Irreor suppressed his excitement. A line of blood trickled from Kipra's forehead, and a blue mark already swelled beneath one eye. Her eyelids twitched.

  Time to leave.

  -She'll matter more than all other things. More than the stars in the sky, the waves on the ocean, the wheel on the wagon. She'll hate him.-

  Why?

  -Ah, I can't know. I can't let myself remember.-

  Irreor swallowed hard, forced the voice away, and asked, "She'll be okay?"

  "She'll live," Master Steel said. "Now be gone with you!"

  Irreor shuffled to the chest and opened it. He gripped the Synien's sheath and blade, impossibly polished and sharpened, and threw Bran a weak grin. They spared one final look at Kipra, backed from the store, and allowed the crowd to swallow them.

  They remained silent as they wound back to the city's center.

  Irreor flipped the dagger over in his hands, felt the smoothness of its metal, its coolness, its weight. The weapon's quality—sharpened edge, plain yet balanced pommel, unadorned sheath—it overshadowed all other daggers.

  His father would flare with pride, not only at the skill he'd shown, but at the courage he’d demonstrated. Kylen Crest's men weren't welcome in the eastern district. Irreor clutched the dagger to his breast as he headed toward the city’s barracks, grinning as he imagined his father’s reaction.
/>   And his own anger?

  We don't need to mention that.

  Chapter Three

  "It was an execution," Pernik Sylis told Irreor. "They cut your father down in the middle of the street. No one tried to stop it, and there weren't any other guardsmen around. It was too late when we got to him."

  The old officer reached out to console him, but Irreor shrugged it off. He scrubbed his eyes, unable to believe what he'd heard. The Synien dagger, his new symbol of courage and honor and skill… it should've been sitting in his father's palm, gleaming beneath his father's smile.

  Instead, it hung uselessly from Irreor's belt.

  They sat around a worn, wooden table at Bran's house. Krayr grunted and shook his head, and his wife, Graelina, released a sob. She was built like her husband, thick around the middle, with kind eyes and an inviting face. But she didn't smile now. She lifted the hem of her apron to wipe her face.

  Bran sat to the other side of her, beside his father, and rocked back and forth. His hair was matted from a day in the streets, his hands stained with ash. A tear carved a trail through the grime on his cheek.

  Void take me. Take me.

  No tears came for Irreor. He couldn't find them, couldn't think of where to look. They could've hidden in a palm, in the flash of a smile. But there was no palm, no smile.

  His father was gone. He would never hold Irreor's dagger, would never smile at it.

  His father was dead.

  -I'll be so sorry for my general. No one should have to endure the things I'll do to him, but my people will grow stronger because of it. They'll grow so tall, so strong, so much emotion.-

  "Who did it?" Irreor demanded.

  Pernik said, "I don't know. We'll find the bastard and—"

  "How did he die?"

  Graelina began to speak, but Irreor's glare silenced her.

  "Eight men," Pernik said. "Your father killed them all, but they'd coated their blades with some type of foulness. Healer said there wasn't an antidote for it." The old officer snorted. "How does a man kill eight assassins with poison in his blood?"

  Irreor couldn't find the strength to shrug.

  "You're wanting revenge?" Pernik asked.

  He did. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to rage and shriek. Dig his blades into his father's killers. Kylen Crest's men had murdered his father. His father's friends knew that, they simply tried to protect him.

  Protection—useless, worthless. It wouldn't work.

  Irreor bunched his hands into fists beneath the table. Crest's men would suffer. They'd beg for forgiveness. He would make them watch as he removed a toe, hacked away a finger.

  Yet he remained silent, staring at the table.

  "Your father was a fighter," Krayr said, "but he never fought without reason. Never without direction. He once told me that a man who yearns for vengeance regrets his life. He doesn't realize the heights he can climb. Instead, all he finds is bitterness."

  Pernik nodded.

  "I'd not want that for you, boy," Krayr said. "That type of bitterness is best left for the animals. Your father wouldn't want it for you. Let it go."

  Again, Pernik gave a grim nod. "Your father was wise. More than I'll ever be."

  -He'll lift jagged, bleeding hands and wear his shredded clothes with pride—a death saturated in glorious pain and valiant suffering. His hair... and his filthy hair. I mustn't forget that. Eenan Ark, the epitome of a Kilnsman, will clench his jaw as he dies.-

  A Kilnsman—Irreor latched onto that, desperate for something else to think of.

  The voice had followed him his entire life, almost as if it watched him and, in a way, taught him, just as his father once did. Now his father was gone and the voice remained. Still, it couldn't fill that gaping wound. It couldn't replace the man Irreor admired and loved.

  No! Think of something else. Anything else.

  -My general's father will live as a Kilnsman. He'll die as a Kilnsman. But will that help my general? Will it accompany him into the nights, into the loneliness that will settle over him? No. It can't do that.-

  "He was a Kilnsman," Irreor whispered.

  He held tight to that statement as if it could console him, as if it could somehow prove the voice wrong or drive away the loneliness. But the statement echoed, again and again, with the hollowness of an empty well. He shouted down into that hole, struggling to find some strength in its depths.

  Only his ragged voice answered.

  "Aye man," Pernik said, "that he was. Your father—"

  "I've never even seen Kiln, just heard the stories. I don't think he wanted me to ever see it."

  "Your father was their best, I hear, though he never would've said it himself. Your mother's death must've drove him south—"

  Irreor lurched to his feet, toppling his chair.

  The old officer softly cursed, and the Stonehands looked up at Irreor, unsure of what he'd do. He knew Pernik hadn't meant to mention his mother, but the loss of one parent became two. That loneliness, what he'd feared moments before... crashed into him.

  He stumbled from the room on weak, rubbery legs, pushed open the back door with numb fingers, and collapsed in a heap near the tool shed.

  I'm alone.

  Bran's voice squeaked from beyond the kitchen walls. "I'll go stay with him."

  "No, you won't," Krayr rumbled. "Let him have this night."

  "But—"

  "No. A man must have a night of silence to grieve." Krayr softened his tone. "This is a time when no one wants to be seen. I remember it with my own father. Pray you'll not have to find it out any time soon."

  Silence.

  Bran spoke again. "He... Irreor... he wounded two of Crest's men today. Lost his temper and let his blade swing free. What if this was Crest's reaction?"

  "Don't go down that road, boy."

  "But—"

  "Don't!"

  Irreor curled into a ball.

  The dagger and longsword ground into his side. He yanked them from his belt and examined the cool, comforting steel. A narrow strand of moonlight lanced between the clouds to illuminate the city in a pale glow, and that cursed, vile, beautiful dagger... it gleamed.

  He'd done this, because of his anger, or because of some need to prove himself, to save this city where no one else seemed to try. The reasons didn't matter. He'd done this, and now his father was dead.

  His gut knotted, tighter and tighter, until he feared it would suck him within.

  His father was dead.

  Dead.

  He lay awake, staring into the sky and trying to remember his mother's face. He couldn't. Memories flashed—the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled, the warmth of her fingers on his arm—but they vanished before he could grip them.

  Still he tried, drawing on the memory his father's words. 'Know when to attack and when to retreat, boy. She taught me that. Even the strongest swordsman must understand his limitations. None of us are invincible. None of us.'

  -He'll be invincible.-

  Chapter Four

  Kipra brushed her fingertips across her swollen cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the throbbing sting. She'd experienced pain before, but this time shame seared it.

  Ark watched, and there's no turning back time.

  If only... if only.

  She forced herself to sit up from her bed and glance across the darkening room: a tidy bed, a wooden chest for her clothes, and a small table. A book, Sojourns from the Inner Empire, rested on the chest, its cover opened and pages flipped to the middle. Maybe it would've calmed her, but she didn't want calm. Not tonight. On the other side of the thin walls, in the kitchen, her adoptive mother and father argued in tense whispers, too quiet to understand.

  Haral is too gentle.

  The whispers escalated like a budding storm but, like always, this storm would prove impotent. Kipra tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack, ignoring the scent of a fruit pie wafting through the opening.

  "Do you want her
to be like us?" Paien asked. "There's not a spine between the two of us. You know it."

  "No, I don't," Haral said. "But I don't see what else I could have done. Her sister—"

  "Don't blame this on Kleni. She's wayward, but she does as she feels she must. Many women have been forced to sell themselves. You know that."

  "I blame this on myself."

  Kipra turned away. Her sister, Kleni, spread her legs for men like Crest. She wallowed in their filth and squalor, reveled in their coarse hands and cruel thrusting. Men exploited her, but she savored them, rejoiced in their ruthless barbarity—all for a coin. Tyrannical, malevolent gazes summoned Kleni to them, and she indulged them with a voracity that sickened and embarrassed Kipra.

  Kleni was too much like her true mother. A whore. At least, before a man drove his knife into her mother's guts. Now their real mother was a corpse, as useless in death as she was in life.

  And Kipra was broken. Almost.

  She'd grown up watching her mother take men to bed, one after another. Were coins truly worth so much? Her mother and Kleni must've thought so. And yet Kipra had asked herself that question over and over again. The answer was always the same. No. The things her mother and those men said, the things they did....

  She shared no blood with Haral or Paien, just the lost memory of a friendship between them and her mother. She'd long since denied her heritage, but her mother's blood still flowed thick in Kleni's veins.

  Too thick.

  She hadn't seen her older sister for more than two years, but that was the way she wanted it. Her mother and sister and what they'd done... they were things better left unremembered. Better to take a new life and attempt to move forward.

  "You should blame yourself," Paien whispered. "Letting a guardsman drive them away? Eenan Ark's son, at that? What were you thinking! We've got enough problems, and we don't need to stand between the guard and Crest. We'll end up on the pyre."