The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  Ard swung down from the saddle, leaving his mount by the clear water and continuing upward on foot. He paced his steps by the pounding of his heart, two beats per footfall, and finding that he was there all too soon.

  It was a quaint residence, but noticeably more elaborate than the rest of the village below. Nestled into the hillside, it had a steeply pitched roof with clay shingles and a wide covered porch that wrapped around three sides. Open barrels were positioned below the eaves, hopeful to catch any rain that might break over the hills. A lazy black-and-white cat lounged on the front steps, its twitching tail the only indicator that it was even alive.

  Much of the hillside property was dedicated to a flourishing garden, which brought a smile to Ard’s face. Ripe, red tomatoes, peppers, squash, and gourds. Ard recognized the tops of carrots, onions, and garlic. Twisting grape vines along a white trellis. A swatch of corn with mature ears bowing for harvest.

  Movement inside the house caught his eye, just a flash of something passing inside the window. His stomach in his throat, Ard moved up the porch steps, finally inspiring the cat to leap up and disappear into the garden. Removing his brimmed riding hat, Ard dropped it onto a bench beside the door.

  He had planned to knock, but the thought of waiting those brief moments for the door to open seemed like unnecessary torture. Casting aside all his inhibitions, Ardor Benn threw open the door and barged into his parents’ home.

  Not two steps past the threshold, he ground to a halt. A dark-haired girl of seven or eight years was cross-legged on the floor of the small sitting room, a collection of wooden dolls seated in a semicircle around her. She leapt up at Ard’s intrusion calling, “Papa! Papa!” as she ran into the next room.

  As Ard stood rooted in confusion, a man rounded the corner, his hands white with flour. “Can I help you?” He looked roughly Ard’s age, with a similar height and build. His hair was black and his skin was two shades darker. The look on his face was more curious than concerned.

  “Yes,” Ard replied. “Is this not the Castenac home?”

  “It was.”

  “Was?” repeated Ard. “Did they… move?”

  The man’s expression softened almost to the point of tears. “They… They passed on, Homeland keep them.”

  Ard felt the wooden floor reel beneath him. His emotions tangled inside his chest until he didn’t know what he was feeling. Was it sadness? Anger? Or just an overwhelming sense of regret?

  “When did…” he stammered, trying to regain control. Trying not to have a total breakdown in front of this stranger. “What happened?”

  “It was just… their time.”

  Time. What was time? What right did it have to take his parents when Garifus Floc had cheated time and lived for centuries?

  “Arelia went first,” the man explained. “About a year ago. Just laid down for bed one night and didn’t wake up. Sidon hung on for another eight cycles or so, but it was just too much for his heart. We buried him at the start of summer.”

  Ard felt tears running down his face, but they barely felt like his. They were the tears of his past, the version of himself that had loved his parents enough to do anything to free them from their debts.

  “How did you know them?” the man asked, his own eyes starting to glisten.

  “They were…” started Ard. “I knew them a long time ago.”

  A woman suddenly appeared at the man’s elbow. She was petite and fair, with light brown hair pulled into a braid. Plain features, but beautiful in her simplicity.

  “Would you like to come in?” She gestured behind her.

  Ard didn’t reply, but his feet must have moved on their own. By the time the room stopped spinning, he was seated at a rustic dining table, the woman placing a steaming cup of tea and a buttery biscuit in front of him.

  “The Castenacs didn’t have many callers from out of town,” she said. “Where did you say you were from?”

  Ard stared at the curls of steam rising in front of his face. “Who are you?” he whispered. And what are you doing in my parents’ home?

  “Sorry,” the man said. “We’re the Akers. Thomps”—he gestured to himself—“Juna”—to his wife—“and our daughter Guidance.”

  “Guidance,” Ard repeated. “A Wayfarist name.”

  “Yes,” said Thomps. “That’s how we first connected with the Castenacs when they came to Sunden Springs, what… over a decade ago. We don’t have Holy Isles out here, but Arelia was as close as they come.”

  Ard heard his mother’s voice—not as clearly as Evetherey’s telepathy, but much more meaningful, trickling down the dried-up riverbed of his memory.

  “Never Settle, Ardor. Trust in the Homeland and it will give you strength to rise above.”

  What would his mother say now? The Homeland was a group of enhanced beings determined to exterminate anyone who didn’t join them. And as for his religious name… well, now he had made it infamous as a criminal and a liar.

  “We shared many dinners around this table with them.” Juna ran her hand along its wooden edge. “Sidon was quite the craftsman. Fixed up a lot of homes before his body grew too weak. Even then, the kids will tell you they loved to hear his stories of the big city.”

  “The man on the hill,” Ard muttered. His dad’s smiling face unexpectedly imprinted itself on Ard’s mind. Father had been so positive. So affable. Ard had his dad to thank for the Castenac charisma.

  Ardor Benn glanced around the room, overwhelmed with a mix of helplessness and foolishness. His parents were dead. And he hadn’t been here for them.

  “Sidon left us the house,” said Thomps.

  “And Arelia’s beautiful garden,” Juna added.

  “Didn’t they… have any family?” Ard asked.

  Thomps and Juna shared a sad look. “Just us.”

  Thomps might as well have reached across the table and punched him in the stomach. These two simpletons sitting in his parents’ home were not family. This felt like a ruse gone wrong. Like the Akers had stolen from Ard while his guard was down.

  “They had a son.” Juna’s comment seemed like an afterthought.

  Ard felt his mind clear, his entire focus keying into her words. “Oh?”

  Thomps nodded. “They didn’t speak of him much. Except at the end. Sidon told the kids that his son had been a Harvester on Pekal. That he had chased dragons and brought Grit to the cities.”

  Ard swallowed. “What happened to him?”

  “He met a Harvester’s end,” answered Thomps. “His body was never recovered.”

  As if on cue, Guidance ran into the room. Her mother caught her in passing and pulled her into a tight hug. “I can’t imagine what they felt all those years.”

  Grief. Despair. He had brought that upon his parents. And when the grief had grown too strong, his parents had simply replaced him. Another version of himself. One that had stayed true to his religious upbringing. Married a wholesome woman. Had a child…

  In a very real way, Tomps Aker was living the life that could have been his. Ard acknowledged the envy bubbling up inside him. He let it stew for a time before shoving it back down. These people hadn’t done anything wrong. On the contrary. They had been here when Ard hadn’t.

  Something struck him. An idea. A thought. It rolled around his head, gaining momentum until he felt sure of it. With perfect clarity, Ardor Benn saw how things needed to end. Not for the world, or for civilization, but how things needed to end for him.

  He had ruined everything he’d once had in this life—his parents had died in grief over him, and he’d destroyed almost every relationship he’d ever had. All for the sake of the ruse. Only Raek had remained constant, but even his partner had changed beyond compare. There was no place for Ardor Benn anymore.

  No need for him.

  Ard stood up, his biscuit and tea untouched. “I have to go.” It had been a mistake to come here. He had meant to take his parents back to Beripent so Evetherey could shield them from the Moon rays. Now he was
all the way across Espar for nothing. If he left now, he might make it back to the Char in time for the first orchestra rehearsal with Azania Fyse.

  “We didn’t catch your name.” Thomps rose, following Ard back into the sitting room.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Ard pushed open the front door and moved onto the porch. The cat had returned, and the animal stared at him with eyes that bored into his soul.

  “I can see you’re hurting,” Thomps persisted. “They must have meant a lot to you. They were special to a lot of people.”

  But not like they were to me, Ard wanted to say. But how could he measure another’s grief?

  “We like to think Si and Arelia are watching over us,” Thomps said quietly. “Even now.”

  Ard paused, not turning. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re buried at the top of the hill,” the man answered. “Sidon’s request. So they could look down on all of Sunden Springs and make sure we’re taking care of each other. You’re welcome to spend a while up there before you leave town.”

  “I don’t have the time,” Ard said. But the moment the door shut, he changed directions, his feet finding a well-worn trail that carried him up the hill. He knew he wouldn’t leave Sunden Springs today if he saw his parents’ resting place. He knew a potent sorrow and remorse would claim him, holding him captive through the remainder of the day. Probably into the night. If he went up there, he wouldn’t make it back to Beripent in time for the first rehearsal with the orchestra. His delay could complicate the job and jeopardize the ruse.

  But for once, Ardor Benn didn’t care.

  I’m feeling heavy tonight, yet there is a strange freedom in this weight upon my shoulders.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Quarrah stared at her reflection in the tall easel mirror propped in the corner of the staging tent. In a way, it was like looking at her past. Thick-rimmed spectacles, ringlets in her red wig, and makeup caked so thick that her skin looked like it was sculpted out of wax.

  Stepping back into the heeled shoes of Azania Fyse came with a wide array of emotions. But hidden among the anxiety and uneasiness, Quarrah couldn’t help but recognize a significant dose of nostalgia. Being Azania Fyse had never been comfortable, but the last time she’d been onstage, the world hadn’t been so complicated. She hadn’t worried about time travel or evolved human transformations. It had been a simple game of staying ahead of the Regulators and fooling the king to steal his Regalia.

  “I’m surprised the mirror hasn’t cracked, the way you’re glowering at it,” Kercha Gant said from behind her.

  Without turning around, Quarrah looked at the woman through the mirror. Kercha was lounging on a padded chair, both legs draped over one arm. Quarrah wasn’t wearing a gown for this rehearsal, but her green dress was much finer than the black shirt and pants Kercha was wearing. Their apparent uniform swap left Quarrah with a twinge of envy toward the soprano’s role. Quarrah would much rather be the one lurking under the stage, just as she was sure Kercha would rather be posing on it.

  “I’m not glowering.” Quarrah leaned toward the mirror, scraping at the red line of her lipstick. “Just concentrating.”

  “Don’t touch your lips,” said Kercha. “You’ll only make it worse.” The woman swung her legs down and stood up, crossing the tent with a lackadaisical gait. She grabbed Quarrah’s shoulder and yanked her away from the easel mirror.

  “Ugh. What did you do?” Kercha pinched the hem of her black sleeve and used the edge of the fabric to wipe the smear. “I told you not to bite your lips. Teeth?” Kercha bared hers, prompting Quarrah to do the same. There must have been a smear there, too, because Kercha promptly gave them a scrub.

  Quarrah had developed an interesting relationship with Kercha Gant in the last ten days. The two women had seen each other every single day, rehearsing in the privacy of the Be’Igoth so Kercha’s voice would line up with the movement of Quarrah’s mouth.

  As teachers went, Quarrah actually preferred Kercha Gant over Cinza Ortemion. Obviously more passionate about music than anything else in her life, Kercha had started her coaching with tips about rhythm and timing. Eventually, it had turned to diction, expression, and physical poise. And when the snooty woman had seen Quarrah’s first attempt at applying her own makeup, Kercha had been compelled to intervene.

  Quarrah had been pleased by how quickly the mannerisms of Azania Fyse had come back to her. It was a good thing, too. She’d had half a year to master it the first time, but this concert had given her less than a cycle.

  “And I don’t know why you were concentrating so hard,” Kercha said, stepping back to examine Quarrah’s makeup. “Looking glum comes naturally to you.”

  The insults were the constant, regardless of the teacher. Kercha made it continually apparent that she and Quarrah were not to consider themselves allies, let alone colleagues, or friends. The soprano was helping her out of a sense of loyalty to music and her son. That was all fine with Quarrah Khai. She certainly wasn’t looking for a friend at such a critical time as this.

  In a few moments, she would walk onto that stage for Azania Fyse’s first public reappearance. In Ardor Benn’s absence, she’d been forced to come up with a story about what had happened to Azania in her years-long disappearance. To be honest, Quarrah was having a hard time keeping those details straight. Hopefully, Ard would bail her out of any verbal corner into which she might paint herself.

  But that was only if Ard decided to return from whatever personal outing had taken him away from their world-saving ruse. The fact that she hadn’t seen him tonight was unnerving, but Quarrah didn’t lose hope. Ard was notorious for being late, but he always made it work. His new conductor persona—Conques Fabley—would probably show up in the nick of time, leaping onto the podium with a smile that would charm everyone.

  “I was concentrating on the lyrics,” Quarrah replied. “I’ve been stumbling over the fourth song in the cycle. Can we go over the second stanza?”

  Kercha cleared her throat and began to sing, the tempo quick and the melody bouncy.

  I despise when he’s out in the rain,

  All my patience I try to maintain,

  When he drips and he shakes,

  I point out his mistakes,

  Then he whines to break free of his chain.

  Quarrah waved her hand. “I’ve got that one. I guess it’s the next verse.”

  She didn’t find the lyrics overly humorous or clever, playing for cheap laughs more often than not. Kercha had told her that, as the performer, the song would come across more sincere if Quarrah secretly decided which she was singing about—a husband or a dog. Quarrah couldn’t imagine having either in real life, so she had come to terms with the fact that her performance might be seen as insincere. What did it matter anyway? The morning after the concert, the world would wake up Moonsick and no one would be talking about Azania’s song.

  “I’m talking about the verse with the nonsense words,” said Quarrah.

  “Ah.” Kercha launched into it without hesitation.

  Bow wow biddy boo biddy ruff-ruff,

  He thinks he is so very tough-tough,

  His logic is patchy,

  His kisses are scratchy,

  And he cries when I tell him enough-nough.

  The tent flap parted and Wysar Stone appeared. The stage manager was notably young for such a prestigious position. Quarrah had only just met him two hours ago, when her private carriage had delivered her and Kercha directly into the dressing tent at the edge of the stage. The young man had already popped in a dozen times to update Azania about the progress of the rehearsal. But this time he seemed more anxious than usual, his left eye visibly twitching.

  “Swayla Tham has gone home,” he reported with a degree of finality in his voice.

  “Wasn’t she going to rehearse the orchestra on the instrumental pieces?” said Quarrah.

  “She did,” squeaked Wysar, “for the last hour and a half. She could not be persuaded t
o stay any longer, considering that she already feels insulted for not being allowed to conduct the song cycle with you.”

  “You know it is customary for the soloist to bring her own conductor,” replied Quarrah.

  “With all due respect,” said Wysar, “that seems to be a custom only you observe, Miss Fyse.”

  “Maestro Fabley will be here,” Quarrah assured him.

  “Eventually, I’m sure,” said Wysar. “But how long can we make the orchestra wait? Sixty of the most respected musicians in the Greater Chain are sitting on that stage out there, waiting for instruction.”

  “Then give them some,” Kercha interjected. “You are the stage manager, are you not? Why don’t you manage the stage?”

  “Yes. I’m happy to relay any message you would like, Miss Azania,” said Wysar. “Or you could deliver it yourself. I believe your appearance would go a long way toward keeping everyone content. Despite my assurances, I have heard murmurs among the musicians. Some think it possible that your name is merely being used as a publicity scam to draw a large number of people to the Moonwatch Festival.”

  “Ha!” Kercha laughed, dropping into the padded chair again. “Imagine that! Some people don’t believe Azania Fyse could possibly be back from the dead.”

  Quarrah stiffened awkwardly. “Well, I’m not going to parade myself across the stage just to satisfy their curiosity. They’ll see I’m alive when we begin our rehearsals.”

  Wysar cleared his throat. “And when will that be, exactly?”

  “You can tell them I am quite exhausted after my travel from Dronodan—”

  “You told Wysar you’d been in Talumon,” Kercha interjected.

  Quarrah squirmed. She couldn’t even remember where Azania had supposedly come from, let alone all she’d done in the last four and a half years. Quarrah felt a sizzle of indignation rise in her chest. This was Ard’s stupid ruse. If he didn’t care enough to be here for it, then Quarrah wasn’t going to put her neck on the line and cover for him.