The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  Quarrah pounced at another piece of Moon Glass on the ground, only to feel it slip through her fingers. Confusion clawed at her mind like a wild animal desperate to escape its cage.

  She screamed again, maybe for no other reason than to prove she still had a voice. To prove that she wasn’t turning Moonsick.

  “Vethrey,” Lyndel’s voice said from behind her.

  “Vethrey,” repeated the other priestess. Quarrah saw her lips form the word, though she had no idea what it meant.

  “Vethrey. Vethrey. Vethrey.” The chant started slowly, building into a swift and chilling accelerando. The two women repeated the word over and over until Quarrah’s brain ached from the sound.

  She reached out, at last gripping the tangible piece of glass, warm and smooth beneath her fingertips. It was larger than she remembered, thick and irregularly shaped, with two leather loops fastened to the sides like handles. No sooner did she hold it than the entire Ucru turned upside down.

  Quarrah pushed her wrist through one of the loops on the glass, digging her hands into the sand to hold on. If she let go, she’d fall into the sky, careening upward until she splatted against the great red sphere of the Moon.

  No way out.

  “Vethrey. Vethrey.”

  Quarrah groped at her belts, yanking one of the wax-coated Grit pots free. Was it Drift Grit? Probably. Quarrah couldn’t be sure of anything right now.

  With a grunt, she hurled the pot as hard as she could against the red mirror wall of the Ucru. It struck, the clay shattering and the Slagstone chip sparking in the darkness. The Grit exploded with a deafening crack and a gush of flames.

  Not Drift Grit.

  Blast Grit.

  Quarrah was thrown backward as the wall of the Ucru blew wide open. There were screams outside and cool seawater suddenly rushed across the dry sand.

  The fire went out in an angry hiss, the cold wave splashing Quarrah’s face. The Ucru turned right side up again, and she staggered to her feet, the large Moon Glass dangling from her wrist, droplets of water streaming off its red pane. But what was this?

  Broken.

  A shard of the glass must have cracked off in the explosion, leaving a new shape along the bottom. And there! The broken fragment was glimmering against the sand by her feet, churning beneath the surface of the rising water.

  Sparks… It was the same shape as the blade that had stabbed her mother.

  A lingering hallucination. It had to be.

  There was still so much smoke in the air, stinging Quarrah’s eyes and cloying at her throat with every breath. She looked away from the shard of glass, focusing on the hole in the side of the Ucru. Broken timbers of the framework jutted upward from the sand, the leather covering of the dome hanging like torn skin. Water poured through the waist-high opening, and Quarrah pushed against the flow, not thinking clearly enough to glance back and see if Lyndel was drowning in her trance.

  Vethrey. Vethrey.

  Their chant still rattled in Quarrah’s skull as she pulled herself through the opening. Her foot caught the ripped leather, sending her sprawling underwater. She resurfaced outside the Ucru, gulping in the fresh air and clinging tightly to Lyndel’s thick piece of red glass.

  The Trothians outside had scattered in fear of the explosion. Chaos reigned on Ra Ennoth, and Quarrah took full advantage of it, dropping low in the water and making her way toward the distant Leeward Pride.

  It was going to be a long swim, but her mind cleared a little more with every stroke that took her away from the Ucru and its foul smoke.

  She paused only once to feel the edge of the Moon Glass. It was weathered smooth except for the bottom edge. The razor-sharp profile confirmed that a piece really had broken off. And its shape…

  Quarrah heard her mother’s voice. “Point into the Homeland.”

  She swam on through glowing red waters.

  There were moments when my mind felt stretched too far and a certain kind of madness hedged its way in. But I always found a light to shine my way back to sanity.

  PART II

  The Settled, with their drowned prayers and their false gods, can in no way reach the Homeland.

  —Wayfarist Voyage, vol. 1

  Beat the water and cry out. Nah will see to justice in the end, as he did in the start.

  —Ancient Agrodite song

  CHAPTER

  10

  Nemery Baggish stared down at the unsightly blemish of New Vantage. Why did people have to encroach on her space like this? If the Landers continued developing Pekal at this pace, would she live to see a day when there was no unspoiled place?

  “You know,” Nemery said, turning to Mohdek, “I’m only doing this because I love you.”

  The Trothian simply grinned, his dark, vibrating eyes studying the harbor below. He knew it. Nemery didn’t have a doubt about that.

  “Just don’t take too long,” she continued. “I’m not sure how long I can stand New Vantage today. Remember last cycle? That nobleman had over a dozen people in the street, staring up at the sky with their hands covering the sun, talking in highly educated tones.” She altered her voice in a horrible impersonation of a nobleman. “Yessir, that is a dragon. You can tell it’s a sow by the curve of the tail and the ample breast—”

  “He did not say that,” Mohdek replied, laughing. She noticed his awkward posture. Standing with his legs slightly apart, arms hanging so they wouldn’t touch his sides. He’d even stopped itching his cracked skin because it caused more pain than relief. Flames. They really should be getting to the water more often for his sake.

  Nemery broke character. “It was a seagull, Moh. A dozen nobles gawking at the silhouette of a blazing seagull.” She shook her head. “At least you can pretend not to speak their language. Ugh. Sometimes they try to ask me for directions… Like I know my way around that Homeland-forsaken town.”

  “I thought you liked talking,” he said.

  She snorted. “To you.”

  “I caught you having a sit-down chat with Burdal two cycles back,” Mohdek said.

  “Okay. Sometimes Burdal. And maybe Sheren. And Gohk. But that’s it.” Nemery adjusted the bow that was strung across her back, making sure the single arrow stayed tied in place. She needed to move on before Mohdek accused her of any more casual conversation.

  The two of them merged onto a well-trodden path, the low spots still a little muddy from last night’s rain. Visitors to New Vantage would consider this trail a rugged descent, but it felt like a regular highway to Nemery and Mohdek.

  A careful analysis over the last year had taught them that the first week after the Moon Passing was the best time to visit the pretentious mountainside town—if a visit became strictly necessary. The best time for Nemery meant the fewest tourists.

  The trail widened and they entered an area of new construction. The borders of New Vantage were growing faster than mold on damp bread. There must have been nearly a hundred workers on this site alone. They didn’t pay any attention to Nemery and Mohdek, keeping their focus on their tools and the large blocks of stone they were maneuvering through clouds of Drift Grit.

  “Give me three hours,” Mohdek said in Trothian.

  “Take all the time you need,” she replied in his language. After almost three years with him, there was very little she couldn’t say. And nothing she couldn’t understand.

  “I’ll meet you at Burdal’s to help you carry the salt,” he said.

  Nemery shook her head. “Just meet me here.”

  “How much are you buying?”

  “Depends on how much I get for the bow,” she said. “I’m hoping for fifty panweights. Sixty, if Burdal’s in a good mood.”

  “That’s half your weight, Nem. I’ll meet you in town. We can share the load.”

  “Moh,” she called as he turned to a narrow street leading toward the harbor. “Be careful.” She said this in Landerian so she’d get the tone just right. Nemery wasn’t expecting any trouble, but she always hated separa
ting. They’d spent very little time apart since he and his brother had captured her.

  Mohdek smiled. “You, too, Salafan.” Then he moved out of sight.

  Nemery headed toward the town center, spotting the Mooring Station perched on the edge of the cliff shoreline. She hadn’t been inside that building, but the mere sight of it churned a mix of feelings inside her. Feelings of who she had been, versus who she was now.

  Part of her still longed for the simple belief in Wayfarism that had sustained her through childhood. Another part of her felt guilty, even shameful, for not believing it the way she used to. She still loved Wayfarism. And she believed the parts of it that made sense to her. But her heart was at odds with her faith. And Mohdek would always win that battle.

  The town center was busy, as usual. Finely dressed people milled about aimlessly, their fancy shoes clicking on the bricks underfoot. At the center of the circular courtyard stood a large stone statue of a dragon. The arrangement of its tail spikes was not quite right, and the sculptor had depicted the dragon perching upright in the most preposterous manner. Hah! Dragons didn’t sit like that. Well, maybe Polnaj. But he was still a hatchling of three cycles. Just a silly little bull.

  Nemery moved past the inaccurate statue, heading for Burdal’s Provisions on the far side of the courtyard. No one spoke to her, but she noticed the way their eyes stuck to her as she moved. What must she look like to them? A wild Lander who seemed at least half Trothian.

  Nemery Baggish was nearly eighteen now, though her small frame probably made her look younger. Her dark skin was calloused and tough from so much exposure to the elements. She kept her black hair cut short, the side braided across her scalp in the Trothian tradition.

  She wore clothes of her own making. Not a perfect fit, though each pair she sewed was better. Her pants were knitted wool taken from wild mountain sheep, and her tunic was a blend of weathered animal hides—mostly rabbit and goat, for this one, with a snakeskin belt.

  And she walked with a limp—so subtle, she could often make it look like a strut. Pekal had given her that scar. Under the rage of a confused dragon, Nemery’s thigh had been pierced with a broken tree branch. She didn’t resent it. In fact, she had told Mohdek that she considered the injury a touch of fate. Pekal’s way of sticking its hooks in her. Giving her a taste of the island’s wild danger to ensure that she’d come back someday.

  Now that she was here, she hoped she’d never have to leave.

  Nemery was almost to the shop when she heard someone shout her name.

  “Salafan! Salafan!”

  The few people in New Vantage that knew her called her only by her Trothian name. That was just fine with Nemery Baggish. No sense telling people who she really was. She’d hate for word to reach her parents that she was still alive.

  Nemery turned to find Ednes Holcatch running across the courtyard toward her. Sparks, not Ednes. This woman was the hub of gossip in New Vantage, the very type Nemery tried to avoid.

  “Praise the Homeland,” Ednes said, catching up to her. “Just the person I needed to see.”

  For a moment, Nemery thought about nocking her single arrow and staking the hem of Ednes’s dress to the ground. She resisted the urge. “Hullo, Ednes.”

  The woman was shaped like a ripe pear, with extra-wide hips and a torso that tapered to a head that looked one size too small. Perhaps in an effort to compensate, she wore an obvious wig of thick, curled brown hair that spilled past her shoulders.

  “Have you been to see Raston this cycle?” Ednes asked. She was out of breath from her run, but Nemery thought the huffing might be a bit melodramatic.

  “Why would I go see Raston?” Nemery asked flatly.

  “Well, I thought you reported there when you came down from—”

  “I don’t work for him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Then why do you spend so much time up there?”

  Nemery glanced up at the towering mountain that formed New Vantage’s backdrop. “I like the view.”

  Ednes waved her hand. “Never mind that. You need to see Raston. He has a client—”

  “I don’t work for Raston,” Nemery repeated with more emphasis.

  “Then that’s more reason for you to see him,” said Ednes. “No one will take this client up—”

  “And I don’t take clients,” said Nemery. “I’m not a blazing tour guide, Ednes.”

  The woman scoffed at Nemery’s bluntness. “He’s offering good money,” she pressed. “And you’re the only one who could take him.”

  “Why is that?” Nemery asked.

  “He wants to summit.”

  Nemery’s breath caught in her throat. Her gaze went out of focus on the slopes of greenery over Ednes’s shoulder.

  She and Mohdek had summited Pekal only twice. The journey was not for the faint of heart. The air was thinner up there, and the glacier could freeze an unprepared hiker in their tracks.

  “Who’s the client?” Nemery asked.

  “He said his name is Legien Dyer.” Ednes leaned forward, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper. “He’s singing to the tune of five thousand Ashings for whoever will take him.”

  Five thousand Ashings? Nemery nearly hiccuped. Sparks, it was more money than she’d ever seen in her life. Ardor Benn had once promised to pay her a hundred and fifty for joining his motley expedition, but she had come to consider mere survival her payment for that job.

  “Where is this Legien Dyer?” Nemery finally asked.

  “He’s staying at the Elegant Perch,” said Ednes. “Been in New Vantage three days already. But you’ll probably find him hanging around Raston’s during shop hours. The man is desperate.”

  “I’ll swing by,” Nemery said, glancing at Burdal’s Provisions, “but I’ve got something to take care of first.” Mohdek would definitely need salt if they were going to summit.

  “As long as you can get there today.” Ednes smiled. “And if you don’t mind, tell Mister Dyer I sent you. I’ve been trying to get his attention since I saw him disembark.”

  Oh, flames. There was always an angle with Ednes Holcatch.

  “Don’t suppose you want to buy an authentic Trothian bow, do you?” Nemery asked, slipping the weapon from her shoulder.

  Ednes drew back as if Nemery had struck her. “Homeland! What would I want with a heathen weapon like that?”

  Heathen… Nemery used a bow almost every day. Not this one—her personal hunting bow had a much heavier draw.

  Ednes scurried away like a rabbit. Nemery hadn’t expected the woman to take her up on the offer, but at least it had put an end to their conversation. She scanned the sunlit courtyard, eyes darting around until she found a likelier buyer. A father and son, both sporting oversized hats of bright green.

  There’s a man out to impress his kid, Nemerey thought. The boy looked no older than eight. Easy target.

  Nemery swallowed down any jealousy she felt for the boy. Her first visit to Pekal had been with Ardor Benn and his crew of criminals. Nemery’s parents had been so angry when she’d returned home… they’d barely seemed happy that she’d survived the ordeal.

  “Sir?” Nemery said, causing the man in the hat to turn. She held out the bow. “Can I interest your boy in his first weapon?”

  The man smiled arrogantly. “Tervol has had his own Singler since he was six.”

  “Of course,” said Nemery, “but has that Singler drawn blood from a dragon?”

  The boy looked up at his dad, and then back to the bow. Nemery dropped to a crouch in front of the kid, offering him the single arrow.

  “See this?” she asked, pointing to a dark mark on the shaft just above the stone arrowhead. “Dragon blood. It’s so hot when it come out of the beast that it chars the wood.”

  The boy rubbed his fingers along the arrow in obvious admiration. In reality, the arrow was a reject, a hidden knot in the shaft making it too weak to shoot from her heavier bow. The charred mark came when Mohdek had used the blank shaft
to stoke the campfire. Then the next morning, Nemery had decided to throw on some fletchings and an arrowhead so she could sell it at New Vantage.

  “And where did you come by this?” asked the father.

  Nemery stood to face him, taking the arrow from the boy’s hand. “Shot it myself. I’m part of a Harvesting crew,” she lied. “We spooked one of the hatchlings last cycle and I got a shot off before it killed two of my companions and fled.”

  “Aren’t you a bit young for Harvesting?” he questioned.

  “Aren’t you a bit old for fathering?” she followed up. “It takes all kinds.”

  Nemery grimaced. Her quick tongue had probably just spoiled the deal. She needed to work on that. Ardor Benn had once told her that words were a tool, to be used carefully, and only for their intended purpose.

  “Can we get it, Father?” the boy asked.

  “A gentleman’s weapon is a gun,” he replied. “Your attention should be on mastering that. Not shooting some antiquated tool.”

  He was one to talk about antiquated. Guns and Blast Grit fit the racket of the cities. Pekal demanded something more reverent. Something with greater finesse.

  “Please, Father? You told me I could have a souvenir from New Vantage.”

  The man sighed wearily. “And you choose this? Very well.” He looked at Nemery. “I’ll give you seven Ashings for the bow.”

  She couldn’t hold back a smile. That was far more than it was worth. “Done,” she replied. The man dug into a velvet pouch and produced a seven-mark Ashing. She handed the bow to the boy and turned to leave.

  “Hold on,” the man called. “You forgot to give him the arrow.”

  “Oh,” she remarked in mock surprise. “You said seven for the bow. It’ll be three more for the arrow.” Ardor would have been proud of that technicality.

  The man huffed a bit, but he was committed now. He handed her a three-mark and Nemery gave the arrow to the boy.