Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “Two years after his death?” exclaimed Merrill. “What if I need to pay my debts? Do you expect him to pop out of the grave?”

  “With this amount of money, I’ve seen stranger, my lady,” answered the banker. “And besides, should you find yourself in debt exceeding three percent of that sum per month already, I would deem that Fel’s policies were quite prudent. Such a rule is often in place precisely for death occurrences, to ensure the causes were natural.”

  Running, therefore, was no option. Not if she wanted enough to start her own garden. Otherwise, to throw away what Fel had given her felt like an act of treachery. He had left her his garden, his money, and his license. Was she such a coward that she would cast it away?

  He left Abigail that, said a small voice in her mind. For you, he left something else entirely.

  Her mind flicked to the cabinet where she kept the hell's barb. She pushed that thought away as rapidly as it had come. Not yet. Not now, when the Keepers were already so suspicious of her. Besides, she didn’t even know which one Fel would want poisoned.

  When she returned home, everything seemed to be right where she had left it, yet just slightly off. She never left the kettle facing the left side of the stove. The window in the corner had never had that specific smudge, and the papers in Fel’s drawers seemed to organize themselves. Her painting pigmentations would no longer be arranged lightest to darkest. Once, she even found the ember’s core trap before the garden bent, the bulbs exploded, with blood and ash footprints leading away. No matter how many locks she purchased, these traces remained, and when the letter came two weeks later, delivered by Gervis himself, Merrill almost welcomed him with open arms. At least him, she could fight. Not the ghosts that escaped her every time she tried to pin them down.

  “Abigail, I see you are still in the city,” he remarked as she opened the door. “A surprise, like a rose in the dead of winter. Surely, you have considered departure, to somewhere that would not bear as many painful memories for you?”

  “It’s difficult, Gervis,” she answered. “The heavenly falls still need three more weeks to grow, the sparkvine five weeks to blossom. Perhaps then I will consider leaving, but without me, who will tend to them? After all, no one else has been trained by Fel’s hand or possesses his license.”

  At the mention of the license, Gervis’s face drew tight, taking a few moments before it could recover.

  “Indeed, indeed,” he said, pulling out a chair and seating himself at her table. “Well, since you are still here, I present this to you—your official signing ceremony. You see, you are the very last aurel gardener in the city. For it to pass from Fel to you without ceremony would be a show of ingratitude from the Keepers for your fine materials.”

  “There’s business to attend to now,” said Merrill, blinking. Just two years ago, Fel had taken her to see one of his competitors on the far end of the city. Where had they gone? “Perhaps in some time we can discuss.”

  “Some time? There’s already been some time! Already we border upon the crux of rudeness for not celebrating sooner! Abigail, I fear you do not realize the importance of your position. Your plants, these are the materials from which many Keepers make their magic. To some, you are the rock they stand upon! The glue that holds the Tower together.”

  He flourished a small envelope, and Merrill’s eyes narrowed as she took a step backward. Not long ago, he had been ready to beat down her door and push her out of the city without a moment’s thought. And now, he smiled at her as if he were joining her for tea and offering her the latest gossip from the streets.

  “I appreciate it, but perhaps–”

  “Abigail, you do not understand. There will be heads of families there. Do you really want to disagree to that?”

  “As I see it, I am the head of this family. The answer is no, Gervis.”

  Gervis threw his hands up in despair, his pace taking an agitated quality. “Not the heads of families like this!” He failed to notice Merrill narrowing her eyes further as he continued. “The heads of the Keeper families. The most important people in the city and, dare I say it, the world itself! Surely, you cannot turn one of them down? It would be an insult on your part, and between you and I, Abigail, I fear they may already be insulted by your lack of introductions.”

  Merrill sighed, turning back to her garden and leaving Gervis behind her.

  “Leave the envelope on the table. I’ll attend to it. And Gervis, after this I wish to be left alone.”

  “Of course, Abigail,” he said, bowing and backing out the door. “If all goes well, I daresay you’ll never see my face again.”

  Chapter 36: Merrill

  Merrill considered running late. She also considered wearing her gardening clothes, stained from dirt and materials, as well as not bathing for three days. But when the time arrived, she found herself dressed in finery as if she were meeting the lenders, with a clean body and a simmering mind. Today she was supposed to be running numbers on Fel’s accounts, as well as planning out the amount of seed needed for the next quarter. Instead, she was stuffed in the back of a small carriage that had been reserved for her outside the garden, despite the Tower being in easy walking distance.

  “Damn Keepers think they’re so important, setting the time without even asking me,” she muttered, keeping her voice low as the driver prodded the horse. Falling behind on account work meant less sleep, less sleep meant less efficiency tomorrow, and less efficiency tomorrow meant she might have to cancel one of her merchant appointments. She shifted on the cushion, ignoring the glass of wine sloshing in front of her, and closed her eyes for a moment. Maybe now she could gain back ten minutes of rest. Instead, her thoughts flitted back to the envelope, and she reviewed the writing once more in her mind.

  Dearest Abigail, it began, as if to a long lost friend.

  Please join the houses Falstor and Bernard for the evening in the Tower. We look forward to making your acquaintance, as well as explaining your great import to us. Together we can continue to define the long lasting relationship between ourselves and your line.

  Your Keepers,

  Falstor and Bernard

  It had been a woman’s writing. She had wondered if it were one of them penning the letter or, if as a head of household, they had instructed someone else to do so. Perhaps it was a secretary, or a secretary’s secretary. Perhaps she would meet with the secretaries, and not the family heads at all. Maybe, even, they would have the resources to help her leave the city early, and she could figure out what to do with the hell’s barb later, at her leisure, should she return. After all, Fel had simply stated it should go to someone who deserved it. That could be anyone—the average murderer might do, and there were plenty of those in any city. Surely, he couldn’t have expected her to discover the very person that had killed Abigail in the first place, years after it had happened; rather, a proxy would do. A metaphor. That’s all he could expect, and Merrill would continue his business in his stead, keeping his name alive.

  After a few minutes, the carriage hit a pothole, and Merrill was jerked from her thoughts, opening her eyes to check the wine glass that nearly spilled over the rim. Taking it, she poured half out the window before setting it back in its holder, then stared as the Tower itself loomed ahead of her.

  She’d always known of the Tower. It would be impossible not to in Consuo, its spire rising far above any of the other landmarks of the city. For approaching travelers, it was visible before the walls themselves, and there were days that the clouds hung low and the Tower carved through them, leaving a streak of blue sky behind where it sliced with its tip. The crowds died off as they approached, beggars fleeing the robes of the Keepers, merchants wary that entering the first circle drawn about the base meant potential forfeiture of their goods: the Tower was like another country within Consuo, its rules foreign, and the merchants travelers from another land, subject to fewer rights than the inhabitants.

  This was where the city’s magicians flocked.

&nb
sp; Of course, not all of them were Keepers. There were the lightbearers, the potioners, the guilds. The great academics, the craftsmen, and the higher order servants. But these all bowed to the Keepers, presenting their paperwork when commanded, their licenses and registrations. Paying their dues to the Tower, and daring not lock their doors, even at night. For here, this close to the Tower, possessing a key meant punishment. The Keepers alone had the power to lock and unlock, and the mere suggestion otherwise was blasphemy of the highest order.

  When the carriage pulled in front of the Tower, Lucille stepped out in front of the double doors the size of Fel’s entire estate. What use could those have, she wondered. Had anything that large ever actually entered the Tower? Or was it mere aesthetics? In which case, it would be inefficient—surely such a large hole at the base would compromise the structure, the bricks at the edges at risk of falling apart. But as she approached, she saw there were no bricks; rather, the entire Tower’s surface looked like a drop of molten metal, dark as night, with no segmentations. No units, simply flowing upward, without a chisel mark upon its surface.

  Those doors were open at the moment, and the driver handed the reins of his horse to a passing servant before leading Lucille through them. A chill rushed over her as she entered, and curiously she looked back to the walls. Surely, with the structure being black, it should be hotter than the surroundings. Yet the air she inhaled was like that of winter’s final breath into spring, just warm enough that her dress would keep her warm without additional coverings.

  “This way, this way. We will be traveling upward, of course. Far upward. Few outside of the Keepers have ever been to such an elevation. Consider yourself quite fortunate. There are many among the Tower’s base that would spend days, no, weeks waiting for such an opportunity,” said her guide, leading her deeper.

  Perhaps I should sell the envelope, then. Merrill thought, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. Besides, few souls other than the two of them occupied that level. At the moment, it was nearly deserted, and her guide’s voice echoed down the expanse.

  Here, at the lowest level, the Tower was like an enormous cavern. At the far end, she could see the glinting of another double door, the tunnel extending the entire distance as smaller corridors peeled off to the left and right. Despite the dark walls and lack of natural sunlight, the Tower was anything but dim. Statues stared from above with glowing eyes, and glowing arches led them on, accompanied by mosaics that glittered with kernels. About half way to the center, her guide stopped, choosing a side corridor, and Merrill followed as it turned into a lobby. To her left were a series of seven lifts, each decorated with kernel dust inscribing a number on the platform. On her right, a series of cards lined the wall, each slotted in next to a respective number. Under “0”, Abigail spotted familiar terms like “gate” and “grand entry," but as she moved to “1”, the letters seemed to shimmer and dance, moving before her vision, as if she were learning to read for the first time. At “2," she could barely discern individual letters at all, and by “7” it were as if someone had written cursive in cursive.

  “I wouldn’t waste your time,” came a voice from in front of her, where a woman stood behind a podium. “Unless you’ve touched that level, you won’t be able to read them, I’m afraid.”

  A circle of runes surrounded the woman, carved into the floor, each with a brightly burning kernel at its center. They flickered, shimmering as wavelike loops of energy ran through them, giving off a silver hue that matched her hair, which hung in a braid over her shoulder and reached down to the floor. Instead of three strands making up the braid, this seemed to be constructed from hundreds, perhaps each individual strand of hair taking its own path through. Her nose was hooked to resemble a beak, and grey feathered wings sprouted from her back—wispy things that looked as if they were barely able to support her, with feathers so fine they might have been fur. She had two eyes fixated upon Merrill, eyes that had neither iris nor whitespace, but instead were pitch black. Merrill could not tell if she watched with the third eye in the center of her forehead, one covered by a darkened glass cap.

  Merrill took a step back as the woman smiled, revealing teeth just slightly too sharp to be human. “What are you?” Merrill asked, and her guide turned around, admonishing her.

  “You should use respect! That was extremely rude. Do not speak unless you–”

  “Ah, I can see it in your eyes that you truly do not know,” said the woman, cutting off the guide’s words. “After all, that is my nature. I am a knower. Besides, if we are to speak of respect, surely it would be respectful to release me from this cage as the High Keeper’s pet after a few hundred years?”

  Her guide ignored the woman, shuffling over to one of the lifts, which had not yet arrived.

  “Hmm? High jetstream aurels, you see, keeping me tethered here to the ground, where neither of us is below. Just a strike though would be appreciated,” insisted the knower, then she sighed. “Of course not. Of course. You wouldn’t understand how lonely it gets, only being able to truly converse with the High Keeper. And even that has been quite some time. Now you, you wish to be called Abigail, do you not?”

  “I do,” said Merrill, freezing, her heart pounding. Was she about to reveal her secret? “How did you know that?”

  “Because I am a knower! That which I look upon, I understand. I read, just as you would read those letters on the wall. Perhaps, however, you would wish to share more before you leave? There is always more to know, always more to understand. I could trade, you understand. Knowledge for knowledge, that is fair.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t time,” interrupted her guide, but the lift had still not arrived.

  “Time? You know nothing of time. Ah, let’s see what Abigail can show me,” said the knower, and she pulled back the shaded monocle covering her eye. Merrill’s gaze flicked to the spot in the middle of the woman’s forehead and froze, locked into place, as if her pupils were anchored. Where her other two eyes were dark as night, this one was white, as if it generated its own light, burning like staring into the sun at noon. Then there was the sensation of rushing forward, gliding as if strapped to a cart, the white spot growing larger and larger until Merrill crashed into it, falling inside with a splash.

  Hello, Merril, came the voice. It was the woman’s voice, but deeper and from every direction. Or Abigail, as you wish to be called. You have something I wish to know, and I have something you wish to know.

  “Where am I?” Merril spoke aloud, turning, but seeing nothing but white, as if she were within a cloud. Though she should be panicking, a calmness came over her, an understanding that everything was under control.

  A guest in my house. Had we more time, I would make you tea, perhaps of that variety you find expensive? Everything here is free. Everything but knowledge, of course. That is what I can offer you, Merrill, but I can only show you what others have shown me, or what I have seen. Perhaps you would like to see the face of your mother? She was glimpsed by a Keeper some twenty years ago, that I can offer you.

  “She left me in the streets, why would I want to see her?” Merrill asked. “Besides, why should I show you anything in return? You already know my name—aren’t you just going to tell the Keepers? Should I just turn around now?”

  The voice laughed, the laugh of irony, and Merrill suddenly felt she had been left out of a joke.

  “I told you, Merrill, I am the pet of the High Keeper—the only one who can command me for knowledge, unless I seek to trade it away. Since you have not given me the knowledge of your name, well, when you leave, so too shall it depart from my mind. Until you return, of course.”

  “Right, but if I share, you’ll just go on and tell the High Keeper.”

  “I already told you, Merrill, I only converse with the High Keeper, and I am lonely. There hasn’t been one for some time, and I suspect not another for some time hence.”

  “Of course there is– Are you saying the Keepers have no leader?”

  “
I am saying that just because something has a name, that does not make it true. You could tell me you could read the seventh level letters out there, but I would know that is false. But you could tell me that all day long, and I could nod all day long, but that does not make it true. So it is with the Keepers, but that is something I cannot tell. Not unless you bring me greater knowledge. But now we must hurry, the lift approaches. How about… Ah, yes, how about Abigail’s death?”

  “I already know it was the Keepers who did it,” said Merrill, and the voice laughed again.

  “Surely you have heard, but you do not truly know. You have not seen. And neither do you know which ones.”

  Merrill paused. Fel had charged her to avenge Abigail. Surely, if she could find out who was responsible, she could complete that, but that went against her fleeing the city.

  “And what would you want in return?” asked Merrill.

  This, said the voice, and lines coalesced around Merrill, the white fog twisting together to form grey vines, then pulling in even more material to reach a dark black. They twisted upward then bent back down toward her, the leaves black, the thorns angry, the scent like deep earth. They paused, like snakes ready to strike, each of them angling down as the knower spoke again.

  “Hell’s barb, you call it. A curious plant. I wish for all the information you have on it. I want to know how you kept it alive in the cupboard. I want to know that you fed it the rotten carcasses of mice in its soil, and that it was in Fel’s possession before your own. I want to know the chilling feeling you have if you brush past a thorn and how you intend to poison someone with it—Keeper or otherwise.”

  “But now you already know all of that!” gasped Merrill, as the stalks advanced a few inches, as if they were studying her. “Are you going to tell the Keepers now? They’ll have me killed.”

  “The knowledge is not mine to keep. When you leave, so too does the knowledge. Now I seek your trade to remember it.”