Still the Sun

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Moseus frowns. “You are using the term fixed very loosely.”

He has a point.

Heartwood moves closer, halfway between us and the stairs. Damn him, but I can’t shake the heaviness of his company, which makes me feel like I’m underwater. I glance at him, but he looks away. His jaw remains tight. His countenance belongs at a funeral.

What in Ruin’s hell is going on here?

I keep my tone light. “I’ll know what I’m doing if I know what I’m doing. What is this tower for?”

Moseus and Heartwood exchange a look. A thousand unspoken words pass between them.

After a good twenty heartbeats, Moseus clears his throat. “We don’t entirely understand it ourselves.” He holds out a hand as though to stall protest. He knows me so well already. “But we believe it has something to do with the wall.”

That takes me back. “The wall? The ... amaranthine wall?” My pulse quickens. More answers. More questions. That hollow space in my core aches like hunger. Something is missing.

Moseus explains, “We believe that if we can unlock the Ancient magic in this tower, it will open a door in that wall. Our people are trapped behind it.”

My lips part. “Your people?”

Moseus glances to Heartwood, who nods.

Then ... there are more? We truly aren’t alone? “How’d they get over there?” I ask. No one can scale that wall. Many of us have hiked all the way out there and tried. Too tall, too slick. Too ... strange.

“We don’t know.” Hoarseness limns Heartwood’s voice, and I can’t help but feel another pang at the tone of it. “But they’ve been there a long time.”

I mull over this. “I’m so sorry. You’re ... sure?”

They both nod.

“And they ... look like you?” I gesture between them. “I’d recognize them, if I saw them?”

Heartwood frowns. Moseus answers, “More or less. You can understand the importance of the mission. And our frustration. Where we come from”—he touches Machine One, almost like it’s a lover—“there’s nothing like these. The Ancients weren’t like us.”

“They weren’t like any of us,” I agree. Despite all my study—my attempts to study—I don’t know much about those who came before. They’re legend, like the World Serpent and the gods. They were the first living creatures the gods made, strong and long-lived, and eventually they moved on. I can’t say I blame them; surely other worlds shed by the Serpent have more resources and beauty than Tampere.

And that explains why none of us has ever seen people outside Emgarden. They must be behind that wall. To think we’ve been sharing this world for so long and never knew ...

“But you’re here,” I offer.

Heartwood sighs. “We’re here.”

He looks and sounds so devastated that I don’t dare interrogate him further. I wonder who lives behind that wall. A family. A wife, a mother, a brother. The thought of being parted even from Salki hurts; I can’t imagine if I were separated from a child or other blood rel—

I lose my train of thought.

“One of these may open a door,” Moseus says tentatively. “Another may be a means of communication. We’re not yet sure. But, for now, the mist holds. Please see what else you can do.” He crosses the chamber, his footsteps loud, and slips into his room. I wonder what shapes his thoughts take, that he’s so comfortable sitting with them.

Turning back to the machine, I roll my lips. I’m not entirely sure what more to do. How could a machine here open a passageway in an impenetrable crystal wall kilometers away? But the Ancients crafted mysteries. Moseus was not off the mark when he called it magic.

“Is he okay?” I ask, not meeting Heartwood’s eyes. “He seems ... ill.”

A long, slow breath stirs the air. For a moment I believe Heartwood will not reply, but after a beat he says, “He often is,” sounding as hollow as Moseus’s cheeks. I wonder whether that wall and the people behind it affect Moseus’s health. Or, perhaps, if Heartwood does.

I press my hand against a silvery beam crossing Machine One’s middle like a belt. I’ve come so far already. Proven myself. So why do I feel so far away? For a moment, it’s as though the tower might crumble around me.

“Do you ever feel,” I murmur, “like something’s missing? I don’t know. As though ... your purpose is unfulfilled, your future is uncertain, or ... like you’re forgetting something?”

If the silence that settled during Moseus’s departure was a snuffed candle, this one is a choked fire. A few seconds pass before Heartwood answers, “I wish I could.”

Then he, too, leaves, abandoning me to the vexing mystery.

The following cycle, I’m near the end of my trek to the tower through the fog when I see a shadow moving away from it. I know immediately it’s Heartwood. The more time I spend at the tower, the more easily I can tell Moseus and Heartwood apart, in more ways than one.

Moseus has slimmer features and a slimmer build. His eyes are a deeper green and endless in a way that makes him feel older than he is. An old soul, Salki would say. He’s simple, unadorned in his appearance, behavior, and speech. He masks his emotions well. He sees a task that needs to be done and does what’s required to fix it without complaint or fanfare. He thinks using facts, reason, logic. It’s definitely something I can appreciate.

Heartwood has broader features, both in face and body. While he’s far from gaudy, he likes embellishment. He wears more complex clothing than his counterpart, and his leathers are etched with an array of designs, most of which I’ve yet to identify. I’ve never seen him with his hair down or simply held back in a cord. There’s always a braid, a knot, a loop, often all three. He tries to mask himself as Moseus does, to put on a face of serenity, but he isn’t good at it. He’s often frustrated, consternated, or simply sad. Sometimes I sympathize with him. Usually, I’m annoyed. When Heartwood looks at me, it makes me think of discovering a feral cat in a basement in the light of a flickering lamp. That eerie green sheen in the eyes, the hissing of self-defense, knowing it’s too small to win a battle. Whether in the tower or the mists, something about Heartwood deeply unsettles me, like we’re two magnetic north poles, repulsing each other with some unseen, unknown, and aggravating force.

But what really strains me is the knife. Why did Heartwood have Arthen’s knife, especially when we’re so desperate for metal? And why did Arthen think I took it?

Slowing my pace, I watch Heartwood leave as I approach. I’ve considered asking him about it directly, but while Moseus might be up front with me, Heartwood would not. He would have an excuse, dismiss the accusation, or simply not reply. Perhaps hide anything else that might give me answers to whatever happens in this bizarre fortress. I’m starving for answers. Can’t risk it.

But I keep the knife on me, just in case, and wonder where Heartwood is going. There’s nothing to see around here. There’s a privy in the tower, and a well hidden in feathery, brown brush to the southwest. I enter the tower and light my smallest lantern. Sling two tool bags over my shoulders. Hang a couple of slates from my belt. I stare at Machine One, then trek upstairs.

I’m glad to be up here. Not just for something new to work on—something that might help me understand the remainder of Machine One—but because of the light. This floor has a friendlier feel and a slightly more open floor plan. The windows keep it from getting stuffy, whereas the air downstairs flows thick enough to chew, even when Heartwood’s gone. I should stay here a sun sometime; I imagine it’s downright pleasant.

And I suppose I’m more of a bronzy woman than I am silver, both in preference and appearance. Machine Two is just ... prettier.

But it’s also different, and again I get that sensation of taking two steps back for every step forward. As though I’m fighting against the Ancients themselves. They continually force me to retreat, but I won’t be conquered.

“All right.” I set down my equipment, save for a wrench and a hex turnscrew. “Let’s see you naked.”

I loosen plates, struts, and fasteners, cataloging each in small script on a slate, making a mental note to ask whether Moseus has parchment I can use. I don’t know how he would, if he doesn’t trade with Emgarden, but I saw some in Heartwood’s room, so it’s a possibility. Once I have a better look at Machine Two’s guts, I carefully take off a cylindrical piece I don’t recognize, surprised at how heavy it is. Put it back on, and do the same for ... I want to call it a gear or a wheel because of its shape, but it doesn’t have teeth or rivets, so I deem it a hell-if-I-know and move on.

Toward the center of the machine, spines and shafts bloom open like a flower. Doesn’t take long to determine they shouldn’t be doing that, yet I can’t imagine what would make them fall apart in such a way. There’s nothing to fasten them upward or apply pressure inward. They just ... collapsed, as though weary of being part of something so large.

I’m reaching for one of the spines when I feel a hand on my shoulder and warm breath on my neck. Seizing, I whirl around, scraping myself on loose parts—

I’m alone.

Every millimeter of my skin prickles. Pulling away from the machine, dropping a screw and a washer, I turn around, scanning my surroundings. Touch my neck where I most definitely felt someone’s mouth. “Moseus?” I croak, barely above a whisper. “Heartwood?”

No answer.

Pulse racing, I rush for the stairs. They’re empty. Glare at the hole in the ceiling for the third floor, but it’s too far for anyone to have hidden there so quickly. I throw open the door to Heartwood’s room. Empty.

Returning to the machine, I grip a beam and lean into it, forcing slow, deep breaths. What is happening to me? That felt ... It was so real. Someone touched me. Intimately. And I don’t want to admit it, but it felt familiar.

I glance at Machine Two, wondering at Moseus’s talk of magic. Are the Ancients still tied to these pieces of history? They’re not here, not anymore, but what do I know of Ancients? They were less than gods, but more than mortals.

A shiver courses up my back. I notice, a hand’s breadth from where I grip the beam, another Ancient symbol. This one is a circle with three lines dividing it, the center longer than the others. I press my thumb into it, hard, expecting the machine to react in some way, or for another ... I don’t know, vision, or mental lapse, or whatever keeps happening.

The machine doesn’t react. I’m alone.

Something about that thought feels very poignant, and I’m not sure why.

“Thank you, Pell,” Moseus says as I come down the stairs with my personal tools and slates. “Anything of note?”

Yeah, I’m slowly losing my mind.“No. Just trying to understand it all.”

The door to his room stands open, a black maw. Lifting the lantern, I try to see him better. His voice sounded steady, and though it may be a trick of the light, he looks less sickly than before. His pale skin appears more even—unblemished—and its shadows have shrunken. The way the small light contrasts with the umbra makes him look silver, like Machine One. Long, straight, silver hair like an angel might wear, and eyes deeper than wells. His clothing blends in with the darkness of the room behind him, like it’s a great hand holding on, unwilling to release.

Hesitating, I ask, “Why do you keep it like that? There’s another room on the second floor with a window you could take.” Then, to lighten the inquiry, “Heartwood surely can’t be that insufferable.”

The corners of his lips tick upward. He pauses, then gestures. “Come.”

The mists will fade shortly, but if Moseus isn’t concerned, I suppose I shouldn’t be, either. I follow him, slowing as he passes into his room. The guy isn’t going to murder me ... not if he wants his machines fixed. Still, my fingertips find their way into my pocket and brush the hilt of Arthen’s blade.

Moseus leaves the door open. After a moment, my eyes adjust. There isn’t anything remarkable about the small enclosure. There’s a bed, and I think that’s a chest. A rug on the floor softens my footfalls.

Moseus sits, crossing his legs in front of him. “Please,” he says and gestures to the space in front of him. If he’d worn gloves, I wouldn’t have seen the motion.

I sit, facing him. Mirror his position.

“People misunderstand the dark,” he explains, and I imagine he’s closed his eyes, but I keep mine open. “Many fill their lives with anything they can grasp, and their minds with anything they can think. They disconnect from others, from the world, from the cosmos. The things they grasp, ultimately, hold no meaning. I seek the darkness to strip away meaninglessness. To remember myself and my mission.” He takes a deep breath.

I mimic it. “You meditate?”

“Often.”

Several seconds pass. Not uncomfortable ones ... Moseus has never shared so much about himself, and I appreciate that. He has a point. It’s clear that nothing nefarious lives in this lightlessness, even if I prefer sunshine.

“How long has it been?” I lower my voice. It feels wrong to speak loudly. “Since you lost your people beyond the wall?”

“A very long time.” His voice is a song. “I fear for them.”

He doesn’t expound, only reaches into that peace of his, his “animus” or whatever he called it. We sit like that for several minutes, long enough that my eyelids grow heavy. But I will not sleep here with a strange man I hardly know.

“The mist is fading,” I whisper.

He turns his head as though there’s a window in the wall, perfectly alert despite his stillness. “You may go.”

I rise and turn toward the exit. I’m nearly to it when a pale hand pushes it nearly closed, thickening the darkness. Moseus, silent as a cat, presses against the door.

Pressed very close to me.

“Pelnophe.” He says my name like it’s made of eggshells. His breath brushes the tip of my nose. The room grows very small and very warm, and I try to remember the last time I was this close to a man.

“The machines,” he murmurs. “It’s direly important we repair them swiftly. It’s been ... a long time.”

I nod, but unsure if he can see the gesture, I whisper, “I know, Moseus. I’m trying.” I don’t need to whisper. I’m not sure why I do. The odd intimacy of the situation just ... calls for it.

“I—we—are asking a lot,” he continues. “I am aware. But only you can do this. We will help you in any way possible, but we need you, Pelnophe.”

Words fail me. Heat from his body radiates past the loose cloth of his robe.

“Stay, when you can.” Perhaps noticing our positioning, he steps back, pulling the door open. “You are welcome to stay when you are able. The mists—”

“I’ll follow the rules,” I assure him, wishing there was more light so I could see his expression better.

He says nothing more, just pulls away, seeming to disappear into the shadows of his room. Off-kilter, I leave him behind almost guiltily and let the late mist swallow me whole.

I run home, shaking off the confusion that the tower delights in afflicting me with. I’m pushing it a little close. The sun burns against the side of my face as I reach Emgarden, as I’ve circled around so I approach from the west, not the northwest, but folk are used to seeing me come and go. Regardless, I savor the sun’s warmth even as it makes me perspire. I should bathe. And sleep, though I prefer to rest in the mists. Get some work done. The farmers always need help transporting water. You’d think they’d be more supportive of me building another windlass, or that rover. I sigh. Might be time I start hunting for a good place to dig another well.

Salki and Casnia are walking my way when I arrive.

“Hi!” Salki carries a bowl covered in cloth. A worm of guilt burrows into my stomach. “Please don’t tell me that’s for me.”

Salki rolls her eyes. “A thank you would suffice.”

“Thank you,” Casnia repeats, overenunciating the words. “Thank-thank you.”

Grinning, I open my door and wave them in. Salki sets her gift on the table and pulls the cloth, revealing a loaf of bread. The scents of yeast and millet warm the room. I never make bread. I don’t have the patience to grind grain into flour, let alone wait for the dough to rise and the oven to heat and all the other nonsense that goes with baking. But I do love bread. I bought it from Ramdinee once every dozen cycles or so, before she passed.

“Bless you.” I rip the heel straight off the loaf.

“Gods help you.” Salki clucks her tongue, takes a small serrated ceramic knife from my drawer, and cuts half the loaf into slices, handing one to Casnia. She squeals upon receiving it, then runs to the corner, sits on the floor, and munches away.

“How are things?” I ask, pulling out one of two chairs I own and plopping down. I kick out the other for Salki.

“Well, we had an entire row of sorghum fail.” She sighs. “My row. I took one cycle’s break, and the plants burned to nothing beneath the sun.”

I frown. “Maybe it’s disease.” Hopefully not. That would be harder to cure.

“Maybe, but nothing else seems affected. And it happened so suddenly.” She shrugs. “So at first sun Cas and I pulled them all up to start again.”

“Same well water as the rest?”

“Unfortunately. But otherwise, I’m good. Getting back into the routine.” She fingers her simple, misshapen brooch. “Without Mother, honestly, I have more free time, and I don’t know what to do with it. I, uh”—she chuckles—“don’t want to put in even more hours at the farm, even with the failure. I’ve been taking Casnia on walks, when she wants to come with me. Visiting the alehouse more often. Baking.” She gestures to the bread.

“You could convince everyone to let you do this full time,” I say around a mouthful. “No more farming. Sweating indoors instead of outdoors.”

Salki laughs. “I don’t know about that. I’m not as good as Ramdinee was.” Her expression falls. I’d inadvertently reminded her how often death brushes shoulders with her.

Eager to change the subject, I tip my head toward Casnia. “How is she?”

A shrug. “Same as always. Oh”—she reaches into her satchel—“Casnia insisted I give this to you.”

It’s another childlike drawing of me, again with the wrong hair, even shorter than I wear it and yellow instead of brown. I’m wearing a long robe, or maybe a dress, in this one. Admittedly, the blue emilies around my feet look pretty good.

“She’s getting better,” I remark.

“She does enjoy it. I’ll need to go gathering to get her some more art materials. She runs through them so quickly.”

“I’ll keep my eye out.” There are some plants that make decent dyes around here. The emilies work for pastels. Wickwood burns wonderfully, but its bark can also be distilled into a red dye. Easier ones are charcoal for black and yellow sandstone for, obviously, yellow. That’s what my hair has been scrawled in on this newest piece.

“Figure out the plate yet?” Salki asks.

The heavy, circular artifact sits on the far end of my table. “Honestly, no. I haven’t put much thought into it.”

“That surprises me.” Salki takes a bite of bread. Unlike me, she takes her time to chew and swallow before speaking again. “You’re usually all over this stuff.”

You have no idea.“I’ll be right on it.”

We chat for another half hour before Salki glances at my clock. “We should get to the fields.” She sighs. Casnia overhears and lets out a wailing protest, then grips the doorjamb with two hands as the ground quivers underfoot. It’s a little stronger this time, but nothing my knees can’t handle, and it passes within seconds.

“You’re welcome to stay home,” Salki says to Casnia as she rises and pushes her chair back in. “But you can’t stay here.”

Casnia pinches her lips and eyebrows together.

“I’m just going to nap, Cas,” I insist. “It’ll be boring.”

Salki coaxes Casnia to her feet and, with a hand on her back, guides her out the door. “See you, Pell. Maglon says you should drop by sometime.”

“Thanks, Sal.” Visiting the alehouse would be a good idea, so people don’t start wondering where I’ve run off to. I could use some friendly company, too.

She waves and slips into the brightness of the sun.

I wrap up the remaining half loaf and stow it in my cupboard, safe from pests. I bring down my clay bowl and cloth for a bath, then pause, my attention turning back to the artifact on my table.

Sighing, I pick it up and take it outside. Climb the rickety ladder at the back of my house to my roof. Moseus likes to think in the dark; I like to think up here. It feels like it’s been too long.

I set the heavy plate with its funny triangular fin next to me and lie back against the sun-warmed shingles, staring up at a faded blue sky until my eyes hurt. I close them, and when I open them again, I know I drifted off. I don’t drool when I’m awake.

Wiping my mouth, I sit up, then stretch and look over Emgarden. Most of our buildings are only one story, so I can see all the way out to the fields. A cluster of pink and green emilies has popped in the road leading out of the town, the same one I take to the tower. If only our crops could grow so fast.

I glance at the plate. “If you really are just for picky eaters, my opinion of your artisan is going to plummet.” I pick the thing up; it weighs about a kilogram and a half. Set it on my knees. Turn it, following the numbers up to thirteen, then back down again to five. On the second turn, though, I notice something.

That right triangle jutting up between the fives. Or, rather, the shadow it casts.

Resituating myself, I balance the plate on my knees, turning it slower, keeping a steady grip. Watching as the shadow thickens and moves up the numbers. Like the magnetic ball bearing scrolling past the tick marks on my clock.

A clock? But why would the numbers one through four be excluded, with no markings to delineate the mists? There’s those strange O\ and /O symbols, but they’re not at the fives, eights, or thirteen. The sun shines for eight hours, and the mists settle for five. Always. But it does seem like a clock, especially with the high number being thirteen—the length of one cycle.

I flip the artifact over, expecting a hole of some sort for a connection to a rotational device, but there isn’t one. Nothing to indicate moving parts.

Unless.

I stare at the sky until my eyes water, then climb up to the peak of my roof. Straddle it. Set the artifact right on top to keep it flat. Again, I turn it. The shadow falls up the numbers to thirteen, then back down again. There’s not much of a shadow near the bottom in the curve between fives, but keep turning, and it starts again. Just how a clock might work.

I stare at those circular symbols with their lines. The first circle is to the left of the line. The second, to the right. Inverses of one another.

That’s ... not supposed to be the sun, is it?

Because that’s the only thing that would work. This artifact isn’t made to turn. But the sun could mark the numbers. But that would only be possible if the sun moved. The sun never moves. It stays right where it is, just off-center in the sky, slightly east. Steady, constant, unchanging.

I keep turning the dial in my hands, watching the shadow marker rise and fall.

But the sun doesn’t move. The sun doesn’t move. The sun doesn’t move.

But maybe, in the time of the Ancients, it did.