The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “I got it, Ard,” Quarrah whispered, unable to hold back the news any longer. “I got the dragon egg from Pekal.”

  Ard’s gaze, already steady, seemed to intensify a hundredfold. “You’re sure it’s a bull?”

  She nodded. “Lence Raismus told me what to look for in the different genders of the gelatinous eggs, and I found—”

  Ard cut her off, springing from his mattress and crossing the room in a blur. Their lips met, forceful yet somehow delicate. Quarrah felt her body trembling as he tucked back a strand of her hair. His hand lingered on her neck, so warm and familiar.

  Their lips parted, but their faces remained close, foreheads pressed gently together. Quarrah’s eyes were closed, but she thought she could hear Ardor smiling.

  He pulled away suddenly. Quarrah’s eyes snapped open, the intoxicating moment falling away as Ard winced in pain, gripping at his wounded leg. She caught him by the arm, and in a few steps they were both seated upon the straw mattress.

  “Nothing like a broken leg to spoil the moment.” Ard reached out and took her hand. “You’re something else, Quarrah Khai.”

  For once, she didn’t even blush. Quarrah had craved a moment like this. It felt so real. So … right. Quarrah pushed Tanalin’s warnings even further from her mind. Tanalin didn’t know this man like Quarrah did.

  They sat side by side in the dimness of the dugout butchery, the malodorous surroundings a strange juxtaposition to the feelings in her chest. For a moment, she was content not to know the answers about Ard’s plans. She was perfectly satisfied not to think of dragon eggs, Moonsickness, and Paladin Visitants.

  “I don’t want anything to change,” Quarrah whispered. Ard looked at her sharply. Almost accusatory. “Between us, I mean,” she added. Why couldn’t this moment, this feeling, last forever?

  “Change,” he mumbled. “Everything changes. If we’re not changing, we’re Settled.”

  “That’s awfully Wayfarist, coming from you, Ardor Benn.”

  “I understand so much now,” he replied. “About the Homeland.”

  “What do you mean?” Quarrah hadn’t expected this level of spiritualism from Ard. But then, the man had undergone so much with his injuries and Raek’s death. Grief had a way of defining one’s beliefs. It either drew people closer to the Homeland, or turned them Settled.

  “The summer Raek’s parents died …” Ard closed his eyes, as if deep in thought. “I was fifteen—fresh out of school. Raek had been tutoring me for a couple of years, so the two of us were already into a lot of shenanigans.” He chuckled quietly. “After the accident, Raek came to stay with my parents and me. He was old enough to be on his own, but I thought he needed us. Still, Raek spent a lot of time off on his own. My folks said that was right. Said he needed time to grieve. Some nights he didn’t come home at all.”

  Ard opened his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at Quarrah. She noticed silent tears welling.

  “One night I woke up with a real twist in my gut,” Ard continued. “Couldn’t shake it. Finally decided it was the Homeland Urging me to get outside. It was the night of a Moon Passing, so I didn’t need any light. I took off down the street. I felt led by the Urgings, and soon I was running, though I didn’t know where I was going. Ended up clear out on the eastern coastline of Beripent. That’s where I found Raek.”

  Ard sniffed, and Quarrah wondered if he would go on.

  “He was standing at the shoreline cliff,” Ard whispered. “Blazing toes hanging right off the edge. I saw him in the red light of the Moon and I screamed his name so loud my throat felt like it ripped. He turned and looked at me. Wasn’t crying or anything. But I was. He stepped away from the edge and we sat there at the shoreline, watching the big Moon crawl across the night sky. Talking about our dreams, about girls, about anything except the reason he was there. When the sun came up, we headed down to this tavern in the Eastern Quarter and ate all the pastries, bacon, and eggs we could manage. Sparks, that guy could eat …”

  Ard’s voice cracked with a sob, the tears falling faster than Quarrah could brush them away. He didn’t say anything, pressing his face into Quarrah’s shoulder as she cradled his head.

  After a moment, he seemed to compose himself. Ard looked at her, those brown eyes glistening in the dwindling glow of the Prolonged Light Grit detonation.

  “The Homeland Urged Raek and me together,” Ard said. “It needed us together so we would do the things we’ve done. The Homeland has always driven me forward. Maybe not in the exact way the Islehood preaches, but does it matter that they have it wrong? I was never truly Settled. Even in my darkest moments, something Urged me to go on. The Homeland has brought me to this very moment. I know what I have to do now, but there’s no way to be sure it will work.”

  “What are you talking about, Ard?” she asked. “What did you learn from King Pethredote?” It was high time to get some answers about what happened on that dreaded night of Raek’s death.

  “We have a plan, Quarrah.” She noticed how he didn’t answer her question. “Isle Halavend had Lyndel smuggle a lot of valuable text out of the Mooring before he died.”

  Quarrah nodded. She remembered seeing the pages scattered across the floor of Lyndel’s apartment.

  “Lyndel and I have worked everything out,” Ard continued. “I understand why the old Isle spoke so highly of her. She’s brilliant. Lyndel is committed to this cause, Quarrah. She believes in the research, and she’ll do anything to protect and preserve her people.”

  “I spoke with her outside,” Quarrah replied. “She said the Trothians are willing to follow you.” That’s what people do—follow Ardor Benn. Quarrah remembered Raek’s words.

  “The Trothians don’t truly understand what’s at stake,” Ard said. “No one does. But Lyndel has persuaded them that our cause is of the utmost importance. They will stand and fight when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes for what?” Quarrah asked. “Tell me what you’re doing, Ard. Why did you need a dragon egg? Why is Lyndel rallying the Trothians?”

  He took both her hands in his. “I’m going to detonate the Visitant Grit,” Ard continued. It didn’t answer her questions, and it brought up a whole slew of new ones.

  “But despite all my efforts to correct my mistakes,” said Ard, “I worry that the Homeland will find me unworthy.”

  Was this the reason Ard had been waxing spiritual lately? He wanted to make himself worthy of a Paladin Visitant. But was it enough to reform? The Islehood taught that a worthy Wayfarist was one who had never wavered in belief of the Homeland.

  “I feel that I am almost ready, Quarrah. But there is one more mistake I need to rectify,” said Ard. “I abandoned a good Wayfarist on Pekal.”

  “Nemery Baggish?” That was Ard’s biggest guilt? He hadn’t really abandoned the girl. In fact, he’d risked a lot to arrange her passage with Tanalin. And according to the Harvesting captain, Nemery was now safely home with her mother. Of course, Quarrah couldn’t very well tell that to Ard without letting him know that she’d spoken with Tanalin Phor.

  “I’ve got to find her.” Ard struggled to rise, falling back with another wince of pain. “I have to know if Nemery still considers me a worthy Wayfarist after what I did.”

  “You’re in no shape to go anywhere.” Quarrah put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Besides, you’re the most wanted man in the Greater Chain.” She paused. “I’m sure the girl has forgiven you.”

  “It’s more than that,” Ard whispered. “I need to give her a message. I have to tell her—‘ The prepared shall stand untouched, like a spire of stone amidst a blaze.’”

  “A scripture?” Of all the things!

  “It’s a verse about preparing for a Paladin Visitant,” Ard explained. “I need Nemery to know that we succeeded in getting the Grit.”

  “Why does it matter?” Weren’t there more important things to do right now?

  “My worthiness may depend on it.” He looked pained. “Nemery was only willing to justif
y my Settled acts because she knew I was trying to create Visitant Grit. If she thinks I failed …”

  Quarrah sighed. “If this is really so important to you, I can go.”

  Ard’s expression softened, and Quarrah knew that her offer had been just what he needed to hear. Sparks, she’d do nearly anything for that man. After Quarrah’s ordeal on Pekal, checking on Nemery Baggish seemed a minuscule favor. Besides, wasn’t this why she had stayed with Ard through such a long ruse? Tending to each other, doing each other favors, providing a shoulder to cry on. This was belonging.

  “It’s not just important to me,” Ard said. “Nemery’s feelings may determine whether or not I’m worthy of the Paladin Visitant who can save us all.”

  “What’s the verse, again?” she asked, quoting it back after Ard repeated it.

  She kissed the side of Ard’s head and stood up. It would probably only take her a few hours to locate the girl. Quarrah had an idea where Nemery lived from talking with Tanalin on the voyage back from Pekal.

  Ard leaned back and closed his eyes, sighing as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “I’ll tell you everything the moment you get back. Pethredote, the egg, our plan …” He took a deep breath. “Everything.”

  She didn’t press the matter. Of course, Quarrah wanted answers now, but Ard looked so weary. It would do him good to rest. He could launch into the full explanation when his emotions weren’t so near the surface.

  “I’ll tell Lyndel to stay with the wagon.” Quarrah crossed to the stairwell, pausing halfway up. “Thank you, Ard.”

  His eyes opened. “For what?”

  She thought of Tanalin Phor, with no sense of belonging outside the Harvesting job she hated. In comparison, Quarrah felt like she was right where she was meant to be. She might have said she was settled in this new life, if the word didn’t have such a sinful connotation.

  “For helping me find my place.”

  He smiled, and Quarrah moved swiftly out of the dugout.

  I feel death’s kiss upon my face. I am betrothed to the grave.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Ard glanced over his shoulder to check the straps holding the Drift crate in the back of the wagon. Everything was still secure, despite the bumpy ride they had taken through the back streets of Beripent.

  “Turn here.” Lyndel leaned across the driving bench and pointed down a dark pathway leading into the Char. The path was not designed for a horse and wagon, but Ard was sure they would fit.

  So much was riding on tonight. Everything, really. Ard felt a stab of anxiety at the thought of what was ahead. He felt up to the task, at least physically. His damaged leg and shoulder were actually much better than he’d led Quarrah to believe. He might still favor them, but they certainly wouldn’t slow him down.

  Ard was ashamed of what he’d done to Quarrah Khai, sending her away on a useless errand to quote scripture to young Nemery. But that little deceit had been necessary to remove her from harm’s way. It wasn’t all a lie. Ard hoped Quarrah would know. Seeing her beautiful face had nearly overwhelmed him after days in that rotting butchery dugout. The kiss was real. The passion he had felt surprised even him.

  And Quarrah’s comforts had been a needed salve for his grief. Homeland knew he’d been doing plenty of genuine grieving. Without Raek, Ard felt an indescribable void in his soul. It was an emptiness that screamed for revenge. A pit in his stomach that could only be filled by seeing justice served to King Pethredote.

  “Slow a bit,” Lyndel instructed.

  Ard pulled back on the horse’s reins, branches and brushes scraping the sides of the crate. It was stealth over speed here. A load this large would attract attention from the nighttime Regulators patrolling the Char. He glanced once more at the Drift crate behind him. The last thing they needed was for a nosy Reggie to go peeking inside.

  Ard wasn’t surprised that Quarrah had succeeded in getting the egg. After all this time together, he had little doubt about her skills and her mettle to see a job through.

  Ard truly loved Quarrah Khai. It was a different kind of love than he had wasted on Tanalin all these years. It was real, current, which made it far more potent.

  I don’t want anything to change. Neither did Ard.

  And that was precisely why he had to send Quarrah away.

  Ard was about to venture back in time. If anything went wrong, his actions would obliterate the future, which, for them, was today.

  Quarrah’s presence tonight would only have distracted him. Ard didn’t need any more reason to doubt what he was about to do. Keeping Quarrah out of sight might make his near-impossible task a little bit easier.

  “There.” Lyndel pointed again. Ard saw nothing through the dark trees, but he knew better than to question Lyndel’s eyesight.

  “Your people are ready?” Ard asked, directing the wagon down another narrow pathway.

  “They are anxious for our arrival,” she replied.

  The Trothians.

  Lyndel had arranged for her followers to meet them at this specific time. Well suited for gathering in the dark, Ard hoped that the Trothian crowd had not yet been noticed by the Regulators patrolling the Char.

  When they were close enough to distinguish individual figures in the crowd ahead, Lyndel put a hand on Ard’s shoulder and he eased back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a complete halt. His Trothian companion leapt off the driving bench and landed gracefully beside the horse’s flank. Slipping quietly forward, she took the animal by the bridle and led it the remaining distance, Ard and the wagon in tow.

  They cleared the trees and entered Oriar’s Square. The open space was packed with bodies. There must have been over two hundred Trothians, their dark blue skin rough and peeling from being deprived of the Agrodite soak.

  The crowd tensed, seeming to flinch collectively at the sudden arrival of the wagon. But any fear of a Reggie assault abated when they saw Lyndel leading the horse. The expression of the gathering changed then, an anxious enthusiasm spreading across the crowd. Lyndel was right. Her people had been prepared for tonight. Although Ard was sure that none of them truly knew what they were supposed to be excited about. A man with a wagon. A promise of a large detonation.

  Now that they were closer, Ard could see that there were many Landers in the crowd, too. Most of them were young men and women, incensed by their king’s sudden mistreatment toward their Trothian neighbors. Ard didn’t know how Lyndel had reached them, but it was obvious that these Landers also stood ready to fight.

  The group continued to part as Lyndel led the horse and wagon to the base of the Old Palace Steps, a chain cordoning off the historic ruins. The crowd was beginning to silence itself, as if expecting someone to address them. Lyndel shouted something in Trothian, and suddenly the area was lit with several Light Grit detonations. A pair of glowing orbs now framed the steps, hanging just outside the chain.

  The atmosphere was electrifying. Ard could sense the coming conflict in the air. Like the smell of hot oil before the dough dropped into it.

  Ard leapt down from the carriage, his fingers tingling with anticipation, his head swooning with the thrill. He realized that everyone gathered had some expectation placed on him, seeded by Lyndel’s Agrodite preachings.

  Ard didn’t know much about the Trothian religion, but he thought that these good people actually embodied the best of Wayfarist teaching. They were here because they were not willing to settle peacefully back into their islets. They had come to the Greater Chain out of a desire for progress and change. Now they would stay and fight for that cause.

  Ard and Lyndel knew that the cause was so much bigger. But this crowd of brave souls couldn’t possibly know that Ardor Benn held the fate of time itself in a Grit keg stowed beneath the wagon’s driving bench.

  Ard strapped on a Grit belt stocked with four specific pots, each prepared the best way that Ard knew how. It was an added stress to think that Ard’s calculations, which he had arrived at largely with
Lyndel’s input, might be incorrect. Grit was a finicky substance, and Ard would never forgive himself if tonight’s efforts failed because of the substandard loading of a Grit pot.

  Just another reminder of how much he had depended on Raekon Dorrel.

  Ard lifted the keg of Visitant Grit onto the driver’s bench, checking the Slagstone pin-trigger ignitor on the lid. A sharp tug would throw a spark, and the detonation would rush through the gaps at the top of the keg, forming the cloud. Raek had loaded it before his death, estimating a single blast with a radius of some forty feet.

  Ard would only have one shot at this. But one was all he’d need. If his plan didn’t work, the timeline would reset, erasing the current day and eliminating any chance of trying again.

  A Trothian man stepped out of the crowd, a long-barreled Fielder over one shoulder, and a belt of cartridges around his waist. In the glow of the Light Grit detonations, Ard realized that he recognized the man.

  “Darbu!” Ard cried. “Omligath.” The greeting was the extent of Ard’s knowledge of the Trothian language. Darbu nodded, a grin on his face as his oscillating eyes studied Ard.

  “You know Darbu?” Lyndel asked.

  “We’ve done business.” Ard remembered the look on the Trothian’s face as he sat atop those crates of Rollers in the Avedon apartment while Ard and the king shared a drink.

  “Darbu has been collecting weapons for me,” said Lyndel. “Guns, swords, Grit.”

  “Huh,” Ard remarked. “Small world.”

  “I have always believed that my people should be prepared,” continued Lyndel. “Especially those of us living in the Greater Chain. I remember a time before the Inclusionary Act. I always believed it could end as quickly as it came to be.”

  “I guess your paranoia is paying off,” Ard said. The Trothian rebellion was certainly well armed, with extra ammunition being divvied among the insurgents.

  Ard handed the keg of Visitant Grit to Lyndel and climbed into the back of the wagon to release the straps that secured the Drift crate.