The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “I can see the summit right there,” Dyer said, breathing extra hard in the cold, thin air. “If we push, I think we can reach it before nightfall.”

  “We could get there,” Nemery admitted. “But Goldred’s Scramble marks the Redeye line. Unless we retreat back through those rocks, we all get Moonsick tonight.”

  “What about my son?”

  Nemery gestured vaguely up the icy slope, like a broad river of white, frozen between great spires of stone. “I imagine he’s somewhere up there. But it’s time for us to turn back.”

  “Not yet,” Dyer begged. “We still have time. The sun won’t set for hours.”

  “And by then it will be too late,” Mohdek said. “You are welcome to continue on your own. It doesn’t take a tracker to follow this trail.” He pointed to the stampede of footprints in the snow. “But Salafan and I are going back.”

  Nemery turned to Mohdek, switching to Trothian so Dyer wouldn’t understand. “Do we tell him that there are only eight sets of tracks in the snow?” That left a handful of the party unaccounted for.

  “It would be bitter irony if his son has backed out,” Mohdek said. “Especially if the old man goes up and gets Moonsick.”

  It was wonderful, speaking fluent Trothian. Legien Dyer squinted into the distance with no idea that they were discussing his fate.

  “We could tell him that prints matching his son’s height and build are not here,” Nemery said. “It wouldn’t be hard to convince him to turn back with us—”

  “Why should we save his life?” Mohdek cut her off, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “There is a Trothian saying: The man who weaves his own net catches his own fish. His net was woven when he decided to hike this high. If he catches Moonsickness, he should not be surprised.”

  Honestly, Nemery felt bad for Legien Dyer, a man so desperate that he was willing to murder a helpless infant dragon. She’d been furious at first, but she had enough self-control not to let her passionate, emotional side take over. Because, Homeland, if it did, Nemery was likely to leave this man to the wilds of Pekal. But she’d given her word to see him this far and the man deserved to make his decision with all the facts.

  “Dyer!” Nemery called. “There’s something you should know.” Behind her, Mohdek moaned. “Your kid might not be up there.”

  The man whirled so quickly, his pack almost knocked him over. “Why would you say that?”

  “The party split,” she explained. “Only eight of them are going to the summit.”

  “Is Feltman with them?” he cried.

  “How should we know?” said Mohdek.

  “What happened to the others?” asked Dyer.

  Nemery shrugged. “We lost their trail in the rocks. I’m guessing some of the cultists got some sense knocked into them when they realized that the Scramble marked the Redeye. Can’t say I blame them for chickening out and turning back.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mohdek asked him.

  The older man was frozen in pure indecision, the magnitude of his choice as heavy as those boulders they’d scrambled across.

  “It’s not what I would do,” he finally said, his voice almost lost in the wind. “I wish I could say Feltman would back out, but he’s never been one to do what I wished.”

  “Then you’re going up?” asked Mohdek.

  He closed his eyes, jaw trembling. “Homeland forgive me if I’m wrong.” He shrugged out of his backpack, the overstuffed load landing with a thud in the snow. “I’ll move faster without it,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’ll find Feltman and we’ll get below the Scramble before the Moon rises. I can do this. When he sees me, he’ll understand…”

  Legien Dyer’s words faded away as he moved up the mountain, trudging after the trail of footprints.

  Mohdek instantly headed back the way they’d come, but Nemery bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. It was a curious thing, snow. The vast majority of people in the Greater Chain had never seen it, let alone packed a ball of it and thrown it at their lover.

  The snowball hit Mohdek right at the top of his pack, breaking apart and showering icy crystals down the back of his neck.

  He turned with a playful grin. Before he could retaliate, a shadow passed overhead, turning their eyes upward. A large sow dragon was winging her way toward the summit, her soaring green body at least a hundred feet above them.

  “Jothdet?” Mohdek asked, squinting against the sun.

  “Shadespring, I think,” replied Nemery. “See the way the tip of her right wing turns in?”

  So far, that was six adult sows, and nineteen hatchlings this afternoon. Still no sign of Cochorin, but the miracle bull dragon was often among the last to roost before the Passing.

  “I’m a little envious of him,” Nemery remarked as they resumed their downhill trudge.

  “Dyer?” said Mohdek. “I knew you secretly always wanted to be a Bloodeye.”

  She snickered at him. When Mohdek joked, it was always worth obliging. “I mean, to see them all up there… Every dragon roosting in one place. Soaking up the Moon rays. It’s got to be an incredible sight.”

  “One of the last you’ll see,” said Mohdek. “And you’d never be able to tell anyone about it.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I might be fast enough to get down to New Vantage before I lost my voice.”

  “You know that’s impossible.” Mohdek shook his head. “Though I’m sure you could make it before the madness struck.”

  Nemery shivered against the cold wind. “I’d say the air’s thin enough up here to make anyone go a little mad.”

  They made their way back down the glacier and into the field of loose rock. Nemery enjoyed hiking the Scramble, but it was tiring. The going was strenuous, either climbing over boulders, or trying not to get swept away in a slide of loose scree. She’d sleep well tonight, despite the fact that they were closer to the Redeye line than she liked.

  She slid a few feet, gravel clattering around her boots until she stopped herself against a smaller boulder. This was strange. The rock was painted pink. At first, she thought it was a trick of the waning sunlight, but when she stooped to inspect it, she realized it was still quite fresh.

  “Moh!” She beckoned him over for a closer look. “What do you make of this?”

  “What?” he asked, vibrating eyes examining the rock. It was such a thin application, maybe he couldn’t make it out with his unique vision.

  She scraped a bit with her fingernail. “Tracer’s Dye.” She stood, squinting across the slope.

  “You see another?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “How did I miss this on the way up?”

  “We weren’t expecting it,” he said, giving her every benefit.

  “The paint is on the uphill sides of the rocks, so someone is marking a route down,” Nemery said. “It has to be the other cultists. The ones who turned back.” She moved in the direction of the next marker.

  “Yes,” said Mohdek, following.

  “That was a long way to haul the dye powder,” Nemery said. “Someone in their group actually knows what they’re doing, even if Legien Dyer said his son has no experience on Pekal.”

  “And it seems like the ones who turned back did so amicably,” said Mohdek, “if they want the hikers to find them again.”

  She loved seeing what they could learn from the marks on the land. Speculating and unraveling mysteries with Mohdek, just like Namsum had taught them.

  Nemery nodded. “Maybe they didn’t chicken out. Maybe they only ever planned for part of the group to get Moonsick.”

  “It’s possible that the ones leaving this trail are not part of the cult,” added Mohdek. “Perhaps these are the wilderness guides.”

  “Guides that agreed to meet up with a bunch of Moonsick people after tonight?” Nemery shook her head. “I can’t imagine. I’d say it’s more likely that they’re the sacrificers. They stayed behind to put a knife in their friends in case the faithful don’t actu
ally end up undergoing this mystical transformation.”

  Mohdek said nothing, but she knew he was considering her morbid words.

  They followed the splattered dye markers across the Scramble, the afternoon advancing quickly. They counted a few more dragons in flight before Mohdek stopped and pointed upward.

  “There he is.”

  Nemery looked to the sky, its clouds tinged orange and yellow from the setting sun. Against this picturesque backdrop, she saw Cochorin winging his way to the summit.

  Nemery estimated him to be almost four years old—mature enough to fertilize, but still a juvenile. Still growing.

  Six little hatchlings flew behind him in a flock. Even from this distance, Nemery could see that at least four of them were male. Nemery smiled. Cochorin had broken an ancient tradition. He had disregarded a law among dragons that dated back to the beginning of time.

  He had ended the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.

  Since humans first observed the dragons, there had never been more than three males in existence. A son, a father, and a grandfather. When the eldest died, the youngest would be allowed to fertilize a male egg, keeping the trio intact.

  It had never made sense to Nemery. Renowned dragon scholars like Eilmer and Toom had written theories—a limited number of bulls assured that the dragons wouldn’t overpopulate their singular habitat. Or that the bulls were capable of fertilizing only one male egg in their lifetime.

  Whatever the reason had been, Cochorin didn’t seem to care. By Nemery’s count, he had sired more than forty new dragons, over half of them male.

  It’d be a couple of years before the other bulls would be mature enough to fertilize eggs of their own. For now, Cochorin was the father of all dragons. And the Trothian name she and Mohdek had given him reflected that.

  Cochorin dipped left and then streaked right, twirling in a barrel roll with his broad wings tucked back. The hatchlings shrieked behind him. Ha! He was always such a showoff. Especially in front of his offspring.

  Nemery watched until he was out of sight. She liked to imagine him finding an unoccupied spot to roost at the rocky, ice-crusted peak. His plentiful progeny would tug at his wings and pull his tail while he tried to enjoy soaking up the Red Moon rays.

  She turned her attention back to the rugged terrain, scanning for the next splotch of pink dye. They were almost out of Goldred’s Scramble, and she felt some apprehension about who they’d find waiting at the end of this trail.

  Darkness crept over the mountain, but it didn’t last more than a few minutes before a reddish hue heralded the rising Moon.

  The terrain below the Scramble was mellow and easygoing. Glacial streams trickled through the rocks, happily bubbling down a gentle grassy slope. They wound around scattered, wind-stunted trees before disappearing into a dense forest a few hundred yards below.

  In the failing light, the dye marks were harder to spot now. Nemery was grateful for Mohdek’s vision as he quickly picked up the footprints of the party they’d been tracking.

  The Moon was halfway over the horizon, the slopes of Pekal glowing red, when Mohdek reached out and grabbed Nemery’s arm. A campfire winked at the edge of the forest ahead, the blaze unnecessarily large to ward off the high mountain chill and the uneasy feelings that came with a Moon Passing.

  A couple of large boulders had rolled down from the Scramble, their journey stopped by the tree line. The travelers had made their camp there—protected on the uphill side by the huge stones, and concealed by the thick forest below.

  “What’s our plan?” Nemery kept her voice low, even though there was little risk of being heard at this distance. “Can you see how many of them there are?”

  Mohdek held up a finger for patience.

  “I think we should go in for a closer look,” she continued.

  “I see five people,” he whispered.

  “That’s not bad,” replied Nemery. “With the element of surprise, maybe we could—”

  “One of them is Trothian,” he cut her off. “And she’s keeping watch.”

  “Well, that complicates things.” It probably wasn’t smart to get much closer than this. “Maybe we should move into the forest.”

  “They’ll be watching the trees,” said Mohdek. “We should wait here with a clear line of sight. I can keep an eye on them through the night. If that Trothian lowers her guard, we can move in.”

  “Or,” Nemery said, sweetening her tone since she knew Mohdek wouldn’t like her proposal. “I could creep through the field, putting those boulders between me and the campers. Then I advance slowly. Trothians can’t see through rock, right?”

  “And what do you plan to do when you get there?”

  “I’m going to climb up the back side of that boulder, perch on top like a roosting dragon, and see what I can learn about them.”

  “Here’s what we already know,” said Mohdek. “They’re part of an extreme religious cult that is willing to sacrifice their companions to Moonsickness.” He paused. “And don’t forget about what they did to Oropsi.”

  “You can keep watch from out here,” she said. “If it looks like I’ve been detected, give me a signal on your whistle and I’ll get the blazes out of there.”

  Mohdek bunched his eyebrows together in disapproval. “What are you hoping to see over there?”

  “Feltman Dyer,” she whispered. “We have to know if he’s there.”

  “What good will that do?” asked Mohdek. “His father is already gone.”

  “I know, but aren’t you curious?” said Nemery. “And who knows, maybe they’ve got cake. You know how long it’s been since I’ve had cake?”

  “I can learn to make it,” Mohdek pleaded. “Does that change your mind?”

  “Nah,” said Nemery. “Besides, I have a feeling your recipe would be too salty. Speaking of salty…”

  Nemery leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. It felt a little dry and chapped, and they had enough salt for only one more application of the paste.

  “I won’t stay up there all night,” she promised. “And once I get back, we can decide where to place the traps.”

  “You want to treat them like poachers, then?”

  “I haven’t forgotten about Oropsi.” Before he could protest, she slipped through the grass in silent determination.

  Nemery swung wide, moving silently until one of the boulders blocked her view of the campfire. Then she cut toward it as quickly as she could.

  She hadn’t always been so sneaky. With some embarrassment, Nemery remembered how clumsily she’d tried to follow Ardor Benn on her first trip to Pekal. But as a musician, she knew the value of focused practice. And the last three years with Mohdek had granted her many opportunities to hone her skills in the wild.

  She reached the back side of the rock and began to climb, her tired arms and legs trembling by the time she finally pulled herself onto the top. Lying on her stomach, she inched across the rough stone, passing under pine boughs that stretched across the boulder from the trees that had grown up around it.

  She could see only two Lander men from this angle, sharing a seat on a large downed tree. Both of them seemed too old to fit the description of Feltman Dyer. Their provisions and gear were scattered in a way that was consistent with all the other campsites Nemery and Mohdek had come across. With the messes they’d left behind, she’d always imagined them to be a lively, merrymaking band. Tonight, however, the ones below were a quiet, somber bunch. With good reason. Their companions had taken a doomed journey. The same large Moon that was watching over these campers would be making their friends irreparably sick.

  Nemery lay there for a long time, keeping an ear out for any signal from Mohdek. Little happened in the camp below. She could see just the tips of the flames from the crackling fire, the flickering yellow light dancing across the trunks of the forest trees.

  At one point, another Lander man with dark skin stepped into view, passing something edible to his seated companions before moving back to where
he’d been.

  That left two unaccounted for. Mohdek had identified one of them as a Trothian woman, but what if the last one was Dyer’s son?

  “Where are you going?” came a man’s voice from below.

  Finally. Something. Nemery tilted her head to catch every word.

  “I have to pee,” came the reply. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Trenchy,” said the same man. “Go with her.”

  One of the Landers on the log spit on the dirt. “She’s a big girl. She can wet the grass on her own.”

  “Garifus wouldn’t like her wandering off like this,” came the reply. “Not when we’re so close.”

  Garifus Floc. That was the name of the Glassmind leader. The palace Regulator who claimed to have seen Prime Isless Gloristar get Moonsick and transform into a perfected being.

  “I’m not wandering off, Carpen,” said the woman. “Besides, can’t Shopaj see me in the dark?”

  “Only for a ways,” Carpen replied. “What if you decide to run?”

  The woman let out an incredulous laugh. Youthful, but full of animosity. “Where would I run? I’m just looking for a bit of privacy.”

  “Afraid that’s a luxury you can’t afford,” replied Carpen. “It’s for your own safety. I promised Garifus that I’d keep you safe until morning. Can’t have you getting mauled by another little dragon while you’re doing your business.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she continued to protest. “The dragons are all up there.”

  “Trenchy!” snapped Carpen. “I told you to go with her.”

  The man called Trenchy finally stood, muttering something incoherent. He picked up a short sword and stepped out of sight. A moment later, he reappeared, accompanied by the Lander woman.

  In the red light of the Moon, Nemery thought the stranger didn’t look much older than her. The woman was as thin as a broomstick, with pale skin that looked painfully sunburned. Her fair complexion was enhanced by hair as yellow as straw. It was straggly and unkempt, pulled back into a messy braid.

  Whoever she was, it seemed obvious to Nemery that she didn’t want to be with the cultists anymore. The overwhelmed, regretful look connected on a deep level with Nemery’s first trip to Pekal. She had loved the island, but the company had been frightfully Settled, which was what had led her to confide in Ardor Benn—a man with a religious name she could trust.