The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  To Ard’s frustration, they had only been able to uncover fifteen pieces of the golden shell. Likely, two of the smaller fragments hadn’t survived the dragon’s digestive acids and had dissolved and incorporated into the organic slag. Whatever was the case, Ard had decided to move on so they could be sure to finish by sunrise.

  Ard had spent most of the night underwater, submerged in the salty anti-ignition solution of the Scouring Pit, glass lenses over his eyes and a long breathing tube in his mouth.

  His hands still ached from the Scouring gloves—leather mitts with flat bits of dragon bone overlapping like small scales. Ard had used his rasp-like gloves to rub off the remaining Slagstone that couldn’t be removed with the imprecise Blast Chisels. Submerged in the anti-ignition liquid, there was little risk of the scoured powder igniting like Blast Grit.

  After his prolonged time underwater, Ard relished the cool bite of the spring air on his bare chest as he turned the Mill’s crank, Quarrah beside him.

  Now that Tanalin was finally out of his mind, Quarrah’s presence meant more than ever. He wanted to stop right there and tell her how he felt. But judging by the position of the stars overhead, Ard suspected the sun would rise in about two hours. There was still one more step in this process, and they were running out of time.

  Inside the cloud of Silence Grit, the Mill was a deafening piece of machinery. At the top was a circular plate, slightly convex and loaded with dozens of razor-sharp points—the tips of dragon teeth set so closely together that it looked almost like a bed of nails facing downward.

  Quarrah poured Blast Grit into a narrow trough, Ard’s crank forcing the Grit into a funneled hopper, where it ignited on a sparking chip of Slagstone. The resulting explosion pushed the teeth plate down with significant force.

  Raek had primed the machine by detonating a pot of Barrier Grit on the underside of a wooden tray, creating an upside-down dome. Sliding away the tray, they were left with a Barrier Grit bowl, hanging suspended in the place it was ignited. The convex teeth plate was designed to fit the concave opening of the Barrier bowl. Milling was easy. Ard simply needed to drop a piece of Scoured shell into the bowl and fire up the machine.

  At least they weren’t Milling Blast Grit. Due to its explosive nature, that operation required the entire Mill to be submerged in one of the anti-ignition liquid pits.

  But Visitant Grit was not explosive in the same manner. As long as they kept sparks away from it, there was no risk of a premature detonation.

  Funny, Ard thought. We’re taking the very thing we spent cycles trying to get, and smashing it to powder.

  In a few more hours, all of this would be behind them. Ard had sent word of his progress to Isle Halavend as soon as they reached Strind. The old man would be relieved to know that they’d succeeded on Pekal.

  As a cool drip of anti-ignition liquid ran down Ard’s bare back, he found himself thinking of the Mooring and its unique watery passageways. He had a sudden nostalgic desire to visit that sacred building again. Not just to deliver the Visitant Grit to Halavend, but to ponder a few things for himself.

  He had questions for Isle Halavend. Questions of a spiritual nature. The Homeland had been speaking to Ard more and more. Not real audible words, but Urgings within. Those Urgings had led him to trust Raek. To confront Tanalin. To finish this job. But then what?

  The idea of a future with Tanalin Phor had finally melted away. Like an ice sphere from one of those fancy receptions, left too long in the sun. Now Ard saw new possibilities opening before him.

  Possibly even a future with Quarrah Khai.

  At last, Ard let go of the Mill crank, his aching arms falling limply to his sides. Quarrah stepped through the smoke from the Blast detonations, using a small horsehair broom to sweep the final bit of Grit out of the inverted Barrier dome, and into a wooden bowl.

  They crossed quickly to the Tumbler where Raek was waiting.

  “Is this enough?” Quarrah held out the bowl of powdered shell.

  “Halavend didn’t really specify how much we needed to bring him,” Ard pointed out. “What size of blast cloud do you think he’ll get with this amount?”

  Raek puzzled over it for a minute, turning his sweaty head this way and that. “Maybe a forty-foot radius, depending on its natural potency. Hard to say. I’m not exactly familiar with the detonation rate of Visitant Grit. Some documents say it’s comparable to specialized bone Grit like Health, Memory, and Illusion. But I’d tell old Halavend to use it all in one shot. If he’s going to detonate a Visitant cloud, he should probably err on the side of having too much.”

  “Hey, that’s usually my philosophy.” Ard leaned forward to peer into the bowl. Under the faint glow of Raek’s Light Grit lantern, he examined the golden powder for the first time. It looked like perfectly functional Grit, though it shimmered with a brilliance that Ard had never seen in any other type.

  “We still have to run it through the Tumbler?” Quarrah asked.

  “Won’t take long,” answered Raek, pointing to the machine. It looked like a large barrel with a cloth lining. “It’s designed to wick away any residual moisture from the anti-ignition solution. Leaves the Grit ready for immediate use.”

  Ard had purchased bad batches of Grit before, from cheap factories that skipped the Tumbling. As a result, the Grit was tainted from the anti-ignition liquid, so it wouldn’t ignite under spark or flame. Nothing like fireproof Grit.

  Quarrah moved over to the Tumbler, her steady hands carefully emptying the wooden bowl into an open hatch at the top of the barrel. Shutting the lid, Raek took hold of a cord and gave a sharp pull.

  The cord unwound, spinning the cloth lined barrel with a whir. As it began to slow, Raek gave another pull. And another. The whole Tumbling procedure took less than five minutes, Quarrah and Ard watching anxiously.

  As the barrel rolled to a stop, Raek reached inside with the same little brush Quarrah had been using. He swept the dry, golden powder into a Grit keg. There must have been nearly a quarter panweight of it, filling it almost to the top.

  Ard accepted the Grit keg from Raek, staring down at the glittery gold dust.

  Visitant Grit. The stuff of legend. The stuff of children’s dreams and the Islehood’s musings. The stuff that had the power to topple kings and lead uprisings.

  For the first time in his life, Ardor Benn held true power in his hands.

  It is humbling to think that all Grit originates here. We have worked so hard to tame its properties. But it all begins in the viscera of a wild thing.

  CHAPTER

  34

  The desk in Cove 23 was littered with loose parchments and meaningless books. Isle Halavend stared blankly at the stone wall, a strange calm enveloping his old mind.

  Like the tepid air before a winter rainstorm. The latter, which chilled to the bone and brought the mighty running for cover, was yet ahead.

  Tomorrow, they would save the islands, or all hope of ever delivering mankind from the Moonsickness would be lost. Ardor Benn, against all odds, had completed his ruse. Halavend had received word that the shell was being processed.

  The Visitant Grit was ready.

  For over a year, he had worked to see this moment. He no longer felt afraid or anxious. Halavend had pondered all he could, researched harder than he ever had. Now the Homeland would have to see the rest through.

  There was but one thing left for him to do. And no amount of reading and study could truly prepare him for what was ahead. He needed to choose someone to detonate the Visitant Grit.

  Ardor Benn was worth considering, if only for a moment. The ruse artist was as Settled as they came, but Ardor was passionate—his very name implied it. Perhaps his passion would have been enough to drive them to the finish if Halavend had done what Lyndel suggested and told him everything. But now time was up.

  No, Ardor Benn was not really an option.

  Oh, that he could have chosen Isless Malla! She was clearly the best candidate for detonating the Visitant
Grit. But she had played her role too soon, leaving Halavend alone in the final stretch.

  The pressure was tremendous. Ardor Benn was currently in possession of the only Visitant Grit in existence. There would be no second chances. All life on the islands, though they didn’t know it, depended on an old Isle to make the correct choice.

  Who was Halavend, to play at being Prime Isle in such a way? He was a heretic. An Isle who had disproved the doctrine of the Holy Torch and cast his lot with criminals. But Halavend still felt he was experiencing the Urgings of the Homeland. Urges to press on.

  Were those feelings truly from that sacred land? Or had he instilled them in himself through a desperation to prevent Moonsickness from descending upon the Greater Chain? Halavend knew he was not the worthy candidate to detonate the Visitant Grit. But was he at least worthy enough for the Homeland to Urge him?

  Halavend rubbed his wrinkled hands together. Despite the weeks of spring, it was cool in his cove, but he hadn’t burned Heat Grit in the hearth for days now. He found that the chill edge kept him alert and focused.

  Ha! Most Isles his age would have retired from the Mooring years ago. They would have a cozy cottage from the Islehood’s pension, Heat Grit burning year-round, as they dozed in a padded chair.

  Halavend’s life had not grown calmer with age. He danced a careful step now, suspicious of everyone but Lyndel. The king and Prime Isle had conspired, consorted, and ultimately led to the inevitable destruction of all life. If the two most powerful men in the Greater Chain were guilty of such crimes, then no one was beyond their reach.

  Halavend’s hand moved to the sheathed dagger on the desk beside his manuscripts. The Trothian Assassin Blade terrified him, and Halavend still felt that using it would not be necessary.

  So many risks could have been avoided if Prime Isle Chauster had listened to Halavend when he first approached him about the coming Moonsickness. But Chauster had been covering for the king, silently standing behind Pethredote’s decision to poison the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.

  Halavend didn’t believe that the king or the Prime Isle fully understood the ramifications of that action. Surely, they realized that the dragon extinction would undermine the economy of the Greater Chain. But that must have been a fair price for Pethredote to ensure that no one else could detonate Visitant Grit.

  But why? With the Islehood controlling the dragon shell, Visitant Grit could be used only by worthy people fighting for worthy causes.

  It seemed like a situation that was already under control. What motive could have driven the king to eliminate every fragment of fertilized shell?

  No matter. These were answers that Halavend would never receive, and he had come to terms with that. The Homeland Urged him with his own cause now, and Pethredote be Settled for whatever motives had led him to poison the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.

  Halavend turned his tired gaze back to the parchments on the desk before him. They were not important documents. By now, all of those had been smuggled out through the aqueduct with Lyndel. She was storing them safely. And once all this was over, they could make their findings public.

  In the meantime, Halavend had to finish his paper on Teriget’s summoning. It was this shred of legitimate work that seemed to keep Chauster’s suspicions at bay. Halavend was an old man, and this project should have been enough to consume a full work schedule. As long as he wrote the paper, he felt that no one would consider him capable of accomplishing anything else.

  But this evening, Halavend could not even muster enough interest to pick up a quill. He had made up his mind about the Visitant Grit, and he wanted the decision to percolate through every fiber of his old body.

  He had chosen Lyndel.

  It was as unorthodox a decision as he could make, selecting a Trothian Agrodite priestess to summon a Paladin Visitant. But at the end of all his stewing and searching, Lyndel was really the obvious choice. The only choice.

  Halavend hadn’t known Lyndel long. As to her younger years, he could not speak. Some would consider that problematic, as Oriar had been scrutinized about his Settled teenage years. To Halavend, it didn’t matter. Lyndel’s character today was inscrutable. And the Homeland whispered that, despite her Trothian lineage, she was worthy of the Paladin Visitant. The last and definitive Paladin Visitant, who would set all things right again.

  Lyndel would refuse at first. Halavend knew she was much too humble to accept the responsibility straightaway. But he would help her see the reasoning behind his decision. Ultimately, Lyndel would take the Visitant Grit because it was the right thing to do. And she would save them all.

  Halavend was expecting her soon. Their penultimate secret meeting before everything came together, for better or worse.

  Halavend’s head perked up, snapping him out of his reverie. Was that a soft knock? Sliding back his chair, he peered beneath his desk. He hadn’t even pulled back the rug to expose the trapdoor.

  Behind him, the door to the cove swung inward. Halavend startled at the unexpected movement, barely managing to slide a loose leaf of parchment to conceal the Trothian Assassin Blade on his desk. A figure stepped silently into Cove 23, deep violet robes swirling about his ankles.

  Prime Isle Chauster.

  Halavend stood up sharply, his knees cracking at the jolt. But the old Isle’s fragile body was numb with alarm, a rush of blood to his face, and a tingling in his fingertips. He resisted the urge to grasp for the dagger. Chauster’s presence did not yet mean accusation, but brandishing a weapon against him would not plead Halavend’s innocence.

  “Good evening, Isle Halavend.” Chauster’s voice filled the cove with its deep reverberations. His prominent eyebrows curled together in a worrisome furrow. “I hope you are well.”

  “Quite well,” Halavend answered, relieved that his voice did not betray him. “Only startled, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”

  “In my experience,” said Chauster, “unexpected visitors are often the best kind. They can offer a needed reprieve from the toiling of your daily schedule. Help you see something you might not have otherwise noticed.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” asked Halavend. “To relieve me of my studies?” He gestured innocently back at his desk.

  “Actually, I’m here on behalf of another,” said Chauster. “My companion awaits you on the dock outside the cove. Indeed a rare and surprising visitor to the Mooring.”

  Homeland save us! Halavend gripped the back of his chair for stability. They’ve captured Lyndel!

  “I need—” Halavend stammered. “I need a moment to collect my things.” If he could manage to roll a parchment around the dagger, he might be able to slip it into his deep robe pockets without Chauster noticing.

  The Prime Isle stepped forward, his thin hand gripping Halavend’s arm just above the elbow. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We shouldn’t keep our visitor waiting.”

  Halavend’s breath caught in his throat as he stumbled across the cove. He cast a final backward glance at the hidden weapon and stepped through the door.

  The visitor waiting on the dock was not Lyndel.

  It was King Pethredote.

  “Your Highness!” Halavend stood stunned for a moment before dropping his head in a respectful bow. The king! The king himself had come to the Mooring to see Halavend.

  Pethredote stood on the dock, his shoulders squared and his feet firmly planted on the planks. He was shorter than Halavend had supposed, after seeing him give so many public addresses over the years. The man before him looked plain without the bulk of the Royal Regalia.

  “So you’re the Holy Isle I’ve heard so much about.” Pethredote’s hands were clasped behind his back. A sword hung at his side, the hilt mostly concealed by his long, unbuttoned coat.

  “Oh?” Halavend said. “I wouldn’t presume to think that my name should ever have entered your royal ear.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” replied King Pethredote. “It is not Settled to claim responsibility fo
r notable deeds.”

  “And what might those deeds be?” Halavend’s jaw was tight, his head beginning to ache from the stress of maintaining a composed face.

  “I’m referring to your research, of course,” said the king.

  “Ah, yes,” answered Halavend. “You have a particular interest in Teriget’s Paladin Visitant of 1157? I would be honored to have you—”

  “Let’s talk about the other research,” Pethredote cut him off.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Halavend said. “Other research?”

  It was Prime Isle Chauster who answered, his voice harsh and threatening. “Where is the Royal Regalia, Halavend?”

  He felt his security slipping away. Had he come so far only to be hounded out the night before the Grit was to be used? Halavend glanced down the dim waterway of the Mooring. How did Chauster dare speak so boldly? The Mooring was quiet tonight, but surely some Isle would see the confrontation.

  “We’re quite alone,” said King Pethredote, following Halavend’s gaze. “Chauster took the opportunity to close the Mooring for my visit tonight. My personal guard awaits my return outside.”

  Halavend attempted to pull his arm away from Chauster’s grip, but the Prime Isle held him fast. Was this how the others had felt? Reejin, the shell forger, the Harvesting crew that administered the Turroc and Stigsam? Domic Chauster? Had they been confronted by the king and the Prime Isle, given a chance to plead their innocence?

  “We know you have been working with a Trothian priestess,” said the king. “We know you hired a ruse artist named Ardor Benn to steal my regalia and process the shell into Visitant Grit.”

  The king’s eye twitched. This was personal to him. What a fool! Halavend thought. It wasn’t personal at all! This was about saving the future of the islands. Had the Prime Isle believed Halavend’s new doctrine about Moonsickness, it would never have come to this.