Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “What tide? I don’t understand, why would they exile us?” asked Draysky. “And why would they care so much about a lighter?”

  “Old as I am, many of these details are far older than me. I will try as I can, however, from what I have pieced together. Back then, all that were exiled to this outpost were part of a faction. A group that ultimately turned against the wishes of the Keepers. As my grandmother said, they sought to open doors that were best kept closed. There are reasons that the Keepers wear locks around their necks. Your own ancestors possessed powers so great that to be controlled they had to be sent hundreds of miles away. And if you exile an expert swordsman, you would be wary even if he were to pick up a butter knife.

  “My grandmother knew this, which is why when she taught me the runes, she did so in secret. Only the basics, mind you, and not many of them. Shortly after she began to pass on her legacy, the Keepers came for her husband. Food poisoning, they called it, but she knew the smell of poison in his soup after he fell from his chair. He had been a warrior before death, and he knew too much of the Keepers' own weapons. They deemed him too dangerous to keep him around. When they killed him, they killed his knowledge, as well as my grandmother’s spirit. She lived but a year after that.

  “This brings me to the reason I have not taught you on my own. Knowing the runes is dangerous. The Keepers turn a blind eye now, especially when it behooves them. A boy supplying them with lighters for vaporweed is a far different scenario than a warrior crafting weapons. But when that boy starts to learn more than how to produce lighters, when he discovers more runes with other uses, they may begin to watch. First it may be a pickaxe. Next, will it be a spear? Will he one day learn to call the lightning down from the clouds? No, that is something they cannot risk. You would be struck down within a week, child, should they hear of you advancing.”

  “Then there’s no reason they have to know!” Draysky protested, leaning forward. “Your own grandmother taught you, you could do the same for us! Then maybe one day we could stand against them!”

  “No! See, that is exactly what must be prevented. This foolishness here. Over time, the Keepers have grown more lax. There is hope yet for your sister to become a doctor, or you to become a Keeper yourself.”

  Draysky shrank back, his jaw tightening. “A Keeper? Never!”

  “You say that, but they are not all so bad, not now. It is the cold that makes them bitter, and anyone who chooses to come here means that there must truly be nothing for them at home. Which leaves us with only the fools and the outcasts. Think of the difference you could make, should you return here as one of them. You would be far greater as a Keeper than a ridger, no? From the inside, our people could grow great once again. As we once were.”

  Draysky bit down on his tongue, refusing to consider the point. His grandmother continued, sipping the final drags of her tea and setting the cup on the furnace to dry, such that a ring of leaves would be left on the edges. The best tea, she always said, was that which still bore the notes from the past cup.

  “But to your original question, I do not teach you because I do not know enough. Would you learn ridging from a chiseler? No, they’d just as likely get you killed. Not just that, but there are those among the Keepers that can sense magic. Those that know when the ritebald approach, so the Keepers can strike them down.”

  “Then they must be deaf, if one made it into our house.”

  “A stone ritebald is hard to sense, with the mountain so close. Too much noise. Too much rock aurel in the air. But there are other varieties of ritebald that are easier to sense. Ice, for instance, for those only originate from the far north, beyond even us. And while our shale bears snow, it pales compared to the ice magics of the far north. That is why the Keepers can sense ice ritebalds easily, for it is like a pin dropping in a quiet room.

  “Seems like there should be enough ice here to drown that out too, though. We’re still cold all of the time.”

  “Ha! You think you know cold? You do not, child. But they need ice aurel, not ice itself. The aurel is thin upon our ice, it is poor quality, dilute. Here there is rock aurel: The crystal you mine, for instance, is a concentrated form of it. They seek that for the magic inherent within it, for aurels are used to draw runes. The raydrop bears some of these aurels for fire. It is too weak for anything beyond lighters, which is why you can create them with paints. Should you go to the far north, you would find ice like your crystal—special ice that can be harvested, then used for runemaking. A rune is but a command to an aurel. Without direction, or an object, that command may as well be a normal word. It is the aurel that ties it to our world.”

  Draysky’s grandmother rested back, glancing remorsefully at the empty cup of tea, then pressing her hands against the arms of her chair to stand.

  “That is why I refuse to teach you more runes, Draysky. You do not deserve the same fate as your ancestors. Of course, neither did they.”

  She departed to retire, leaving Draysky and his sister in silent wonder. His sister stood, walking over to where she kept her healing materials. Rifling through them, she retrieved a small needle, holding it gingerly and staring down at the surface. The same one that had stitched up Draysky’s arm after being stabbed by the Keepers long ago.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked, squinting as she placed the needle in the orange glow of the heater, turning it in the light. Several runes were etched into the surface, but they were tiny, so small it was difficult to make out the details, their edges worn down from time. “I’ve always seen these, but I never thought about trying to make my own tools. Grandmother said she almost killed a patient when she tried, but if she succeeded, what would be the benefits? There was a child last year that we couldn’t save, an infection took him from a laceration through his thigh. Would we have been able to close it faster and cleaner? Do you recognize any of these?”

  She held out the needle, and Draysky snorted as he identified the centermost rune on the needle, the largest.

  “That’s the same as the one on my pickaxe. Apparently she has no qualms about using the runes for herself.”

  “Yeah, but whoever made these actually knew what they were doing,” Aila shot back, then she pursed her lips. “Which is a problem. Based on what she said, Draysky, who is going to take us seriously when we flee? Do you really think some university is going to want some outpost healer with no professional training? I’m lucky enough as it is to know my letters. I bet every one of the other doctors knows these runes and what they can do.”

  “Maybe she’ll teach them to you, then,” Draysky said, and his sister snorted.

  “She wouldn’t even teach me how to make lighters, Draysky. Don’t take this with offense, but I don’t think she ever expected you to actually learn enough to make something new of your own.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t get all hurt, I’m not calling you stupid. You just have a more direct way of things. You’re more of a doer than a thinker. A miner, not a studier. That’s why she never taught me, she knew I’d try painting that onto my bowls to keep soup warm.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, the bowls would probably catch fire.”

  “Exactly, Draysky. I would experiment, and that’s why she held it back. There’s no way she’ll teach me, and that leaves the Keepers who can teach us.”

  “Who are just as likely to kill us as teach us. And even if they did, they’d want payment. Payment we could never hope to fulfill.”

  “Right. But do you know how mother trained me to be a doctor, Draysky? For the first year, she simply had me watch, observing until things felt natural.” Aila spread out the patches on her belt, each bag filled with its own variety of herbs. “Until I knew which salves to choose for a burn and which to choose for a bone sticking out of the skin. I didn’t know why, but over time I guessed. I learned by watching, by observing. Almost as if I could feel it.”

  “Aila, if you think some Keeper will sit around and let us watch
them draw runes, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Ugh, no, Draysky,” she rolled her eyes. “Runes don’t go anywhere. Once they’re drawn, they stay, just like how you learned to make the one on your axe. We just need some more examples if we’re going to learn. Which means separating the Keepers from some of their tools. Some things they won’t miss. Of course, we’d only borrow them.”

  In the depths of night, they'd schemed, but their plan didn’t come together until Aleman told Draysky about the quota. The perfect time to strike, when the Keepers were least ready, and would fumble their response. That had been why Draysky had worked so hard on the mountain, to prevent the quota day from passing over without a celebration.

  His sister’s eyes shone when she thought of what injuries she could heal with the new knowledge. And Draysky’s matched hers, though for a different reason. Runes were what separated them from Keepers, and his grandmother had said he could become a Keeper one day. Just like Sune had done.

  If he learned the runes himself, he’d be just as strong as them, without the title. Without becoming them. He clutched the knotted cord around his neck, staring at his sister’s as well. Knots that had always tied them down. Knots that could be replaced.

  So the day before the quota was reached, he and his sister had snuck out at night to the woods at the edge of the outpost. He’d stacked the stones, taking care to make sure they resembled the ritebald that had invaded their house, while she painted their faces with the crushed bits of a flower that reflected the glow of the moon at night.

  When Draysky took the lighters to Aleman, she stole into the woods. There, she dragged a stick through the icy snow, sketching out the same rune that had been on Draysky’s ax. As their grandmother had said, the aurel quality of the ice was low—as far as she could tell, it had had no effect.

  But like a pin drop in a quiet room, the Keepers had heard it.

  Chapter 29: Draysky

  Draysky donned his coat, working the leather straps that latched it to his forearms and thighs. His back stiffened as the pieces of a broken crystal hauling bucket slid into place, forming a shell of armor sewn into his coat that covered his torso from behind. Layers of the shell clamped down over the back of his arms and legs, and he tied them off one by one, securing them into place. When he was finished, his entire back side was hardened, the plates adding some weight—though nowhere near as much as the double water packs—while padding behind them still kept him warm. He raised his hood, also hardened like a bowl cradling the back of his skull.

  Next came his boots, well oiled now, the top sewn back together to accommodate the metal wedged deep inside the tip, his toes pressed up against it. Last, he hefted his pickaxe, the months-old rune still inscribed on the head.

  He looked over himself before crossing the threshold. Not long ago, he wouldn’t have recognized himself. His coat was far too bulky to appear practical, and the extra armor gave him the appearance of a warrior. His skin was fleshed out, muscles still growing, aided by the extra food that they could now afford. His walk bore more confidence, more security, as he exited his home to join the ranks of the waiting ridgers.

  When he reached the front of the ridger line, they parted to let him pass. He was the last of them to arrive, Oliver already in waiting. But Draysky didn’t stop to wait for the Keeper, nor did he cast a look in his direction. He kept walking through the ridger ranks, striking up the mountain, and the other ridgers turned to follow him, leaving Oliver to trail behind.

  When he wore his gear, the ridgers knew who owned the mountain. And it had all originated the week after the quota celebration, when Oliver approached him as he climbed out of the Grinder with three quarters of a bucket full of crystal. That had been before Draysky had developed his gear, when he still mined the mountain without protection.

  “Just three quarters of one?” Oliver asked, turning up his nose at the bucket, then turning back to Draysky. “Last week you pulled up at least twice that much in this amount of time!”

  “We needed it last week to make quota,” answered Draysky, leaning on his pickaxe, slowly adjusting the ropes on his harness to switch positions with Burnsby. “We don’t need it this week.”

  “We always need crystal, ridger! Get back down there. Don’t you switch off on me. I know you can mine faster than that, I saw it with my own eyes. Now get back to work.”

  Draysky shrugged, then rappelled down with the next crew. As he had done the previous hour, he picked crystal from the rocks at a leisurely pace, taking his time to shield himself when the Grinder belched, and swinging his pickaxe as if it were ready to break with the next strike.

  “That’s even less than the last!” Oliver shouted at Draysky, who stood before him unwavering.

  “Still more than a quarter of the crew. Why aren’t you yelling at them?”

  “Because I saw you pull up way more! Way more than any of them, you bastard!”

  “I just tried harder back then. You pay them the same as you do me,” Draysky said, and he turned back to the harness.

  Soft fabric grazed against the side of Draysky's cheek, wrapping around toward his jaw. Velvet and sweet, the smell lodging itself permanently into his memory as it entered his nostrils, accompanying the gentle brush of the white glove’s fingertips. A brush replaced by the force of a sledgehammer only an instant later.

  The impact struck the side of his cheek, snapping his head back so hard that his feet left the ground, the world around him dimming as a burning sensation rushed underneath his skin, spreading from his ear to his throat. He landed on the heels of his feet, reeling as the shale gave way, falling backward and slamming into the rock in the spot between his shoulder blades first, the breath whooshing out of him as if he had been punched. Then he was sliding downward head first and rattling over the stones, the ground crunching and the rope searing his neck as it slithered underneath, wrapping around his forearm and throwing him into a tumble. His face struck shale and he reeled again, the fresh pain blasting away the old as he sputtered. The sky appeared spinning above him, and he threw his arms and legs out, slowing his descent and initiating a shale slide. He grasped desperately for the rope, gasping for air, searching as his gloved fingers scrabbled, yet found no purchase. Above, he caught sight of ridgers mobilizing at the Grinder’s edge, rapidly shrinking in size as the distance increased.

  In his ears, the Grinder grew louder. Turning, he caught sight of the end of the rope, dancing as it rapidly approached. He swiped at it, but the rope whipped away, just barely slithering through his fingertips. He cursed, then his breath whooshed out for the second time as the rope cinched around his waist, the knot he had forgotten at the end catching through the hook in his belt.

  His throat made a strangling noise he hadn’t thought possible, his body jackknifing as the rope stretched then wrenched him back upward. Next came the shale, a wave of it that washed over him and buried him under six inches of gravel, his chest heaving as he coughed up dust. Then all was still, and he lay there, panting, the rope still taut around his waist, his thoughts catching up to his body. He shuddered, and the rock shifted as he placed both hands under himself, pushing upward as the shale rolled off his back. He steadied himself, blinking. Only one eye was moving, the other numb and rapidly swelling shut to reduce his field of vision to a crack.

  Then he rose, gritting his teeth as he took hold of the rope, and began climbing hand over hand. At the top, Oliver’s expression was stunned. That same blow had left another ridger bedridden for days, hardly able to move, yet Draysky only grunted as he cleared the top of the ridge, thrusting his chest out to hide his shortness of breath and the pain that seemed to permeate into the center of his bones.

  “If you want me to do two men’s work, you will pay me as two men,” Draysky growled, his one good eye still on Oliver.

  “I’ll pay you how I want,” Oliver seethed. “This isn’t a negotiation. This is an order! You’re to pull up more crystal, or face punishment. You understand?”


  “Then I’ll go at my current pace,” said Draysky. “And you can pray that the heavens shower down crystal for your damn quota.”

  Oliver’s face turned dark red in contrast to the snow around him, and he leapt forward once more, the velvet glove aimed at the same cheek as before, this time curled into a fist. Draysky’s jaw tightened, the Keeper’s move telegraphed in his pivoting shoulders. By now, the entire ridger crew surrounded the two of them, tense as the lesser Keeper beside Oliver loosed his sword and ran one finger over his ring.

  Draysky could have avoided the blow. He could have sidestepped and hit the Keeper back, or pushed him into the Grinder as he passed. But striking a Keeper would mean death, and simply dodging would make it appear he was fleeing, while leaving the Keeper unharmed. Instead, his father’s voice echoed in his head as the knuckles accelerated toward him, the runes starting to glow on the fabric. And his father’s voice sounded in his mind.

  Respect is an effect, not the cause, of a man’s ability. The type of man who turns his cheek into a blow when life strikes him.

  An instant before the knuckles struck, Draysky whipped his head to the side—not away from the blow, but into it, turning his neck with all his strength. When the glove connected, his vision flashed, the extra force again rocking him backward. This time, though, he was ready, his stance widened to receive the blow, his mind aware of the oncoming pain, his hand clamped tight to his pickaxe to use as a crutch. His back flexed as if trying to hold him together as energy coursed into him, but he pushed back against it, his defiance a wall that it splashed upon. Something rose up within him—a burning that rushed up through his spine to meet the blow. And as a reward, he heard a satisfying crack from Oliver’s gloved hand.