Eulogy Page 8

  She tried to hate herself for that last thought. "Tell me about Kylen Crest."

  "How many nights a week he lays with me? The size of his cock?"

  "No."

  "How many brothels he owns? Or the number of girls who—"

  "Damn you, Kleni, you know what I mean. Why is he pushing south? Why is he manipulating the council to make his own man a trade minister, and why, in anything he could possibly hold as sacred, did he have Ark's father killed? What does he hope to accomplish?"

  Kleni gave her a strange look—part amusement, part annoyance. "Eleven brothels, with approximately fifteen girls at each. Seven inches. You seriously expect me to answer that? I'm your sister, but I'm not stupid. I'd rather hack my hand from my arm."

  "We can stop him. I can find a way to take you from—"

  "Stop him with whom? The two you run with? They're hardly more than boys! Eenan Ark's son? Crest found a way to kill the father, and he could easily find a way to kill the son. Stay beyond the reach of both, or Crest will also toss you on the pyre. I wouldn't be able to stop it."

  "I—"

  "Are misinformed." Kleni flowed to her feet and crossed the space between them in an instant. She snatched Kipra's chin, forcing the younger sister to face her. "Make no mistake, Sister, Crest is mine. Farren is mine."

  "This is your fault?" Kipra yanked free. "The state of the city, the crime, the—"

  "Tsk tsk."

  "Answer me!"

  Kleni shook her head and drifted back to the bed. She stretched across the mattress and propped her elbow against the blankets, just as she'd lain when Kipra first arrived. "I think it's time you left."

  The violin sang—joyous, longing.

  Kipra should've turned her back and retreated, but she couldn't. The threat of Ark leaving, watching the city decay, forcing herself to enter this place—she'd come for a reason, but now that reason was thinner than her sister's clothes. It seemed Crest decided some things on his own, but Kleni helped direct his hand on the rest.

  "How? Why?"

  Her sister remained silent.

  "Tell me that, at least," Kipra said.

  Kleni hesitated, perhaps considering her next words, or maybe she simply refused to answer. After a long moment of silence and violin, she grinned and wiggled her ass. Not a playful wiggle, it was sharp and sarcastic.

  "The way every woman manipulates a man. I appeal to his cock, and there's little else I must do. Why? Ah, why would any woman want to better herself? Why do you?"

  The song withered and Lerrin took up another—lilting and angry, lurching but smooth.

  "It was good to see you, Sister," Kleni murmured.

  Kipra turned her back.

  Chapter Ten

  Kipra flipped another page of Sojourns from the Inner Empire. She lay on her side, and a single blanket covered her and the bed. A bunched pillow rested beneath her head, and dusk seeped through her window. She squinted at her book, attempting to read one last sentence, one final word. It had always stolen her pain, yet now the passages echoed hollow. Anger remained.

  Her sister was helping Crest ruin the city.

  There are no heroes. No, they're are all fakes, or misled, or outright lies. Void take me, what if Kleni helped Crest kill Ark's father? What would I tell him? He's too self-righteous to hold it against me, but the hurt would be in his eyes.

  Kipra couldn't stop it.

  A cricket chirped beyond her window, hooves clopped against cobblestones, and an owl hooted from the top of a neighboring house. In the kitchen, Haral and Paien talked over a late dinner of thick broth.

  Kipra hurled the book against the wall, balled the blanket between her teeth, and screamed. King's cock, I hadn't wanted that.

  Her sister had smiled with such tenderness, so much fake love. Was Kleni simply misguided, or did she take true joy in her actions? Was she depraved? Their mother's death must've also struck her a hard blow. Did that explain why she needed to control?

  The door creaked open. Haral poked his head through the crack and shouldered the door open farther. "You okay in—"

  "Fine."

  "You're certain? I thought—"

  "What do you want?"

  He didn't deserve her anger. He'd done nothing but support her through these past years, yet she couldn't help but twitch with annoyance. His inability to stand firm—one weak man amongst hundreds more—allowed Crest to do as he wished. It gave Kleni free reign.

  Haral ran his hand over the door's frame. "I'll need help at the shop tomorrow. We've got to send an order to the council for a new batch of guards, and I'd appreciate you watching the stall."

  "What time?"

  "An hour after dawn, and—"

  "Three hours after dawn."

  He pulled his lips downward, then backed from the room and clicked the door shut. Haral didn't approve of her lessons with Ark but, like so many other things, she ignored it. The caress of the blades, the flash of sparks, the energized muscles—she couldn't let that go.

  But tomorrow would be different. She'd face Ark, knowing he was about to leave, knowing his father had just died. She couldn't tell him how much she wanted to hate him. She couldn't tell him how much she cared for him. To do so would be weak, and strong men used weak women.

  I'll be damned if he sees me like that.

  ***

  For once, Kipra and Bran arrived before Ark, and they trudged to the hilltop without a word. Normally Ark would've stared down at them from the hilltop, the first hints of dawn splashing across his face.

  Perhaps he simply slept late.

  They waited.

  The young blacksmith wore a longsword, one of Krayr's best, and touched the leather hilt with short, glancing motions. He hated the blade, though he'd never said why.

  She'd never asked. Her own sword bounced from her hip, and she allowed herself a smile. Bran was a fool. Their weapons allowed them to protect themselves, allowed them to be strong. After last night's meeting with Kleni, she needed to know he could protect himself.

  Again he touched his sword as they neared the top of the hill, then jerked his hand away.

  "It's not going to bite you," she said. "Well it might, if you don't talk to it nicely."

  "I know."

  "Then why—"

  He interrupted her with a snort. "What good is a sword?"

  "I don't understand. It's a tool to use as protection." She frowned as he shook his head, then she said, "What, you have a better idea? Tell me great, glorious blacksmith, what good is a sword?"

  "They cut."

  "They block, too."

  "Aye, but not as often as they cut."

  "You don't think this city needs to be cut?" Images of her sister's grinning face flashed before Kipra's eyes. Could she cut her sister? How far could she go to protect herself or defend the city? "Still, your argument is flawed."

  "Of course it is. It's an argument."

  "I...."

  She almost told him about the visit with her sister. The admittance fluttered across her tongue, light as a windblown leaf, heavy as a clump of iron. Bran would understand that heaviness. He'd also understand the lightness. Both he and Ark knew of her sister, though they were smart enough to maintain their silence.

  Still, she mustn't tell him. No one should know her shame.

  She clicked her mouth shut, sucked a deep breath, and slid her blade from its sheath. "It doesn't matter if Ark's not here. He's probably with some hussy who provided an easy night." She fought down a surge of jealousy. "Let's not waste the morning."

  He nodded—reluctant, timid—and unsheathed his weapon.

  The sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon, but the morning provided enough light for shadows. Ark had told her, again and again, that she must learn to fight in imperfect conditions. Thus the darkness, the slippery dew beneath her boots, the heaviness in her chest—these were perfect.

  She balanced on the balls of her feet, setting her stance to both attack and deflect.

  Bran d
id the same. Ark had also taught the young blacksmith, though the smithy demanded most of Bran's time. He couldn't dedicate himself to the maneuvers like she did. Muscles stretched beneath his tunic, but his blade wavered.

  Wavered.

  Kipra shot forward, angling her attack to dip beneath his defense and poke him in the thigh. She withdrew before stabbing too deep, but a tiny spot of blood seeped from the hole in his leggings.

  "Demon-damn, Bran, what do you expect to accomplish like that?"

  "I'm not you," he said, and his tone was firm as he continued. "Neither you nor Irreor ever understood, but I don't want—"

  "Shut up." She grabbed his wrist and re-angled his weapon. "You can't react as quickly as you can act, so you've got to keep moving. Never stop. If you're already dodging before the blow comes, it'll be even easier to deflect. Now move!"

  He heaved a sigh and matched her stance.

  Again she shot forward, blade angled at his thigh. He skipped to the side, as he damn well should, and she jerked back, whipping her sword up to deflect his counter. But no counter came. Instead, Bran simply awaited another attack.

  "The riposte was right there, waiting for you, and you let it slip away." She shook her head, hesitant to say what she must. "You were right, earlier—a blade needs to cut. Sure, it can block. It can parry and defend and protect, but it's ultimately worthless unless you attack."

  "I know, but—"

  "Then do it!"

  She left him no chance to reply, slashing at his face. He unleashed a startled yelp as he deflected the blow, and then... then they danced. She was a dragonfly, light and nimble, and he a stag beetle, guarded and lurching. She fluttered above him, sword weaving and caressing his defenses. He blocked when he could, ducked and leapt away when he couldn't.

  She pressed harder, a slow anger building. Anger at her mother, her sister, Ark and Farren. Anger at Bran's unwillingness to commit to an attack. In a way, the last was worse than the others. Crest wouldn't allow the city mercy, nor would he allow the blacksmith mercy.

  Attack!

  One slash, two, then three. Shallow cuts opened on his forearms, and she winced at the blood oozing across his skin. But she didn't stop. The cuts didn't truly harm him, and he received far worse in the smithy each day. He needed to learn this—two or three wounds were a fair price.

  "Up high," she shouted, and she aimed a series of strikes at his head. He managed to skirt away from most, block the rest, but his movements were too sluggish. "Damn you, Bran, Kylen Crest's men won't pull their strikes. They won't take pity on you."

  He grimaced.

  "Down low!"

  She swept her sword toward his calf, grinned as he blocked two strikes, then cursed as he allowed the third to slip past. More blood welled, and still he refused to seize the offensive. He leapt back to heave a breath.

  "Will you retreat when Crest murders your family?" She hadn't intended to say that, but it felt right. She needed to goad him, force him to find a reason to cut. "Or will you finally decide to attack? I don't think—"

  "He won't," he said through gritted teeth. "And you're right, you don't think. I can attack, but I choose not to. I don't want to hurt anyone."

  Anger, almost the same as hers, dwelled in the clench of his jaw.

  She snorted. "You're full of shit. Prove you can attack. Prove you're too strong. I think you're a mewling child, too firmly stuck to his mother's tit to move without direction."

  Bran growled, and something in the young blacksmith changed—a subtle shift of his posture, the straightening of his back and the clenching of his weapon. He leapt at her, still with the same lurching motion as before, but his blade no longer wavered. He swept aside her hastily placed defense.

  He snatched her sword wrist, wrenched it backwards until her bones threatened to shatter, and smashed his thick, meaty fist into her chest. Air whooshed from her lungs, and spots danced in the shadows of his face. She collapsed in a heap, struggling to draw breath.

  He dropped his sword and knelt at her side. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to—"

  "It's fine," she wheezed, managing to fill her lungs with air. Once recovered, she released a sarcastic chuckle. "I needed to know you could attack, not just run. You'll need to remember it. Don't let it go."

  He twisted his face in confusion. "You're not telling me something."

  "I'm not telling you many things, nor will I. They're mine."

  She shivered and crawled to her feet, uneasy at allowing Bran close for too long. How did other women stand it? Did they simply grow accustomed to a man's closeness?

  No, it wasn't that.

  Other women are simply deranged.

  "Do you blame me?" she asked.

  "For cutting me, or holding secrets?"

  "Both."

  "No, Kipra, I don't blame you. You are what you are, and very little will change that. Nor should it be changed. You've got your own demons and, one way or the other, you must face them. We all fight them alone."

  Alone indeed.

  They sheathed their blades and took seats at the lip of the hill overlooking Farren. She made certain to keep him at arm's length, and he simply volunteered a gentle smile in return. Her chest ached where he'd struck her, but the pain was good. It told her Bran could defend himself.

  One hour of silence passed, then two, but still Ark hadn't arrived.

  "He's not coming," she said, uncertain if she'd spoken in relief or sadness. "You didn't see him last night?"

  "No."

  "Then why—"

  "Irreor will do what he needs to do. It... it can't be easy to lose a father. He found something more important to do, or maybe he simply forgot. Whatever it is, you'll need to accept it." He shrugged as if to shirk off his own disappointment. "We both do."

  She cursed beneath her breath. Why couldn't she simply hate Ark and be done with it? But no, his image hovered in her mind, grinning that haughty grin, laughing that charming laugh.

  And so she'd go a day without him. She'd work in the shop, sell swords to Kylen Crest's men, watch as the Parched Ones ambled through the city. If Bran was right and Ark prepared to leave, she'd go years or decades without him.

  If only life were that simple.

  Chapter Eleven

  Irreor stalked Farren's streets. He should've met with Kipra and Bran hours ago, but he hadn't found the strength. How could he train them, give them hope to break free from Farren's downfall? He couldn't do it himself.

  You're a knotted fool, Irreor, with an extra void-forsaken knot thrown in for good measure.

  -And fools will be kings.-

  I don't give two shits about kings. Nor a single shit, for that matter. I care about Farren, about Bran and Kipra and the memories of my parents. The rest of it can rot.

  -Ah, and caring will also be foolish.-

  Irreor massaged his temples. Sometimes, on rare days like today, the strength of the voice hurt. It dove too deep, spoke too loud, like a bellowing giant trampling his thoughts. He'd tried everything to drown it out—humming, soft singing, even drawing his nails across his forearm, hoping the pain would wash it away—but nothing lessened it.

  -He'll leave Farren, find my Mad King. It will take years, but then he'll know what he must do. All my things must have a reason. Eventually, they'll all know their purpose.-

  Know what?

  The voice answered with laughter.

  Irreor stomped past a dust-covered potter's hovel, beneath the deep shadow of Farren's Spire, heading toward the city's Council House. He should've been standing on the western hilltop with his friends, practicing the morning away. Instead he was here. His forearm stung from a shallow, self-inflicted gash, his eyelids were heavy from another sleepless night.

  He needed to make things better, and maybe the council would listen. Maybe they'd believe. Crest's grip tightened around the city, but if Irreor could find a way to lessen it, maybe… just maybe….

  I could draw a knife across Crest's throat.

  The
intensity of that thought forced him to a halt. Sure, the desire for revenge played a large roll in his trip to the council, but he hadn't expected that. His father had taught him to always hold his honor high, and murder hardly seemed honorable. But what other options did he have?

  -I'll give him two choices: convince the council to hire him on as a guard, or leave the city. I wish I could allow him the first, but he'll find the last. He must. Everything hangs on it, like the squealing hinges of a rusted gate. He won't falter.-

  Irreor mounted the steps to the Council House and stopped before a man, one of Crest's new recruits, who guarded the door. Stubble sprouted from the man's face, and a long line of grease streaked his armor.

  "What you be needing, Ark?" the guard rasped. "Your daddy ain't here. Ain't been here for a long time, boy."

  "I've business with the council."

  "Ain't got no business here."

  The man hawked and spat, then reached out to shove Irreor from the steps. Irreor snatched the guard's hand, ducked and pivoted, and shattered his wrist. Shrieks poured from the man, but Irreor ignored them. His father had spoken of honor—a theory Irreor had then used against thoughts of murder—but Eenan Ark had never counseled against self-defense.

  On the contrary.

  'Don't ever let a man push you, Son,' his father had said. 'Don't let them look down on you, and never, ever let them hurt you.'

  Irreor fixed the guard with a cold stare. "Go back to Kylen Crest. Tell him he's killed one Ark, but there's another waiting. He's welcome to land the first blow. It'll be his last."

  "He's...." The man swallowed hard, clutching his mangled wrist. "He's...."

  "He's what?"

  "Inside."

  The man's final word drew the moisture from Irreor's mouth. He hadn't expected this. But then, what had he expected? A group of councilmen, waiting breathlessly to hear his proposal? No, that was doubtful. Yet this made perfect sense... Crest was already taking a more active role in controlling the council.

  Irreor looked at the guard, who cringed and backed away. These new men of Crest's were weak. Even with a broken wrist, his father's men would've tried to stop Irreor.