Still the Sun

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I know every soul in Emgarden, every soul of this dry and lonely world, and none compares to the peculiar creature on my front step. He looks unlike any person I’ve ever seen. He stands tall and lean, with skin paler than the sun should ever allow. Deep green, like the leaves of a sorghum plant shrouded in fog, circles his pupils. His hair is even whiter than his skin, hanging long, just past his waist, and loose, in sharp contrast with his dark, robe-like clothing, fashioned differently than the simple tunics and trousers the rest of us wear.

“Pelnophe, let me in,” he says, his voice crisp, confident, low. Accented in a way I can’t define.

I don’t react. My mind struggles to understand his presence, barely able to hear the demand past the hammering pulse in my ears. And, as he pushes past me, to understand how on earth he knows my name. Numbly, I close the door behind him, swirling tendrils of fog that seem just as curious as I am about this stranger’s appearance. He doesn’t acquaint himself with the small room. Indeed, he seems completely disinterested in it and merely turns to face me.

Are we not as alone as I thought? How far did this man travel to arrive here?

He’s beautiful, in a bizarre way. The way a new artifact is beautiful. Striking and wholly other.

“I-It’s just Pell,” I try, finding my voice. I’m too shocked to be angry at the intrusion. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

He studies me a moment, his face hard. “You’re an engineer, and I’m in need of one.”

I come to myself suddenly, as though I’m one of Casnia’s drawings finally finished. “Excuse me? How do you know my name and what I do?” I glance at the table, the half-intact artifact there.

He doesn’t follow my gaze.

“I have made it my business to know,” he replies calmly.

“Who are you?”

“Are you capable or not?”

I turn his question over in my mind. “I’m a mere tinkerer.”

He nods, as though expecting as much. “A mere tinkerer in a village of farmers will do. No one else understands the machines, and there is no one else, so I need you, Pell.”

I look him up and down again, unabashed in my appraisal. Why shouldn’t I be? This man barged into my home. I have every right to take a good look, though that robe hides most of him. He looks middle-aged, and yet somehow ageless.

It takes that long for a specific word of his to catch me. “What machines?” A hint of breathlessness dilutes the question. Any machine could only come from the Ancients.

“In the tower.”

I lean back against the door. The tower. He could only mean the fortress to the northwest. “You ... you’re from there?”

“My companion and I, yes,” he explains. “We’ve dwelled there a short time, and”—he takes a deep breath—“desperately need it operating again.”

Operating? It’s been a while since I last scouted out that tower, but it’s impenetrable, with nothing of use on the outside. Five stories tall, composed of three diminutive, cylindrical tiers and a strange something jutting at a roughly twenty-degree angle from the top tier like a pruned tree branch.

Was it part of a machine? And that tower, it’s so large, so strong. If the Ancients stored their tech inside, it must be in order. Far more whole than what I’ve been able to scavenge. The very thought of beholding such a thing, let alone touching it, springs shivers down my spine. My fingers twitch. It doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real.

There’s only Emgarden, and—

“Will you—” he begins.

“What is your name? Who are you?” I demand, desperate for clarity.

He exhales slowly. “My name is Moseus. I am one of two keepers of that tower. Will you assist me, Pell of Emgarden? The tower must be functional again.”

The twitching intensifies. I want to scream YES, but I need more information. “Functional in what regard? What does it do?”

Moseus’s lips press into a thin line. “That is not something I wish to discuss at this time.”

“But if you want me to—”

“You have not yet agreed,” he points out, the threatening sharpness in his tone betraying his thinning patience.

I’m aware that I’m stubborn, but our conversation has hardly broached the limits of what I’d consider tactful. Stepping away from the door, I ask, “How do you know what I do?” I gesture to the table. Everyone in Emgarden knows my fascination with the Ancients’ tech, but Moseus is not of Emgarden.

He raises a white eyebrow. “Because I have eyes and a high vantage point. Your digs are hardly secret.”

Oh, right.

“But you are,” I point out.

Moseus runs the tip of his index finger along his chin, not at all disgruntled. “My companion and I, we are not ... local. We are different. It is in our best interest not to make ourselves known, which is why I’ve come during the mists. Regardless, we need your help, and I would prefer to escort you to the tower while the fog holds.”

Escort me to the tower. Thetower.What did Maglon put in that ale? Gods and Serpent know how long I’ve wanted to crack open its doors and peek inside.

“You’re unarmed?” I try.

Parting his arms, Moseus shows me the folds of his simple robe and turns out two simple pockets. He shakes his sleeves. “I’ve no motivation to hurt the only person on this side of the amaranthine wall who could possibly aid me.”

Call it instinct, or perhaps my own desperation, but I believe him. His features are hard but not unkind. I lick my lips, playing like I’m still considering. When I can stand to pretend no longer, I cross to my table. “Let me gather my things.”

“I have the necessary tools there,” Moseus assures me, gesturing in an almost stately manner to the door. “Again, I beg your discretion. While the mists are high, if you would.”

Glancing back at him, I pause, and in that moment of stillness, I think I hear another high, muted tone, echoing somewhere beyond the walls of the house. Another mystery from a world long forgotten. As though it bids me, come.

Disregarding his reassurances, I grab my bag of tools and collect those sitting beside my latest artifact, then sling the bag over my shoulder. “Lead on.” Though I could pick my way to the tower with my eyes shut.

If this goes wrong,I remind myself as I step into the chill of high mist, I can defend myself well enough. I’m small but strong, and as we walk I keep my hand clenched around my biggest wrench, another tool that Frantess and others have suggested we melt down for farming tools. Eventually, we might have to. Only a fool values machines over food.

But for me, now, nothing is more important than this.

The tower—I know it by no other name—stands in stark contrast to everything else in this Serpent-shed world. It rises from the dusty, red-flecked earth in regal, tiered prominence, its white stone exterior bright and tall where everything else sits dull and meager. While our endless desert sports a number of natural rock protrusions—fins, chimneys, and the occasional arch—this monolith is entirely man-made, and in a fashion unlike anything to which Emgarden can aspire. From a distance its three cylindrical tiers look brilliant, nearly glowing, but nearer, the fortress takes on a more gray hue, powdered with dust and weathered by eons. It is the only thing left standing of Ancient make, unless the Ancients built the amaranthine wall, too. If they did, I cannot fathom how. It’s translucent like glass but harder than any metal Arthen can forge. Slick and ... radiating, for a lack of a better word. There’s so much of it, horizons of it, and yet so little to see. Thus my interest has always been in the tower.

The tower has narrow windows with half-circle tops cut right into the stone. Only a few, and none easily accessible from the outside. Even if they were, they’re too tight for a body to pass through. The flat ground surrounding the tower offers no vantage points.

The mists clear as we arrive. Gooseflesh rises in uneven lines up my back and down my limbs. For a moment I wonder if Moseus truly is a keeper of this stronghold. Why have I never seen him before? How long has he lived here? Where does he get food and water, for surely he and his companion can’t sustain themselves within its walls? Do these promised machines harvest what they need from the ground, or do they only venture out when the mists are heaviest, forever hiding from the rest of us?

The questions roll around my tongue with a sharp flavor. Moseus approaches the tower’s two south-facing doors—the only entrance to the fortress. With a heavy iron key, he unlocks the one on the right, and with his narrow shoulder, he shoves.

The heavy door loathes opening, creaking on what must be magnificent hinges, scraping the stone floor. Stepping beside him, I press my palms to the door and push, and it opens onto a dim chamber. Shifting inside, I blink rapidly, eager for my eyes to adjust. The only light streams from the second-story windows and trickles down a spiraling stone stairway just off-center, with no supporting walls or railing, as though it was built in a hurry. In front of that are two support pillars, equally spaced, and not ornate in any way. I glimpse the edge of another pillar behind the stairs as I enter, my careful footsteps echoing in the quiet room. The cool air stirs thickly, so heavy with dust, oil, and mildew that I can taste it in the back of my throat.

Like the exterior, off-white stone comprises the entirety of the interior, expertly cut but without decoration or polish. The stone gives it a cold feeling, both in aesthetic and temperature, and—

Thought evaporates. My body freezes and my lips part as a metallic glimmer to the left snags my attention.

It’s ... it’s a machine. The largest I’ve ever seen.

An elongated mew escapes my mouth, but awe overpowers embarrassment as I run to it, echoes turning my quick footfalls into applause. “Serpent save me,” I whisper as I touch the machine that stands easily twice my height and ten times my width. I instantly recognize the Ancients’ handiwork in the intricate loops and coils that coat the exterior like lace. The metal appears to be primarily steel and ... and some sort of alloy I can’t name. Peering within, I see a few bronze pieces as well, and immediately I notice slipped bearings, as well as snapped fasteners and spines. Walking slowly around the behemoth, I spy sprockets and gears out of place and belts and chains come loose. There’s a beam deep inside, or maybe an axle of some sort, and multiple wiring assemblies that will take me suns and suns to sort out. Like someone pieced it together for decoration only.

“It’s broken,” I murmur. Very broken. But I’ve yet to uncover anything from that era that isn’t.

“Can you fix it?” Moseus’s low voice hums behind me. “I’ve already done what I can, but as you can see, it isn’t enough.”

Backing away, I take in the whole machine once more. “I ... I can try.” I notice a set of screws, the metal of which doesn’t match the rest. I run my hand over them. “It looks like you’ve done a good job. I’m not sure my expertise is any greater than yours.”

“Guesswork only.” He sighs. “I must implore you to try. Surely there is something we can compensate you with. Labor, knowledge, metal—”

I spin around. “Metal?”

He studies me for a few seconds before speaking. “There is surplus in this tower outside the machines we’ve found that is not necessary to the tower’s operation. I saw your ... tinkering ... at your home. Would these scraps interest you?”

My mouth gapes. “How ... how much do you have?”

He cocks a pale eyebrow. “Plenty.”

I find myself nodding even as my brain warns me to barter a little more. For dignity’s sake. “My town needs metal desperately. I’ll take anything you can give me.” A chance to learn Ancient tech and help Emgarden? I can hardly comprehend it.

“I will see it done. But only in return for your success.”

I glance back to the machine. “Successes. This is a mess. Any improvement should be rewarded. And ... you said there were other machines?”

“Three that we’ve found.” Moseus tucks his hands into his robe and walks toward the stairs. “We’ve been unable to reach the others. The top two stories of the tower are inaccessible, as you will see.”

I stare at a spot between his shoulder blades as we ascend. Inaccessible? Who builds a fortress and then makes almost half of it unusable? And wouldn’t it be better to make the bottom more stalwart, to stand against an army? But what army would wander out here to attack this citadel? It’s defending nothing. There’s nothing to defend except, perhaps, the machines themselves. All of Emgarden couldn’t penetrate this tower.

We reach the second floor, which has windows, which means light. A second machine sits to my left, almost exactly over Machine One. Whistling, I approach it. At first glance, it looks identical to the one on the first floor, but studying it closer, I see that’s not the case. Machine One has a delicate feel to it, intricate like lace. This second machine looks intricate as well, but it seems ... I don’t know, heavy. Its casings and coils are thick and robust, and more of the machine takes on that familiar bronze color I’ve come to associate with the Ancients’ tech, though this is another unfamiliar alloy. Already I can see where some plates should connect but don’t, an easy fix. There’s a notable pulley system here as well, though gods know how I’m going to access it.

“There’s a third upstairs,” Moseus says. I turn to glance at him, then notice part of the ceiling that’s been cut away to access the third floor. “Cut away” is putting it kindly; it looks like it was hammered, chiseled, and clawed open. A ladder leans against the wall nearby. I walk toward the rough unevenness of the hole and peer upward. Above is well lit, but I can only see a ceiling.

“And you ... can’t do that for the other floors?” I gesture to the malformed hole.

The sharp lines of the stonework soften as the tower quivers in a gentle earthquake. I steady myself on the stout stone wall. The quake passes, leaving everything still and unscathed.

“No.” Moseus glances out the nearest window. “We have tried.”

I move to the ladder, but then I spot a large lantern beside it. Changing my mind, I grasp it, light it, and take it back downstairs. I approach Machine One again, holding the lantern high, peering between the expertly cast loops. When I hear Moseus’s footsteps behind me, I say, “I’m going to need more light. And a stool.”

“We have them.”

“And those tools you promised.” I walk around the machine, squeezing past where it nearly meets the wall, and press the lantern to the exterior, squinting at the gears within. “I can start now, if you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you. The sooner these are functional, the better.”

I turn to reply, but over Moseus’s shoulder I spy a third person standing on the stairs. For a moment I think I’m seeing double, but no, these two are different. The newcomer radiates strangeness in precisely the way Moseus does—pale skin, long white hair, odd clothing—but his hair is loosely fastened in a braid, with another network of braids worked into it that reminds me of the machine at my side. His clothes are a mix of brown and deep green, mostly leather and a softer fabric similar to what Moseus wears. His face is broader than Moseus’s, as are his shoulders, though his countenance is ... hard. Stony as the tower itself.

He shifts, and light from the second floor hits his face. Like Moseus, he has green eyes, but they’re bright, nearly acidic in both color and expression. He is bizarre and other and I can’t take my eyes off him. The need to take a closer look, to prod at him like I have at this machine, overwhelms and confuses me. A sharp breath brings my thoughts back into focus.

I meet those eyes, and the ensuing tension drives back the chill of the room and kills my captivation. I can’t really place it—that glare is the look of an enemy, a victim, and a skeptic all at once. It’s both accusatory and ... I want to say hurt, but he really isn’t close enough for me to know. He might just have one of those faces. I certainly do. Still, the discomfort undulates, smelling like cool, moist clay.

Moseus cracks my mental poetry. “This is my companion, Heartwood. Heartwood, this is Pell.”

Unsure what else to do, I tip my head in greeting. Heartwood merely turns and takes the stairs up, and I wonder how much of that four-second exchange was in my head. Unlike mine, Heartwood’s footsteps don’t echo. Like he’s a ghost and nothing more.

“Charming,” I mutter, resisting the urge to rub the lingering discomfort from my sternum. “Is he your brother?”

A sardonic half smile pulls on Moseus’s mouth. “Only in purpose. The resemblance is happenstance. It’s ... common, among our people.”

Our people.So there are others like them. It makes sense; I doubt the World Serpent just spat up two quasi clones after building this world. I try to imagine an entire village of Moseuses and Heartwoods, but my mind can’t conjure it.

“Interesting name.” I glance back to the machine, wondering where I should start.

“We are named for our animus,” Moseus supplies. When I cock my head, he adds, “Our intendment. Our ... initial purposes.”

“Heartwood,” I reply. His name weighs oddly heavy on my tongue. “That’s like a tree thing, yes?” There aren’t many trees around here, and the ones we have are short and bristly. Just like you, Arthen once said with a laugh, before I poured his ale into his stew.

Moseus nods.

“And what does yours mean?”

His lip ticks upward, a little more sincerely this time. “I am a peacekeeper.”

“Okay, then.” I set the lantern down, face the machine, and plant my hands on my hips. “Trees and peacekeeping. Got it.”

No wonder they haven’t been able to fix these things on their own.

Figuring out where to start proves my biggest challenge. Moseus fetches a small but impressive toolkit and watches me for a few minutes before blessedly retreating. I’m not used to being watched while I work. Not when I tinker, and not when I dig. Filling myself with a deep breath, I circle Machine One a few more times, turning sideways to push through where it nearly kisses the wall. Something tells me I don’t want to go upstairs, where the bone-chilling Heartwood lingers. Not a fair assumption, maybe, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me.

Fix your own damned machines, then.But I don’t mean it. I’m twitching again, desperate to get my hands on this mess, eager to understand how it works. There’s just so much of it.

I decide to start on the southwest side. I prop open one of the heavy outer tower doors with a stone and find a convenient hook on the wall to hang one lantern. The other one that Moseus retrieved for me flickers on the floor. I notice some shieldings here—long, slightly curved bars of metal protecting the machine’s guts—that have been loosened and pushed aside, likely by Moseus’s hand. It’s a good hunch; this area looks a little more accessible than the others.

I carefully turn hidden screws and loosen fasteners to move some of the shieldings and spines, then take an hour just familiarizing myself with the exquisite monstrosity of this machine. A gentle hum builds in my mind, luring me like a bewitching lullaby. I follow cables and test gears, marking on a slate which direction they turn, though most seem to twist both ways. Interesting. What did Moseus say this thing was supposed to do, again? Does he even know?

I pull the floor lantern closer, balancing it on a small beam, and run my index finger over a faint engraving on one of the bars. A simple symbol, but an intentional one. I’ve found them on about half the artifacts I’ve uncovered, though not this particular design. It’s a half circle, flat side down, with a bottomless triangle cutting upward through its curve. At first I thought the markings labeled parts, but after seeing similar symbols on different pieces, I’ve determined it’s some sort of Ancient signature. A way that the men and women of old said This is mine.

I’m halfway inside Machine One when footsteps approach. I peer back out, past the coils of a spring, to make out Moseus’s robes. It’s not until I shimmy free that I notice the dimming light outside. Have I been working so long already?

“You will return?” he asks.

Pulling a rag from my pocket, I wipe my hands. “Yeah, definitely.” Then I remember. “The metal?”

“On your first success, as agreed. And I have a few requests before you go.” Moseus frowns at the stone propping the tower door ajar.

“I’m listening.”

“First”—he holds up a finger—“do not do that again.” He points to the door.

Stifling a sigh, I nod.

“Second, do not take anything that isn’t explicitly given to you.”

Leaning my weight on one foot, I answer, “No stealing, got it.”

“Third, do not discuss your work with anyone outside the tower.”

I hold back a frown. “But—”

“Surely you see the value of these things.” He makes a broad gesture to Machine One. “Please understand. It is my duty to keep this place, and my people, safe.”

A whole two people,I think, but bite it back. “No one in Emgarden is a thief.”

Moseus says nothing at all, only waits.

A sigh pushes past my teeth. “Fine. But I can’t help if someone asks where I’m going.”

“Which brings me to my fourth request,” he replies. “Only come and go in the mists.”

A sinking feeling, almost like hunger, lines my stomach, but I don’t understand it. If he’s worried about thieves or dangerous people, it makes sense to mask my comings and goings. It makes sense to avoid questions. And yet the request—more of a rule—sits uncomfortably. It’s hard to see in the mists, yes, but not impossible. Not dangerous. Scorpions claim the spot as Tampere’s biggest predator, and they’re delicious. Yet something feels ... off.

Then I remember that I haven’t really slept for a few cycles.

“They’ll ask where the metal comes from,” I point out.

Moseus mulls over this, his lips rolling tightly together. “True. But try, and reflect on my third request.”

Don’t discuss the work.“You give in so easily?”

He tips his head. “I am a peacekeeper.”

I blow hair out of my eyes. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Fifth,” Moseus says, and I try not to roll my eyes. I won’t squander this enormous opportunity. “Give me regular reports of your progress.”

“Oh.” I relax. “Can do. So far I’ve done mostly diagnostics.”

“Thank you.” Glancing at the door, he says, “You may go.”

I retrieve my personal tools—I only used one of them—and reach into the machine to grab my smallest wrench, which measures just longer than my index finger. As I pull away, however, my head spins. I blink, and I see the machine in pieces at my feet, strewn across the stone floor, sprockets and gears and coils, bent and misshapen and—

And ... then it’s just as it was before. A broken but intact machine, standing twice my height before me, alloy pieces shimmering in the lantern light.

I ...

I really need to sleep.

“First sun,” I offer, pocketing the wrench and backing away from the machine, ignoring the uneasy squirming in my stomach.

“First sun,” Moseus agrees.

And then I depart, into the mists.