Dulith’s manor was old and stately, red stone walls rising three stories. Quarrah had scouted it well before approaching. There was an east and a west wing, servants’ quarters, and a comfortable, open-air courtyard, ideal for entertaining if the weather was cooperating.
The rest of the property was nothing extravagant, with a graveled walkway leading to the front steps. A small stream meandered across the east side, diverted into a manmade lagoon, where refuse could be dumped through chutes from the east wing. Flowering bushes and a few stout trees were the only real hope for concealment on the grounds.
As simple as the manor was, its primary resident was much less so. Like all the wealthy nobles, Lord Dulith had the time and the means to pursue any number of interests. And while many squandered their fortunes on collecting useless furniture or gambling, this particular man was an aspiring healer. At first, Quarrah had guessed he was a Hegger. If he obtained the proper licensure to practice healing, it would be that much easier to get access to Health Grit.
But her opinion had changed the moment she’d met him.
Quarrah stopped her cart at the edge of Lord Dulith’s property. Letting go of the handle, she reached into her Grit belt, withdrawing a small glass vial full of orange liquid. Carefully, she pried up the corner of the coffin’s lid. At once, a misty Grit cloud escaped its confinement. It billowed around her hand, creating a spherical dome, which made it immovable.
She gagged at the stench that wafted from the long box. It was an odor ripe with awful memories of every Moonsick encounter she’d faced—including the most recent capture of this poor soul.
Holding her breath, she slipped the vial inside the coffin, propping it on a block of wood she had nailed inside to serve as a makeshift shelf. Then she slammed the cover shut, hearing the glass crunch against the lid, containing the detonation inside.
Quarrah stepped back, examining her work. It was a poor woman’s excuse for a Drift crate, but hauling one of those around surely would have led the Reggies to stop and search her load.
The cloud of Stasis Grit would keep the Moonsick man contained in a state of unconsciousness. Even his ragged breathing and heartbeat would be suspended—assuming the creature’s heart actually still beat at all. Despite all her encounters with Moonsick Bloodeyes, Quarrah still understood very little about them. Irrationally violent, their voices stolen, blinded by bloodstained eyes… It was a terminal condition. Only one person had ever survived Moonsickness, and Quarrah wouldn’t have called it a cure. Prime Isless Gloristar had transformed into something altogether different.
Quarrah picked up the cart’s handles, satisfied that the fresh Stasis cloud had been fully contained inside the coffin. She trundled up the gravel path toward the manor as the first raindrops fell. By the time she’d reached the bottom step, a well-dressed servant and four muscular laborers were waiting for her, the group framed by massive pillars that supported the front porch.
“Quarrah Khai,” the servant greeted her. “Lord Dulith awaits you in his study.” He gestured into the house. “Right this way.”
“I really shouldn’t leave this unattended,” Quarrah replied, jabbing a thumb at the long box. “It’s kind of a time-sensitive delivery.”
She didn’t mention that they had less than ten minutes before the package would wake up and start killing people. Honestly, she didn’t know how much information the manor staff knew about their master hiring a criminal. Quarrah’s contacts in Talumon said they’d never known Lord Dulith to go outside the law before.
“Lord Dulith understands that the goods are volatile,” replied the servant. “These men will make sure the package gets where it needs to be.”
Normally, she’d be happy to hand it over, get paid, and disappear. But something was different about this job. At the risk of seeming like Ardor Benn, Quarrah had an itch to know more about her employer’s plans. This man had quietly claimed to have a cure for Moonsickness. She certainly didn’t believe it was true. But what if he’d found something he didn’t fully understand?
What if he’d found Metamorphosis Grit?
As the broad-shouldered laborers surrounded the handcart, Quarrah followed the servant into the manor. It was quiet and dry inside, the wall sconces lit with little orbs of Light Grit to combat the early dusk brought on by the storm.
The servant led her down the wide corridor and introduced her at the doorway to the study. Lord Dulith stood from the soft chair where he’d been waiting. He wasn’t a very tall man. In fact, Quarrah had him by at least an inch. His thinning hair was starting to turn gray at the temples, and he sported a thick mustache. His jowls were disproportionately flabby for such a thin man, hinting at a successful reformation from years of gluttony.
“Come in,” he said. “Sit down.”
It was an invitation Quarrah Khai rarely accepted, but she obliged today, seating herself in the soft chair beside his.
“Did everything go as planned?” Dulith asked.
The lingering presence of the servant at the door made her think that the lord wasn’t keeping this job as tight-lipped as she’d originally suspected.
“It’s here,” she answered. That didn’t mean it had gone as planned. Things seldom did.
“Male or female?” Dulith asked.
“It was a man,” she replied. Was. Because that monster was hardly human anymore.
“How many were still in the compound?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t go to Strind.” Visiting the Moonsick compound would have been asking for certain death. It was a hole of misery created by King Pethredote in an effort to appear more humane. Instead of executing people with Moonsickness, he stuffed them all into a remote compound and let them waste away naturally, recovering their corpses to feed to the dragons for specialty Grit derived from human bones.
Quarrah had heard that the compound had been bursting to capacity during the war. Moonsickness had been spreading naturally, and it didn’t help that the Realm was farming Bloodeyes for their own purposes.
“I thought you’d steal one from the compound,” Lord Dulith pressed. “I was anxious to hear how many are still locked away, now that Moonsickness is on the decline—thank the Holy Torch.”
Quarrah masked an exasperated sigh. How could anyone believe in the Holy Torch anymore? Up until a year ago the Wayfarist torch had been mysteriously failing. Now it was working better than ever? Couldn’t everyone plainly see that the Torch’s effectiveness directly coincided with the population of dragons on Pekal?
The little bull, whose egg Quarrah herself had stolen from Pekal, was doing his job more effectively than anyone could have guessed. Just over a year ago, new dragons had started hatching all over Pekal. Reports claimed that the population was now at a record high. And thus, Moonsickness was on the decline…
“The compound seemed too dangerous,” she admitted. “I decided on a different method.”
Dulith furrowed his brow. “Is there another method? Don’t tell me luck ran out for those thrill-seekers tempting fate in New Vantage.”
“The colony is fine,” she replied. Although Quarrah thought anyone willing to live on Pekal during a Moon Passing seemed halfway crazy already.
“Then how did you acquire the specimen?” asked Dulith.
“New Vantage may be safe, but the Redeye line on Pekal is still a real threat,” she replied. “If people travel far enough up from the shoreline, they’ll still get Moonsick.”
“I see,” said Dulith. “And the fellow you found for me?”
“He was part of a group that didn’t come down to the safety of New Vantage fast enough,” said Quarrah. “Five of them got Moonsick. Harbor Regulation realized that they were in the early stages and tried to detain them, but the sick ones had friends who caused a skirmish so they could get off the island.”
Dulith sat forward, his saggy cheeks jiggling. “Why would they do such a thing? They could endanger hundreds. A true friend would put a Roller ball through their heads.”
“Don’t worry,” Quarrah said. “The group was detained in Beripent. The Moonsick victims were chained and shipped off to the compound on Strind. I managed to steal one and brought him to you.”
She made it sound a lot easier than it actually had been. She’d had to slip onto the transport ship before it left Beripent. Posing to be a friend of a friend, she freed one and led him out. By that point, he was approaching the second stage—already mute and losing his sight to a deep reddening of the eyes.
He’d been very cooperative until Quarrah had locked him in a box and slipped him onto a cargo ship headed for Talumon. The Prolonged Stasis Grit had kept him docile and slowed the decay a little, but by the time she met up with the coffin, he was well into the third stage and intent on murdering her when she’d opened the box. More Stasis Grit had put him down, subduing the insane creature long enough to haul him here.
Lord Dulith rose slowly. “Let us go inspect the monster. If I find everything to be satisfactory, I’ll deliver the payment and you can be on your way.”
If Lord Dulith was new to hiring criminals, he probably didn’t know her reputation well enough to realize that her work didn’t need inspection.
“Totshin, it’s time,” Dulith said to the servant. “Fetch my son.” With a nod, the attendant ducked out of the doorway, moving so quickly that Quarrah couldn’t see him by the time they’d reached the corridor.
“It’s time?” Quarrah repeated.
“To put my cure to the test,” Dulith answered.
“I’m intrigued,” she said cautiously. “Healers have been searching for a cure for Moonsickness since the beginning of time. You really think you’ve found it?”
“I know others have dedicated their entire lives to the healer’s art,” Dulith said, “but I’ve only been studying it since my wife passed away nearly three years ago.”
“Okay,” said Quarrah, puzzled by how a mere trio of years would give him advantage over the professionals. Dulith cast her a hurtful glance, and she suddenly realized how insensitive her reply had been. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” she added.
“I was holding her when she died,” said Dulith. “Pasic was there, too—just a lad of nine years, watching the life drain from his mother.”
Dulith paused before a set of tall double doors, the engraved wood inlaid with gold leafing. A servant was waiting with a long coat and hood. He held out the garb to dress his master, but Dulith paid him no mind, seeming lost in thought.
“It’s raining quite hard, sir,” the servant insisted, but Dulith merely raised a hand in dismissal and continued speaking to Quarrah.
“I’d never felt more helpless in all my life,” Dulith said. “I was filled with a hollowness after that. At times it gave way to rage. Eventually, I began to practice healing. Perhaps that way I would be more useful in the face of tragedy.”
Lord Dulith grabbed the large brass handle and pulled open one of the tall doors. Over his shoulder, Quarrah had a clear glimpse into the manor’s courtyard. It was paved with mossy bricks and abundantly adorned with greenery. Against the exterior wall of the west wing was a Heat Grit hearth surrounded by a handful of benches. On the right was a long stretch of sand, the stakes buried in place for a game of sailor’s folly.
And in the center of the courtyard was the Moonsick man, his rain-soaked clothes already ripped to tatters from his inane fury. He was bound to a wooden light post with thick chains, wrapped like an insect in a spider’s web so that only his head and his feet were showing. The lantern above him was glowing with Light Grit even though the dreary evening wasn’t yet fully dark.
The four large workers framed the Bloodeye—two on either side. Quarrah noticed one of them nursing a fresh wound on his arm. It was a miracle they were all still alive! Even if they’d known what they were dealing with, those men would have been surprised when the coffin’s lid came off, probably taking the motionless Bloodeye for dead until they moved his head outside the Grit cloud.
The common citizen of the Greater Chain didn’t know about Stasis Grit. That was a little something Quarrah had picked up from her time with the Realm. And she was lucky enough to have a supplier who knew how to re-create Portsend’s liquid Grit solutions.
Lord Dulith stepped into the courtyard, stopping just arm’s length from the Bloodeye. His wet face bore a steely expression that Quarrah couldn’t interpret. It certainly didn’t look like the face of a healer approaching a patient.
Something was obviously off, she’d sensed it from the moment she’d seen Dulith today. But she hadn’t been detained, or even disarmed, so Quarrah had no reason to think she was in any real danger.
“Father?” came a voice from the doorway behind them. Quarrah saw a pale-skinned boy with shaggy hair and dark circles under his eyes standing beside Totshin, the servant.
Dulith turned to his son, arms out in a warm gesture. His expression gave way to unabashed excitement. “The day has finally come, Pasic!”
“What day?” the boy asked from the shelter of the doorway. Quarrah didn’t think the lad had noticed the Moonsick man yet, despite the jangle of chains as he thrashed his head back and forth. “Father? Who are these people?”
“It’s all right, my boy.” Dulith beckoned. “Come. Come. Don’t be frightened.”
This statement seemed only to alert the boy that he should be frightened. With a gasp, Pasic finally noticed the Bloodeye and turned to run down the corridor. Totshin caught him by the shoulders, holding him fast.
Dulith hurried back to the doorway, and Quarrah tensed when she saw a Roller in the nobleman’s hand. “Take it. Take it.” He plunged the gun into his son’s grasp, pointing it toward the monster chained to the light post. “Your mother was the most caring woman I have ever known. Honor her now, son. Honor her memory!”
In horror, Quarrah watched the boy’s countenance darken. His youthful jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he stepped into the rain.
“There is the monster that took her from us!” coaxed Dulith, pointing wildly at the Bloodeye. “Hold nothing back! Make me proud, Pas!”
Quarrah’s feet were suddenly propelling her forward, driven by a sick feeling of familiarity in her stomach. She didn’t care if the Bloodeye died—sparks, he needed to die in this courtyard. But not by the hand of a grief-stricken twelve-year-old boy.
“What is this, Dulith?” she cried, stepping between the boy and the Bloodeye. “You said you had a cure.”
“This is the cure!” he shouted, rain finding the lines in his droopy cheeks, coursing to stream off his chin. “My son will finally be healed. No more sleepless nights, filling the manor with his screams. We’ll have vengeance. It will heal us both!”
She pointed at the Bloodeye. “He can’t possibly be the man who killed her!”
“They’re all the same,” yelled Dulith. “This one, the ones in the compound, the one in the market that day…”
Quarrah felt her heart sink. A Bloodeye in a Talumonian marketplace, three years ago? That had to have been a creature farmed and released by the Realm. Designed to sow chaos and panic so the bulk of the Wayfarist population would grow fearful enough to sail away from the Greater Chain forever.
Lady Dulith was a wholly unnecessary casualty in the Realm’s private war. But as much as the boy had to be hurting, this wasn’t the answer.
“Listen to me.” Quarrah turned to the lad. “Killing that Bloodeye won’t make you miss your mother any less.”
“Don’t you ever speak about my mother!” shrieked the boy. He was crying, tears mingling with the rain. For a moment, she saw her own youthful face reflected there. Confused. Afraid. Manipulated into doing something terrible for a deranged parent. Not murder, but Jalisa Khailar had demanded other crimes of her young daughter that still stung if Quarrah wasn’t quick to dismiss the memories.
The Bloodeye in the courtyard w
as already dead inside. And if Pasic Dulith pulled that trigger, he would be, too.
Quarrah lunged forward, seizing the boy’s wrist and angling the gun downward. The hammer must have been cocked, because it went off with a deafening puff of smoke. She wrenched the Roller away, splashing through a puddle as she stumbled a few steps backward.
Lord Dulith screamed in fury, spittle flying with the rain. “You will not deny my son this chance to heal! That Bloodeye must die!”
Well, at least they agreed on something. Quarrah swiveled, pulling back the Slagstone hammer and sending a ball straight through the Bloodeye’s face. She knew a single shot wouldn’t kill him. People with Moonsickness had a terrifying ability to regenerate. She’d have to deal so much damage that death would claim him before he could heal himself.
She snapped off two more shots, one of them striking the chains across his chest, and the other biting into the man’s neck. Then Lord Dulith tackled her and they both went sprawling on the wet brick courtyard.
Quarrah had spent much of her life learning to weasel out of an enemy’s grasp, and she did so quickly, landing a kick between Dulith’s legs and rolling into a crouch. Through the downpour, she saw one of the laborers drawing a Grit pot from his belt. She aimed and fired, putting the Roller ball into his leg.
With a grunt, the man went down beside the light post, his Grit pot shattering on the bricks. Quarrah had expected it to be a Barrier cloud meant to entrap her, but a Void cloud sprang up, flinging the fallen worker across the courtyard. He tumbled to a stop against the wall of the west wing and lay motionless.
Quarrah heard a crack of timber, and her attention returned to the Bloodeye. He was caught in the edge of the Void cloud, the outward rush of wind almost uprooting the light post and causing any slack in his chains to strain sideways. In the chaos, the Bloodeye had managed to free one of his arms. He was clawing frantically at his restraints, his body lurching against the push of the Void Grit.
The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 3