The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “What are you doing here, Raek?” Ard didn’t want to point out that his friend was dead. Drawing attention to that fact might send Raek away, and Ard would lose his partner to the darkest recesses of his mind.

  “Every time I leave you alone,” Raek said, striding forward, “you manage to get yourself in trouble.” He reached down and pulled up a chair that suddenly materialized on the stage. “I’m here to make sure you don’t mess this up.” The sword in his chest didn’t seem to bother him, the hilt passing through the back of the chair as he sat.

  “I’m sorry,” Ard muttered.

  “Hey.” Raek shrugged. “How were we supposed to know that Pethredote would bring his blazing pet?”

  It was that unforeseeable variable. The biggest risk in any job. And Raek had never blamed him when one of those variables threw a spark into the mix at the wrong time.

  “Even if we’d known the lizard would be there,” Raek went on, “we couldn’t have controlled it. We couldn’t have stopped it from looking at the sunflare cloak. It wasn’t your fault, Ard.”

  “It got you killed,” Ard whispered. A confounded pet! A useless, overfed animal!

  “You can’t let this slow you down,” Raek replied. “Not until the job is finished. You finally understand the Visitant Grit. How can you use it?”

  Ard scratched his head, glancing over the empty seats in the audience. “It’s all going to change, Raek.”

  “Everything changes,” he replied.

  “But change is supposed to happen naturally,” answered Ard. “Not like this.”

  “It’s happened before,” said Raek. “You and I are little more than the product of the latest Paladin Visitant.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” whispered Ard.

  “The timeline reset just forty years ago,” Raek continued. “You weren’t even a twinkle in your mother’s eye at the time. Did you ever stop to think what our lives would have been in that other timeline? That first timeline when Pethredote’s detonation failed?”

  “I would have been the same person I am today,” Ard tried to justify. “It wasn’t that long ago. How much could I have changed?”

  “A great deal,” answered Raek. “You’re making history, Ardor Benn. History can’t play out the same way twice, and something tells me that you were not so significant in that other timeline.”

  “But we would have been friends, right?” said Ard. “Maybe we would have been merchants, or miners … Sparks, maybe even Holy Isles. But we would have been partners in that other timeline. Don’t you think so, Raek?”

  He shook his head casually, a bit of blood spilling out his mouth. “Not if we’re making history together,” he said. “This sort of partnership is powerful trouble.” He grinned. “The Homeland would have Urged us apart. I don’t think the timeline would allow us together in any other conceivable history, past or future.”

  “Then I can’t detonate the Visitant Grit,” said Ard. “I can’t erase what we’ve done!”

  “That sounds an awful lot like a certain king I know.” Raek rose, the chair vanishing beneath him. “I don’t see what choice you have.” He strode past Ard, walking along the very edge of the stage. “If you don’t detonate the Visitant Grit, Moonsickness will claim everyone. This is a chance for a new beginning.”

  Ard turned to face his dead partner. As he did, their surroundings suddenly shifted. The vaulted ceiling of the concert hall was replaced with bright blue sky, seagulls squawking overhead. The vacant audience chairs were swapped for lapping waves, and Ard found himself aboard the Double Take.

  Raek was wearing his sailor’s hat, the wide brim casting his crooked nose in shadow. The Grit belt was gone, replaced with a broad knife that slapped against his thigh as he reached up and adjusted the ship’s single sail.

  Raek was shirtless now, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin. But the sword was still there, rising from his bare chest like the mast of a ship. Ard grimaced at the bloody wound, averting his gaze across the expanse of water.

  They were somewhere between Espar and Pekal, catching a light southeastern across the InterIsland Waters. A fishing boat bobbed at a short distance, but otherwise the sea was open and calm.

  “Eggshell.” Raek positioned himself, pulling on the rudder handle.

  “What do you mean?” Ard subconsciously took hold of a rope to steady the sail.

  “Why eggshell?” he asked. “Grit is derived from a number of indigestibles: bone, rock, metals. Why would the shell of a dragon egg summon a Paladin Visitant?”

  “Is there an explanation for any of it?” Ard asked.

  Raek gave him a disapproving glare. The kind he often dealt when Ard skirted an answer by asking a question of his own.

  “Dragon eggshell,” Ard mused. “It’s scarce and valuable. Durable enough to pass through the digestive tract—”

  “What does it mean?” Raek cut him off.

  “Birth?” Ard ventured. “Life?”

  Raek nodded his approval, using his weight to hold the rudder steady as the ship swiveled toward Pekal. “A new beginning,” Raek said. “Isn’t that what this is all about?”

  “I don’t want a new beginning,” Ard said. “I agree that something has to be done. Time must be rewritten. But I want the same beginning. I want this life.”

  “A dragon is born when that shell breaks,” Raek went on. “A tiny monster climbs out of that shattered cage and begins a life of endless possibilities. Up until a certain point, that shell was everything to the creature inside. It provided warmth, comfort, protection. But the dragon within eventually outgrew the shell. If the shell didn’t break, the animal would suffocate and die within its limited confines.”

  “Waxing philosophical, I see.”

  Raek shrugged good-naturedly. “All I’m saying is that sometimes, in order to start something new, something old must be shattered.”

  “You’re not just talking about the timeline,” Ard said. It was one of the perks of having a delusional conversation within his mind. Ard knew the intent and direction of both parties.

  “Quarrah’s a good fit for you, Ard.”

  “You’re my partner, Raek. Nobody’s going to replace you.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Raek replied. “I’m the best Mixer you’ll ever meet, Ard. There’s no replacing me.”

  “What does it matter, anyway?” Ard asked. “I have no future with Quarrah. If I reset the timeline, none of us have a future together. I can save the world, and nothing we’ve done will ever be remembered.”

  “You telling me I died for nothing?” Raek wrinkled his brow.

  Ard shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath of salty sea air. When he opened them again, the Double Take was gone.

  Ard was standing in the hidden room at the Bakery on Humont Street. The chalkboard hanging on the wall was covered in writing—Ard’s handwriting, though the jumble of words were scrawled so closely together that he had a hard time making them out.

  “So my death was pointless,” Raek said, causing Ard to whirl around. The big man was seated on the padded couch. He was wearing the stolen Reggie uniform that he’d gotten so much mileage out of. The Regulator helmet was beside him on the couch, and a plate of Mearet’s fresh pastries rested in Raek’s lap.

  But the sword was still there, piercing through the thick wool. Blood seeped through the uniform, and Raek’s hands were smeared with red as he scooped a chocolate croissant from the plate.

  “Time restarts, lives begin anew, and no one ever knows that the blazing king stabbed me in the back?” Raek shook his head, taking a bite of the pastry.

  “Who’s being selfish now?” Ard asked, but the injustice of it was filling him up. Raek had struck a nerve by calling attention to his sacrifice. Didn’t Halavend’s death mean something, too? And young Isless Malla? Ard had never met her, but her written testament of the sickening Moon beams had moved him to care about this ruse more than anything he had previously undertaken.

  “See, it’s someth
ing of a conundrum,” Raek said. “We can’t ignore the fact that Pethredote has actually done a lot of good for the Greater Chain. Sure, he’s unraveling now, with that expulsion order toward the Trothians. But a new ruler could still salvage the progress Pethredote has made. If you reset the timeline, the politics of the islands will regress. And Homeland knows how long it’ll take for those same advancements to be made in a new timeline.”

  Ard thought of his father’s words of praise for the crusader monarch. He thought of his own education as a lad, made possible only because of the king’s policies. He thought of countless enterprising Trothians carving out a place for themselves in the Greater Chain.

  Oh, sparks. Was Ard actually siding with the king? Ard truly could understand Pethredote’s motive for destroying the dragons in order to preserve his legacy. But that didn’t make it right.

  “Pethredote will get what he deserves,” Ard said.

  “Not if you reset the timeline,” answered Raek. “Sure, in the new timeline Pethredote might become a peaceable fisherman. But that doesn’t change this Pethredote. He gets away free—unpunished for all his crooked deeds.”

  Raek was right. Giving Pethredote a new beginning sickened Ard beyond any previous thought. And he wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “What are you doing?” Raek asked, as Ard set off across the room.

  “I’m going to figure out another way.” He stopped in front of the chalkboard, his eyes flicking over the scrawled words.

  “Another way for what?” Raek polished off a blackberry tart.

  Ard saw two words he’d written on the board. Dragons and Moonsickness, with a line connecting them. “We don’t have to reset the timeline,” he muttered. “We just have to save the dragons. If we can bring them back, they’ll continue to shield us from the Crimson Moon.”

  “You can’t just wish them back,” Raek said. “There are only sows left, and that’s an inevitable path to extinction. Do I need to explain the birds and the bees?”

  Ard spotted Paladin Visitant written in the center of the chalkboard, with several words connected to it in a spiderweb. Worthy. Homeland. Fire. Timeline.

  Ard felt a piece of chalk materialize between his fingers. Reaching up, he crossed out worthy.

  “There’s your problem,” Raek said from the couch. “All this time we were acting under Halavend’s directions. Wayfarist doctrine.”

  “I know,” answered Ard. “But we know the truth about the Paladin’s nature now.”

  Ard stared at the remaining words. Fire. Timeline.

  “The only way to save the dragons is by fertilizing another male egg,” Ard said. “A bull dragon fertilizes with fire. The Paladin Visitants have the ability to move through time.”

  An idea began to take shape. It was difficult to put into words, and Ard had no idea if it would work.

  “We’ve been thinking about this all wrong, Raek,” he said. “According to Pethredote, the Paladin Visitants come from the Homeland. From the future. They use their power to affect the past.” He wrote the word Future with an arrow connecting it to Past. “But what if we could do the very opposite?” He reversed the direction of the arrow. “Instead of using the future to change the past, we can use the past to change the future.”

  He glanced at Raek, who sat scratching his head in confusion, a bit of cream filling in the corner of his mouth. Raek’s confusion represented Ard’s uncertainties. But that’s why Raek had always been there—to force Ard to explain the ruse from every angle and make an ironclad plan.

  “You’re thinking about transporting a bull dragon from the past to the present day,” Raek said. “Not going to work. Visitant Grit doesn’t work like that. Once you’ve entered the past, everything begins to change. By the time the Visitant cloud burns out, there is no present day to go home to. The timeline has reset.”

  “There has to be a way …” Ard whispered. “Once I detonate the Grit, I become the Paladin Visitant. I go back in time, the most powerful being ever to exist. Shouldn’t I be able to decide if I want to change things or not?”

  Raek shook his head. “You make that decision the moment you ignite the Grit. Even if you don’t speak a word. Even if you don’t touch a soul. People in the past will still see you and burn at the sight. And whatever failed past hero you visit would now be a worthy success. That’s where the change begins.”

  “But what if no one saw me?” Ard said. “What if, at the end of the day, the failed hero I visit is still deemed a failure? What if I could visit the past without making a mark upon it?”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Raek replied. “And even if it was, nothing would be accomplished.”

  “But if I could do it,” Ard said, “then this timeline, our timeline, would be maintained, right? I’d have somewhere to come home to when the Visitant Grit burned out.”

  “Theoretically,” Raek said, “I suppose that’s accurate.”

  “Raek, I’ve got it!” Ard cried. “I know what to do!” He spun to find his big friend, but Raekon Dorrel was gone. The hidden room of the bakery dissolved, and Ard felt the heat and pain of his physical condition washing over him.

  A foul smell filled his nose, and the cool air seemed to smart against the fever of his flesh. The hand that had so frequently tended him was there at once, resting gently upon his chest. It was Quarrah Khai’s hand. Ard wondered how he didn’t recognize it before.

  With a sudden expenditure of strength, Ard reached up and seized the fingers that lay against his heart.

  “Ard!” Quarrah’s voice still seemed distant, but he understood his name. His eyes fluttered open and through a surge of dizziness and nausea, he saw her beautiful face. “I’m here,” Quarrah whispered. “I’m right here. You’re going to be all right, Ard.”

  “Egg,” he sputtered. “Bring me an egg.” The request would sound like madness to her, but Ard hoped Quarrah would understand his urgent sincerity. “Bull dragon,” he said. “I need the egg of a bull dragon.”

  And then his pain spiked. Ard cried out, his hand slipping from Quarrah’s as darkness closed upon his vision.

  And he was adrift again.

  I feel it in the back of my mind. Like a black spot of mold, ready to spread.

  CHAPTER

  39

  Quarrah stood motionless above the docks as her hired carriage rambled away down the rainy street. She stared down at the ships, big fancy ones whose construction had gone so far as to include useless wooden ornamentation on the prow. Quarrah wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the sails were embroidered.

  She squinted across the lineup, disinterested in all but one ship. It was there, just as her sources had said it would be. Quarrah set off down the path that led to the secluded harbor.

  It hadn’t been easy to learn the ship’s schedule. Quarrah had, of necessity, reached out to some rather unsavory former acquaintances who could get access to such information. Calling on old sources was like looking into a mirror after a long time away. It startled Quarrah to see how much she had changed when held up to old associates who hadn’t. But they had gotten her results. And they were the only people Quarrah had to call on at the moment.

  It had been two weeks, and Quarrah remembered the night of Raek’s death with terrible clarity. After pumping all of the Compounded Heat Grit into the reception hall, Quarrah had made a silent escape from the palace.

  Those hours had been horrible, waiting alone in the abandoned butcher shop. As the night crawled on, Quarrah knew something had gone wrong. It wasn’t just that the others were late in returning. She could feel it.

  But it had still been a terrible shock when Lyndel burst into the butcher shop, traipsing a bloodied Ardor Benn along. They formed a makeshift bed in the dugout meat storage room and Lyndel immediately saw to his wounds.

  On that first night, Ard had revived just enough to tell them that King Pethredote had killed Raek. He had been distraught beyond any emotional extreme Quarrah had witnessed, so she
was relieved when Ard finally drifted off to sleep.

  But that sleep was fitful, and Ard couldn’t seem to come out of it. Quarrah had stayed at his side from that first night, changing bandages, and mopping an increasing sweat from his face.

  Fortunately, Quarrah had a fair amount of Health Grit at her disposal. Ironic that the king had once gifted that Grit to heal a supposed gunshot wound for Dale Hizror. They had stored the valuable Health Grit in a lock box in the upper room of the bakery. After the Reggies blew the wall apart, Raek had found the box intact in the rubble and brought it to the butchery.

  Quarrah didn’t know all the rules pertaining to Health Grit. She knew prolonged use caused some people to acquire a dependence on it. An expensive addiction, to be sure. Still, Quarrah didn’t hold back. She had even risked mixing a bit of Compounding Grit with the Health detonation, intensifying the healing process in a way that some considered dangerous.

  The Moon Passing had come and gone, marking the start of the Third Cycle. Over the last two weeks, Ard had only awakened long enough to choke down scraps of bread and wet his throat with a trickle of water. Ard seemed unusually somber. So deep in thought that he barely seemed aware of his surroundings. He hadn’t shared any information he might have gathered from King Pethredote, and Quarrah didn’t press him. He hadn’t expounded on his demand that someone bring him a dragon egg. And who was supposed to do that, anyway?

  The team was shattered. Raek and Halavend were dead. Cinza and Elbrig were impossible to find. Quarrah had reached out to the forger, Tarnath Aimes, but he wanted nothing more to do with them. Sparks, she had even tried to find Moroy Peng.

  With Halavend’s death, their funds were utterly depleted. And although Quarrah, Ard, and Raek had been willing to continue working for the salvation of mankind, others didn’t seem interested in joining their crusade without a hefty bag of Ashings.