The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 5

“Because… I did something wrong?” Ard guessed.

  “We both know you’ve done plenty of that,” Trable said. “I mean why I’m here, in Cove Seven.”

  “I hope you’re delivering some of those lemon tarts that your wife’s famous for.”

  Some thought that a married Isle would never be considered for Prime. Olstad Trable was proof that it didn’t matter. In Gloristar’s absence, a panel of experienced Holy Isles had deemed him the best person for the job. Ard could see why. An affable family man was a good image to display after Gloristar’s unpopularity among the masses.

  “Oh,” Trable chuckled. “Isless Gaevala doesn’t know I’m here. It’s gotten to the point that I won’t even mention your name in front of the girls. They’re too young to see their mother’s wrath.” The Prime Isle sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Three summons of remediation to Cove One is grounds for suspension. I don’t want to kick you out, Ard. I really don’t. But you’re not making it easy. You’ve got to help me out. I think it’s important for the people to see that anyone can change.” He paused. “Even someone like you.”

  Ardor Benn felt the prick of guilt stab at his insides. How much had he changed? Technically, his presence in the Mooring was another ruse. A long, patient ruse designed to get information—the location of the Islehood’s store of dragon shell. Answers about the Great Egress that only the Mooring’s library could provide.

  But this ruse felt different than any job he’d done before. He usually felt a drive to finish, just so he could move on to the next. But this time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to end at all. The thought made him feel dishonest, like he was cheating on the person he had always been. And in moments like these, when someone praised him for how much he’d changed, his past self would rise up within to convince him that he hadn’t. To convince him that under these sea-green robes, Ardor Benn would never be anything more than an imposter.

  “I assume you’re referring to a little incident in the Char, day before yesterday?” Ard confessed. “For the record, I went with every intention of having a peaceful conversation. Anything you heard about was Dalfa Rhed’s fault.”

  “I heard that one of my Isles was seen swinging from the Old Palace Steps in his holy robes.”

  “I was escaping,” said Ard. “She sent her goons after me.”

  Prime Isle Trable raised his eyebrows. “You can’t keep meeting with every old enemy that calls you out. I knew you’d be persecuted for your past, but you’re part of the Islehood now. You’ve committed yourself to living a better life.”

  Ard nodded slowly. “I won’t do it again,” he promised. But even as he said it, he thought of the questionable meeting he’d scheduled for tomorrow. Assuming they could even find the place called Tofar’s Salts, Ard didn’t plan on wearing his Islehood robes. Not with so much mystery surrounding the note he’d found in the wall of the ruins.

  “And what about the tattered Islehood robe the Regulators found in the bushes?” asked the Prime Isle. “It was recovered near one of the ruins that was vandalized by two men who locked themselves inside to avoid arrest.”

  Ard shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Trable pursed his lips in thought. “I didn’t think you would. I’m just saying that you need to be more careful. Your enemies would like to see you fail. Sparks, I’ll admit that there are more than a few Holy Isles who’d like to see you thrown out.” He leaned forward. “I’m not one of them.”

  “I understand,” Ard said. “And I would hate for my misconduct to reflect poorly on the Prime Isle who let me in.”

  “You know I don’t care about that.” Trable waved his hand. “This is about you, Ardor Benn. You, and the condition of your soul.”

  “Every Prime Isle leaves a legacy,” Ard said. “Frid Chauster started a war. Gloristar vanished into the night. Maybe you’ll be known for getting a legendary criminal to the Homeland.”

  Trable squinted one eye, unamused. “I wouldn’t say you’re legendary. And for Gaevala’s sake, let us hope I’m known for something else.” He lifted his finger. “What about the Prime Isle who authorized the first female crusader monarch to reestablish peace across the Greater Chain?”

  “Well, I mean… There’s that, too,” said Ard. “But it kind of sounds like you’re taking credit for all the good work she’s doing. How is Queen Abeth lately?”

  “Impressive as always,” he said. “I don’t think anyone else could have reunited the islands so quickly.”

  Ard nodded. “Her bloodline and marriage made her uniquely suited.” The former Sovereign States of Dronodan and Talumon accepted her lineage. The former Archkingdom acknowledged that she had been trained for years to rule Espar and Strind.

  “And her training, and her experience, and her demeanor in court… The crusader queen really knows what she’s doing. Unlike some of us.” Trable sighed, standing up slowly. “Sometimes I think Gloristar is just going to show up one day and tell me all the things I’m doing wrong.”

  Because you don’t have the Anchored Tome, Ard thought. But he certainly wouldn’t say it out loud. Privately, Gloristar had confessed to Ard that King Termain had stolen the sacred book. And Trable had hinted enough times that Ard realized the book was never recovered. Without it, Trable was missing vital knowledge meant only for the eyes of the succeeding Prime.

  Publicly, Prime Isle Trable had announced that he’d read the Anchored Tome. He lied to the Holy Isles and to the Wayfarist followers because telling them the truth would shatter their faith.

  Perhaps that was why Olstad Trable had taken such a liking to Ard. They were both working to convince themselves that they were something they weren’t.

  “Ols?” Ard asked as the man moved for the door. “What do you think happened to Gloristar that night?”

  The Prime Isle glanced back. “I issued my official statement.”

  “And I read it,” said Ard. “But what do you think really happened?”

  Queen Abeth had done a remarkable job covering up the truth. According to record, Ard and Quarrah had not been in the throne room that night. Termain had died at the hand of a mysterious woman who had forced entry through the balcony. There were rumors, of course. A handful of guards had been eyewitnesses, though speaking the truth of what they’d seen would contradict Her Majesty.

  Trable ran a hand through his short beard. “I believe the Realm abducted the Prime Isless.” Queen Abeth had spread word about the Realm far and wide, hoping that the attention would force down any remaining members of the organization.

  “You think the Realm killed her?” Ard pressed. That’s what he’d said in his official statement.

  “I’m convinced of it more and more.” Trable shrugged. “Otherwise, where could she be?”

  His words mirrored Ard’s thoughts exactly. For a time, he’d held out hope that Gloristar had survived her fall from the Old Post Lighthouse. But it had been two years now. And her glass skull had been badly fractured. Ard knew so little about her new condition. How long could she stay underwater? If she had truly become like the Trothian ancestors, they had survived in the deep for hundreds of years before coming to the surface to seek vengeance on the Landers.

  There was still air down there, at the bottom of the InterIsland Waters. Ard had considered sinking himself in a bubble of Containment Grit to search for her, but without a Trothian to detonate the Stasis Grit at regular intervals, he’d likely run out of air on the way down. And the seabed was a large place. How would he even know where to start?

  “You have a visitor,” Trable said from the doorway.

  Ard glanced up from his thoughts to find Raek looming over the Prime Isle. The two men exchanged a typical Mooring greeting, shuffling awkwardly around each other on the dock. Then Raek ducked inside and swung the door shut.

  “You know that was the Prime Isle, right?” Ard said, double-checking to make sure his study notes were out of sight.

  “Olstad Trab
le. Yeah,” said Raek.

  “Most visitors in the Mooring would make a big deal about bumping into the Prime Isle on the dock.”

  Raek shrugged his massive shoulders. “Did you want me to squeal?” He plopped himself down on the same bench Trable had occupied, the wooden boards groaning under his bulk. “I found Tofar’s Salts.”

  “And?”

  “It’s an Agrodite soakhouse in the upper Western Quarter,” he said. “Plum full of soggy Trothians.”

  The saltwater soak was necessary for all Trothians to maintain the health of their thick blue skin. Soakhouses had started springing up around Beripent during Pethredote’s time, with seawater being brought up from the harbors. But the baths had been shut down when Pethredote had renounced the Inclusionary Act. Eventually, the need for the soak had driven all the Trothians to the shore, where the Regulators had rounded them up and shipped them back to their low sandy islets.

  “And the Be’Igoth?” Ard wasn’t even sure if he was pronouncing that correctly.

  Raek shook his head. “I just scouted the place so we wouldn’t be in for any surprises tomorrow. I didn’t want to tip our hand by asking questions.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Surprisingly big and more lavish than a lot of the soakhouses I’ve seen,” he said. “Three Ashings a week for admittance. Whoever built that place is making a fortune off the Trothians.”

  Ard hoped it was another Trothian, not some cheap Lander looking to profit off their physical needs.

  “You ever been to a soakhouse?” Ard asked his partner.

  “I literally just told you I have,” said Raek, massaging the spot on his chest where the pipe was buried.

  “I mean before that,” said Ard.

  “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a Lander,” he replied, gesturing at the dark brown skin of his arm. “We’re not really welcome there.”

  “You think that’ll complicate tomorrow’s meeting?” Ard asked.

  “Based on that note, I’d say the Be’Igoth will be expecting you,” he said. “Not sure if I should come, though. Your name was the only one on the note.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “I’ll hang around outside and warn you if I see any trouble.”

  “I’m expecting it.” Ard drummed his fingers on the desk. “Who could have done it, Raek?”

  “Done what?” he asked.

  “Placed that note in the exact spot we would be—a spot we didn’t even know we would be.”

  “I know that look,” Raek said. “You’ve got a theory that’s almost too crazy to say out loud.”

  Ard took a deep breath. “Time travel.”

  “Time travel?”

  “We know it’s possible,” Ard explained. “Every successful Paladin Visitant has done it. Sparks! I’ve even done it. And we know the Islehood is gathering dragon shell. That could mean they’re already making Visitant Grit.”

  “Leaving notes in stone walls… That’s not how a Paladin Visitant works,” said Raek. “Any interaction with the past—no matter how small—resets the timeline. If that had happened, we would cease to exist.”

  “I know, I know,” Ard said. “But maybe it wasn’t a Paladin Visitant.”

  Raek’s face looked painfully skeptical. “Who else travels through time?”

  “In the throne room that night,” Ard began, “Gloristar said something.”

  “She said a lot of crazy stuff we didn’t understand,” he said.

  “She said she was the Homeland,” Ard recalled. “Said she was ‘time and space perfected.’ That sounds like someone who can travel through time.”

  “Gloristar’s dead, Ard. Or if she’s still alive, she clearly doesn’t want us to know it.”

  “Maybe she planted the note before the lighthouse collapsed on her,” Ard mused. “She could have had time between leaving you at the Moonsick farm and coming to the throne room to kill Termain. And how long would it take, traveling through time? She might have done it in the blink of an eye.”

  “Look, you’re welcome to get your robes in a knot speculating over what the dead Prime Isless can and cannot do,” said Raek, “but I’m not going to lose sleep over it until after the meeting tomorrow. I’m betting you’ll get some answers from the mysterious Be’Igoth. And we can hope the job will pay well enough to warrant coming out of retirement.”

  “Job?” Ard faltered. “I… I can’t take a job right now, Raek.” He put a hand on his stack of books. “Prime Isle Trable was just here to reprimand me. Another infraction and he won’t be able to sweep it under the rug. I’ll be suspended from the Islehood. Or worse…”

  “Worse?” Raek said, puzzled. “I assume you mean kicked out. Wasn’t that in the plans all along?”

  “Well, yes, but…” Ard’s research felt hot under his hand. “I just need more time. If I get thrown out now, the whole last year will have been for nothing.” He kept his voice low, always aware that someone could be listening from the dock outside the door.

  “You need to step up your game in here,” Raek said. “You said it yourself, it’s a real possibility that they’ve already started processing Visitant Grit. We need to have our eyes on that shell, Ard. It’d only take one well-placed detonation to erase us all.”

  Ard swallowed. He was keenly aware of the risk. Keeping the location of the dragon shell from Raek was a risky move, but it was the only card in his hand. Raekon Dorrel wouldn’t agree with Ard’s true reasons for staying. Sure, Raek understood the value in good, hard research, but not the philosophical search for answers in old religious texts. He understood the patience involved in running a long ruse, but not the strange and comfortable satisfaction Ard was experiencing in this new life.

  “It’s time to start digging a little harder,” Raek said. “I’m doing all I can from the outside, but the Islehood is taking advantage of this fresh start, covering their tracks to make sure no one gets their hands on Visitant Grit.”

  “I’ll find it,” Ard insisted. “But we have to be extra careful not to rock the boat until I do.”

  Raek nodded resolutely. “I’ll keep her steady.”

  “I can put some pressure on Isless Banhue,” Ard said. “She monitors a lot of the Islehood’s resources.”

  “Do what you have to do.” Raek stood up and stretched his tree-trunk arms in front of him. “And don’t worry, pal. We’ll get you out of here soon enough.”

  Ard ran his finger across the edge of his notebook. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “The Mooring’s no place for a guy like me.”

  Every secret I hid felt like another life beginning.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Tofar’s Salts was noisier than Ard had expected, exuberant shouts and splashes reaching his ears as he approached the soakhouse along Tassel Street.

  The hubbub implied good business, though. Ard knew surprisingly little about the ritual, despite having seen Trothians soaking in the harbors all his life. He understood that it had to be done with regularity to keep their blue skin smooth and healthy. Given the Trothian ancestry on the seabed, this connection to the water made sense.

  Participating in the soak was considered an Agrodite religious practice. So by default, every Trothian was considered an Agrodite. As such, they were barred from becoming Wayfarists, which excluded them from certain societal benefits.

  It was a broken situation, with fault falling on both sides. A stubbornness that kept a wedge between Wayfarists and Agrodites—and thus, Landers and Trothians. Would things change if they knew the truth about their joint ancestry?

  Ard glanced over his shoulder one last time, but Raek was gone. His big friend would be lurking around the soakhouse perimeter, a Regulation-issue brass whistle on a chain around his neck. He’d blow it in a specific pattern—long, short, long—to let Ard know if it was time to get out of there.

  The structure was simple but unique—a wide pavilion enclosed by a wooden fence rising almost halfway to the roof. Through the open gate, Ard ca
ught a glimpse inside. It looked like a maze of wooden walls, the dividers partitioning off deep pools of salt water.

  “Can I help you?” A voice turned Ard’s attention to a Trothian woman standing just inside the gate. She was thin and willowy, with long braided hair falling down her back. Her ever-vibrating eyes studied Ard with a twinge of impatience, but not wholly without intrigue.

  “Yes, um…” Ard flipped open the note in his hand to double-check the words. “Is this Tofar’s Salts?”

  “It is,” she answered, speaking Landerian with no detectable accent.

  “Sounds like business is good today,” he said in an attempt to soften her expression.

  “Our business is our own,” she said. “This is an Agrodite place of ritual and healing. We do not allow muckmus inside.”

  Ard held up his hand. “I mean no disrespect in coming here. I’m supposed to meet someone. Could you please tell the Be’Igoth that Ardor Benn is here?”

  Her thin face cracked into a smile and then a full snicker. She called to another Trothian woman who was passing by, exchanging a few brief words in their native language. Then both women had a good laugh that seemed very much at Ard’s expense.

  He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I probably didn’t pronounce that right.” He held out the note for her inspection, before suddenly remembering that Trothians couldn’t see the written word. Their unique eyes perceived the energy of things, but text was washed out on flat surfaces.

  “Your pronunciation was fine,” she replied. “But Be’Igoth cannot see anyone.”

  “But I was told to come here and ask to see him,” Ard said.

  She laughed again. “And I was told to expect you. But it is past noon.”

  “Just a few minutes,” Ard said dismissively. “But I’m sure Be’Igoth will understand.” Arriving late was almost like Ard’s signature of authenticity.

  “Be’Igoth understands nothing.” She was very amused by something. “Because Be’Igoth is not a person.”

  “Not a…” Ard trailed away. “Then what is it?”

  “I will show you.” But instead of leaving, she held out her hand expectantly. “Three Ashings for the week. Five Ashlits for a single day.”