Evan Burl and the Falling

by Justin Blaney

I told Henri I thought Yesler killed her, but secretly, I worried my uncle had something to do with it. I didn't want to believe he was bad. He was my uncle, after all, and the only real family I had. At one time, he was almost a father to me, even Henri thought of him that way. But time had changed that.

  I realized it had been a long time since Henri had talked about being a mother. Had she given up, or was she just too tired to bother with hope? I wondered what she was thinking as she stood on that stool alone. Was she dreaming of giving a better life to her own children someday?

  I took a deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and put the horse down. I wanted so badly to run to Henri right then, but what if I was caught?

  I forced myself to walk on.

  After a few steps I came to a large desk with a towering hutch shoved into the corner of the room. I reached behind it where I kept the key hidden and placed it inside the lock. I held my breath for my favorite part.

  Click.

  The sound it made, the way the key moved so smoothly. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard. This desk was nothing like the huge clankers we worked on all day. It was made by someone who loved mechanics and well-oiled gears and mirror-polished walnut. And it was all mine.

  With the gentlest tug the drawer slid open. There were only two items inside.

  The first was a small leather bag. I opened it and dumped the contents into my palm. There were seven black-iron cast models in different shapes with tiny chains that ended in a clasp coming out their top, like a trinket that could be hung from a string or chain. None was larger than my thumbnail. Each had the word rubric engraved on the base—what I imagined their inventor called the little models.

  I fumbled each rubric between my thumb and my forefinger for a moment: a flat star with six points, a blooming lotus flower, a tiny elephant with it's trunk raised, a model clanker, a glass vialus with whirling smoke inside, a crescent moon, and a human skull. It had a thin silver chain that was long enough to be a necklace and a few bits of twine in the leather bag too. Though I didn't have a clue what they were for, I knew they were special. It took me months to figure out how to open the locked chest I found them in, and the chest was inside the same locked room I found the books on Natural History in. I put the rubrics, chain and string back in and set the sack in the exact place where I found it.

  Then I turned to the second item in the drawer. It was a small leather book, no larger than my hand. The same book I had stolen from my uncle the night Pike died. I thought again of Pike's face when he read the words in it and I shuddered. My chest burned with guilt, but I pushed those thoughts away and turned my attention back to the book.

  It should have shown some signs of wear from all the times I'd flipped through it, but it was in the same perfect condition I'd found it in. I flipped it open and couldn't resist smelling the pages for the thousandth time. I rubbed my hand slowly down the spine, feeling the soft brown embossed leather.

  Inside, there were one hundred and twenty perfectly white pages. The paper itself was made from millions of perfect little flecks of fiber, it's edges were torn rather than cut so you could feel the thickness and variation of the material. All the pages were blank, except the first two. That's where the letter was written, scrawled in shimmering black script. I limped over to the fire and slumped down against the wall to read it one more time.

  Ẋry Mazol,

  I never knew how wise it was to leave the boy with you until today. New information has just been revealed to me and I have reason to think he could be even more dangerous than previously thought.

  It was always possible Evan was only a minor sapient, capable of little more than a street magician. But I now believe it's likely he will become one of the most powerful men this world has ever known. Not just deadly. Pure evil. Likely even stronger than me.

  I'm submitting evidence that was collected long ago for a test, a special process that will reveal who, or what, the boy really is. I expect the results of this test will take some considerable time. In fact, the boy may come of age before I can contact you again.

  Unless you hear from me, go through with the plan as I've previously instructed. When the time shows zero, we'll know much more. If I've come to the wrong conclusion, it could be the death of him, but at least we'll all be safe.

  If the boy survives the Spider, well, we could all be in a lot of trouble. Even me. Wouldn't that be something. Terillium Amadeus afraid of a little boy.

  Don't make the mistake of thinking you can turn him away from the evil he's destined for. He may appear to be a normal boy while he is young, but when he comes of age you will not recognize the monster he becomes.

  I assure you, this is a matter I'm quite positive on. Turning him to good is simply not possible. It's just not in his genes.

  In any event, Good Luck.

  Terillium.

  355 days, 12 hours, 47 minutes until the Falling.

  Every minute that went by, the number of minutes scrawled on the page was reduced by one. Yesterday, it read 356 days. Tomorrow it will read 354.

  If the letter was true, I was a sapient. Just like Henri said. But it also meant in 355 days I would be either dead or the most evil and dangerous person in the world. I could only assume that's what the falling meant.

  I wanted to have faith like Henri—believe the parts I liked, the parts about being a sapient, and forget the rest. But I couldn't. I knew, somehow, that either the whole letter was true, or none of it was.

  I shut the book slowly and stared into the fire. Pike had died because of what he read in the book. He died because he was afraid of me. Mazol was right to blame me for Pike's death. Who else was there to blame?

  A spark jumped out and landed on my foot. The wood was dry and I had put too much in. It was sweating from being so close, but I didn't feel like moving.

  Henri was still standing on the stool. It had been, what, more than 13 hours? That meant she had at least three more before morning shift. An impossibly long time.

  I pressed my hands hard against my skull and tried to push all the terrible thoughts away. All the fallings were starving. Why didn't they feed us more? Where did all the money go? We worked day and night on Mazol's clankers, and yet we never had enough.

  And now it was my fault that we had even less—after those men ran off with the delivery that morning. I wondered if it would be even harder for us to get money with those men telling the people in the town to stay away from the castle.

  I grabbed the tiny book in my hand, squeezing until my knuckles were white. Before I knew it, I was flipping through the pages again. After a few times, I forced myself to stop. Why was I always doing that? Why did I love the book so much if it made me feel so bad?

  I threw it into an empty coal bucket at the foot of the fireplace hearth but the bucket was only made of tin and it just tipped over. The book tumbled out, flipped open to the letter, like it wanted to be read again. I tried to ignore it, looking around desperately for something to distract me. There was only the stack of wood and the fire. It was burning high and hot, but I jumped up and began piling on more wood. With the lashing, my leg and a long day of working the clankers, the searing pain of throwing each log on was almost unbearable. But I needed something to distract me from the thoughts creeping in.

  Nothing clears the head like pain.

  I worked faster and faster until I was completely soaked with sweat. The room would have been warm without any fire, but it was burning hot with the blaze I had going. I picked up a huge log, nearly falling into the fire as I threw it in. I recovered my balance and took a step back.

  I had to be more careful; I wasn't special like the fallings. A fire like that could kill me. I watched the flames lick up high above my head into the flue at the top of the ceiling-high fireplace.

  I kicked myself for letting my anger get to me. That's what my uncle did. I just had to calm down and think. I wanted to help the others, but how could I do that with Mazol around.

  We could all run away
together. Pay a runner to smuggle us to town. I'd dreamed of doing that plenty of times, but it would never work. Even if we could find or steal enough money to impress a richly paid runner, we'd be sent back to Daemanhur or banished to the jungles the second we showed our faces. Times were hard; no one would take in 12 kids. Not even if we offered to work. Marcus said they had laws about runaways, people would be too scared to help.

  We could try to make a go of it in the jungles, but that was an even worse idea that trying to sneak out with a runner. I'd seen enough of what was beyond the walls of Daemanhur through the iron gates to convince me that we wouldn't last a minute out there. Especially not the younger ones.

  The only other idea I had ever come up with was somehow overpowering the warts. There were more of us kids, but I was the oldest and I was only fifteen. Ballard wasn't as mean as Mazol or Yesler, but as long as Mazol paid him and kept him fed, he would never allow us to escape Mazol's control. Even if I could somehow get Mazol out of the way, I didn't think Ballard would be happy about me taking away his paycheck.

  Sure, I could keep running the clankers and maybe make some money—if I knew what we were making and who Mazol sold it to. He must have made sure we didn't know anything about his operation to make sure we couldn't survive without him. He had covered all the angles.

  But I wasn't willing to give up. I had to find a way to get rid of him. I knew, someday, my chance would arrive. When it did, I'd be ready.

  Then I remembered the book.

  Somehow I had to get rid of Mazol and Yesler before I changed into whatever I was supposed to change into. In 355 days, I would become my own biggest problem. How do you save your family from yourself?

  I tried to help people. I tried to do what Henri and Pike said; they thought it was so simple. Just make the right choice. Sometimes you can't just make the right choice. Sometimes who you are, the things that have happened to you, forces your hand. Not everyone has a choice in who they become.

  I looked at the book again, it's condemning letters burning me one by one. I was sick of the book. The letter to Mazol. Terillium and his rich-man's cursive.

  I used to hope that Terillium was my father.

  I used to think he would come for me. I waited for him every day when I was younger, even before I read his name in the book. Especially before the book.

  Now I didn't care anymore.

  I didn't know if the book was true about me. Not 100%. But I didn't care anymore if it was or not. I didn't care about it's perfect leather binding and one hundred and twenty soft white pages.

  I limped over to where it lay open on the stone floor. I picked it up and stared at the letter that I had read so many times I could recite it word for word. In a flare of anger, I ripped the letter out. I looked at the two pages in my hand for a moment, then crumpled and tossed them into the fire.

  Those words might be true, but at least I wouldn't have to watch those numbers get smaller and smaller until they reached zero.

  I stepped back, took a deep breath, and stood up straighter than I had in a long time. It felt like a huge weight had just been lifted off my shoulders. It felt so good to be rid of that letter that I was suddenly filled with the desire to throw the whole book in.

  I was tempted to look at it again, flip through the pages one last time, but I stopped myself. It was now or never.

  I watched my hand, as if it belonged to someone else, jerk towards the flames. But my fingers held tight, they didn't want to let it go. My hand jerked again. My fingers were pinched tight. The third time my hand jerked, the book slipped. Coming loose from my grip, it arced through the air into the flames.

  The book fell face open onto the logs I had most recently tossed on; the fire hadn't burned all the way through them yet. Still, even on the surface of these smoking green logs the fire was hot. The top few pages of the book lit almost instantly and began to burn. At first they looked as if they were resisting the flames, like the pages were making one last stand for survival. But eventually they gave in. One by one they curled up, their edges glowing bright as coals.

  It was done and there was no going back.

  At first I felt a mixture of anger, guilt and excitement. But slowly, the anger and guilt faded. I began to smile—I was happier than I could remember feeling in a long time. It was the right thing to do.

  I even started to believe that the letter could be wrong. Maybe it was all just a game, or a trick. Maybe I would never become a sapient.

  I was just an orphan.

  The thought made me smile even wider.

  More and more of the pages caught fire. Smoke began to pour into the room—the logs must be green.

  A few tears ran down my cheeks. I blamed them on the smoke instead of the real reason I was crying—Henri, standing on the stool. And Pearl getting attacked that morning. And Little Sae. And not knowing why Anabelle had a rash. And that my mother had died and my father didn't want me.

  I grabbed a poker and was about to shove the smoking log out of the flames when something caught my eye.

  I poked the book with the iron and the burning pages flipped over until the first page lay open, the one right after the pages I had torn out. There was something on it I'd never seen before.

  Writing.

  I held my breath. New words were appearing, letter by letter as if someone was writing them at that very moment. I squinted, trying to make out what the words said.

  Ẋry Mazol, I received the results...

  The fire roared with new life as more and more of the book began to burn. I realized with horror that this was a new clue to who I was. And I would never know what it said.

  The fire burned with hunger and unbearable heat. I looked desperately for a pair of tongs to grab the book with, but there were none. I tried to push the book out of the fire with the poker, but only managed to shove it further in. I shoved the logs, but the fire settled and the book fell deeper inside them.

  I was standing close, way too close. I felt I might burst into flames myself just from the heat, but I didn't care. I took another step forward, shielded my face with one hand and reached the other down into the flames.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Terillium

  Tuesday

  2:15 am

  The things you love will kill you every time. That's what I told Cevo the last time I saw him; like it was some kind of sage advice, meant to save my friends from getting too close to something or someone. To help them stay nimble. To help them make the hard call when times got dark.

  Now my own advice was turning against me.

  Everything was right-side-down. Who was I to worry about death? The kings of the world bowed on their knees when I stepped into their presence; they called me Terillium the Great. And they were right to do so. A man like me didn't waste time worrying about dying. At least, I shouldn't have to.

  And yet I wondered, would there ever come a time when it finally caught up to me—when what I loved became my undoing? I couldn't help thinking about that old rule sometimes—especially when facing a decision like the one this morning.

  The page on my desk was mostly blank—a letter I was trying to write. I stared at the few words I had managed to finish.

  Ẋry Mazol,

  I received the results of the test regarding Evan Burl today. The news is far worse than I imagined possible. I fear for the safety of everyone living at Daemanhur Castle.

  But what to write next?

  Execute Evan Burl or let the boy live?

  I placed my chin on my loosely clenched fist to think.

  Four hours till sunrise, if my guess was right, and I was wrong about as often as the stars. The gentle bobbing of my armadas flagship, a 1000 ton barque called Elandian, had lulled its 455 crewmen to sleep, except of course those I paid extra to man the night watch. I had noticed long ago how queer people get about the oddest things.

  For example, when they learn one doesn't sleep.

  With everything on my mind my regular nightly r
outine had been especially taxing. But I had maintained the appearance of doing all the things normal people do when they go to sleep.

  Bidding good night to my senior staff, I brushed my teeth just inside the door so anyone passing could easily hear. Then I carefully pulled all the curtains shut so no one would see the empty room later that night. Finally, I completed the effect by reading in bed for an hour or so. All in all, the routine didn't take much time and was necessary to ensure my family's safety. Without these kinds of precautions, even the walls I had built around my family's manse wouldn't be enough to keep the terrors of the world out.

  But tonight, I only managed ten minutes of Un Voyage en Ballon before realizing I didn't remember a thing I had just read. The author was supposed to be a pioneer in science fiction, but I wasn't impressed. I put the leather strip back to where it was the night before and laid the old book on the nightstand. I dialed down the lantern next to the bed till its flame flickered out in a puff of smoke, then I rose silently and walked through the darkness to a small adjacent room that contained a table, six chairs, a large chest and, most importantly, no windows.

  I shut the door, locking it slowly and silently. As I approached the chest, the lid lifted all on its own and a neatly stacked pile of clothing and bed sheets floated into the air and situated themselves comfortably on the table. I stepped inside the chest, turned to face the locked door, and began to descend into the belly of the ship.

  Soon I was seated at a small desk in a cramped room. I clicked a round button inscribed with a simple T in its center. A light hanging from a cord above the desk sprang to life. Unlike the ships many lanterns and candles, this light hummed ever so faintly as it ebbed out warm, soft pulses through the large glass ball enclosing it.

  A gnat appeared out of the darkness and began buzzing in a trancelike dance around the room. I swatted the bug away as it buzzed near my ear.

  Normally, nothing put me at ease more quickly than the hum and flicker of my own lights. I sometimes wondered if my electric lanterns were so soothing because I was the only person in the world I knew of who used them—but this night my little invention was no more soothing than a common oil lamp.