by Nick Martell
Adrianus stood there moonstruck. “What have I done? I didn’t want this. Wanderer, forgive me!”
I checked for his pulse. “Your shot severed an artery and he bled out in a few heartbeats. He’s dead.”
The noble retched and then puked all over the stone, his shocked brother patting him on the back. Adrianus mumbled to himself as he recovered, and it wasn’t long before his mumbles turned to sobs as he repeated to himself, “I killed him. Oh, Wanderer, I killed him.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually hit him. Why couldn’t you apologize!”
Adrianus’s brother stepped forward and pointed at me. “No, this is not happening. I knew who you were the moment I saw that brand. You are Michael Kingman, traitor son of David Kingman, and you are going to fix this.”
I felt the crown brand on my neck throb, whether from being reminded it was there, or from my racing heartbeat, I couldn’t tell. “Fix this? How do you expect me to bring him back from the dead?”
“I don’t.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bulging purse, and shook it at me. I suspected it was a sizable part of his allowance for the Endless Waltz. “You will take this, get rid of that body, and we are never going to hear from you again. Understand?” He sneered at Sirash’s body. “I doubt anyone will miss him. If someone does, they can always import a new slave from the Skeleton Coast.”
“You want me to cover up a murder for you and your brother?”
He pushed the bag of coins against my chest. “I don’t want you to. I’m telling you to.”
“If I don’t?”
Lightning began to form and crackle around his right arm, saying more than any idle threat could. I hadn’t realized he was a Fabricator, though it explained why the moonstruck fools had been sent to Hollow for the Endless Waltz.
I held my tongue as he bundled Adrianus away from the scene, first pushing and then dragging him away by the shirt. Once they were out of sight, I wiped my stained hands off on my shirt and then kicked Sirash in the ribs to signal we were in the clear.
“Seriously? How am I supposed to convince someone you died from being shot in the knee?”
Sirash sat up and grimaced at his dirty clothes. He’d broken a sheep’s stomach full of blood for effect during the duel. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll grab my chest after he points the gun at my leg. We’re lucky he aimed anywhere near me. Unlike the last one.”
“All I’m asking is for an easy one, so I don’t have to come up with some artery in some random place to explain why you dropped dead. You should be grateful I can talk us out of these problems.”
“Literally every time you open your mouth, all you do is get us into more trouble.”
“Then why am I always the one doing the talking, not the shooting?”
“Because no one would hesitate to shoot you.” Sirash grinned at me wickedly. “So, how much did we get?”
I returned his smile and crouched down, emptying the bag of coins in front of us. We began to spread out the gold, silver, copper, and iron, making sure to count as we did. “Almost eleven suns,” Sirash said.
“I would have expected more from a noble coming to Hollow Court.”
“Must’ve been poorer than we thought. You should have tried to get Adrianus’s allowance, too.”
“Maybe if he had less to drink I would have.”
We split the take. Sirash took seven suns to cover his expenses and to help his lover, Jean, pay for her tuition at the College of Music. I took the rest—enough to cover my expenses and potentially buy another cure if I haggled the oddity merchants down a bit. With it safely in my pocket, I asked, “How much more do you need for the month?”
“Another three suns. I’m not sure how many more Low Nobles will come to Hollow for this ridiculous courting ritual—”
“Call it the Endless Waltz. We’ve been doing this for two years now; it has to be second nature if we’re masquerading as Low Nobles.”
“How much do you need?”
“I don’t know. This should cover my mother’s medical expenses. I’ll talk to Trey and figure out how much more I need tomorrow. I might have to start covering part of his bills while he’s indentured to a High Noble family—”
A bell rang out in the city, and we turned our heads toward the sky, looking for the piece of the moon falling from it.
“I can’t see it with all this light,” he murmured.
Before I had a chance to respond, the city began to darken. Seizing the guns, Sirash and I emerged from the alleyway and looked down the street. The gas lamps that ran down the length of one of the main roads in Hollow held a strong flame within them, burning brightly. One by one they were being snuffed out by the lamplighters, and it was Lights Out in the city. The spreading darkness was accompanied by a symphony of slamming shutters and windows.
“Do you see it?” he asked.
I didn’t. Tenere, our smaller moon, was full, its orange-bluish mass clear in the dark, even at a distance. In front of it, much larger, was the ever-broken Celona, its seven major pieces bright and white. They were surrounded by dust and smaller rocks, most of which would eventually hit the world below. The stars around them looked dull and flickering… and then I saw the falling piece of Celona. I strained to make out what color the tail was, hoping for red. If it was blue or white, it would mean the end of Hollow, no matter how the king and Scales attempted to stop it.
Their infamous Celona defense system, built to reassure the general public, was little more than a trebuchet. I’d love to see the imbeciles tasked with aiming that thing at a fast-falling piece of the moon try to save Hollow. It would be a show worth watching before the city’s inevitable destruction.
“We need to find cover in case a second or third bell starts ringing,” Sirash said.
“I can’t,” I said. “I should have been at the asylum already. Celona be damned.” I slapped Sirash on the shoulder and took off, running through the streets, knowing Sirash would find shelter in the sewers, as he always did when the bells rang.
Amidst his laughter, Sirash shouted, “Michael! If you don’t take moon-fall seriously, one of these days it will be the death of you! You’d be the bastard that gets hit!”
Doubtful. The Kingman family did not die with whimpers. History was shaped by our births and deaths, and whether I liked it or not, I would be no exception.
THE WOMAN IN THE ASYLUM
I had never feared the falling pieces of Celona, not like others did. Especially not when only one bell was ringing.
One bell signaled a piece of the moon was falling, two bells signaled that it would fall within the country, three bells meant it would hit Hollow, and a fourth bell meant to expect an earthquake or a wave from the coast. Until I heard that third or fourth bell, I’d keep running.
I ran through the city as fast as I could, heading for the asylum in the Student Quarter near Hawthorn Medical College. The Upper Quarter was like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm: it was never Lights Out there. It was some noble-esque bullshit, since the observatories trying to track the moon-fall were hindered by the light from their district, but few, if any, complained. Too scared they’d be associated with the rebels if they spoke up against the Royals and their High Nobles. I was one of the few who wasn’t. After all, what more could they do to me? I was already branded. Whatever I did, my legacy would never amount to more than that of a simple con man.
By the time I reached the asylum, the Student Quarter was dark. A second bell began to ring across the city as I pushed the door open and ran along the cold, stark white hallways. I could hear shouting ahead.
“Get your hands off my mother!” my sister screamed. “You’re not throwing her out while the bells are ringing!”
I rounded the corner in time to see one of the asylum nurses dragging my mother toward the exit by her long black hair. Her green eyes were so glazed over, I doubted she even realized. My sister, Gwen, had her hands clenched into fists, exposing the treason brand on the back of h
er left hand.
“Dustin!” I said, skidding to a stop in front of them. “I have the money right here. Both of you, calm down.”
The nurse, a monk from the Church of the Eternal Flame, dressed in a black robe with flame trim, released my mother and gave me a sideways glance. “You heathens are late again! How many times do I have to remind you payment is due at month-end? No exceptions, no charity.”
“Does it matter? I have your money.”
The nurse fingered through the gold I put in his palm.
“Do you want to bite it? It’s real. Now let us get our mother back to bed.”
He waved us away dismissively. “As much as I would enjoy throwing you out, I must be faithful to Prophet Hewitt and show mercy. Even toward you heathens who destroyed Celona, God’s masterpiece. It’ll be five suns next month. My tithe has gone up, and so must yours.”
I could see a vein throbbing in Gwen’s neck. I wasn’t doing much better, but instead of making it worse I said, “Please, our mother needs to get back in her room.”
The nurse left without another word, whistling.
“You’re late and smell like a bar,” my sister snapped. She crouched down and ran her fingers through our mother’s hair. “You were supposed to be here hours ago.”
“It took longer than I thought to get the money.”
“If you could hold down a real job for more than a month, maybe we wouldn’t have problems so often. The only reason we’ve made it this far is luck and the fact one of the other wards routinely takes pity on us. But she wasn’t here tonight, and it almost went to shit. As it always seems to.”
“I’m doing my best, Gwen.”
The bells stopped, and we gave a sigh of relief. It was one less thing to fear, one less thing to worry about.
Gwen motioned for me to take our mother’s knees, and together we carried her to her plain room, pallet bed, and itchy blanket. The only comfort in there was a painting of our parents on their wedding day that hung on the wall opposite her bed. We tucked her in and then stepped outside to talk without disturbing her.
“You need to visit more, Michael. She asks about you a lot.”
I folded my arms. “About me or our father?”
A pause. “Both of you. But you know how much she needs routine and normality. Your visits always make her feel better.”
I bit down on my tongue, hating the position my sister put me in. Unlike me, Gwen had inherited features from both our parents, our mother’s thick black hair and sun-kissed skin and the famous Kingman amber eyes, while I was almost a perfect replica of my father. It meant, unlike me, she could weave in and out of public scrutiny whenever she wanted to. Even her brand was obscured by the long sleeves of her asylum uniform.
“Please, Michael? Talk to her before you go. It’ll mean a lot to her.”
“Fine. I have something for her, anyway.” I went back in, sat down on the edge of her bed, ran my fingers through her hair, as she sat up, smiling. “Mother, how are you doing?”
She gave me a tight hug. Or tight as she could when she was all skin and bones. She had done nothing but lie in a bed for so long, her muscle had wasted away. “Oh. David, I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been? Did you return to the Warring States to meet with the cripple? Or did you have to head to the Gold Coast again?”
“Mother…,” I whispered. “It’s me, Michael.”
Her eyes refocused and grew serious as she stared into mine. “Amber eyes, strong jawline, thin face, messy brown hair… Oh, Michael, I’m sorry… You just look so much like your father.”
She sobbed, and I returned her hug as best I could, silent. My mother, despite not being a Fabricator, had suffered a Forgotten’s fate, remembering nothing about her life save the occasional flash of memory of her world before my father killed the prince. Initially we had thought her memories had been manipulated by Darkness Fabrications, but no matter how many Light Fabricators we hired, there was no change. So, shortly after losing our father, we realized we had no parents to rely on anymore.
“Are you doing well? Are you eating well?” she said. “Do you have a woman in your life? You’ll be participating in the Endless Waltz soon. Will you attend Hollow Academy, as your father did?”
Sometimes… sometimes it was easier to lie to her than share our daily truth. It always upset her, and she wouldn’t remember it the following day.
“The Endless Waltz starts soon, and there are plenty of fine women out there you’d love to have as a daughter-in-law. And, yes, Mother, I’ll be attending Hollow Academy like Father. How else would I learn how to use Fabrications?”
“Good,” she said. “Your father was one of the most remarkable Fabricators I ever saw. I still remember the first Fabrication I ever saw him use. We were in my homeland, at a festival, and he entertained the children with fire he created from nothing. Have I told you how we met, Michael?”
“Mother, you look hungry,” I said as she paused for breath. My hands shook as I pulled out a small pouch of Deepwater seeds I’d imported from the Gold Coast. “I have something for you.”
She took the seeds from me and began to eat them with the shells still on. According to my research, Deepwater seeds could give the Forgotten moments of clarity. Usually around whatever magical incident had taken their memories. It wasn’t a complete cure, if there truly was one, but it might help us uncover a clue as to what had happened to her.
“Mother, forgive me for asking while you eat,” I began, “but do you remember what happened to Father?”
She hesitated, and my breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
“With Davey.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, I do. Oh, God, how could I forget? Davey’s birthday is soon! Did your father forget to get his gift? I swear, that man…”
A sword through the chest would have been more pleasant than those words. Another failure in a long line of failed cures.
I played with my father’s ring, my mind wandering as she told me again how they had met. The story never varied, but sometimes the details would change: this time my father had been a Fire Fabricator, though the time before he had been a Lightning Fabricator, and the time before that he had been a Metal Fabricator. My mother might love telling stories about my father, but it was impossible to tell which of them were true.
Even my own memories told me little of the man he had truly been. The only concrete memory I had was of the night before he murdered Davey Hollow. That night I had crept into his room and found him working on the balcony, piles of papers at his feet. He was always clean-shaven, but he looked so old and worn-out… and that night I saw a moment when he paused and looked up at the stars, mid–pencil stroke, and smiled. That moment never fit the narrative of the monster he had been, and I sometimes wondered if I’d invented the memory as a child to cope with everything that followed.
Whether I had invented it or not, I knew nothing about the man my father had really been, and probably never would. All I knew for certain was the title he carried: traitor. Earned after killing the king’s son in cold blood.
I promised myself I would never be like him.
I’d rather die than abandon my family.
THE HANGED
My mother told her stories until her eyelids grew heavy. I kissed her on the forehead and left her to sleep, closing the metal door behind me.
My sister was waiting for me.
I rubbed my bare skin. I always felt colder after visiting my mother, as if she had taken the warmth from me as I held her hand. I loved her, and would do anything for her, but it was draining to come here. I don’t know how Gwen did it or if it made me a bad son not to come more often.
“Don’t you have other patients to take care of tonight?” I asked.
“No. All that’s left is staying awake until first light while they sleep.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“It helps pay for her to be here. So,” she said, her voice growing stern. I knew what she was about to say. “H
ave you had any luck finding the gun?”
“The gun?” I asked. I lifted my shirt to show the two I had hidden there. “I have two right here.”
“Angelo won’t like that you’ve stolen those from him again… but you know which gun I’m talking about, Michael. The same gun I’ve been talking about for the past ten years. The gun our father is supposed to have killed Davey with. Have you found it yet?”
“I made that promise when I was ten, to make you stop crying.” Back when I openly believed my father was innocent. Years of living in Hollow had shown me how unwise that was.
“You still promised.”
“Gwen,” I said, looking down at her, “our father pled guilty. Instead of dwelling on conspiracy theories, can we focus on something more productive?”
“Like wasting our money searching for natural remedies to cure being a Forgotten? It’s not as if hundreds and thousands of people haven’t tried to already. Unless you think you’re smarter than all of them.”
“Not smarter. More persistent.”
She turned her back to me, something she’d done ever since she was a child. “We each have our obsessions. I’ll stop mentioning mine when you can give me a good reason for our father to have killed his best friend’s son.”
“I’m not getting into this, Gwen. I’m tired, and I want to go home.” I began to walk away, and she heard and followed.
“Fine,” she said, defeated. “There’s something else. A job opening here you might be interested in.”
I stopped. “What kind of job? Because the last time it was for that Eternal Flame nurse, and I nearly got us both dismissed and our mother kicked out.”
“You’d be a companion to an outpatient, making sure he doesn’t relapse too badly.”
In all the years I’d been visiting my mother in the asylum, I had never heard of anyone improving. I said as much to Gwen.
“It’s the first time it’s happened while I’ve been here.”
“What’s the downside?”
