The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “You may remove it,” Lyndel said impatiently. Ard reached up and pulled the salty wad from his mouth, dropping it to the sand and coughing dramatically.

  “Do you desire a translator?” Lyndel asked again.

  “I’d say that would be mighty helpful,” said Ard, “since I have no idea what we’re doing.”

  Lyndel said something, which resulted in a Trothian man climbing out of the pat and coming to stand at Ard’s side.

  “Gorosad will speak for you,” Lyndel said.

  “Not you?” Ard asked in surprise.

  “I will not defile my Agrodite station by speaking to my people on your behalf,” she spit.

  “Look, Lyndel,” Ard said. “I realize you’re upset. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to—”

  Lyndel cut him off with a raw, guttural scream. Ard took an involuntary step backward, the rest of his sentence stuck in his throat on a sudden lump of fear.

  Lyndel’s scream was answered by the five women next to her. In the pats on both sides, the gathered Trothians began to splash and wail.

  “They mourn the victims of your crime,” explained Gorosad.

  Ard leaned over, lowering his voice to start building trust with his new translator. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Lyndel’s an old friend. I don’t know why she’s treating me this way.”

  “You are Ardor Benn,” stated Gorosad as if it were news to Ard. “We have waited years for Denyk to bring you to our land.”

  “Denyk?” Ard repeated. “Am I supposed to know him? Was he one of the guys that pushed our raft?”

  “He is the god of payment,” said Gorosad.

  “Sparks,” Ard cursed. “Do I owe Lyndel money?”

  “You would call it justice,” Gorosad said, “but we have no such word in our language. The priestesses have taken a stand and cannot be moved until payment is made.”

  Lyndel held up her hands and the splashing and mourning came to an abrupt end. She began to speak, Gorosad translating over her words.

  “Two years have passed since our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, bravely followed me into the final conflict that ended the war,” he said with notably less enthusiasm than Lyndel’s delivery. “All who sailed with me in the flying ships knew the risks of our actions.”

  She was talking about the capture and defense of the Archkingdom’s Pekal harbors. Weaponizing the Trans-Island Carriages had been highly unorthodox, and Lyndel had acted without permission from her Sovereign States allies.

  “When the Moon Passing came, our warriors were forced to sail to the safety of the Redeye line, where a fleet of Archkingdom ships awaited them,” he translated.

  Not only the Archkingdom, Ard recalled. The Sovs had been waiting with just as many vessels, intending to apprehend Lyndel and hold her accountable for her radical behavior.

  “Many of our people were killed throughout the night,” continued Gorosad, “and the fighting did not relent at break of day. But we were stalwart. We retook the harbors for the new cycle, and the subsequent pressure of being cut off from their precious supply of Grit forced the Archkingdom to yield.”

  “That’s not exactly true.” Ard decided to speak up. Gorosad called out his response in Trothian. “The Archkingdom and the Sovereign States reunited when the new Prime Isle selected Queen Abeth to rule as a crusader monarch. She called off the war that very cycle and both armies stood down so their rulers could set terms for lasting peace.”

  “This man”—Lyndel thrust her arm in Ard’s direction as Gorosad translated—“would have you believe that our sacrifice was for nothing. That the political squabbling of their Isles and nobles was of greater importance than the deaths of our loved ones.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Ard tried to defend himself. But by the time the translation had come through, Lyndel had already moved on.

  “I was with Ardor Benn on the night of that Moon Passing. He had come to our harbor on Pekal, seeking my permission and assistance to make a last-minute expedition into the mountains. I was made to be convinced when he told me that the item he intended to extract from Pekal was no other than a missing Lander prince. The boy, he said, was presumed dead, and his sudden appearance would carry enough influence to end the fighting.”

  “And it did!” cried Ard, but the only person who seemed to be listening to him was his translator.

  “Once we had retrieved the prince, we were forced to spend the night on a small raft, struggling against the waves to reach the battle ahead.”

  Well, that part surely isn’t true, Ard thought. Obviously, Lyndel had not told her people about their trip to the bottom of the InterIsland Waters. But why? She had uncovered mind-boggling truths about her race’s origins. Didn’t she want to share that?

  “By morning, our raft was spent,” Gorosad continued with the translation. “We detonated Barrier Grit and were able to house ourselves in its bubble until one of our Trothian crews retrieved us.”

  Again, not quite true. But Ard understood why Lyndel wouldn’t tell her people about movable Containment Grit. She had no idea how to manufacture liquid Grit, and the last thing she needed was to terrify the Trothian nation with the thought that Landers had new capabilities. It was already difficult enough for Trothians to get access to the Grit they knew about and understood.

  “I agreed to let Ardor Benn search for his prince because he assured me that I could present the boy to the Sovereign fleet and regain their support,” Lyndel went on. “This would have helped us vanquish the Archkingdom ships and the magnitude of the accomplishment could have exonerated me from the Lander laws of treason against our allies.” She held up a finger. “But Ardor Benn did not follow through with his promise. Even delivering the prince to the Archkingdom fleet could have spared lives. With such precious cargo, they would have likely called an immediate retreat. But Ardor Benn did not do that, either.”

  Okay. Ard finally knew exactly where Lyndel was going with this. And put the way she was saying it, things didn’t look good for him.

  “Instead, this liar kept the single piece of salvation we had to himself and returned to Beripent, leaving our people to struggle against not one—but two Lander navies. This man alone is responsible for the deaths of thousands of our people.”

  She turned to look directly at him. He remembered that night when she’d touched the testament spire and her eyes had vibrated so quickly that they had begun to glow with a red hue—so akin to the perfected eyes of a transformed Gloristar. Lyndel’s eyes were dark now. Full of nothing but hatred.

  “Speak the truth, Ardor,” she said in Landerian. “Confess your guilt to these crimes.”

  Ard took a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this. He just needed to convince the onlooking crowd that Lyndel was wrong. That he wasn’t as guilty as she’d made him sound.

  But he was.

  Delivering Shad Agaul to his mother in the throne room had undoubtedly been the right decision. Deep down, he knew that he had never intended to fulfill his promise to Lyndel. He had never actually considered any other options.

  Ard blamed his name for this stubborn determination. Once his mind had homed in on what he deeply wanted, there was little anyone could do to convince him otherwise. Sparks, there was very little he could do to convince himself.

  Wasn’t this the root of why Quarrah couldn’t stand to be with him?

  “It’s true,” Ard said, speaking slowly enough for Gorosad to translate comfortably. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I suppose I didn’t pause to think what impact it would have on the Trothian fleet. That is why I have come here today. To apologize for my actions and beg your forgiveness.”

  “We have planted our feet,” Gorosad translated Lyndel’s words again. “There is no forgiveness for your crimes. Only payment. Because of you, our people have suffered grief. Because of you, I am unwelcome in the Greater Chain, unable to fulfill my Shoka duties.”

  “Let me talk to Queen Abeth,” Ard said. “She
can clear your name like she did for me. The Sovereign States have dissolved anyway. Sure, some of the Dronodanian and Talumonian nobles are probably still upset about the way you ignored their orders. But that was years ago. Water under the bridge. Just let me go back to Beripent and talk to the queen.”

  “Our feet are planted. We will not be moved until payment is made.”

  “You keep saying that,” Ard shouted, “but I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “There is only one payment sufficient for your crimes.” Then Lyndel said a single word, and Ard guessed what it meant before the translation came through.

  “Death.”

  The pronouncement struck him with a chilling force. Surprising, since it wasn’t the first time someone had sentenced him with such conviction. Sparks, it wasn’t even the first time an old acquaintance of his had threatened him with death. But hearing Lyndel say it was different somehow, and Ard felt a pang of genuine fear.

  In unanimous agreement, the other priestesses repeated the word one at a time. Gorosad’s emotionless echo only deepened Ard’s feeling of dread. Lyndel might actually get her way.

  She began speaking again, this time addressing the throngs of Trothians watching from the pats.

  “Come, all who are grieved at this Lander’s actions,” translated Gorosad. “Make for him the bed in which Nah will drown him to sleep.”

  “Hold on. What?” Ard cried, taking a step backward. “Who the blazes is Nah?”

  “The Bringer of Punishment. The Collector of Debts,” said Gorosad. He pointed skyward. “The Red Moon.”

  “It’s still six days before the Moon Passing, pal.” Ard glanced up just to make sure Lyndel’s pronouncement hadn’t somehow altered the Moon’s regular course. Sure enough, the clear blue sky was vacant, save for a distant flock of birds winging westward. “And what are you going to do—get me Moonsick?” They’d have to take him more than halfway up Pekal for that.

  Before Gorosad could answer, Ard’s attention turned to the pats, where dozens of Trothians were climbing out of the canals, advancing across the dry sand toward him. They stopped between Ard and the line of priestesses, dropping to their knees and digging up fistfuls of sand.

  Singing—or at least chanting—rose from the Trothians waiting in the ditches. They splashed and cupped their hands against the surface of the water in that same rhythmic style Ard had glimpsed at Tofar’s Salts. Only this time it seemed much less innocuous, the tone and tempo bordering on malice.

  “What are they doing?” Ard asked his translator. He could no longer see Lyndel or the other priestesses through the digging throng.

  “They dig a pit for you,” Gorosad said.

  “That’s awfully nice,” Ard replied. “But I really don’t need a pit right now.”

  “All those who dig suffered grief at your hand,” he said. “They are the kin of those whose deaths might have been avoided, had you fulfilled your promise to our Shoka priestess.”

  Ard looked over the crowd. Women, men, little children. They heaped up sand behind them, the pit growing rapidly deeper. And when one of them tired, there was no shortage of others waiting their turn in the pats.

  Homeland, Ard thought. What did I do?

  “Will they bury me alive?” Ard asked quietly. That would be one of the worst ways to go. Where was the heroism in lying unseen, choking for breath?

  “When the pit is sufficient,” said Gorosad, “you will be lowered down with great stones around your ankles. Then you will wait for Nah.”

  Ard suddenly realized exactly how this was going to go. When the Moon Passing raised the water levels to cover the Ennoth, his pit would be flooded. The Moon would be his executioner, but not through its horrifying sickness. It would kill him naturally. Ceremoniously.

  “I’d like a final word with Lyndel,” Ard said. If she’d just listen to him, maybe he could convince her to lighten the punishment to a few lashings, or something.

  “I cannot take you to her,” Gorosad replied. “And her feet are planted.”

  “Still?” Ard said. “For how long?”

  “The priestesses do not take this punishment lightly,” he said. “They will remain until payment is made and the same flood that drowns you washes the sand from their feet, releasing them from their responsibility over you.”

  “Lyndel’s going to stand there for six days?” Ard cried, his voice spiking incredulously.

  “Stand, sit, or lie upon the sand,” he answered. “But the feet of the priestesses will remain buried.”

  “Aren’t they going to get hungry?” Ard had no idea how long a Trothian could go without food and water, but he wasn’t likely to make it a week.

  “They will receive sufficient sustenance,” said Gorosad. “As will you.”

  “That’s very considerate,” Ard said. “I’d hate to drown on an empty stomach.”

  He turned back to see the pit taking shape. It looked about ten feet in diameter, already several feet deep. The grieving Trothians showed no signs of slowing down, and fresh diggers continued to emerge from the pats.

  He watched a little girl digging furiously with both hands. Her blue face was streaked with tears and her body shook with a mixture of sobs and apparent fury. Had she lost a mother? A father? A sibling?

  Ard felt a knot in his throat and a subtle salty taste in his mouth that he recognized as the harbinger of tears. He swallowed hard, pushing it aside.

  This was not his fault. Ard hadn’t killed a single Trothian in Pekal’s harbor. Lyndel claimed that he could have prevented deaths by turning over Shad Agaul, but that was purely conjecture. The tragedy of lost lives was the horrible result of war. A war that Ard had actually stopped. Instead of blaming him for lives he might have saved, Lyndel’s people should have been praising him for preventing more deaths.

  Based on where they were digging, Lyndel would probably be able to hear Ard’s voice from the pit. That would give him six days to wear her down. Change her mind.

  And if that failed… Well, Raek and Quarrah would know what to do.

  How did I manage to surround myself with such loyalty? Loyalty of which I am sorely undeserving.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Quarrah peeled back the curtain on the carriage window just enough to peer out. She had heard the crowd gathered on the palace grounds, but seeing them sent a shiver down her spine.

  “I don’t like this,” she said to Raek. He sat across from her with his knees wide and his long arms hanging limply at his sides in a posture of utter relaxation. Was he burning Heg right now? She hadn’t seen him load any into the pipe in his chest. But maybe he was always carrying a loose pinch in there, ready to detonate if the need overcame him.

  “Why are there so many people?” Quarrah followed up, letting the curtain fall as she tried to decipher the words of their organized chants.

  “That, my friend, is the work of the crazies,” Raek replied, his eyes half closed.

  On Ard’s desperate request, Quarrah knew Raek had reached out to Elbrig Taut and Cinza Ortemion. But that had been just last night! The disguise managers had already worked up such a frenzy?

  “Say what you will about them,” continued Raek, “but Cinza and Elbrig get results.”

  “Then maybe they should be the ones going to this meeting,” Quarrah returned. “Honestly, what could I say to possibly convince a room full of important people that they should rescue Ard?”

  “Leave the convincing to the Prime Isle and the queen,” Raek said. “Trable really seemed to care. And we know Abeth has a soft spot for Ard.”

  “Then why are we even going?” Quarrah cried.

  Raek shrugged. “The Prime Isle asked for both of us to be there. Said it could help Ard’s case.”

  “Seems like a trap,” she muttered. And once again I was foolish enough to take the bait. She absently ran her finger over the head of a nail in the bench that wasn’t quite flush.

  “You have the queen’s word, given to me by Trable him
self just yesterday,” Raek said.

  “That’s what you said, but—”

  “For the purposes of today’s meeting,” Raek continued, “you’ll be treated as if you had taken the same pardon Ard and I did.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust that word blindly?”

  “Quarrah.” Raek sat forward. “It’s Abeth.”

  That was really why Quarrah had agreed to come this morning. They knew the queen well—or at least, they had two years ago. And the debt Abeth owed them for finding her son gave her word more weight than most.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and the door whisked open. Quarrah couldn’t help but tense at the sight of the red uniformed Regulator, despite knowing that he wasn’t going to arrest her.

  “Quarrah Khai?” Prime Isle Trable stepped into view, peering into the carriage. Quarrah had known he was a handsome man from a distance, but his looks actually held up under closer inspection.

  “I told you I could get her to come,” Raek said, leaning forward.

  “You’re late.” The Prime Isle motioned hastily for the two of them to follow him up the palace steps.

  Quarrah donned the oversized hood of the cloak she was wearing. There was no sense in letting people from the onlooking crowd recognize her. There may be a future client among them who would lose trust in her honor as a criminal if she were seen welcomed into the royal palace in broad daylight. Raek seemed less concerned, lumbering out of the carriage as they made their way to the grand entry.

  “I can say with confidence that Isle Ardor would approve of our mild tardiness,” Raek said. “And to be fair, how were we supposed to know that the palace grounds would be as crowded as a festival in the Char? Seems to me like we could use the delay to support our case.”

  “Let’s hope the council sees it that way,” said Trable. They were halfway down the hallway when the Prime Isle turned to Quarrah. “I hope I’m not overstepping here, but you might want to lose the hood.”

  “Unless you’re trying to look like a Realm assassin,” Raek added.