The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  Isle Halavend moved around the table, maneuvering through the room as the crowd dispersed. If Ardor Benn got away now, Halavend would never forgive himself. He’d had the man across the table from him, but he’d doubted. And that was exactly what Ardor was counting on.

  Halavend stepped into the street, the Red Moon so large it left only a little dark sky visible on the horizon. He adjusted his hat and sucked in the refreshing night air, scanning up and down the cobblestoned roadway.

  Which way had Ardor gone? Halavend stepped over to one of the men slouched against the brick wall of the Staggering Bull.

  “Did you see a man leave this place just before me?” Halavend didn’t even think of reaching for his dagger now. Had he really been afraid of these loiterers before? The man didn’t respond, so he bent and touched his shoulder. “He was slender, dark-haired. Did you see which direction he went?”

  It was a woman who answered, seated on the bottom step of the tavern entrance. “He went that way.”

  Halavend turned to see her pointing down a narrow side street. “Homeland bless you!” he called, hurrying in that direction.

  Down the street, several indistinguishable figures were bathed in reddish light, making their way to unknown destinations. Confound his old eyes! One of those figures had to be Ardor Benn.

  The old Isle raced forward, wishing his joints didn’t protest so. He was halfway down the side street when something emerged from a narrow alley in a blur of movement.

  A cry left his lips, and Halavend’s hand flew to the knife on his belt. His assailant was much quicker, swatting the knife to the cobblestones as soon as it appeared. Halavend’s arm wrenched back painfully, and a strong hand closed around his neck as the attacker shoved him against the wooden siding of the nearest building.

  Halavend heard the distinct click of a Slagstone gun hammer locking into place. He felt the barrel, hard and cold as it pressed into the soft flesh below his chin.

  “Why are you following me?” asked a whispered voice. Halavend could just make out his attacker’s face from the corner of his eye.

  Homeland be praised! It was Ardor Benn. Though Halavend wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or terrified that the man had found him.

  “Who are you?” Ardor asked. “You with the Beripent Regulation? I have broken no laws tonight. Unless, of course, you are with the Regulation. Then I suppose I just assaulted a Reggie.”

  “No, no.” Halavend found it difficult to speak in a way that wouldn’t jostle the gun under his chin. “My name is … Holy Isle Halavend. I’m here with no threat to you or your Settled soul.”

  Ardor suddenly stepped away, his face wrinkled in confusion as he lowered the Singler. “Holy Isle … That would explain the Wayfarist speak back at the tavern. But it doesn’t explain a whole slew of other things.”

  Ardor holstered his gun and picked up a sack. Halavend heard the distinct sound of Ashings clicking together, likely the ruse artist’s earnings from the tavern.

  “First,” Ardor said, “in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a Moon Passing tonight. If you are who you say, then you’re supposed to be watching the Holy Torch in the Mooring on a night like this.”

  “And you’re supposed to be drunk,” retorted Isle Halavend. “So I guess tonight we are both more than people take us for.”

  Ardor slung the sack over one shoulder, and Halavend spoke quickly before the younger man could walk away. He had to make Ardor believe that he was worth listening to.

  “You detonated Health Grit behind your table.” Halavend’s words caused Ardor Benn to stop short. “An expensive detonation, probably mixed with Prolonging Grit, possibly even Compounding Grit. The pipe on the table was a smoke screen—quite literally. A way to envelop your corner in haze so no one would notice the detonation cloud hanging around you.”

  “And why would I do that?” Ardor took a threatening step toward the old man.

  “Health Grit purges imperfections from the body,” Halavend explained. “Within that cloud, you could drink all the ale in that tavern and not get drunk. But the others didn’t know that you were merely acting. You had them bet against you, and in the end you probably earned double the Ashings that you spent on the Health Grit.”

  “Hmm,” Ardor mused. “The longer you talk, the less I believe that you’re actually a Holy Isle.”

  “My word is genuine, I assure you,” said Halavend. He’d certainly earned the man’s attention. “Though lately I haven’t been as holy as my title might suggest.”

  “That might be the most honest things I’ve heard from the mouth of an Isle,” Ardor said. “But none of it explains why you were following me.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Well, I’m not in the business of helping old religious folk,” replied Ardor. But he didn’t walk away.

  “I know your business,” Halavend said. “And I have a job fit for your unique set of skills.”

  “How do you know I’m the right man?” asked Ardor. “My last ruse didn’t exactly go off without a hitch.”

  “Yes, I know. Two weeks ago on Dronodan. Outside of Marow,” said Halavend. “As I understand it, there is a safe box with five hundred Ashings waiting for you at the bottom of the harbor.”

  Halavend had him now. Ardor stepped closer, his posture threatening once more. “How do you know that?”

  “I did my research,” answered the Isle. “That’s how I know you’re the right man for my job.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Isle Halavend retrieved his fallen dagger and glanced around the narrow street. A few late-night pedestrians had drawn uncomfortably near. Taking Ardor Benn by the arm, the old Isle directed him into the dark alley where the ruse artist had been hiding. This was one place the Red Moon’s light didn’t penetrate, but there was still enough ambient glow for the two men to see each other.

  “Before I can continue, I must assure absolute secrecy of this information,” said Halavend.

  Ardor pinched his lips shut. “Secret’s safe with me. A ruse artist understands the value of a good employer.”

  “I wish I could trust you, but this is much too important to test a man’s word.” Isle Halavend reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a bundle of cloth, securely tied. Pulling the ends of the string, the bundle unfolded to reveal two clay balls, both just a bit larger than an Ashing.

  “These detonation pots contain two types of Specialty Grit,” Halavend explained. “With your permission, I’m going to detonate them both at our feet before I explain anything more about this job.”

  Ardor scratched behind his ear thoughtfully. “I’d like to know just what kind of Grit we’re dealing with before you blow us up.”

  “Of course.” Halavend pointed to the detonation pot on the left. “This is Silence Grit. Are you familiar with its function?”

  Ardor nodded. “No better way to keep a secret.”

  Silence Grit was derived from pieces of spruce wood, digested and fired by a dragon, and then processed to powder. Its effect contained all sound within the blast radius. People outside the Silence cloud wouldn’t be able to hear anything within, just as people within wouldn’t be able to hear anything outside. That would eliminate any possibility of an eavesdropper.

  “The second pot is full of Memory Grit,” Isle Halavend explained. “Have you used this before?”

  “Now, that’s a clever question,” said Ardor. “I suppose I wouldn’t remember if I had.” He leaned forward as if to inspect the pot closer. “Digested human skull, isn’t it? I worked a stint as a Harvester,” explained Ardor. “Right unsettling to dig a human skeleton out of a fire-hardened mound of dragon dung. More so if you knew the guy going in.”

  Halavend felt a chill that caused him to fidget. He didn’t like to think about where the Grit came from. Especially the types derived from human bones. He knew King Pethredote had instituted an initiative to ensure that the bodies used were not gainfully acquired, but the whole thing was still unsettling.


  “When the Memory Grit detonates,” Halavend went on, “we can stay within its blast radius and converse normally until the cloud closes. Once outside the effect, neither of us will have any memory of what transpired within the cloud.”

  “I don’t see why that’s necessary.” Ardor seemed hesitant. And rightfully so.

  “I can only trust you with information if you agree to take the job,” explained Isle Halavend.

  “But how will you know if I agree?” Ardor asked. “Once we step foot outside the Memory cloud, we won’t remember anything either of us said.”

  “I will make a marking.” Halavend produced a piece of chalk from his pocket. “A Y if you accept, or an N if you do not.”

  “How do I know you won’t trick me?” Ardor asked. “You could explain the job in the heart of the detonation and mark a Y even if I say no. Once the cloud closes, I won’t remember that you wrote down the opposite of what I said.”

  Halavend nodded. The man was as good as people claimed, thinking through every angle. “If you see me write anything contrary to what you agree with”—he took a deep breath and drew the dagger from his belt—“you can stab me. If there is any trickery, you’ll find me dead when the Memory cloud closes.”

  Ardor Benn raised his eyebrows. “Wow.” He took the proffered handle of the blade. “You’ve really thought this through.”

  “You have no idea the extent of research that has led me to this moment,” Isle Halavend said. “Things are not right, Ardor Benn. I need your help to set them straight. What do you say? Can I detonate the pots?”

  Halavend looked at the two clay spheres resting in his wrinkled palm. Using these types of Grit for personal reasons would get him barred from the Islehood. And the punishment would be far worse if anyone discovered what conversation they had been used to safeguard.

  Ardor Benn nodded. “That’s a lot of fanfare. Let’s find out if your job offer lives up to the hype.”

  Isle Halavend hurled the detonation pots against the ground. They sparked and ignited on impact, enveloping the narrow alley in two overlapping clouds of Grit.

  The night frightens me. There are wild things afoot in the cover of darkness.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Ardor Benn rapped on the roof of the carriage and waited for it to stop. He was at the corner of the bustling Char, a place where no one paused to notice the comings and goings of others. It was several miles from the Mooring, but Ard preferred to make the final approach on foot.

  Ard climbed out of the wagon, passed the driver six metal Ashlits, then flipped him an extra two. A tip. For avoiding Bort Street. That roadway was in such disrepair, a man could lose teeth from rattling along in a hired carriage.

  Isle Halavend had given him the Ashlits for the ride, but Ard would have happily paid from his own purse. He was a ruse artist, not a thief. Being able to pay generously for goods and services was exactly why he ran ruses.

  Rusing was a craft. An art form. Like the rich folks’ orchestral music—some movements slow, some movements swift and thrilling, but Ard was always the conductor. Picking a wealthy Focus, planning the setup, executing the plan, getting the payout. That was rusing. Slighting your carriage driver, or slipping an extra apple into your bushel—that was baseless thievery. No creativity at all.

  Ard set off into the busy Char, following a wide, paved pathway. Pruned hedges lined the sides, taller trees rising behind them. The vegetation was a symbol here. Life out of ash. Regrowth.

  Ard passed the first preserved structure. It was little more than a crumbling square of blackened timbers. The ground around the burned ruins had been paved with flat stones to hold back vines that would try to climb the historic walls.

  In front of the old building was a vendor’s cart, colorful canopy stretched overtop. Ard couldn’t see the wares due to the crowd of curious onlookers—visitors who had come from other cities across Espar, or sailed in from the surrounding islands of the Greater Chain. Beripent was a city worth visiting. And the Char, with its historical significance, was not a place to miss.

  Ard passed another destroyed building, preserved and maintained with a perimeter of the same stone pavers. At this site, an artist sat on a short stool, painting oils over a stretched canvas. Sparks, why would anyone buy that painting? Who wanted to look at a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old pile of rubble?

  Ard knew the history, of course. Flames, every kid in the Greater Chain knew what happened in the Char. A dragon happened. A bull dragon.

  This area had once been the center of Beripent’s high society. The site of the old palace was just up ahead. King Kerith, inarguably the worst monarch in the history of the islands, decided he was the man to tame the dragons. Bring them out of the high mountains of Pekal and onto the rolling hills of Espar.

  Now, moving a dragon—everyone knew that was suicide. But Kerith’s Harvesters reported the location of a fertilized dragon egg and he had them kill the mother and extract it. Put it on display until it hatched. Blazing thing grew up three years, nearly to its full size, before it decided to raze the city and eat a bunch of citizens.

  Grotenisk the Destroyer.

  Grotenisk. As far as Ard knew, this was the only dragon to have ever been officially named. Eat enough folks, and they’re bound to name you, Ard thought. People can’t curse you if you don’t have a name.

  Grotenisk’s attack made sense to Ard’s mind. Only dragon to leave Pekal. Only dragon to attack an island. Ard wouldn’t like it, either, getting plucked out of his natural habitat, raised away from his kind. No wonder the bull snapped.

  Ard passed a man selling roasted nuts, his open flame contained in a barrel beside a historic wall of crumbling bricks. Here was a place where so many people had been burned or eaten. Now somebody was selling roasted nuts. Did no one else see the irony?

  Supposedly, nearly ten thousand people had died in the damage caused by Grotenisk’s attack. Fires raged for weeks. The dragon himself was said to have single-handedly killed a thousand people in the space of just a few hours. That was destruction like Ard couldn’t imagine.

  The vendor with the roasted nuts called out to him, but Ard was already late. Holy Isles had a reputation of being uptight to begin with. That poor Halavend was probably nearing a complete nervous breakdown.

  Raek wasn’t happy about Ard’s choice to meet the old man. Could be a setup. Didn’t have enough to go on. Raek could be right on all counts, and normally, Ard would have dismissed the Isle as a lunatic, and forgotten all about it. But Raek hadn’t been in that alleyway during the Moon Passing two nights ago. He hadn’t seen the fear and sincerity in the old man’s eyes.

  Now Ard was trusting his gut. And a single letter that had been chalked onto the brick wall when the Memory Grit cloud burned out.

  Y.

  He entered Oriar’s Square, the heart of the Char. Activity was concentrated here, with enough vendors lined up to make the area look like a common marketplace. Musicians, performers, and artists were scattered among tourists, each competing for an Ashing.

  Oriar, Ard thought. The Folly of Beripent. A public stain on the Islehood to this day. A failed attempt to save the city.

  Ard glanced at the stone steps that had once led to the entrance of King Kerith’s palace. This was the very site where Oriar had failed his detonation of Visitant Grit. Now the stairway led nowhere. Cordoned off with stout chains, the stone steps ascended more than fifteen feet before crumbling away to nothing.

  Ard picked up his pace, navigating a few more pathways before emerging from the historic Char. Here, Ard could see the abrupt drop of the cliff-like shoreline, and smell the salty breeze coming off the sea. On a clear morning like this, he could even see the cloud-covered tips of Pekal’s looming peaks across the InterIsland Waters.

  The Mooring was nestled in a low spot at the base of a grassy knoll. It was a massive, oblong building, in the fashion of an overturned ship, though completely made of stone. The walls turned gently inward, domed. A
construction feat made possible by the use of Drift Grit, just like the high-rise buildings of the rich folk. Pay enough, and the masons could float blocks of stone right into position.

  Ard reached the entrance to the religious building and paused before the open double doors. He hadn’t been here since he was a child. For a moment, Ard thought how his mother would be proud of him, returning to the Mooring, meeting with a Holy Isle. But the truth was, Isle Halavend seemed like something of a heretic, and Ard was here for a ruse. Although the thought was painful, it was probably best that his mother went on thinking he was dead.

  The chamber inside was large, and the scuff of his boots echoed against the stone walls. Light Grit burned in a dozen mounted braziers, and a massive candlelit chandelier hung from the arched ceiling.

  In the center of the room was a display, of sorts. It was a large glass box, an impressive piece of craftsmanship with bands of iron added for support. A detonation of Light Grit burned at the top, illuminating the contents of the transparent box.

  It was an unfertilized dragon egg. It was mostly spherical, perhaps slightly oblong, standing almost as tall as Ard. Unlike a bird’s egg, there was no shell. As Ard understood it, that came later, during fertilization. The dragon egg on display was gelatinous, its milky white color the only thing that really distinguished it from the preservative liquid suspending the egg in the display box.

  This egg was old, likely infertile. Though if it had been fertilized, its white color indicated that the hatchling would have been a female. But hatchling dragons were a thing of the past now. They had ended with the Bull Dragon Patriarchy. Kind of impossible to have hatchlings when all the males were dead.

  “Homeland bless you,” a voice echoed through the waiting chamber. Ard stepped away from the gelatinous egg to find one of the Holy Isles—a woman Isless—ascending a wide staircase on the opposite side of the chamber. She looked to be only a few years older than Ard, dark-skinned, wearing the sea-green robes of the Islehood.