Chapter 10
Chapter 10
“I need a tool.”
Moseus looks up from a very old and damaged book in his lap as I approach. I wonder where he got it. Books are rare. Expensive and hard to make. He sits in his room, the door propped open. A lamp gleams from the wall outside.
With a raised brow, he explains, “You’re welcome to whatever you can find—”
“It’s not a tool either of us has.” Entering the dim room, I hand him my slate. Retreat for that lamp, but his eyes must be sharp because he reads my scrawl and diagram just fine. “I need something in this specific shape, with a head like this.” I point. “It’s the only way I’ll be able to attach the flywheel on Machine Three.” If it could telescope, that would be even better, but I’m not about to push my luck.
“I haven’t seen anything like this in the tower.” Moseus’s words are measured, as always, but I detect a flare of annoyance. He passes the slate back, then rubs the space between his eyes. He must be feeling worse than usual.
“The blacksmith in Emgarden, he could make it within a cycle, I think—”
“I do not want to involve your blacksmith. Not again.” Moseus closes his book and sets it aside. “Show me.” A second passes. “Please.”
I walk him up to the third floor, where I’ve gotten Machine Three looking like ... well, a shape, whereas before it was ... not as good a shape. Heartwood has come up in my absence and studies the machine, somehow looking paler than usual. He and Moseus exchange a tense glance, and I wonder if they’ve argued. I also wonder about the words I overheard before—past mistakes—but I try not to read too much into it. Speculating won’t get me anywhere.
I show Moseus the flywheel and the frame I assembled for it, then gesture to the pieces of machine embedded in the ceiling. Explain as best I can the mechanics of it, and yes, I’ve already tried alternatives, and yes, I really do need a special tool, and no, I can’t carve it out of wood.
“Perhaps she should spend her time elsewhere,” Heartwood murmurs. He doesn’t look my way.
“Perhaps she should fix the damn thing,” I retort, earning myself an approving look from Moseus, and ...
Why does Heartwood always look so ... sad?
Soft feelings,I tell myself. Some people just have thicker skin than others. I probably offended Entisa every other sun. She was like that. Soft.
I inhale slowly, letting the air fill every crevice. “If you two don’t have a way to make what I need, I can’t fix it. Arthen is trustworthy. He didn’t make a fuss about the handle for Machine One. I don’t have to give him a lot of detail. Send me home with more scrap, and he won’t complain.”
“Arthen?” Moseus repeats.
Before I can reply, Heartwood answers, “The blacksmith.”
I wonder when I told him about Arthen, then realize it was an easy deduction. I recall the knife still weighing down my pocket. I try to school my face as I study Heartwood, but I’m even worse at hiding my feelings than he is, and I look away before my stupefaction reveals me.
“Also, this.” I move to a turbine two-thirds as tall as me. Grab one end and heave so its exposed center faces the men. “This needs to turn.” I point to an axle I’ve managed to fortify with some fasteners. “But it’s missing ... something that goes here.” I point to where a belt should be, or something like that, probably protected in a box or other casing. “I’ve dug through this mess twice and haven’t found it.”
“And you haven’t taken it?” Moseus asks me, though he pointedly looks at Heartwood as the words leave his mouth. Heartwood’s lips press into a thin line.
Straightening, I scowl. “Yes, Moseus. I decided to take some random pieces necessary for fixing the machine, and then to ask you for them. No, I didn’t take them. The way you’ve kept this space, I wouldn’t be surprised if one got knocked out the window.”
Because really, it’s a mess in here.
One of the aforementioned windows now fully occupies Heartwood’s attention.
Moseus sighs. “See what you can do. Ask your smith for the tool. Be—”
“Discreet,” I finish for him. “I will be, though no one in Emgarden is jumping at the chance to get their fingers in your machines.” Except me, and my fingerprints cover every millimeter of them.
“Please do so.” Moseus resumes his tranquility. “Before the mist lifts.”
Slate under my arm, I nod, deciding to leave my tools here in the interim. Toes of my shoes on the edges of the ladder, I slide down, calculating the order of what I should fix.
I’m halfway to the stairs when the explosion hits.
My first reaction, for a shaving of a second, is that it’s another earthquake. But the earsplitting noise, the shaking, emanates from above. Shrieking, I drop to my knees just as I reach the ladder, covering my head with my arms—
The piercing sound of silence drills into my ears, interrupted only by the thumping of my heart. I lift my head. No rubble around me. No damage. Lowering my arms, I twist back—
Just Machine Two and the ladder. No rubble, no smoke—just the garish hole carved into the ceiling.
Or ... was it blasted into it?
“Pelnophe?” Moseus calls down from the hole in question.
My breaths are too fast. I’m light-headed. I force myself to drop my shoulders and suck in long gulps of air. “S-Spider,” I manage. I’d wince at the awful lie, but I’m too distracted.
I ... I heard an explosion. I felt it. I ... I don’t understand. My eyes water, and I don’t understand.
Heartwood descends a few rungs of the ladder. “What happened?”
Swallowing, scrounging for my voice, I ask, “Did ... did a quake pass, just now?”
His pale brows draw together. He shakes his head.
“Slipped,” I chirp, sounding young. “Slipped. Spider. Bye.”
I practically run down the stairs, grateful for the masking darkness of the first floor. Finding peace in it, like Moseus does. I stop at the doors, my palms pressed against them, without strength.
I never realized madness could be so loud.
I wait for Arthen to dunk a chest latch in his bucket of water before handing him my slate. My hands are still shaking, so I thrust it at him, hoping he won’t notice. “I need this. Sooner than later. And no, I’m not waiting my turn. I’m the reason you can make latches.”
“It’s a hinge.” He pulls his gloves off and takes my slate. I count one, two ... ooh, even a third line furrows his brow. “What is this for?”
“Personal use.”
He glances at me.
I shrug. The long walk from the tower only settled me so much; the rest I have to fake. “Ancients stuff. I’m piecing together something big. Come on, Arthen. You owe me.”
“Do I?” He tips his head toward the back of the shop.
I scan in that direction, confused, until I see the frame of the rover. All my trepidation washes clear, like loam in the first strike of groundwater.
“Serpent save me, you didn’t!” I rush over and crouch on the packed-dirt floor, running my hands over the beautiful rover. It’s not refined or elegant like Ancient work, but it’s solid. “It’s not even the yearmark.”
“Don’t give me nonsense about debts.” Setting the slate on his table, Arthen pulls his gloves back on. “I’ll get on it before first mist. Just keep bringing me what I need.”
“You’ve got it, you beautiful man, you.” I rub his sweaty bald head. He elbows me in my side. Dancing away, I practically skip my way home.
But once there, alone again, thoughts of the tower drip in. That explosion ... none of my lapses have ever been so ... violent. And what does it mean? I swallow hard, twice. Right where the hole up to the third floor was. Didn’t it seem to come from that?
I wish I hadn’t asked Heartwood about the quake. If I hadn’t asked, I could believe that’s all it was. A quake.
I should visit Salki. See how she’s doing after the scare with Casnia, and for my own sanity. But hunger tugs my stomach and drains my limbs, so it’s only a thought in the back of my mind as my lunch grains soak. While I wait, I move the table, open the hidden panel in the floor, and pull out my mystery machine, studying it anew. Even after my meal is ready, I continue my examination, noting something at the base of the sphere in the center. Specifically, the angle at which the rod holds it up.
My lips part. I walk to the cupboard where I keep my other finds and pull out my newest one, not counting the thing under my floorboard, nor the sundial. It’s a brass ball joint welded to a hollow metal cylinder with ridging, the same one I was studying the mist of Entisa’s burial. The lip on the cylinder suggests it once connected to something else. I’m certain the piece holding up the sphere in equilibrium would fit perfectly there. Part of that strange device was harvested from this artifact.
I’d already determined this new machine was pieced together modernly. Either by me, followed by some mystical head injury no one talks about, or by someone who knows the symbol I invented for myself. A symbol I’ve only used on my rover plans, which have only been seen by Arthen, Salki, and, I suppose, Casnia.
Did someone leave this for me? But why make it so hard to find? Perhaps I wasn’t meant to find it yet. But why? And ... when?
Someone was here.
I set the artifact down and stare at my door. Sorry, Salki, I won’t be visiting you. I’m heading back to the blacksmith.
Only this time, I’m asking him for a lock.
I need answers. I need to understand what’s happening to me.
I want to know where Heartwood is going.
He’s kept his distance the last seven cycles—all of which passed without any more lapses, two of which I spent starting a new well—but I’ve been watching. His energy started waning a couple of cycles ago, so I’ve been pulling long shifts, even working a full sun, which Moseus doesn’t mind. Just means I’m fixing the tower faster.
I can tell when Heartwood plans to leave. He wears those leathers of his and carries a satchel. His cloak as well. When the mist settles, he leaves.
This time, I follow.
I’m fortunate that Moseus isn’t present to witness. I give Heartwood enough of a lead that he won’t hear the heavy tower door open, then I head northwest, the direction I’ve seen him go before. Away from the tower, away from the town. Everything quiets in the mist, so I walk on the balls of my feet, trying to mask my presence.
I find his shadow ahead of me. Wait for him to reroute to Emgarden. Maybe to slip into the forge and steal another knife. Yet Heartwood’s path stays true, never circling back.
So much for that theory.
I’ve ventured all over this area looking for artifacts, though I’ve spent most of my time south of Emgarden, where I’ve had the most luck uncovering them, so this terrain eventually becomes unfamiliar. After nearly an hour, I pause at a copse of wickwood trees to gain my bearing. The moment I touch one, though, it crumbles to ash. Not just the branch beneath my fingers, but the entire plant, leaving only a few decimeters of narrow trunk standing. Pulling away, I rub fine umber dust between my fingers. Gently poke the next tree, only to have a sprig of it crumble the same way. I’ve never seen anything fall apart like this, especially not these hardy trees. Pressing my lips together, I don’t test it more. I can’t risk the sound of disintegrating trees giving me away, though the sight of piles of wickwood—crooked, thirsty things, but still a valuable resource—unsettles me. Perhaps I should turn back.
The veil of fog makes the journey all the more disconcerting, pierced only by the faint glow of the occasional emily. Doubling down, I leave the ashen corpse of the tree and hurry forward. I lose Heartwood twice as high mist rolls in, but the moisture helps to mark his footprints in the ground, and for a time, I follow those instead.
The mist lightens up. It’s a mercy of the gods that I’m staring at the ground. If I hadn’t been, I might have fallen.
There’s a canyon here.
Not a large one. I can’t determine how deep, but it’s not wide, and it’s shielded by rock formations. No more footprints. Did Heartwood climb down this?
I backtrack, squinting through the mist, but I can’t fathom where else he might have gone. Taking a risk, I pull out the small lantern from the tower. Light it, which makes me a beacon in the fog. But it helps me see a little better.
There’s a path. Uneven steps in the stone, some natural, some not.
A patient person would mark this, head back, and come again in the sun. Unfortunately, patience has never been my forte, so down I go.
But I’m not stupid. I move slowly, keeping one hand on the carmine rock wall. My luck holds; it’s not terribly deep. Maybe seven meters.
I blow out the lantern. Down here, the mist lightens, and I can see better without the light. Following the narrow path, I realize I’ve entered a slot canyon. How it was formed, I don’t know. But the ground proves level, so I walk until I reach a fork. Search for footprints, but there’s only stone.
Something in my gut tells me to go right. A shiver courses down my spine.
I’m not stupid. I mark the wall with charcoal and move forward.
The path dips lower, perhaps ten meters below the surface, then up again. Another fork, but an easy one—the right path ends after ten paces. The left dips toward an arch. I duck down to fit under it.
The mist starts to lift. Have I been wandering so long? And there’s no sign of Heartwood. But—
I nearly drop my lamp. Serpent save me.
It’s ... beautiful.
The stone walls open up to a small gorge surrounded by red rock. Brimming with plants. Not wickwood, or kettleleaf weeds, or even emilies, but green, vibrant life.
There are flowers, a deep pink, as vivid as the amaranthine wall. Succulent trees sprout up along a winding path. White-centered desert roses nest in carefully tended soil, alongside yellow-budding brush I have no name for. Round cacti pop up in patches, and a verdant vine curtains up one of the walls, reaching for the dispelling fog.
And there’s water.
I walk to the spring and kneel beside it. Like the stairs leading down here, it looks half-natural, half-man-made. The rock has been chipped away to create a pool, shaded by a sandstone outcropping. But the water sits, bizarrely, at surface level. It’s almost green, and when I reach down and brush it with my fingers, it’s warm, with a faint sulfuric smell. The green shifts to a deeper and deeper blue the deeper it goes. One hand on the outcropping, I lean forward to peer into its strange depths. I’ve never seen a natural well like this. Never seen water I didn’t have to dig for. Never seen this shade of turquoise. It’s breathtaking.
“Pell.”
Heartwood’s crisp voice startles me. I twist to face him, but in doing so, I lose my footing, and there’s nothing to grip. I glimpse a sliver of leather-clad shoulder before Tampere reaches up and swallows me. I fall headfirst, water rising up, sucking me into its warm depth—far deeper than I realized. I kick to right myself and reach up, only to strike my knuckles on rock. The spring dips below the crags. I can’t find the surface, and I’m not a good swimmer. Wells are deep, but narrow. If I slip in one of those, I just have to stick my foot out to catch the side ...
The first spike of panic shoots down my neck when a hand clamps around my arm, just above my elbow, and hauls me up. Turquoise depths give way to sunlit red rock as I fly upward nearly as swiftly as I’d fallen in. Heartwood deposits me, gasping and blinking, right next to the lip of the pool.
He crouches in front of me. “Are you all right?”
I nod, water dripping from my hair. I couldn’t have been under for more than a few seconds.
Mechanically, Heartwood releases my elbow and sits back on his haunches.
I first rub my eyes, then slick my hair back from my face. Clear my throat. Piece together my pride. Glare from the walls of the gorge casts stark shadows on Heartwood’s face, making it hard to read his expression. So much for staying clandestine.
I rise to my feet, my clothing heavy. He does as well, saying nothing as I wring out the front of my shirt. I steel myself, though I didn’t technically do anything wrong. I glance at the exit, though if Heartwood wanted to off me, he could have just let me drown. Not that I would have. I could have felt my way out before I ran out of air. I’m fairly certain.
“I wanted to know where you were going,” I say, squeezing water from fistfuls of my soggy slacks. I expect an outburst, or perhaps a cold demand that I leave. Maybe a sharp retort about my fall. But to my shock, Heartwood simply nods.
“You are welcome to stay, if you wish.”
I’m momentarily dumbfounded. New drops of water drizzle down either side of my nose. “You ... I can?”
Slowly, his gaze settles over the garden. “I ask only that you approach with care. It’s difficult to cultivate these plants. I’d prefer you not share this location with your townsfolk, if only to protect them. And, perhaps, stay away from the spring.”
Did he make a joke? I stare at him like I’m seeing him for the first time. “Of course. Thank you. I ...” I take in the garden once more. It seems even more resplendent without the mists, like the sunlight has speckled everything with gold. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Heartwood flinches. I glance at him, but he doesn’t meet my eye. Then again, he hasn’t been feeling well, though at the moment he appears hale.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He starts for the arch.
“You can stay,” I blurt, awkwardness itching my skin. Or maybe that’s the wet clothing. “I mean, it’s your garden, and I came uninvited.”
The slightest tick of his lip, and for the first time, a glimmer of warmth comes to his eyes. “Thank you, but I think I will hunt.”
“There’s not much to hunt.”
“But there is something,” he counters. Turns for the arch. Stops of his own volition. “Pell.”
I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the swift rescue, the beauty of the gully, or his utter generosity when, if the situation were reversed, I would be raging at the invasion of privacy. In an offer of peace, I say, “You can call me Nophe, if you want.”
Heartwood’s expression shifts, warm and cool at the same time, like the first settling of the fog. Sad again, as though the weight of his own tombstone burdens his shoulders. His voice softens as he speaks. “I would ask ... do not tell Moseus you came here.”
That surprises me. “He doesn’t know about it?”
“He does. But ...”
And that’s all the explanation I get. Heartwood disappears through the arch, leaving me to the splendor of his carefully cultivated piece of paradise.