Eulogy Page 5

"No."

  After another hour, the bottom edge of the sun touched the mountains. Fier and Villeen stood atop a cliff, peering down at Rippon. The moon hung low, faint and pale against the receding light. Cobblestones covered the city's roads, and people quickly moved between the houses and stores. Pure-white snow graced slate roofs, and sparse flakes continued to drift down. The sun sank further. The moon rose higher. Two or three candles danced within the closest windows, but more sprang to life as the minutes passed.

  "It's beautiful," Fier murmured. "You want to help father destroy it?"

  Her father thought to destroy the entire island. He wanted to sink it down and then, in his warped mind, thought to lift it ever higher. She shook her head. A war couldn't do it, nor could an insane king. And the city below was something different, beautiful and yet vile. Her father had created it, using his gentahl to stack the bricks and lay the cobblestones.

  "It's a lie," she said. "It's beautiful, but what he plans isn't. He desires something ugly and disgusting. He wants an empire, but he thinks to build it with the bones of the fallen. The bones of our brother."

  "Who are we to say what's ugly or—"

  "Who are we to say what's beautiful!" She turned to him, to the shadows that concealed his face, then pointed at the city. "You think it's beautiful, but I say it's tainted with Father's touch."

  She spun on her heel and stomped down the trail. He followed, his boots nearly silent against the snow and dirt, but she refused to look back. He didn't, wouldn't, understand. Her father didn't hold to a grand, benevolent plan. He didn't desire greatness for them. No. Their father would bring war to the island.

  Damn fool, you'd best hope your tenderness doesn't ruin us.

  A group of men guarded Rippon's gate, but she crept past them, her Shadow Step sinking her into the darkness. She didn't need to alter the guards' minds with gentahl, she only needed to change the minds present at the time of the initial alteration. After that first moment, the new reality was stabilized.

  She stalked through the streets, past the torches on the street corners and between the dim buildings. Slushy snow squished beneath her boots. Men, women, and children found their homes as darkness blanketed the city, and the scent of boiled chicken and bread soon wafted across the night air. Stars twinkled above, and moonlight glinted from wet, half-frozen roads.

  Abennak's castle stood in the very heart of Rippon. Four roads led to it, all wide and well-maintained. The castle's walls jutted from the ground, the entry shielded by a stout iron gate. A fire blazed to either side of the gate, showering light and warming the four men who patrolled the entrance, their hands close to their blades.

  She unleashed a silent curse. Despite her Shadow Step, they'd see her.

  Fier grabbed her shoulder. "This is foolish."

  She pushed him away, knelt to scoop up a stone and clenched it tight. Too many years of his presence, too many things experienced together—she didn't want him to leave. However, things didn't always happen as she wished.

  "Then go back to the cave. I don't blame you for not wanting to do this, but I'll see it through." She continued in a softer tone. "But know that I would like you beside me."

  He muttered something beneath his breath, then nodded.

  She hurled the stone, and it skittered over the cobblestones beyond the gate. The gatemen hurried to investigate, and she and Fier slipped past, unseen within a mask of silence. They hugged the outer wall until the gate's firelight dimmed, then angled into the castle.

  The Mad King—or the man who would become mad—awaited within.

  Red, violet, and blue tapestries hung from the entrance hall. Candles burned upon golden candelabras, their wax caught by engraved, shining saucers. Marble floors had been scrubbed until they gleamed, and a thin stream of water trickled along a channel where wall met floor. Towering, obsidian statues stood in each corner, mouthless, sightless observers as Villeen crept past.

  Footsteps pattered in the distance. Voices echoed through the halls.

  Fier, a mere shadow against the whitened wall, gulped and whispered, "I thought the city was gorgeous, but this is something else. It's more... greater... I can't even describe—"

  "Then don't," she snapped. "He made this, never forget that."

  They moved farther in, using darkened enclaves and nooks to hide as servants moved about their duties. Chandeliers swung from the high ceilings of a banquet room where the scent of roasted duck and onions lingered. Long tables stretched from wall to wall, but Villeen ignored the glittering crystals and porecelain plates, and entered the hall beyond.

  The opulence increased. Strands of thread, dyed a deep ruby and glittering in the candlelight, hung from above as if to caress their scalps. Four doorways stood to each side of the corridor, their surfaces engraved with intricate golden flowers. One massive door stood at the hall's end, a starburst of polished steel shining on its oak surface. Next to it, a stout tray, piled high with uneaten duck and onions, waited on a table.

  A man moaned within.

  Villeen flicked her gentahl into her brother's mind, altering her own thoughts in that same instant, and banished their Shadow Step. The difficulty brought sweat to her forehead, but the shadows melted away like the finest chocolate in a summer's heat.

  They'd found their way into Abennak's town, into his castle, to the very brink of his private quarters.

  "Easier than expected," Fier said, glancing down the hall as if to assure himself that no guards stalked the corridors.

  Silence—deep, brooding, anticipating. Villeen leaned against the door, gripped the handle, and nudged it open.

  Chapter Six

  The stench of sickness filled Villeen's nostrils.

  She nudged the door farther and covered her nose with her sleeve. The room, ornate as the castle before it, stretched twenty paces wide and deep. Polished desks stood in the corners, and a crimson rug, assuredly imported from the Inner Empire, covered the stone floor. A massive mirror on the far wall reflected the light of countless candles, but it didn't reflect happiness or joy. It cast only a tale of sorrow, for in the center of the rug stood a bed, and buried beneath the blankets lay Abennak's wife and daughters.

  The king knelt at the bedside, his arms atop the blankets, his forehead pressed to his wrists. He sobbed and moaned, and his wife caressed his graying hair. She sucked in a breath, and her cheeks and forehead twisted with pain. Boils covered her face, hands and arms. Some oozed puss, and others simply waited, bulging with fluids and awaiting release.

  The two daughters lay beside their mother—motionless, lifeless.

  Villeen struggled to not flee. She'd expected... what? A vibrant king, full of life and courage and honor? A man who she'd have to warp and twist and manipulate? Not this. Not a sickness that hung so deep, that flitted across the tongue like a decaying slab of steak, delicately sprinkled with a hint of sadness.

  She hadn't expected a plague.

  And the king....

  He sobbed. "My poor Kara. I can't live without.... Not like this. Not with your pain stabbing me in the night, waking me in the morning. You're my light, my candle in the darkened hallway."

  His wife stroked his head. She moved her lips as if to speak, but no words emerged. The king shivered, clutching his forearms tighter. Drool dripped to the blankets.

  "Our daughters," he said. "They've fled us. They've found a better place. I miss them. Oh, how I miss them."

  And his wife stroked his head.

  Void curse you, Father. Villeen clenched her fists until nails bit palm. Her father's notes said, 'I'll give them sickness, but I'll love them for it. I'll cry as they do, scream as they do, moan and struggle and curse as they do. At the end I'll give them an empire. They'll know love.'

  "And they'll hate you for it," she hissed, uncaring that she'd spoken aloud. "I didn't know you meant this!"

  Abennak swiveled, and his eyes blazed. "You! Why have you come here? Leave me!"

  The man bore the face of a king, regal
and mighty. A tear dribbled to his chin, but he wiped it away with a quick, furious motion.

  He wailed again, but now anger filled his voice. "Guards!"

  Fier snatched her elbow and tugged as if to pull her from the room. "We shouldn't be here, Vill. Let the man have his sorrow."

  For an instant, Villeen nearly did. She almost swept from the chambers and used her gentahl to return to their cavern. She could've abandoned their plans, let her father's notes burn.

  "Guards!" Abennak screamed again, and he balled his fists, stepping forward as if to attack.

  Kara, the king's wife, wheezed something from between clenched teeth, and the king tilted his head as he turned back to her. She whispered again, too distant or weak to understand, and he let his fists drop to his side.

  "We shouldn't be here," Fier said again. "Void knows we've felt this ourselves. It's not something to be enjoyed alone, much less before prying eyes."

  I've felt this myself.

  Villeen squinted at the king's wife, her thoughts repeating again and again. Yes, she'd felt this before. As she'd driven the blade into her eldest brother's chest, she'd felt it. And nothing could cure it. Nobody could force it away. Like a tick it stuck to her, stealing her life.

  "Leave," Abennak muttered.

  "Vill!" her brother said, and he again gripped her elbow. "Let's go."

  She ignored them, continuing to peer at Kara, at the boils on her skin, the pain in her face, the clench of her teeth. Left to his own devices, her father would see this happen across the entire island. The plague would spread. Men would watch their children die, and hug their wives as light faded from their eyes.

  "I can't let this continue," she said, more to herself than to either of the men. She clenched her robes. "Our father must pay for this. We must twist his thread until he can't see the ends."

  "It's wrong," Fier said.

  "It is wrong!" she growled.

  And I'll do it with the death of this man's wife. Realization shot through her—murky and viscous. She'd come to this castle without a plan of how to drive Abennak mad. But one lay upon the bed, half-shriveled and dying.

  "I'll call the guards one more time." the king said. "After that, I'll tear out your throats with my own hands. This is my wife." He looked down on her, and his voice broke as he continued. "She's in pain, and—"

  Villeen snatched her gentahl, twisted out four threads, and thrust them into the king, his wife, and Fier. She twined the fourth within her own mind, drilled it deeper until pain flared at the base of her skull. She'd never manipulated so many minds; spots danced across the room. Her head felt soggy, like toast dipped in warm milk, but still she drove deeper.

  "Vill!" her brother screamed.

  He must've felt her touch and guessed what she was going to do.

  She twisted. Blocks of brick appeared, stacked high and thick where the door once stood. No cries from the king would penetrate that wall, and the guards wouldn't break it down for hours. She withdrew her gentahl, sucked a deep breath, and steadied her shaking legs.

  Can I kill a sick, helpless woman? Forgive me for this. It's not me who's doing it. It's Father, not me. I didn't know I'd have to do this. I don't have a choice. Please forgive—

  "You're his children," Abennak said, and he laughed a terrible laugh, filled with irony and a type of understanding. The understanding worsened it. He stroked his wife's hand, matched her smile, but wouldn't look up. "I see the resemblance beneath your tattoos—the curve of the cheek, the slant of the brows. You've also got his power, though I wouldn't have known if you hadn't used it. You're Kelnak's."

  She gulped. She and her brother had rarely traveled to the city, and they'd never met, nor even seen, the king. Rippon's royalty stayed within the castle. Abennak shouldn't have known their faces, and he shouldn't have recognized the power. Yet, more than that, how could he know their father's face?

  "He's not my father," she hissed. "He's a murderer and a—"

  "We are," Fier said.

  She glared at her brother, then back to the king. "How did you know—"

  "He told me you'd come," Abennak said. "I didn't want to believe him, but he promised it would happen." He sighed and shook his head, motioning for brother and sister to kneel beside the bed. "See what I've lived."

  Villeen frowned, but Fier gently pushed her forward. Their faltering steps, the stifling scent of sickness, and the king's strange, somehow understanding face—nothing made sense. His daughters were dead, his wife was dying. He should've raged at them, screamed and attacked, just as he'd done at first. Not this.

  What changed? And how does he know our father?

  The blankets were soft, and Kara offered a feeble smile as Villeen knelt beside Abennak. Her brother touched the sick woman's finger. Two girls lay beside their mother, their pretty faces pale and hard, like twin slabs of marble. Blonde hair curled at their shoulders. Their eyes were closed, their fingers twined across their chests.

  Villeen stared at her own hands. The marble skin of the two girls, their clasped hands—it was too close to the image of her eldest brother on the day she'd burned him.

  "I've lived in a tunnel of joy," Abennak said. "Sometimes, along the way, I questioned whether I deserved it." He barked out an ironic laugh. "What does a king do? He sits on a throne and orders others to do his bidding. He doesn't make things better. Often, he makes them worse."

  The queen whispered, her voice cracking with the effort. "You made them better, my love. You'll be spoken of in the same breath as greatness. Our people thrive. They know happiness and success—"

  "They won't," he said. "Something horrible is coming. I feel it."

  Villeen shifted on her knees, tilting her head to look at Abennak's face. His eyes were deadened, like a star faded to darkness. Yet a light also burned within them, faint and golden. It flickered like a torch, blazed like a bonfire, and was gone in an instant. Then the deadened palor returned.

  "I've heard too many things," he said. "Seen too many sights."

  Kara shook her head, gasping at the effort. She groped for her husband's hand and latched onto it with weak, trembling fingers. Despite the pain, she wouldn't let go, instead clenching tighter.

  The queen's pain doesn't matter. It's necessary.

  That thought eased what was to come.

  "Hush," Abennak said, and he stroked the back of his wife's hand. "Don't strain yourself. Everything will be okay, my love. We'll see the mountains again, dance in the oceans. I'll take you to a pinnacle and—"

  "What have you seen and heard?" Villeen said. "How do you know my father?"

  "Vill," her brother hissed. "You can't expect him to tell you these things now—"

  "I want to know!"

  Bonfires again blazed within the king's eyes. Anger—hot and primal and suffocating. He drew his hands from his wife's, lifted one as if to strike Villeen, and held it there.

  She thrust out her chin. "Tell me."

  "Nak, this isn't the way," Kara whispered, and she coughed. She slithered to him and reached up to pull his hand down. Sweat drenched the bed where she'd lain. "You don't have to tell her, but you can't strike her."

  "I can!" he screamed.

  The king sprang to his feet and stormed to the far corner. He lifted the table and flung it against the wall, and the legs snapped and rained to the floor. He leapt atop them, stomping and smashing as if to grind every fragment into the rug.

  Void take me, he's already lost it.

  "Nak!"

  Kara struggled to her feet, thrust away Fier's helping hand, and stumbled to her husband. One blister ruptured and puss oozed down her arm. She reached out—hand faltering, feet stumbling, eyes wide and pained—but he continued to stomp and crush and curse. Then she fell against his chest. Her breath wheezed from her lungs, and only his arms kept her on her feet.

  "Don't, Nak."

  He looked to his daughters. "I can't lose you like I lost them. I can't. She wants to take you from me, just as I lost my daughter
s. I won't bear it." His shoulders shook as he cried, yet his arms were steady as they held his wife. "I'll curl into a ball and—"

  "You must," Kara said.

  Fier pulled his sister into a hug, and they waited as king and queen sobbed and held each other. Villeen closed her eyes, unable to watch. Abennak was already half-mad, that much was clear. But why? Simple grief? Villeen had experienced grief, felt it until she'd feared it would rip her apart, but it hadn't driven her to lunacy.

  It drove me to something worse, something I've accepted.

  "Save her," Abennak said.

  Villeen opened her eyes to the king. He held his wife close to his chest, and the queen shook her head in sloppy, exhausted motions. But the king wasn't weak. No, he stood tall and proud, the brief moments of madness lost in his past. His face was chiseled, his hands firm and steady.

  "Save her. I know you can." He glanced to where the door once stood. "I've felt your power, and it's just like your father's. I know it's true. Save my wife, and you'll learn how I know your father. I'll tell you, free as a bird in the sky."

  "Your majesty," Fier said, and he dropped his gaze from the king's face, from the hope that glimmered there. "It doesn't work that way. We can't change the way a person's body looks or acts. Sickness and death is beyond our control. We can only—"

  "Hush, Fier," Villeen said.

  Gentahl might've saved Kara. If Villeen could sit alone with the woman, beyond any other minds, she might've done it. Years of bitter, exhausting practice and careful study had given her more strength than her brother, more understanding. The body was a subtle thing, weak except for the mind, but Villeen's gentahl could've crushed the queen's thoughts, reformed and reshaped them.

  It would stretch her strength to the very end, but....

  I can save her, but I can't.

  She licked her lips, attempting to force moisture to her tongue. If she did what he asked, Abennak would never let himself be driven to insanity. He would've resisted, rejected the idea, because he'd need his wits to care for his wife. They'd mourn their daughters, but the kingdom would thrive in the end—no threat of war, no more sickness or starvation.