Eulogy Page 6

  Villeen needed those things. Without them, her father would simply forge another prophecy and begin anew. But she wouldn't have his notes to study and, without them, she wouldn't be able to stop him.

  If I save this man's wife, my plan won't work. Demon-bloody-damn! "I can't," she murmured, and the pain of that lie bit deep.

  Abennak's face fell, his eyes teared, his shoulders slumped, and he gaped at her as if she'd punched him in the gut. In too many ways, she had. His wife nuzzled his chest, whispered something in his ear.

  Another boil burst, and another line of puss oozed down her arm.

  Fier, ever present and supporting, nodded. "Someone with more strength could save her, but not us. Perhaps out father could—" He snapped off the last word and cursed beneath his breath.

  The king chuckled—bitter and hateful and regretful. He swept his wife from her feet and carried her to the bed, and gently laid her on the sweat-drenched sheets. She took one of his hands into hers, and he brushed the hair from her forehead with the other.

  "We'll dance in the ocean again," she said, and her eyes twinkled. "We'll see the mountains. You'll take me to the highest peak and we'll see the edges of the Inner Empire. I imagine it's beautiful, like our daughters."

  "I love you," he said.

  "And I you."

  She drew one last breath, held his hand, and....

  Released both.

  ***

  They prepared to burn Kara and her daughters on the fourth day of harvest, only hours after they'd died. Villeen had used her gentahl to banish the bricks and return the door, and the king had loaded his family into a cart, refusing all offers of help.

  They set off through Rippon, following the king as he pulled his wife and children past the castle's courtyard, between the gates, into the streets. Villeen walked several paces behind the cart, which rattled and squeaked over the cobblestones. Abennak must be driven insane, but it could wait. Everyone deserved to burn their family.

  "You couldn't have done anything to save his wife," Fier told her. A stream of servants and retainers marched at his back, all carrying bundles of wood and tall torches, but he ignored them and kept his voice low. "Neither of us are strong enough."

  She couldn't bring herself to tell him otherwise.

  "Demon-damn," he said. "I shouldn't have mentioned Father."

  Strength returned at that, and she scowled. "How does Abennak know him? It doesn't make sense. He said our father had promised we would come. Was that a threat, or an assurance?"

  He shrugged, and they both fell silent.

  Townsfolk peered at them as they trudged through the streets, eyes wide with disbelief at their king hauling his dead family. Some broke into tears. Others simply stared, while yet others cast uncertain glances to the tattooed man and woman, then stepped into the shadows of their homes.

  The plague had begun to spread.

  Hints of boils swelled on a boy's cheek, on a woman's forehead. They used rags to cover them, but blood and puss seeped through the fabric. It was too late to stop, and the boils would spread from house to house, family to family.

  Her father's notes had said, 'Sickness and sickness. Royalty will trudge beneath it, and they'll all mourn. My Mad King will march in front of his family, and all the others will grieve for what couldn't have been, what I've known so well. Pain and pain and more pain. Ah, how I've felt it.'

  She hadn't understood that passage after two dozen readings, nor had she noticed the sickness as she'd snuck into the city. Now she did. The passage foretold the death of Rippon's royal family and explained the sickness that gripped the city.

  Could I have caught it sooner? If I had, would I have done anything to stop it?

  The answer forced her to hang her head low. She wouldn't have done anything differently.

  Abennak led them out of Rippon, up the same path she and her brother had used to descend into the city. Wind, frigid and merciless, lashed their skin, but Abennak wore only a thin leather jerkin. He slipped on the ice, but unleashed neither curse nor complaint, and yanked the cart higher. Sunlight shone bright despite the cold, a beaming mockery of his pain.

  The servants and retainers dropped the wood in a narrow clearing at the top. They moved slowly, carefully, driving their tall torches into the rocky dirt and beginning to build the pyre.

  "Leave us," Abennak told them.

  They hesitated only an instant, then something—the set of his teeth, the pain in his eyes, the trembling of his hands—caused them to bow and shuffle back down the mountain. Villeen stood firm. The king deserved these moments, but she couldn't risk him diving from the cliffside in sorrow.

  Fier also remained.

  The king ignored them as he arranged the wood, placing one chunk atop another, then another atop that. He built the pyre wide and high, holding each piece as if it were one of his daughters, weeping as if each were his wife. When the wind was lightest and the sun shone warmest, he spoke.

  "The love of a woman is eternal." He lifted his wife from the cart, gently placed her on the pyre. "It drives through our hurts and hauls us to our feet when we're beaten. It shoves away the winter to warm our hearts. She was the blaze of a fire, the crash of a wave, and I miss her."

  He stumbled back and lifted the first daughter, gently placed her on the pyre. "Ynne was the kiss of a fingertip. She laughed loudest when the moon flickered high atop the night, when she knew she should've slept. It was her favorite game, and her mother and I loved her for it. I miss her."

  One daughter remained, and he straightened the girl's dress before placing her beside her sister. "Denylesse would've chased the wind, if we'd let her. Inquisitive and eager, she was a kitten at the edge of its mother's sight. She'd hide in the kitchen cupboards or beneath the stairs. We even found her atop the castle's spire once, gazing across the mountains as if she could leap over them. I miss her."

  The three women lay side-by-side, hands resting atop hands. Their eyes were closed, their skin a pale blue, and faint smiles curved their lips. Their father and husband stood above, looking down on them. He waited, perhaps replaying memories in his mind, simply unable to watch them burn.

  Void take me, I'm so sorry.

  Her father had done this. He'd placed the plague, murdered Abennak's family just as he'd killed her brother, Torden. Like a whisper of sand against a boulder, the king's sadness touched her. Yet dust never dug within a boulder, and she needed to remain like that stone—unyielding, emotionless.

  Abennak snatched up one of the torches. He held it over the pyre, released it, and it tumbled between two chunks of wood, coming to rest beneath his wife. Flames licked bark.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I wasn't strong enough to save you."

  Fier stifled a cry.

  The king looked to him. "You've felt this? You know it?"

  "I have."

  "And did it ache this much? It squeezes within me, deep and dark, like a rope tightening around my heart. Did your chest feel as if it would collapse and burst in the same breath?"

  "It did."

  "When does it end?"

  Fier cast a glance at Villeen, uncertain and pained, each knowing the answer would drive Abennak into deeper sadness. "It doesn't for many years, and even when it fades, it still whispers in moments of silence."

  Flames crackled beneath Abennak's family. Smoke and ash billowed into the air, carrying the scent of wood and flesh. The heat forced Villeen and Fier to step back, but the king remained close.

  "Then I'll know no silence," he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Irreor awakened before dawn, the loss of his father pounding against his chest. He coughed, low and ragged, from a raw throat. Newly budded leaves rustled as a chill breeze flitted across the yard. Somewhere beyond the Stonehands' home, a batch of fresh bread was baking, and Farren's breeze carried the scent of rising yeast and dough.

  Practice before food, but not here.

  He stumbled from the Stonehands' yard and walked the empty stre
ets. The journey to Farren's western edge, and the hill that rose beyond it, took something between a minute and an hour—timeless, just as the night before had proven.

  Once there, he collapsed in a heap. The walk, which he'd done hundreds or thousands of times, had leached the energy from his muscles, and he struggled to swallow. Remnants from a night on muddy soil stained his uniform, and he attempted to brush it away.

  It remained, just as his memories remained.

  -There's no other way.-

  Why, damn you, why!

  The voice remained silent, refusing to answer him directly. It never did, instead remaining distant, like an unreachable star in the night. Sometimes that star would shine upon him, but he could never touch it. Still, its presence helped.

  -I'll forge those things into their every breath, their every smile and moan. For a smile should know a moan. Happiness should recognize sadness.-

  Its thread drew across the base of his skull, attempting to comfort in a way no one else could, and its words filled a space, some blank, cavern-like emptiness that lay within.

  In a way.

  In other ways it made things worse.

  Irreor wobbled to his feet, grabbed his weapons from the ground, and gently unsheathed them. They slid free with a slow hiss. He scowled at the dagger, uncertain if he should cherish it or despise it, but it simply gleamed in the emerging morning.

  Sunlight crested the horizon as the city below awakened to a spring morning, and the hum of voices drifted up the hill. A wagon, piled high with hay from the southern plains, rumbled through the gates, and the driver shouted curses at a group of children skipping across the cobblestones.

  Irreor drew the blades to his chest, held them steady, then burst into motion. His exercises flowed through his limbs, washing away that bitter, pounding loss. He dove into his lesson and sweat soon dripped from his chin.

  The day warmed. Birds called to one another from their high perches.

  He pushed himself and, through it all, his father's voice whispered. 'Pull your knee in more with your next pivot—keep it tight and concise. Move with intent, intent, damn you! The Kilnsmen would be ashamed. Lift that blade high and stab out with the other. Hold it!'

  Irreor pivoted, snapped his longsword high to block an imagined slash, and thrust his dagger out to gut an invisible opponent. He held the stance until his arms burned and feet ached.

  Then he repeated the maneuver again and again. Hours passed before that bitter loss returned, and he finally forced a thick wad of saliva down his throat. His tunic clung to his chest. The blades were slick in his hand.

  They're always slick after a long practice. Nothing is different, nothing has chang—

  "I knew I'd find you here."

  He spun around. Kipra stood lower on the hill, grass at her ankles and a wry grin on her face. A blue bulge rose from beneath her eye, and she winced as she moved closer. He reached up as if to touch her, but drew back as she frowned.

  "I can't," she whispered. "I wish it were.... No, I can't."

  "You're okay?"

  She shrugged. "As well as can be, considering."

  Silence. It hung like an axe waiting to spill blood. Should he tell her of his father, of what had happened? Things weren't so simple anymore.

  He'd always wanted to be a guard, to take after his father. Now he might not be able to stay here, not with Crest taking more of the city. And the way he'd allowed anger to rule him, after everything his father had cautioned against—at least he could admit that to himself.

  Void bloody void, I caused his death.

  But how to tell her that?

  -She'll never accept him. Can't accept him. I mustn't forget that.-

  A part of Kipra—larger than he cared to admit—hated. He knew that, but she was something more than simple hatred. Those pieces were rare, but they glowed beneath her every movement. She might never accept him, but....

  You're wrong.

  The voice had vanished, refusing once more to respond.

  How to tell her? He heaved a sigh. "Have you seen Bran yet?"

  "I'm not his milkmaid, Ark. You're the one who stayed there last night."

  He nodded, not caring how she knew that, but he couldn't tell her he hadn't slept in the house. The walls, the kindness of Bran's mother, the sturdiness of his father—they'd overwhelmed him, reminding him of his own parents and a life he'd once imagined.

  Ah, and how far away that life seems now.

  "The people in the city are strange," she said, "as if—"

  "In most ways, they're just like us. They don't know what they want from their lives, so they find something. Anything. Bran finds it in the smithy. I find it in my blades and my fath—" He snapped the word off, then continued in a quieter tone. "And you find it... well, you find it wherever."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "That's what you said."

  "I'm not sure how to describe it." She hesitated a long moment, shivered, then gathered her strength. "I saw something last night. A man. He creaked when he moved, and his face was white like parchment, with cracks running across the skin. He wasn't human, not like us."

  "I don't see it."

  "Then you're a fool, Ark."

  "So you've always claimed."

  "When you walk through the city and look into the shops and taverns and homes, you don't feel the wrongness?"

  He held back a snort. Of course he felt the wrongness; his father was dead. Demon-damned woman, how could he not sense it? Still, she didn't know that, and she didn't deserve his anger.

  It was better to remain silent.

  "It's heavy," she murmured, "and it's growing heavier by the minute, like someone's piling blankets atop me, one after another, and they won't stop."

  The baker, a portly speck amongst a host of others, was hanging a new sign above the door to his shop. Across the street the candlemaker unlocked a sturdy door, then ducked inside. A group of people trudged past, their heads bent downward, on their way to the market.

  The market, in the very heart of the city, was its hub. Farren's Spire, like a shining spear against the horizon, rose above the vendors' stalls, casting a deep shadow. The tents and stalls, frayed and weather-beaten, all painted various shades of drab-brown, stood too far to see from the hilltop, lost beneath buildings and homes, but folk from all corners of the city converged on it. They bought food for their families, trinkets for a smile.

  But food grew scarcer and smiles fainter.

  Kipra was right: Farren felt heavy, but Irreor couldn't force himself to admit it. For years his father had helped better the city, but now those changes were reverting.

  They couldn't stop it.

  Crime had become more common—a theft in the northern district, a stabbing in the western, the blackmail of a merchant—and Crest thrived through it all. Two days ago a wool merchant from Skira had turned away from the city. How could they sell in such turmoil? A spice wagon from Vestel soon followed. Still the city council ignored Crest, pretending he wasn't there.

  Not even Irreor's father had managed to stop the bastard.

  No one is left. Only me, but I'm alone. What to say? How to tell her?

  -Lonely and lonely and lonely. It is who I am. Who I've always been.-

  Irreor's fingers itched to touch her. His mouth yearned to tell her everything would be all right. But they weren't. They never would be.

  In a deadened tone, he said, "I feel nothing."

  What to.... How to...?

  "You're... you're okay?" she asked, echoing his earlier question.

  "Farren is as it always was. This hilltop is as it always was."

  "Idiot," she hissed, and strode down the hill.

  And that was that.

  Chapter Eight

  Kipra clenched her hilts as she marched through the city's gates, her anger at Ark seething.

  Ark was different in far too many ways, chaos wrapped with calmness. A sense of serenity followed him, and almost nothing could pierce
it—not a kindness, nor a cruelty—and that calmness drew her to him. Yet it also pushed her away, for something else dwelled behind his eyes. She left whenever it became too strong, just as she'd done today.

  She couldn't draw closer to him, couldn't flee.

  Demon-damned Ark!

  The streets grew crowded as she walked, and a strange, white-skinned man stumbled from a tavern, rubbing his eyes to clear a night of drinking. He winced at the sunlight and lurched closer, and she easily skipped to the side as he tried to grab her tunic.

  A speck of skin fluttered from his brow.

  Kipra stumbled to a halt. This man was like the one from the night before—white skin, crackling flesh, gouged and scarred face and arms—and yet he was different. His eyes... in the light of the day, she could see his eyes. They were mere smudges, nothing more than dabs of charcoal smudged upon the skin.

  He lurched forward again. "You're wanting to find a drink, missy?" He chuckled, and his laughter crackled like a fire. "I've got me a bellyfull, but I can always find me room for more."

  "No."

  His face froze, as if trying to digest her answer.

  Her fear of men had lessened from years of training with Ark, though nothing could truly drive it away, especially not when confronted with a man who wasn't human. Fear lived within her, waiting to claw her chest, but the blades at her hip dulled the frantic, mindless anxiety.

  She could protect herself.

  "I ain't never had me a drink with a pretty lass," he said. "But I'm thinking I might enjoy one with you. If you want, I'll—"

  "You'll find your guts in the dirt." She touched her shortsword and stepped away from his rancid breath. "Now go away."

  "I'll be buying. You ain't gotta do nothing but sip and sip."

  She marched onward, his pleas drowned beneath the sounds of the city. Yet the image of his face remained, just as it had remained the night before. If only she could've shoved it from her mind, but it clung there, whispering and nudging as if to say, 'Look at me. Watch me.'

  She jerked her head to the side, only to see another of the things, this time a woman.