The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  Ignition rate: 0.8 seconds

  Notes: The primary function of Health Grit is to heal, or retain the health, of any living being inside its cloud. It has the remarkable ability to speed the healing of physical injuries, including aches and pains, bruising, broken bones, and damaged flesh, though it is ineffective in regrowing body parts. A cloud of Health Grit can also purge imperfections from the body, such as allergic reactions, poisons, and toxins. It does not, however, cure common illnesses. This has led some healers to believe that flus and colds are actually living organisms within a human host, and are thus strengthened by a detonation of Health Grit. There are some risks inherent to overuse of Health Grit, specifically when the healing effect is Prolonged or Compounded. Such risks include debilitating addictions and weakening of the body. Application of Health clouds should be limited and localized to injured areas to prevent overexposure.

  Heat Grit

  Cloud effect: Warm air.

  Source material: Copper

  Ignition rate: 0.8 seconds

  Notes: The baseline temperature for a cloud of Heat Grit is around 95 degrees (Shwazer), about half the boiling point of water. The cloud’s potency is self-sustaining and largely unaffected by external air temperature. While many have adopted the use of Heat clouds to warm their residences, it is quite an impractical and expensive practice. Without a significant amount of Compounding Grit, a regular Heat cloud emanates very little warmth, and one must reach inside the detonation to benefit from it. The detonation is smokeless, odorless, and emits no light.

  Illusion Grit

  Cloud effect: Capable of recording, and then replaying an image specific to one location.

  Source material: Human mandible

  Ignition rate: 0.3 seconds

  Notes: A first detonation makes a record tied to a specific geographic location. A second detonation in that same location displays the recorded events without sound. This effectively resets the area, meaning that a third detonation in the same spot would make a new record. Overlapping, but offsetting, the second detonation will allow for the overlapped section of the first detonation to be viewed, but will not record the outlying portions of the second cloud. In essence, any contact between two clouds of Illusion Grit will render the link satisfied and reset the area. Detonations cannot be fully contained.

  Memory Grit

  Cloud effect: Erases memories.

  Source material: Human skull

  Ignition rate: 0.5 seconds

  Notes: Memory Grit’s sole purpose is to remove memories of those within its cloud, but it is important to note that the erasure does not occur until the detonation burns out. While operating within a cloud of Memory Grit, a person retains full knowledge of events leading up to the detonation, as well as what is transpiring within the cloud. The stretch of memories from ignition to burn out are then erased the moment the detonation closes.

  Shadow Grit

  Cloud effect: Darkness.

  Source material: Oak

  Ignition rate: 0.6 seconds

  Notes: Clouds of Shadow Grit have been measured at absolute darkness, comparable to being in an underground cave with no light source. While it is impossible for anyone outside the detonation to see in, those within the Shadow cloud are able to see out. This effect is much like a person sitting inside a dark room looking through an open door. It is easy for that individual to see what is happening on the illuminated street, but difficult for those on the street to see into the room.

  Silence Grit

  Cloud effect: Silence.

  Source material: Aspen

  Ignition rate: 0.4 seconds

  Notes: A detonation of Silence Grit will contain any sound originating from within the cloud. A person within the cloud cannot hear anything outside. Similarly, a person outside the cloud cannot hear anything within.

  Visitant Grit

  Cloud effect: Capable of summoning a Paladin Visitant.

  Source material: Dragon eggshell

  Ignition rate: 0.6 seconds

  Notes: A successful detonation will summon a fabled Paladin Visitant, capable of destroying all life with a single utterance. Any who hear, see, or touch a Paladin Visitant will instantly wither in flames. It is notable that most Visitant Grit detonations throughout history have failed to yield a Paladin Visitant. Only the most worthy Wayfarists can succeed in summoning the omnipotent beings. As such, it is the responsibility of the Prime Isle or Prime Isless to carefully select a worthy hero to detonate the Visitant Grit in times of need. Detonations cannot be fully contained.

  Void Grit

  Cloud effect: Outward-pushing energy.

  Source material: Granite

  Ignition rate: 0.5 seconds

  Notes: The effect of this cloud emanates from the center point: the specific place where the detonation originated. From that center, an equally distributed force constantly pushes outward, ejecting items within the cloud, or repelling items that attempt to enter. While the effect of a Void cloud can be Compounded, its natural force is usually sufficient to expel an average sized person, head on. Detonations cannot be fully contained.

  The story continues in …

  Kingdom of Grit: Book Two

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I had intended for this book to be a pet project—something I could pick away at over the course of several years, something to keep me busy between the deadlines for my middle-grade books. But the moment I started writing it, the story took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. I ended up writing the entire first draft over the space of about six months.

  From a young age, I had dreamed of writing an epic fantasy like this. But a book of this size and complexity required me to call on friends and family for valuable feedback. Special thanks to my early readers: Spencer Munyan; Rob, Chris, and Coby Davis; Celeste and Brad Baillio; Tom and Kaleb Elmer; Laura and Martin Wilson; Anna and Maren Lund; and Andy Cunningham. Thanks to my brother, Clayton Whitesides, for answering many random geographical questions, and to Mike Johnson for some technical consultations.

  A big thanks goes to my agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette, who got behind this story with so much enthusiasm. Thank you for going the extra mile with your representation, venturing into the realm of adult epic fantasy!

  To my editor at Orbit, Lindsey Hall, I can’t say thank you enough! Your excitement for these characters and this world was so motivating. It was a pleasure to work with you on this project.

  The whole team at Orbit has been fantastic. Thanks to Bradley Englert for your editorial services, and for taking things over without a hiccup. And thanks to Emily Byron (Orbit UK) for her insights and involvement every step along the way.

  Thanks to Serena Malyon for creating a map that wonderfully represented my world. It’s a beautiful piece of art. And to Tommy Arnold for the amazing cover.

  A huge thanks to my mom and dad, who always encouraged my writing and reading habits. And the biggest thanks of all to my wife, Connie. She knows these characters inside and out, and she’s always willing to listen to my ramblings.

  I hope you’ve all enjoyed running this ruse with Ardor Benn. I can’t wait for his story to continue. Thanks for reading!

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Jamie Younker

  TYLER WHITESIDES is the author of bestselling children’s series Janitors and The Wishmakers. The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn is his adult debut. When he’s not writing, Tyler enjoys playing percussion, hiking, fly-fishing, cooking, and the theater. He lives in the mountains of northern Utah with his wife and son.

  if you enjoyed

  THE THOUSAND DEATHS OF ARDOR BENN

  look out for

  TORN

  The Unraveled Kingdom

  by

  Rowenna Miller

  In a time of revolution, everyone—even a humble seamstress plying her magic to support her family—must take a side.

  Sophie is a young dressmaker who, with hard work, talent, and a rare proficiency in s
ewing spells into cloth, has managed to open her own shop and lift herself and her brother, Kristos, out of the poverty that plagues their immigrant community. Her reputation for beautiful ball gowns and discreetly embroidered charms for luck, love, and protection secures her a commission from the royal family itself—and the commission earns her the attentions of a dashing but entirely unattainable duke.

  Meanwhile, her brother, a day laborer with a keen mind and a thirst for justice, rises to prominence in the growing antimonarchist movement. Their worlds collide when the revolution’s shadow leader takes Kristos hostage and demands that Sophie place a curse on the queen’s new Midwinter costume—or Kristos will die at their hand.

  As the proletariat uprising comes to a violent climax, Sophie must choose: between her brother and the community of her birth, and her lover and the life she’s striven to build.

  1

  “Mr. Bursin,” I said, my hands constricting around the fine linen ruffles I was hemming, “I do not do that.”

  “But, miss, I would not ask if it were—if it were not the most pressing of circumstances. If it would not be best. For all concerned.”

  I understood. Mr. Bursin’s mother-in-law simply refused to die. She was old, infirm, and her mind was half-gone, but still she clung to life—and, as it turned out, bound the inheritance to her daughter and son-in-law in a legal tangle that would all go away once she was safely interred. Still.

  “I do not wish ill on anyone. Ever. I sew charms, never curses.” My words were final, but I thought of another avenue. “I could, of course, wish good fortune on you, Mr. Bursin. Or your wife.”

  He wavered. “Would … would a kerchief be sufficient?” He glanced at the rows of ruffled neckerchiefs lining my windows, modeled by stuffed linen busts.

  “Oh, most certainly, Mr. Bursin. The ruffled style is very fashionable this season. Would you like to place the order now, or do you need to consult with your wife regarding style and fabric?”

  He didn’t need to consult with his wife. She would wear the commission he bought from me, whether she liked the ruffles or not. He chose the cheapest fabric I offered—a coarser linen than was fashionable—and no decorative embroidery.

  My markup for the charm still ensured a hefty sum would be leaving Mr. Bursin’s wallet and entering my cipher book.

  “Add cutting another ruffled kerchief to your to-do list this morning, Penny,” I called to one of my assistants. I didn’t employ apprentices—apprentices learn one’s trade. The art of charm casting wasn’t one I could pass on to the women I hired. Several assistants had already come and gone from my shop, gaining practice draping, cutting, fitting—but never charm casting. Alice and Penny, both sixteen and as wide-eyed at the prospect of learning their trade as I had been at their age, were perhaps my most promising employees yet.

  “Another?” Penny’s voice was muffled. I poked my head around the corner. She was on her back under a mannequin, hidden inside the voluminous skirts of a court gown.

  “And what, pray tell, are you doing?” I stifled a laugh. Penny was a good seamstress with the potential to be a great one, but only when she resisted the impulse to cut corners.

  Penny scooted out from under the gown, her pleated jacket bunching around her armpits. “Marking the hem,” she replied with a vivid crimson blush.

  “Is that how I showed you to do it?” I asked, a stubborn smile forcing its way onto my face.

  “No,” she replied meekly, and continued with her work.

  I returned to the front of the shop. Three packages, wrapped in brown paper, awaiting delivery. One was a new riding habit with a protective cast, the second a pelisse for an old woman with a good health charm, and the third a pleated caraco jacket.

  A plain, simple caraco. No magic, no spells. Just my own beautiful draping and my assistant Alice’s neat stitching.

  Sometimes I wished I had earned my prominence as a dressmaker on that draping and stitching alone, but I knew my popularity had far more to do with my charms, the fact that they had a reputation for working, and my distinction as the only couture charm caster in Galitha City. Though there were other charm casters in the city, the way that I stitched charms into fashionable clothing made the foreign practice palatable to the city’s elite. The other casters, all hailing from the far-off island nation of Pellia by either birth or, like me, ancestry, etched charms into clay tablets and infused sachets of herbs with good luck or health, but I was the only charm caster in the city—the only one I knew of at all—who translated charms into lines of functional stitching and decorative embroidery.

  Even among charm casters I was different, selling to Galatines, and the Galatine elite, who didn’t frequent the Pellian market or any other Pellian businesses. I had managed to infuse the practice with enough cachet and intrigue that the wealthy could forget it was a bumpkin superstition from a backwater nation. Long before I owned my shop, I had attempted charming and selling simple thread buttons on the street. Incredibly, Galatines bought them—maybe it was the lack of pungent herb scents and ugly clay pendants that marked Pellian charms, or maybe it was the appeal of wearing a charm no one could see. Maybe it was merely novelty. In either case, I had made the valuable discovery that, with some modifications, Galatines would buy charms. When I finally landed a permanent assistant’s job in a small atelier with a clientele of merchants’ wives and lesser nobility, I wheedled a few into trying a charm, and, when the charms worked, I swiftly gathered a cult following of women seeking my particular skill. After a couple of years, I had enough clients that I was able to prove myself and open my own shop. Galatines were neither particularly superstitious nor religious, but the novelty of a charm stitched into their finery captivated their interest, and I in turn had a market for my work.

  “When you finish the hem, start the trim for Madame Pliny’s court gown,” I told Penny. The commission wasn’t due until spring, but the elaborate court gowns required so much work that I was starting early. It was our first court gown commission—a sign, I hoped, that we were establishing a reputation for the quality of our work as well as for the charms. “And I’m late to go file for the license already—the Lord of Coin’s offices have been open for an hour.”

  “The line is going to be awful,” Alice said from the workroom. “Can’t you go tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want to put it off,” I answered. The process was never sure; if I didn’t get through the line today, or if I was missing something the clerk demanded, I wanted several days to make it up.

  “Fair enough,” Alice answered. “Wait—two messages came while you were with Mr. Bursin. Did you want—”

  “Yes, quickly.” I tore open the two notes. One was an invoice for two bolts of linen I had bought. I set it aside. And the other—

  “Damn,” I muttered. A canceled order. Mrs. Penneray, a merchant’s wife, had ordered an elaborate dinner gown that would, single-handedly, pay a week’s wages for both of my assistants. We hadn’t begun it yet, and so, per my own contract, I would have to agree to cancel it.

  I glanced at our order board. We were still busy enough, but this was a major blow. Most of the orders on our slate were small charmed pieces—kerchiefs, caps. Even with my upcharge for charms, they didn’t profit us nearly as much as a gown. Early winter usually meant a lull in business, but this year was going to be worse than usual.

  “Anything amiss?” Penny’s brow wrinkled in concern, and I realized that I was fretting the paper with my fingers.

  “No, just a canceled order. Frankly, I didn’t care for the orange shot silk Mrs. Penneray chose anyway, did you?” I asked, wiping her order from the board with the flat of my hand. “And I really do need to go now.”

  Alice’s prediction was right; the line to submit papers to the Lord of Coin was interminable. It snaked from the offices of the bureau into the corridors of the drafty stone building and into the street, where a cold rain pelted the petitioners. Puddles congregated in the low-lying areas of the flagstone floor, makin
g the whole shabby establishment even damper and less welcoming than usual.

  I held my leather portfolio under my fine wool cloak, only slightly dampened from the rain. Inside were the year’s records for my shop, invoices and payment dates, lists of inventory, dossiers on my assistants and my ability to pay them. Proof that I was a successful business and worthy of granting another year’s license. I traced my name inscribed on the front, tooled delicately into the pale calfskin by the leatherworker whose shop was four doors down from mine. I had indulged in the pretty piece after years of juggling papers bound with linen tape and mashed between layers of pasteboard. I had a feeling the ladylike, costly presentation, combined with the fashionable silk gown I wore like an advertisement of my skills and merchandise, couldn’t hurt my chances at a swift approval from the Lord of Coin’s clerk.

  I was among a rare set of young women, not widows, with their own shop fronts when I opened almost ten years ago, and remained so. My business survived and even grew, if slowly, and I loved my trade—and I couldn’t complain about the profits that elevated my brother, Kristos, and me from common day laborers to a small but somewhat prosperous class of business owners.

  “No pushing!” a stout voice behind me complained. I stiffened. We didn’t need any disruptions in the queue—any rowdiness and the soldiers posted around the building were likely to send us all home.

  “I didn’t touch you!” another voice answered.

  “Foot’s not attached to you, eh? Because how else did I get this muddy shoeprint on my leg?”

  “Probably there when you hiked in from the parsnip farm or wherever you came from!”