The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

  But Ard, too, might not exist. Or if he did, he’d likely be a very different person. This Ard would never exist. And worse than that—neither would his friends. Resetting the timeline would doom them all to an altered existence. Would they be happy in their new skins? Raek might be his enemy, Elbrig his brother. Quarrah Khai may never cross his path …

  Ard shook his head. Deep thoughts were not supposed to trouble him. If he’d wanted to be weighed down by burdensome philosophies, he would have joined the Islehood.

  Through the glass doors leading to the balcony, Ard heard the blaring of a trumpet. He quickly scooped up the king’s fallen sword as Pethredote began to rise. Ard felt better with a weapon in his hands. Especially if Raek’s costume failed prematurely.

  “The palace defense alarm,” the king whispered. “What army have you persuaded to help you win the night?”

  “Not my army,” said Ard. “This one belongs to somebody else you sparked off.”

  The alarm meant Lyndel’s Trothian force was striking the palace, creating the distraction that Ard and Raek would need to escape. Just in time, too. Raek’s fire seemed to be dwindling. The trick would probably last only a few more moments. But Ard had learned what he needed from King Pethredote, even if he couldn’t yet make sense of it.

  “What will you do now, Ardor Benn?” The king was on his knees. “Take my place? Rise to the throne? The people will not accept you as they once did me. Not even with the backing of your Paladin Visitant. You are Settled. A criminal. These people need a hero to follow.”

  Ard brought the sword around and placed the slender blade against the king’s neck. Your Homeland wants Pethredote dead. Lyndel’s words rattled in Ard’s head.

  The Homeland was a perfected version of the future, slowly being crafted as the timelines reset with each Paladin Visitant, until perfect harmony could be achieved. There was no room for a man like Pethredote in such a paradisiacal future. Lyndel was right. The Homeland did want him dead.

  Ard’s grip tensed on the hilt, his arm flexing in preparation to thrust the blade through the king’s sweaty neck. But he faltered. Frozen despite the heat.

  Ard was no assassin. And becoming one today would do nothing to help Ard reach the Homeland. Didn’t Ard already share many of Pethredote’s flaws? Manipulative, deceitful, cunning.

  Strange. Until seeing those qualities in Pethredote, Ard would have considered them positive in himself. And under that pretext, Ardor Benn knew that there was no place for him in the Homeland, either.

  Ard cast the king’s sword down, the metal clattering harshly against the stone floor. The tremendous heat in the room suddenly reprieved. The Compounded Heat Grit must have burned out. That meant about ten minutes had passed since the trick had begun. It was time to make their escape.

  “Let’s go,” Ard said to Raek, keeping his gaze averted from the smoldering man as he strode for the doors. Hopefully, Lyndel’s attack had proven a sufficient distraction to draw the Regulators away.

  Raek had performed exceptionally well as a Paladin Visitant. It was the easy part, Ard wanted to point out. Raek had stood virtually motionless to avoid getting burned through the sunflare cloak. As usual, Ard had done all the talking and most of the quick thinking. Raek hadn’t even been allowed to say a word. His big friend was surely enjoying the role. Standing as still as a stump while managing to portray the most powerful being in the world. Raek would say that the only thing that could make it better was doughnuts.

  Ard pulled open the doors. They would have to flee the moment Raek shed that burning cloak. If Pethredote saw the costume come off, he would know he’d been tricked.

  Leaving Pethredote alive was the right choice, wasn’t it? Lyndel would be disappointed in him. But soon enough, Ard would detonate the actual Visitant Grit and the king would be erased from existence anyway. They all would. No one would know what they had accomplished here today because today would never occur in this way.

  From behind him, Raek grunted—the first sound he had made since entering the palace. From the corner of his eye, Ard risked a glance to see what his big friend might need.

  The king’s sword protruded from Raek’s chest.

  Ard felt his body go numb, the sweat from the last ten minutes seeming to ice over his flesh. Raek, still in full costume, his strips of cloth burning low over his black cloak, fell to his knees.

  Pethredote stood behind him, still gripping the hilt of the sword whose blade had passed clean through Raek’s back and emerged several inches from his chest.

  “Millguin.” The king’s voice was barely audible. “She saw him.”

  “Raek!” Ard staggered a step away from the open door. It had to be a trick. Some sort of illusion. He and Raek had survived too many narrow escapes together. Cheated death too many times. The dying man before him couldn’t be Raekon Dorrel.

  Pethredote withdrew the sword with a sharp pull, the action tugging the smoldering body backward and causing him to sprawl upon the floor of the reception hall. Ard saw the blood. Deep rivulets of crimson flowing along the grooves of grout between the floor tiles. Blood. Raek’s blood. So much of it.

  Ard knew it was real then, and the shock of it paralyzed him. The king’s voice was tinny and distant as it reached his ears, echoing past the disbelief and numbness of what had just transpired.

  “Millguin saw the man and did not burn,” the king explained. Ard was barely aware of the Karvan lizard, sprawled lazily upon the hot stone floor, several feet behind Pethredote. The creature was staring disinterested, the room reflected in those big black eyes.

  “A trick,” Pethredote mumbled. “Somehow it was all a clever trick.” The thin blade in his hand dripped, its glossy red appearance lit by the flickering flames on the body of the dying man.

  Pethredote stepped toward Raek, but Ard barreled into him, leaping over the still form of his friend and knocking the king backward. They tumbled, the sword clattering away, Ard losing control as he brought his fist down against Pethredote’s face. He punched again and again, releasing the fury that was building inside of him.

  His partner. His conscience. His best friend.

  It couldn’t be. Raek wasn’t dead. Not yet. Ard could save him.

  He rolled away from the king, his knuckles tingling and bloody, cut to the bone from the beating. Maybe the king was dead. Pethredote certainly wasn’t moving.

  Ard scrambled to his friend’s side. Under that heavy, smoldering cloak, it was impossible to tell if he was breathing. Ard stripped back Raek’s mask, not even caring if it singed his fingers.

  “Raek,” he whispered. The man’s face was drained of color. There was blood in his mouth, but Ard could tell now that he was indeed breathing. Shallow, labored.

  “All right,” Ard muttered. “You’re going to be all right. Let’s get you out of here.” He pulled Raek’s arm around his neck, the sunflare cloak singeing his skin. Ard heaved, eliciting a moan from his dying friend. “Well, it’s not my fault you’re so big,” Ard muttered. “Homeland, Raek! You’ve got to be two hundred and fifty panweights. I told you …”

  “Ard …”

  He froze at the sound of his friend’s voice, Ard still squatting and Raek halfway into a seated position.

  “Ard …” he said again. His voice was so weak. So unlike the Raek he knew. “Get the blazes out of here.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  “Leave me.”

  “Ha!” Ard replied. “Now, what kind of friend would I be if I left you behind?”

  “Ard!” His voice was a little more forceful this time. “It’s the only chance … Go!”

  “Not happening,” replied Ard, making another attempt to heave his big friend to his feet. “The least you could do is try to get your feet under you.” He didn’t know how to handle this. Ard’s emotions were hanging at the edge of a cliff. He talked to Raek the only way he knew how—like everything was okay.

  Raek’s other hand suddenly reached out, pointing ac
ross the large room. “That …” he muttered. “Get that …”

  Ard looked in the direction he pointed. “What?”

  “Grit belt …” Raek rasped.

  Of course! A Regulator would carry Health Grit on his sash. It obviously wouldn’t be enough to heal Raek, but maybe it could keep him alive until Ard could get more help.

  He scrambled across the room in the direction Raek had pointed. He didn’t see a Grit belt anywhere. From behind, Ard suddenly heard the distinctive shattering of a clay Grit pot. He whirled in time to see the detonation surround Raek.

  Barrier Grit.

  Ard leapt toward him, slamming his fist against the impenetrable shell of the detonation cloud. Peering through the haze, he saw that the shards of the pot were scattered under Raek’s own hand. He must have smuggled the pot inside his large cloak. Raek had detonated it himself!

  “Blazes, Raek! What did you do?” He pounded hopelessly against the Barrier’s perimeter.

  “I’m a goner, Ard,” Raek wheezed. “Now get your stubborn self out …”

  A gunshot echoed through the reception hall, and Ard felt a terrible sting in his left shoulder, a flecking of his blood peppering across the dome of the Barrier cloud. The sudden jolt of pain caused Ard to stumble.

  The shooter stood in the open doorway. A Reggie in a red uniform, probably doubling back to check on the status of the room, eager to find the king’s body. He fired a second shot from his Roller, but this one went wide, pinging off the hard barrier of Raek’s cloud.

  Ard gripped his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. He could tell from the flow that the ball had passed. Must have missed the bone. Numb from the pain, it was really impossible to tell.

  The Regulator took a step farther into the room, crying out as he saw the king. Pethredote was breathing shallow breaths, sputtering on his own blood that seemed to flow from every opening on his face.

  Ard glanced once more at Raek’s fallen form. His friend’s eyes were closed. Had he stopped breathing? He’d be dead before Ard could get to him. If he wasn’t already.

  Ard knew that was why Raek had detonated the Barrier Grit. It was his way of giving Ard a chance to escape. The big man knew that Ard wouldn’t leave the palace without him. Not if there was any hope in saving his life. Well, there wasn’t hope now. And if Ard didn’t get moving, they’d both end up dead.

  Ard muttered his friend’s name, tears welling in his eyes. Then he was on the move, scrambling across the large room. He passed the tree and surrounding ornamental flowers, all of which had wilted from prolonged exposure to extreme heat. A third shot cracked through the reception hall, missing Ard and shattering the glass in one of the balcony doors.

  Three more balls, assuming the Roller was fully loaded when the Reggie barged in. There was no chance of rushing him and fleeing into the hallway. The balcony was Ard’s best option.

  As Dale Hizror, Ard remembered taking Azania onto that very balcony one cool night. She had looked radiant in the soft glow of the chandelier. He had told Raek about how he’d felt toward Quarrah. Sparks, he’d told Raek everything. Always.

  Ard knew the second-story balcony overlooked the manicured grass and dotted bushes. A large detonation of Drift Grit would have bridged the gap to the ground, allowing him to leap down and land with little more force than a regular jump. But Ard had no Drift Grit.

  He truly had nothing. No weapons. No Grit. No Raek.

  Ard burst through the glass door as the fourth gunshot rang behind him. He staggered, cut now from the shattered glass as well. Hoisting himself upon the stone railing, he looked down. The night was too dark to judge the distance accurately, and perhaps that was a good thing.

  As the fifth shot sounded behind him, Ard jumped. He struck the ground, attempting to roll through the landing like Quarrah had once showed him.

  There was a searing pain in his leg. He hadn’t heard the bone snap, but he knew it must have. Grimacing against the wash of agony, Ard pulled himself forward, crawling through the grass, his left arm numb and his injured leg trailing behind.

  Glancing back, Ard saw the Regulator reach the edge of the balcony, peering down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. The man had one shot left. Ard was an easy target, helplessly displayed upon the lawn. Even if the Reggie missed, he would alert others. There was no chance Ard could clear the outer wall and make the cover of the Char before more Regulators converged on him.

  There was a gunshot, and Ard tensed. A strangled cry came from the balcony, and Ard saw the Regulator topple limply over the railing. Confused, his mind a foggy jumble, Ard redoubled his efforts, crawling forward and fighting to maintain consciousness.

  Suddenly, Lyndel was there beside him, a long-barreled Fielder on a strap over her shoulder. She dropped to her knees on the lawn, bending to pull Ard’s arm around her neck. Lyndel said something, but her words seemed far away. She hoisted him upright, and Ard felt the earth spinning beneath his feet.

  The pain. The shock.

  Raek.

  They will grieve for me. I will die without speaking a word.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Ardor Benn was adrift, his surroundings a jumble of incorporeal blackness and disjointed visions of places he had been. One moment wandering the heavy underbrush of Pekal, the next standing in the king’s throne room. At times in the hidden room above the bakery, and sometimes floating through a vacant Char.

  He might have thought himself dead. A ghost. A tortured soul made to oversee the places where the final cycles of his Settled life had played out.

  Adrift. Adrift and alone.

  But Ard knew he was not dead. There was still pain. He felt it most in his right leg, just below the knee, at times sharp enough to spike the length of his entire body. His left shoulder ached, too, causing a numbness that bled into his arm and chest.

  Those moments of searing, burning pain anchored him to one tangible place. It was a dark, cool room, ripe with the smell of spoiled meat. The dugout at the back of the abandoned butcher shop.

  During rare snippets of physical awareness, Ard often felt a gentle hand. It was familiar, though the voice that accompanied it was too far away to distinguish. And any attempt to make a verbal reply sent waves of pain crashing through his insides.

  Awake, Ard’s thoughts were indecipherable, his mind a clouded mess like a dozen detonations igniting within his skull. But in his dreamlike drifting—in his haunts—Ard’s mind was startlingly clear. The facts were displayed before him. Secrets that he knew. Knowledge that had once seemed as intangible as he now felt, was verifiable truth.

  Alone in this state, floating from landmark to familiar landmark, Ard could process everything. He knew what needed to be done. Sparks, he even knew how to do it. But using the Visitant Grit to go back in time would change everything. This entire existence would be erased. Rewritten.

  The Homeland would Urge people differently in the new timeline, preventing history from repeating itself. Preventing any possibility of catching all of existence in a never-ending time loop.

  The dramatic summoning of a Paladin Visitant gave mankind a chance to start anew and flourish. A chance to recover from the brink of utter destruction. And wasn’t such destruction the very thing that mankind now faced? An unstoppable epidemic of Moonsickness. The fabled Paladins of fire could, as Wayfarist doctrine stated, eventually deliver them to the Homeland. Though not even the Homeland was what Ard had been led to believe.

  The Homeland was a future that could be created, through careful, calculated uses of Visitant Grit. It could be shaped by the Prime Isles who knew the secret of time traveling. But could the Visitant Grit actually forge a future perfect enough to satisfy every soul?

  It was a point that Ardor could not reconcile. He believed what Pethredote had told him about the Homeland, but knowing it made him loathe the place. Whose version of the future would be represented? And what about all the rejected timelines? Considering that his was about to b
ecome one, those lost lives seemed very real, and their erasure akin to mass genocide.

  The future wasn’t supposed to be crafted. It wasn’t clay or wood. It was something organic. Time was supposed to roll forward like a ship on the waves. And the events that buffeted the sojourners of life were best if unexpected and surprising. The thought that Ard’s actions could be erased at any moment made his life seem like it amounted to little more than a pile of unfired slag. Ard didn’t want someone shaping the future. Not a Wayfarist Prime Isle. Not a Paladin Visitant.

  Ard himself didn’t feel comfortable making that call. And he was a ruse artist. He’d dedicated most of his adult life to manipulating people, controlling situations, and getting what he wanted.

  Cheating time, giving history a chance to do things over. That should have been right down Ard’s alley. Making this decision would be the ultimate manipulation. He would alter the destiny of every living soul.

  But it took no finesse or craftiness. All it took was a well-placed detonation, and the power of the Visitant Grit would do the rest. That wasn’t Ard. That wasn’t his style. There had to be another option—to cheat time but preserve the timeline.

  What if he could find a way around the rules? What if he could run a ruse on time itself?

  “Well, that’s presumptuous,” spoke a familiar voice.

  Ard swiveled around, finding himself standing on the stage of the Royal Concert Hall. The large theater was vacant, the seats wispy and not fully formed in Ard’s hallucinatory state. The curtains hung like columns of black smoke, and Raekon Dorrel stood in the center of the empty stage.

  The big man was wearing tall boots and dark pants. A wide Grit belt was fastened around his middle, and Raek had on a sleeveless tan shirt. He looked every bit himself, the mirrored stage lights reflecting on his shiny bald head, his expression preparing Ard to hear some wry comment. But his chest …

  Oh, flames! Raek’s chest was soaked in blood. The red stain flowered across his shirt, dripping down to his belt in lines of gore. At the center of the mess was King Pethredote’s blade. The thin length of steel protruded from Raek’s ribs, a visual reminder of the scene that had burned itself into Ard’s memory.