The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “But not necessarily the dragons,” said Raek. “Pekal is the only mountainous island. It’s a Settled belief, but a lot of folks think the Moonsickness has to do simply with the altitude and Pekal’s proximity to the Moon.”

  “It has nothing to do with the mountain!” Lyndel cried, raw frustration edging her voice as she set down the Moon Glass. “Halavend could have explained so much better.” She reached forward and picked up a small, leather-bound book. Holding it for a moment, Lyndel seemed to regain her composure.

  “There was another who began this search with us,” continued Lyndel. “Halavend’s young pupil. Her name was Isless Malla. She was the witness we needed to prove our theory. Malla took the Moon Glass and went to Pekal for the Passing.”

  Ard raised his eyebrows. Sparks, what was Lyndel saying? “You gave a Wayfarist Isless an Agrodite relic and sent her into the mountains during a Moon Passing?”

  “She chose that path,” Lyndel said. “Isle Halavend was too feeble for the trek. I would have gone myself, but I cannot write. And writing would be necessary, since the Moonsickness would take her voice before she could escape the island. She had to see the truth. The Moon Glass had always shown us that the rays fell upon Pekal. But Isless Malla proved that the dragons were taking the energy into themselves.” Lyndel gently tossed the book to Ard. “Her journal.”

  Ard felt the smooth leather of the covers, a thin cloth bookmark hanging limply from the pages. A reverent respect flooded through him. The author had given her life to write these words. This was Halavend’s proof. His motive for the entire ruse.

  The journal fell open to a bookmarked page somewhere near the end. Ard glanced at the practiced handwriting and began to read aloud.

  “‘The Moon is glaring down on me, even as I write this. But Homeland knows, I have seen enough. So high upon Pekal’s snowcapped summit, the Red Moon dominates the sky and lights the peaks like day.

  “‘The dragons are here. All of them. They came to the summit at dusk, powerful wings bearing them up to the highest point. There is no quarrel between them tonight. They come as wolves to a watering hole, an unspoken peace treaty governing their actions under the giant Moon.

  “‘Here, far above the trees, they stretch their massive bodies. The warmth of their bodies has cleared the ice and snow, and the tip of the mountain is a bald crown of stone. Their majestic figures are displayed upon the rocks like cats basking in a warming ray of sunshine. But these rays are something altogether different.’”

  Ard turned the page and continued.

  “‘I have seen the Moon’s energy, exposed through the red glass of this Agrodite lens. The rays from the Moon swirl toward the dragons, flowing into a brilliant arc of crimson light. I cannot see it with the naked eye, but the glass exposes the currents, streaming from the Moon and funneling into the dragons like water flushing through a drain.

  “‘Their bodies are ignited. This I can see, even without the Moon Glass. As the energy pours into their basking forms, a blaze burns hot beneath their scales. They are transfigured, full of light and power. But they cannot capture it all.

  “‘Some of the Moon’s energy is cascading toward me. I see it rolling down the snowy mountainside like deadly waves. I am awash in it, sitting in a sea of bloodred ripples that move behind the Agrodite Glass like a current. I can see the energy claiming Pekal, roiling all the way down to the InterIsland Waters. It is but a trickle at the shoreline, the dragons soaking in the brunt of it.

  “‘Through the Glass, I can see more rays afar. There is a pink glow on the distant horizon, the Red Moon’s toxic power touching down somewhere far abroad, much beyond the farthest reaches of the Greater Chain.

  “‘From these heights, I can see that the islands are a ring of purity. Everything beyond the Greater Chain seems to be at the mercy of the Moon. But the rays are drawn away from our islands, honing into the bodies of the glowing beasts above me.

  “‘Why are we so fortunate to have these regal protectors to shield us from the Moonsickness? Homeland preserve them. Without the dragons, these rays will surely spread. The sickening fire will seep into every man, woman, and child below. Just as it seeps into me now.

  “‘I can feel it. I am absorbing the rays like the dragons above me. But I am not suited for this power. It bleeds through my flesh, and, while I feel no different, I know that it is taking me. I cannot stand against it. I have strayed out of the dragons’ shield, Homeland help me. And tonight, I am a victim of Moonsickness. This is what I came here for. But now that it has claimed me, I am more frightened than ever.’”

  Ard shut the journal. He didn’t need to read anymore. His chest felt tight. His hands were shaking. Sparks, he was struck with genuine fear. Looking at his companions, he saw that Isless Malla’s words had achieved similar impact. Quarrah stared unblinking, and Raek sat on the straw mattress with his face downcast. The weight of the dead Isless’s words settled around them like fog after a spring rain.

  The dragons were the only thing standing between the Red Moon and the sickening of all human life on the islands.

  And the dragons were going extinct.

  “It is spreading as the dragons die,” said Lyndel. “That is what happened to the poor Landers in the southernmost part of Espar.”

  The village of Brend. Rumors were that the people had torn each other to shreds.

  “It’s like a doughnut,” said Raek. He had his big hand raised, his index finger and thumb joined together to make a ring in the air. “The hole of the doughnut—Pekal—has always been poisonous. Too many Moon rays falling on the dragons there. And beyond the ring, the rays touch down in the oceans again, too far away to be absorbed. But the doughnut ring—the Greater Chain—is protected.”

  Ard nodded. It seemed to be a sound metaphor, based on Lyndel’s explanation. And to take it one step further … “And now the doughnut is shrinking,” said Ard. “As the dragon population decreases, the poisonous doughnut hole expands, and the outside edges press in. The ring of protection will get thinner and thinner.”

  Beside him, Quarrah sighed sharply, and Ard caught her rolling her eyes. “The world is ending, and you two find a way to compare it to a doughnut.”

  “I always told Ard too many pastries would kill him,” Raek replied solemnly.

  Ard reached into his satchel and withdrew the keg of Visitant Grit. Slowly, he placed it on the floor. “What can this do?” he asked Lyndel.

  Ard and his team had run the most elaborate ruse of their lives to obtain this Grit, but now that the dire situation had been fully explained, Ard didn’t see any hope.

  “I don’t understand how a Paladin Visitant could fix this,” said Ard. “They’re unrivaled warriors, but we’re not in need of a fight. We need to preserve the dragons.”

  “Halavend believed in a Wayfarist scripture,” Lyndel said. “It speaks of how the Paladin Visitants have the power to save mankind from its own annihilation.”

  “I’ve heard the verse,” Ard said. “But how does it apply?”

  “With faith,” said Lyndel. “We have to believe that in summoning a Paladin Visitant, he will see mankind balancing on the brink of destruction. How he will save us, we do not know. But we must believe.”

  And there it was. The motive for everything.

  Faith.

  Ard lifted a hand to his forehead. Sparks. Did he believe that a Paladin Visitant could save them?

  “Who’s going to summon him?” Ard asked. The Islehood claimed that only the most worthy would succeed. “Who’s going to use the Grit?”

  “That was a point of great concern for Isle Halavend,” said Lyndel. “He struggled with the dilemma from the start. And unfortunately, his life was taken before he could come to a decision. That leaves it in our hands to decide.”

  It fell silent as all four occupants looked at one another. If Isle Halavend had been unable to come to a conclusion regarding a worthy candidate, how would this ragtag crew have any chance? An Agrodite, a thief, a Mix
er, and a ruse artist.

  It should have ended today. Ard should have given the Visitant Grit to Isle Halavend, collected his Ashings, and moved on. But now, at the end of his assignment, he felt the Homeland Urging him once again. Urging him to finish what the old Isle had started.

  “Can we back up a minute?” Raek cut into the silence. “When I signed up for this job, I distinctly remember that I was supposed to walk away with a clear name and half a million Ashings. Payable on delivery of the Visitant Grit.” He scratched his bald head. “Just wondering if that’s, you know … still on the table?”

  “I can pay you nothing,” admitted Lyndel. “And as to your criminal record, I have no say.”

  “All right.” Raek slowly stood up from the mattress. “I was afraid this was going to happen. There was always this little tickle in the back of my brain that seemed to say, ‘Ard is crazy, and you should have stayed home this morning.’”

  Raek picked his way carefully across the room, making for the exit. Ard quickly positioned himself to block Raek’s path. “Come on, Raek.”

  Was he really going to walk out on them now? Raek could endure danger and setbacks. Even false accusations of his loyalty. But not getting paid was where he drew the line?

  Raek pushed past him and stepped through the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” Ard asked.

  “Where am I going?” Raek paused on the landing. “Well, all my supplies got blown up in the bakery, so I’m going to need a high-grade Detonation keg, size six. A pin-trigger Slagstone ignitor. Dampener funnel, tamping rod, cotton wadding, and a tall mug of ale.”

  “What are you going to blow up, Raek?” Ard had never known his old partner to go on a careless explosion spree.

  “Nothing,” answered Raek. “But somebody’s got to fix up that Visitant Grit so it’s ready for detonation.”

  Ard’s face broke into a slow grin, but Raek just rolled his eyes. Perhaps things weren’t perfectly smoothed between them, but at least Raekon Dorrel wasn’t going to abandon him.

  “You’ll only have one shot at detonating the Visitant Grit,” Raek said. “I don’t want to be the reason it’s a dud.”

  “Me?” Ard glanced back at the two women in the room. Raek expected him to detonate the Visitant Grit? “What about Lyndel? She’s a priestess.”

  “I also assassinated the Prime Isle last night,” Lyndel said. “I do not think I am the right choice.”

  “Whoa, I don’t know about this.” Ard held up his hands. He was flattered, truly. But that didn’t make him worthy of a Paladin Visitant! Ard turned to Quarrah. “What do you think?”

  “You’re a terrible choice,” she said.

  “Thanks, Quarrah …” Ard turned back to Raek. “See? I’m hardly worthy; you should know that better than anyone.”

  “Oh, I never said you were worthy,” Raek replied. “But if there is anyone in the Greater Chain who can trick a Paladin Visitant into appearing for him, it’s Ardor Benn.”

  Ard looked down at the Grit keg on the floor. Run a ruse on a Paladin Visitant? He had to admit, it sounded like the tiniest bit of fun. There were no Ashings to be had, but a new reward had presented itself. If Ard’s actions could somehow restore the dragons and save the world from imminent Moonsickness, wasn’t that payout enough?

  Ard turned to Lyndel. “I’m going to need a chalkboard.”

  This is what I came here for. But now that it has claimed me, I am more frightened than ever.

  CHAPTER

  36

  The accommodations weren’t nearly as nice as the Bakery on Humont Street. Quarrah shifted uncomfortably upon the dirt floor, suddenly missing the soft couch. She missed the pastries, too, though she wouldn’t be so quick to admit it, seeing as how the Trothian baker had caused them such trouble. But there was no disputing the fact that she made a perfect chocolate croissant.

  Their meeting place was now an abandoned butchery on the outskirts of Beripent’s Eastern Quarter. It had taken them nearly a week to establish this new hideout. Longer than anticipated, but worth it to make sure the location was secure. Aside from the shopfront, the building had no windows. The rear of the store had been excavated to create a subterranean room for curing and keeping meats cool. And it was large enough for Raek to set up his new equipment for mixing Grit.

  They couldn’t stay at Lyndel’s upper-story apartment. Too close to the Mooring. But this part of town was already home to questionable characters. No one was likely to speak to the new activity surrounding the old butcher shop.

  Then there was the smell. Stale blood and spoiled meat. It was enough to keep all but the boldest squatters away. They’d only had to chase out one vagabond while moving in.

  Ard didn’t seem to mind the new hideout at all. He had a chalkboard, pitched on the dirt floor, leaning against the bricked subterranean wall. A blast of Prolonged Light Grit burned low in the corner.

  Their discussions so far had led to one undeniable truth. King Pethredote knew what made Visitant Grit work. According to Lyndel, Halavend had heard from the Prime Isle’s own lips that worthiness was nonessential. That meant there must be some other, quantifiable aspect that made for a successful detonation. Pethredote knew it, and was thus desperate to destroy any scrap of fertilized dragon shell.

  Quarrah didn’t believe, however, that King Pethredote understood the dragons’ connection to Moonsickness. Chauster might have secretly believed what little he’d heard of Halavend’s research, but the Prime Isle wasn’t going to be the one to tell Pethredote that their actions had led to a side effect that would bring Moonsickness upon the entire Greater Chain.

  After so many cycles, and against all odds, Ardor Benn had enough Visitant Grit for one good detonation. Quarrah knew he wasn’t going to rush into it now. He wouldn’t use that Grit until he had discovered everything that could be learned about it. And that meant talking to the only person alive who knew what went into a successful detonation.

  That meant talking to King Pethredote.

  Lyndel crouched against the far wall, her braided hair falling over her blue shoulders, exposed by the sleeveless tunic she wore. Quarrah studied her as Ard paced the smelly room, deep in thought.

  The Agrodite priestess stayed with them for discussions, but she had been happy to pass the torch of command to Ard once she had shared all her valuable information. Other concerns now demanded Lyndel’s attention. Following Pethredote’s expulsion order, the Trothians were in turmoil. Quarrah knew that Lyndel was spending most of her time helping her people hide in Beripent or get safely back to the Trothian islets.

  Lyndel would do what she must. Ardor Benn would take care of the rest.

  Quarrah drew in a deep breath for a sigh, and crinkled her nose at the stench of their hideout. There she was, sitting in the blood-soaked dirt, finally feeling like she belonged. But belonging had changed her. Quarrah Khai had been so independent once. Now she seemed to spend all her time waiting for Ard to come up with a brilliant plan.

  Quarrah was a follower.

  As Azania, she had followed Cinza’s coaching. On Pekal, she had taken direction from Raek. In many ways, Ardor Benn had commandeered her entire life. The way she thought about her job, the way she interacted with others, the way she felt for him …

  What would things be like when this ruse was done? Could she return to her previous lifestyle, or would she flounder, waiting for a ruse artist to tell her what to do next?

  Ard suddenly tossed his piece of chalk into the air, clapped his hands, and caught the chalk as it came down.

  “We write a letter!” His face was bright with enthusiasm. “Get some parchment and a scribing charcoal. This is going to work.”

  Raek, who had been sitting on a rickety chair by his mixing station, produced the materials Ard had requested.

  “A letter?” Quarrah asked. “We kindly ask for information?”

  “Exactly,” Ard said. “During times of war, it’s common practice for the leader of the enemy forces to me
et with the king in order to discuss demands. Parley.”

  “You want to parley with King Pethredote.” Raek rolled his eyes. “What makes you think he’ll even be interested in meeting with you?”

  “Because he thinks I’m dead,” said Ard. “I’m sure Tanalin has made her report by now. There’s an old Trothian saying … ‘The curious cat bites off its own tail.’”

  “There is no such saying,” Lyndel cut in.

  “Well, there should be,” said Ard. “It means that Pethredote will be so anxious to know how I survived Pekal, that he’ll agree to a meeting.”

  “Even if he does,” Raek said, “we’re not exactly in a tactical position for a parley. It works best with a formidable army breathing down your opponent’s neck.”

  “We have something better.” Ard gestured to the keg of Visitant Grit on the dirt floor. A centerpiece for both the room and the conversation.

  “Pethredote knows we’ve been trying to make Visitant Grit,” continued Ard. “We might as well use that to our advantage.” He shook his finger at Raek. “Write this down … ‘To His Majesty, King Pethredote.’” Ard paused before speaking aside to Raek. “You should spell Pethredote wrong.”

  Raek glanced up from his parchment. “What do you mean?

  “I don’t know,” he answered playfully. “Spell it with an L. Pethredolt.”

  “Why would we do that?” Raek took the words out of Quarrah’s mouth.

  Ard shrugged. “It’ll aggravate him.”

  “It’ll make us look uneducated,” Raek countered. “That’s a stupid idea. I’m spelling it the way it’s supposed to be spelled.” He put his charcoal to the parchment and finished the intro.