Eulogy Page 9

  "Leave," he said. "Find a hole and don't come out."

  The guard skittered back a step, cast a final look at the door to the Council House, and fled. He must’ve known he'd be punished for his failure, but his fear of Irreor had overridden his fear of punishment. Fear was like that. It made a man do one thing when he wished another.

  Anger did the same.

  I can't be angry. I can't let it show.

  He carefully opened the door and entered. He'd never been in the Council Chamber before, but his father had. His father had met with Farren's council, day after day, working to make the city better.

  Now it was Irreor's turn.

  White stone pillars rose to the ceiling. Sunlight shone from colored, triangular skylights. Marble covered the floors, and a long mahogany table occupied the center of the room. Twenty men and women sat around that table, all draped in expensive silk from the Inner Empire and sparkling jewelry from the mines near Rippon, all wearing startled expressions. They fell silent, some turning to peer at the table's head, some at Irreor, and the rest at their hands.

  Music from a violin—troubled and soft and turbulent—wafted from somewhere in the corner, but Irreor refused to look.

  A man sat at the table's head directly opposite Irreor, and he leaned forward and laid his hands flat against the table. The High Seat. This man, with King Kinslek's permission, ruled Farren. He decided who led the traders, guards and crafters. Everything passed through him.

  He'd also directed Eenan Ark.

  But now, Kylen Crest stood behind the High Seat.

  Irreor had never met him before, only heard whispers on the street. Rumors had described a strong man, one who could whip others into frenzy, one who could direct them with a crispness that bordered on militaristic.

  Crest didn't disappoint.

  Unyielding eyes, nestled within a chiseled face, peered beneath bushy brows. He was a giant, towering over the High Seat just as Farren's Spire towered over the city. He was larger than even Bran. A bastard sword, certainly one of the longest, thickest weapons ever forged, jutted from behind his shoulder. A tiny smirk twitched wider as Irreor stepped into the room.

  "The pup enters," Crest murmured. "Full of fire and rage and injustice."

  Irreor almost leapt forward to drive his sword through the man's chest, for that fire and rage and injustice blazed. This bastard had ordered the murder of his father, had torn everything from him. Crest deserved to die, deserved to watch his lifeblood pump from his vei—

  Calm down!

  A mere whisper against a tornado, the voice spoke:

  -And in those moments of highest emotion, when he feels as if he'll burst from it... ah, sometimes he must calm himself. Sometimes my people must look around them, take a deep breath, accept what I've given them. They must. There will be no other way.-

  And there wasn't. Irreor couldn't murder this man, couldn't turn his father's lessons into a mockery. If he did, he'd be no better than any other thug.

  Crest grinned at a woman in the far corner.

  She flaunted black hair and shapely legs, and gossamer clothing clung to her skin. She tapped her lip with a long-nailed finger, gazing between the giant and Irreor. A scarred man at her feet played the violin, tugging bow across strings in confident, yet wearied, strokes.

  "Should I stab him, my dear?" Crest asked.

  "You play with fire," she said.

  He unleashed a harsh laugh. "You think you can take a stabbing, boy?"

  "I think you can try."

  Irreor slid a hand nearer his hilt, preparing to pounce. The long table separated them, but either man could clear it in a heartbeat. The giant reached back to snag his own weapon.

  High Seat leapt to his feet.

  "No blood in the Council House," he rasped, his voice taut. He glanced back to Crest, wincing as if afraid to defy him. "Please, no blood here. Find another place for your games."

  Crest shrugged and dropped his hand.

  Draw a knife across his throat.

  Adrenaline pounded in Irreor's ears. He wanted to fight this man so much his gut clenched into a knot, but he'd come for a different reason.

  "Let me lead the guard," he told the High Seat.

  Crest roared with laughter.

  The High Seat frowned. "We've already appointed a new man to lead our guar—"

  "One of his men? Certainly not Pernik Sylis. Demon-damn, you can't see that he owns them, and he owns you. You can't let—"

  "No one owns us," the High Seat snapped. "We're appointed by King Kinslek himself, and we do what we think best for our city. I'd think, with your father who he was, he would've taught you that."

  Irreor jerked as if slapped. "That man had my father killed."

  "Your proof? We found eight others with your father, and not one of them had anything to do with Kylen Crest. He's a businessman, and a respectable one."

  Irreor shook his head in disbelief. It was obvious that Crest owned the council, owned them down to their bones, their very minds and decisions. They were puppets.

  Coming here had been futile, especially with Crest in the room.

  Still, he held no other choice. Not now. "That's your best answer? Call him a businessman, let him stand at your shoulder and direct the city? A slave from the Inner Empire has more free will."

  The High Seat shuffled around the table. He leaned close to Irreor, gripped his shoulder and whispered, "I can't do anything. None of us can. Your father was a great man, one of the best I've ever known. Even he couldn't stop this."

  "Then what do you expect me to do," Irreor hissed. "I can't stand by and watch this."

  "You must."

  The other man walked back to the table's head.

  Irreor waited several seconds beneath the giant's smirk, trying to decide what to do. Should he attack, throw away his father's lessons? No, he'd remained strong this long. He couldn't weaken. Mustn't weaken. Instead, his best option was much more humiliating: do nothing.

  Not here. Not now.

  -But there will come a time—ah, how I long for that time—when my general will rise up. He'll command armies and show himself a savior. I can feel it, like cool water against my skin. Taste it, like the sweetness of a cherry. I can hear the drums beat, distant and yet inviting, awaiting war. It will be glorious.-

  Irreor pivoted and stomped from the Council's Chamber. He needed to find a way to leave the city. He needed to live his life, to explore the island, to find a woman who didn't hate him.

  No other path remained.

  ***

  Irreor took his time weaving through the market.

  Gar Tsi's tent stood at the far end, a ragged, stained sheet of limp canvas. A rough wagon stood to the side, empty but for a few bottles, smelling of donkey. The merchant, a full-fleshed man with a dense, graying beard, brought a rich wine from Lekte's orchards, but it always sold out within hours of arriving. He sold many other items, depending on the time of year, and he'd visited Farren for decades.

  A ring of customers surrounded his tent, all shouting and jostling to the front.

  "Tits slap me, be getting yourselves back!" the merchant screamed.

  The crowd retreated, but only for an instant. Then they surged back to grab at the thin red bottles of wine. The merchant cursed at them, managed to lose only three bottles to thieves, then muttered to himself as a woman tossed him two coins for the last bottle.

  Irreor waited another moment before approaching. "How far from Farren do you get?"

  "Why you be wanting to know?" Gar Tsi rolled his eyes. "I'm not being no bloody ferry service, nor am I being a pack mule. Carry your own shit, and leave me—"

  "As far as Rippon? Or to the island's northwestern corner?" It didn't matter, he just needed to get away. "You need a guard, and I doubt you'll find one better than me. I can leave tomorrow."

  "You've got yourself a guard's arrogance." Gar Tsi peered at him, his gaze lingering on the Synien's sheath for a second longer than necessary. "Never did be
knowing one of them to think himself beneath another. What's your name, boy?"

  "Irreor Ark."

  -And the name of the father will open many doors.-

  The merchant whistled. "Eenan Ark's git?"

  Irreor nodded.

  "You know how to use that pigsticker?"

  "Better than most, perhaps worse than some."

  Gar Tsi scratched his chin. "There's being no city that escapes me, and there's nary a village that isn't visited at least once in a year. I even been finding myself a little hovel outside of Elrin." He licked his lips. "That woman there, she's got the best tits you ever seen. You aren't minding my dallying, are you, boy?"

  "No, I don't mind that. What you do with yourself is your own problem. My problem is making sure your caravan doesn't get robbed." Irreor allowed himself a smirk. "Does she at least have teeth?"

  "Aye, boy, that she does." Gar Tsi howled laughter, then drew his lips into a serious, businesslike frown. "I'll not pay you much, and you'll have to be earning it."

  "I don't care, just—"

  "You might."

  "We'll deal with that problem if it comes up." Then he drew a deep breath and forced himself to say, "I won't go near Kiln. That's my only rule."

  I can't see my father's home. I can't tell them my father is dead.

  "That's being fine," Gar Tsi said. "Those folks mostly guard themselves, anyways. There's not being many willing to match a Kilnsman in a spark." He winked. "You'll be meeting me at the northern gate sometime after dawn, depending on if the woman wants another go. Normally does, but get there before the sun's too high."

  Chapter Twelve

  "I'm leaving tomorrow," Irreor told Bran. "Gar Tsi needed a guard. I applied. He accepted."

  Krayr had left to track down a coal merchant, but Bran and Irreor worked in the smith's absence. Orange tendrils of flame spewed from the furnace as Irreor pumped the bellows. The smithy smelled of searing heat, blocking out any other scent. His friend adjusted a long piece of metal—what would soon become a rough longsword—then tugged it from the glowing embers.

  Neither of them had mentioned Irreor’s missed practice. With everything that had happened, Bran must've figured it was best to wait and let his friend speak when comfortable.

  "Oh?" Bran said. "This place is too much for you, eh? Figures. Those scrawny arms aren't so great for holding a hammer."

  "Lies. This heat is enough for any man to want out."

  "I like it."

  "Exactly. Fire sank into your skull at a young age. Ah, but there's no helping it, really. Your pyre marker will read, 'Here smolders Bran Stonehand. Wasn't so smart, but he knew how to swing a hammer.'"

  The blacksmith huffed and smashed hammer against steel. Three quick, measured strikes. Sparks dropped to the smithy's floor, blinking out like dying stars.

  That's what this place is... a dying star. Irreor thrust down on the bellows, which shoved another wave of heat into the forge. One I can't watch blink out. I've got to make him understand why I need to leave. No one else will understand.

  The words, however, didn’t come easily. "Tomorrow is my father's pyre day."

  "I know. You don't need to tell me—"

  "I do. There's this thing in me, but I don't know how to describe it." Irreor chuckled to himself, bitter and angry. He couldn't tell anyone about the voice, not even Bran. "Your father started grumbling that I need to find a place of my own—just a few days were enough for him. But now he'll have quiet in his home."

  "My mother never minded you here. Neither did I."

  -Something will hover beyond his reach. He'll grasp and struggle and curse, but it will take years to find. How I wish I could simply give it to him, but that would ruin everything. And everything will be more important than nothing.-

  "But I need to find something," Irreor said. "It's more of a feeling, really. There's something out there, on the island. Waiting for me." He shrugged. "Maybe it's just a desire to explore."

  "It's more and you know it."

  It was more than that. It was the voice, and his father's death, and Crest's presence in the city. More than those things, it was something untouchable. Something without a scent or a taste, but it followed his every step.

  "You'll tell Kipra?" his friend asked.

  Irreor hesitated. "One moment it's as if I could actually feel something with her. The next, she hacks it away. I'm not a branch to cut away, Bran."

  "I think you'd better tell her. You've trained her for too long to just leave without an explanation. She'll gut me if she finds out I knew, and I'd rather leave gutting to the cows and goats. Kipra, however—"

  "She won't care."

  "You don't see her face when your back is turned."

  "Lies."

  "Always lies." Bran stuffed the iron back into the forge. "Talk to her, or I'll make sure to find her before you leave."

  Irreor scowled. The blacksmith was his best friend, but sometimes the man infuriated him. However, he couldn't ignore the request after everything the Stonehands had done for him.

  "I went to the council today. It's why I missed our practice. I'd hoped to convince them to let me captain their guard. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Brilliant, even."

  "Void take me."

  "It was worse than that. Crest was there."

  "Void bloody void."

  Irreor held too many memories, all heightened by the pain of his father's pyre day, to say more.

  "I'll miss you, my friend," Irreor said.

  "And I you," Bran said, and he gulped. "Do what you've got to do. Find what you need, and find a way to release the anger. We'll be here when you're ready."

  They waited until Krayr returned—the old smith cursing the blasted coal merchant for slipping away yet again—before Irreor shrugged off his heavy leather smock.

  "I'll be gone tomorrow, Krayr," he said.

  "Where to, man?" Krayr donned that same smock, pulled out the blade his son had been working on. "Smite me, what've you done to this thing? It's like a singed prick!"

  Bran rolled his eyes.

  "Gar Tsi, the merchant," Irreor said. "I'll work as a caravan guard."

  "Bring me back a trinket. I love trinkets." Krayr stuck out his hand. Despite his earlier grumblings, he said, "You'll always have a place here, if you want it."

  "Right. One shiny, sparkly trinket." Irreor clasped the smith's hand. "Thanks."

  "Out with you. I've a son to scold."

  Irreor tossed Bran a sympathetic smile.

  ***

  Master Steel's house stood at the edge of the marketplace, not far from his stall. A murky sun hovered above the city's horizon, hiding behind thin clouds, and Irreor muttered to himself as he headed toward the looming conversation with Kipra.

  This is pointless.

  A group of children darted past, hooting and waving a red-painted tunic with a black starburst at its center. The makeshift flag was a poor representation of the kingdom of Alkar's standard, but few people in this district could afford the thicker canvas of a real flag. Not for a child's toy. However, these run-down houses, these jagged stone streets, these grimy people—they were something more than just a city.

  The voice thrummed like a furious hornet, stinging again and again.

  -They'll be an empire.-

  Not now. I've got to think of what to say. Kipra, she'll—

  -Why do you plague me? Let me finish my work in peace.-

  Irreor's foot struck a jutting cobblestone, and he stumbled to a halt. You hear me? Why hide so long? What did you hope to accomplish!

  Silence.

  What work? What are you? Who are you? Speak to me!

  He waited again, straining to understand something, anything, from the voice.

  -I'll lift them above. Above what they never were. They never were. Never. And they'll thank me for it. Oh, how they'll thank me for it. And I'll accept those praises with an open heart.-

  The voice made no sense. The island held a rich history
, one that started with a small mining settlement. That settlement, named Farren, had supplied iron to the Synien Isle. It had soon grown to a center of trade, its people working hand-in-hand with the Inner Empire. The mines no longer spilled with steel, but how could its people never have existed?

  What are we to you?

  -I wish there was another way, but something must force him from that city. Something must force him to wear the mantle of leader. He'll be their general, but she'll never care for him.-

  Kipra?

  Silence.

  The voice couldn't have meant anyone else, but why wouldn’t she care for him? She disliked him, perhaps even more than disliked him, but she'd never given a reason. And the voice... it mocked him with its secrets. It knew her. It knew why she wouldn't let him close.

  Why couldn't you have answered me, just this once?

  Irreor looked to the sky—a blank, nearly black space. The sun had settled below the city's edge, and only the faintest glow remained. The light scent of chalk and graphite drifted over him. These were Farren's nights: children stopped playing before the sunlight dimmed, townsfolk disappeared into their homes, and that scent... that chalky, powdery scent coated everything.

  He swore softly and hurried onward.

  Kipra stood in a small garden. Flowers lined the brick walls of her home—newly budded, not yet bursting with scent or color. They held themselves close, just like the woman in their center. She held her sword thrust out before her, knees bent.

  A stone crunched beneath Irreor's heal, and she pivoted to him, blade readied.

  "Sloppy," he said. "Your arm doesn't have enough strength for a killing slash. Make the motion more concise. Hold your muscles as if you're about to release a bowstring, then let it snap in that same motion."

  "You've come halfway across the city to berate me?"

  "No." His breath caught in the back of his throat, and he barked a quick cough to clear it. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "So?"

  "I thought you would want to know."

  "I don't care what you do, Ark." She examined the ground—grass torn from sliding feet, dirt dimpled and disturbed. She closed her eyes. "You've taught me, and I appreciate that, but I can't take anything more from you. Sometimes I wish... I wish I could. But I'm broken."