Chapter 14
Chapter 14
It doesn’t grind, quiver, or groan. The stone-faced panel merely slips downward, revealing a room behind it—more like a closet—just tall enough for a person to stand upright. Just wide enough to be comfortable.
I ogle it as I approach. The walls inside are smooth, but ... there’s nothing else. No artifacts, no writing, no knobs or levers. Just a closet, hidden away. But why?
“What is that?”
Moseus’s voice startles me. “I don’t know. It opened when I replaced a gear in the machine.” I step inside, running my hands over the walls. Turn and see two things at once: Moseus marveling, far more expressive than I’ve ever beheld him, and a handle attached to a cord just inside the lip of the closet, within easy reach. I touch it, glance overhead to more cording, and laugh.
“What?” Moseus hurries over, pressing his hands to the smooth edges of the doorway.
“It’s a lift.” My words are all breath. I wave him inside, pressing myself hard to one wall to make room. We haven’t been this close since meditating in his room. Stiff, I pull the handle, and the capsule, not a closet, shifts upward, taking us past the third floor of the tower to the fourth, and no farther.
Machine Four steals my breath away.
She’s enormous, occupying two-thirds of the chamber and stretching diagonally from the floor just outside the lift to the opposite wall, nearly to the ceiling, long and lithe, like how I imagine Machine Three will be. She cuts through the room, a great cylinder of a million components, dark silver and slate gray. There are no broken pieces scattered across the ground, no hanging bits, no breaks that I can see.
Yet my gut tells me she’s incomplete.
“Pell, this is astonishing.” Moseus steps forward and rests a hand on the machine as I walk under it, suffocating on my own awe. Long pistons like organ pipes stretch across her center. She has cable assemblies, gearboxes, and flywheels similar to those on the other machines, but here they’re bigger. Heavier. Peering between her support beams, I see the thickest chain I’ve ever beheld stretched taut in her center. I reach for it, but Machine Four is too dense, too tightly constructed.
Her togetherness will help me understand the others. I know it.
The lift recalls, but I doubt the Ancients meant to trap us up here.
“The windows.” Moseus crosses to them, and it’s only then that I realize the floor is well lit, though when I climbed the exterior of the tower, the windows were closed off. Pulling away from Machine Four, I approach the window next to Moseus. It’s covered by a strange material. It’s not metal, it’s not stone, it’s not wood, but something else entirely. Light but solid. So solid I don’t know if I could break it. While I can’t see through it, and from the exterior of the tower it’s as opaque as stone, the sunlight filters through, offering much-needed illumination. I find no latches, hinges, or fittings that would otherwise facilitate motion. These panels are not meant to be moved.
“Another mystery,” I murmur, and return to Machine Four just as the lift reappears, this time carrying Heartwood. That heaviness of his presence, the one I thought I’d gotten used to, washes over me, drowning me. I force air into my lungs just to prove to myself that I can.
He doesn’t notice me at first. The moment he arrives, his face opens like a child’s, taking in the room and the new leviathan it holds.
“It’s ... There’s more.” Heartwood fumbles over his words. “There’s ... more.”
“We knew there had to be,” Moseus responds.
Heartwood draws his gaze down the machine until it lands on me. He swiftly looks away.
It took you away from me,he said. That tangle of emotion and questions re-forms in my chest, bubbling up so abruptly I fear I’ll puke. So I refocus on the machine. Climb onto her lowest end and carefully scale upward, not wanting to break her. But she’s sturdy. She’s stronger than the others, having been protected up here.
Pain pulses behind my forehead. Gripping a beam, I hold my breath as my vision blurs.
I whip my hand back. Blood pools in my palm and trickles down my wrist. Damn it, I should have been more careful.
I hold the hand up as I untangle myself from the machine, trying not to get blood on it. Great, this will make work the next few cycles real fun. I know I shouldn’t press a dirty rag to it, but that’s what I have, so that’s what it gets.
I’m choking on curses in the back of my throat when two pale hands gently take my own injured one. Remove the rag, clean the wound, expertly wind dark bandages around my palm.
“I’m fine,” I protest, though I can feel my pulse from wrist to fingertips.
“I believe you.” Heartwood secures the bandages with a small knot, cheek twitching as he masks his amusement. “But we can’t have you bleeding on the equipment, now can we?”
The present rushes at me like I’ve fallen down a well and plummeted into the water. Sweat forms on my temples. I’m too warm. My fingers hurt from gripping the beam; my skin’s turned white at the knuckles. Acid churns up my esophagus, but I swallow it back down.
“Pelnophe?”
Heartwood notices me first. Of course he does. Shaking myself, I say, “I’m just eager to get started.” I mechanically pick my way back down, not meeting either of the keepers’ eyes as I pass to the lift. “I need my tools.”
I wait for them to leave before throwing myself into the work.
There are answers in these machines.
That thought stirs over and over again as I examine every centimeter of Machine Four, taking note where anything appears crooked, broken, or missing.
If the machines pose the questions, then they must also have the answers. If I get this tower operating again, I’ll understand what’s happening to me.
To another, the logic might be unsound. To me, it’s faultless. Fix the machines, fix myself.
I feel like Machine Four. Whole in appearance, yet internally broken.
I’m running. I know I’m running. I never knew myself as an evader. I suppose I’ve never experienced problems this deep. This ... murky. I can’t process them, so I don’t even try. I want an empty mind, so I focus on Machine Four. Focus on my work. Focus on the parts I understand.
I’m beneath her belly near the lower end, sitting on my butt, when I pause. “Oh. You are female.”
There’s a large female piece in her middle. The thick chain links to its back end. But I don’t see a corresponding male counterpart, which makes no sense. But perhaps I’m looking at it wrong—
Machine Three looms before me, wider in the center than at the ends.
A cry escapes me as I whip away from Machine Four, both hands going to my skull. “Stop it,” I plead. Emotion burns the inside of my nose. “Stop it. Stop it.”
That’s not what Machine Three looks like. It’s in pieces.
The vision imprints into my brain like a scar.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I suck in a long breath, release it slowly. In, out. In, out.
It’s not right. It’s imaginary. It’s not right.
The lift takes me down to the second floor. From there, I use the ladder to reach Machine Three. It probably has a lift stop I can uncover, but it’s not worth the effort. Half the machine still litters the stone floor. But I remember a few details. Only a few, and they’re wrong.
Wrong,I tell myself as I pick up two beams and connect them with a bronze fastener. Wrong, I repeat as I snap it into place and connect wires, then an axle, then a bit shaped like a hollow trapezoid that I’ve never been able to categorize. Wrong, I say as I connect couplings the way I saw, and then step back, every part fitting where it belongs. The base begins to bow outward. The Ancients designed Machine Three thicker in the middle than at the ends.
It took you away from me.
My gut seizes, sending me to my knees.
Heartwood moves his hair over his shoulders. The mist-choked light casts shadows across the scars on his back. No, not scars. Not like the ones on my hands and knees. These are raised, branched, intricate, the skin no different from the rest. They branch out at his pale shoulders and taper at his waist, taking the shape of a tree.
I blink tears away to clear my vision. The tower room stands quiet around me. Again, stinging bile courses up my throat, but I swallow it down. Swallow, swallow, swallow, then remember to breathe.
I’m losing my sanity. I feel it. The machines are one thing; I’m learning more about them every time I come. I’m a tinkerer. Mechanics interest me. Of course my mind would make the jump to how to piece them together. Of course I’m learning their ways.
But Heartwood ... I don’t know how anything in reality or dream could conjure up something as strange as those scars on his back. I’ve never witnessed anything close. Even Arthen, with all his forge injuries, has nothing comparable.
Inhale, exhale. Long, slow.
“I’m losing it, Salki,” I whisper, wishing she were here to reassure me. But she’s not, and she wouldn’t understand if she were. I don’t understand.
I’m losing control.
“No. No.” I force myself to my feet and retreat to the window, sucking in mist-laced air. “I am here. I am whole. They’re only machines.”
I refuse to cry over this. I’m not crazy. I ... I’m not ...
I have to know.
Does Heartwood have those strange markings on his back? If he doesn’t, then I’ve lost my mind entirely. I’m too susceptible to these machines. I’ll have to stop my work entirely and preserve what I have left. I can’t sacrifice myself for these keepers. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
But if he does ... then the ravings of madness haven’t descended upon me. It’s something else. Something embedded within the Ancient tech I’m working on. Something connected to them. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not madness.
I have to know. I need to know.
Setting my tools aside, I plan.
I don’t leave the tower during the next mist. I don’t leave at all.
I should rest, but my mind and body are far too alert, so I walk through the tower, taking note of the keepers. I have a faint idea of their schedules, though Moseus’s has proven more consistent than Heartwood’s. Returning to Machine Two, I work on it until it’s more or less functional, though I don’t provide a means to power it by hand like I did with Machine One. I’m still clueless as to the machines’ power sources, but I don’t think they require separate sources to function. I can’t believe the Ancients would build things that weren’t self-contained, self-sufficient wholes. It’s only time—and angry, confusing keepers—that tears them apart.
After that, I visit Moseus, who has returned to Machine Four, watching it as one might watch the mists descend.
“It’s an excellent discovery,” I say, trying to sound casual. “We’re getting close.”
“We are.” His chest puffs out with a deep breath and a slight rattle. “Very close.”
“I know it’s important to you.” I place a hand on one of the machine’s spines, not daring to meet his eyes. “It’s important to me, too. I think I could get more work done if I stay at the tower.”
Several seconds pass. “You wish to stay here?”
“If I had accommodations.” I tread carefully. “I wouldn’t mind working longer shifts. I know you don’t like me coming and going during the suns.”
He considers this. It sounds more than reasonable to my ears, but Moseus has proven himself a very private person. We are allies, but I am still other to him, and a woman, too. Still, the idea of finishing the work quicker entices him. “I suppose it would speed things along,” he says somewhat reluctantly. “This fortress wasn’t made for comfort.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Would you stay here?” He gestures around the room. Because of Machine Four’s angle, there’s plenty of floor space for camping out.
“There’s a room on the second floor.” Easy, casual, nonchalant. I pull a small wrench from my belt and spin it around my finger. “Near the stairs.” It’s a small room, maybe twice the size of the closet on the first floor. But it’s also straight across from Heartwood’s chamber.
Though his lips pull into a frown, Moseus nods. “Very well. I don’t have a lot to offer you for a pallet.”
Heartwood might,I almost say, but I don’t risk his name staining the conversation. I can bring my own blanket when the mists fall. My own food, too. These two live as bachelors. They don’t have a well-stocked pantry.
“I’ll be subtle,” I say. Moseus can piece together the rest. Changing the subject, I report my other progress, which he seems only to half hear. Then I excuse myself and take the lift down to the second floor.
Now that I’ve been allowed to linger, I have to execute the second, and hardest, part of my plan. I have to catch Heartwood undressing.
Most people sleep during the mists.
Not every mist. At least, I don’t sleep every mist. But the world cools down, and navigating becomes difficult, so folk retreat when the mists thicken. I don’t know if Heartwood strips down to rest, but I figure it’s my best shot.
I linger at Machine Two and pretend to fiddle with it as the sun grows late. I don’t even look at Heartwood when he comes by, though his steps slow, and I feel him looking at me. My pulse quickens, but he says nothing and slips inside his humble quarters.
Gradually, the temperature drops as the fog collects. Taking my shoes off, I scan for Moseus. Clear. I toe my way to Heartwood’s door. I may or may not have tightened up the knob’s strike plate a bit earlier, while he was away. At the garden, most likely.
Gripping the knob, I turn it softly. So softly. Hold my breath. Push it just a crack. Realize I should have oiled the hinges, too. The bottom one creaks, giving me away. Heartwood, sitting on a stool beside the window, looks up at me. He’s in a loose homespun shirt and breeches. So yes, he does change. But I misjudged my timing. I’m late.
He has a small book in his hands. Looks at me, then back at its pages. “I believe it’s customary for your people to knock.”
“What do you know of ‘my people’?” I counter, realizing that I’m not helping my case.
His brow creases. I reset. There are other stones I need to throw.
“I want to know what you meant, before.” I open the door a little wider now, listening to that hinge. “You said the machine took ... um, me away from you.”
He does not look up from the book. “I misspoke.” His unhindered tone grates on me.
“You misspoke.”
He doesn’t reply, merely reads.
“All right.” I can play his game. “Then why was that gear stuck in the wickwood tree?”
Now he looks up, his confusion genuine. “What gear?”
I hesitate, wondering whether or not to share. Heartwood seems fond of secrets. Perhaps I should guard some of my own. “Why did you have Arthen’s knife?”
He blanches. Caught you. He pulls his eyes back to his book, but this time it seems forced. His shoulders stiffen. He clenches his jaw, but catches himself and releases it. Sighs.
“Well?” I press.
“Were you in here?” he asks quietly. Accusatory, yes, but not venomous.
“I came in when I saw my knife. You left the door open.” I’m not the best liar, but I’d bet five cycles’ rations that I’m better at it than Heartwood.
He turns the page. I wait. No answer.
“Are you fond of tense silences?”
Heartwood lowers the book. The pages dip under his hard grip. “I do not have an answer for you. No—Pelnophe.”
“I said you could call me Nophe,” I offer.
He shakes his head. Clenches, then unclenches, his jaw. “I do not have an answer for you,” he repeats, too much air leaking into his voice.
“I think you do.”
“Good night, Pell.” The words are hard, final, but they give me pause.
“What does that mean?”
He glances at me, bright eyes hard. “What does what mean?”
“Good night,” I repeat, letting go of the knob. “What’s ‘night’?”
His expression wipes clean, like a wet rag was swiped across a chalky slate. He turns to the window. “It’s nothing. Please, leave.”
Gritting my teeth, I start to pull the door closed, then stop. “You’ll break the book, doing that.”
Glancing down, Heartwood seems to notice for the first time that the pages are half folded over in his clenched hands. He releases it, letting it topple to the floor, and I give him his privacy.
For now.
The following mist, I bring a few things to the tower. Not everything; I don’t intend to disappear from Emgarden completely. I’m still needed there, and my absence could raise more questions than I have easy answers for. But I bring enough. My moving in makes both keepers uncomfortable, but Heartwood especially. He won’t meet my eyes and swiftly vacates any area I walk into.
Which helps when I need to oil his hinges. I do so, thoroughly.
He doesn’t sleep the next mist, and he’s gone the entire next sun. Garden or foraging, I assume. Or he ate something particularly foul and atones for it at the privy. I work on assembling Machine Three, worried that he’s somehow caught on to me already, but he returns during the following mist. I’m quicker to follow this time. He sleeps, but in the window alcove, sitting upright against the stone, still dressed in his leathers, arms folded tightly across his chest. He snores, which is odd, because Heartwood doesn’t snore.
I fumble the handle as I retreat. Bite my lip and close the door, relieved when I don’t wake him, disturbed at my own thought. Heartwood doesn’t snore. How would I know that? This is the first time I’ve ever seen him sleep.
Panic clutches my chest, because I’m so damn sure. Heartwood doesn’t snore.
It took you away from me.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, and take the lift up to Machine Four. No one can sneak up on me here. No one will hear my frantic pacing and self-assurances. No one will see me put my head between my knees and relearn how to breathe. My chest weighs me down like it, too, is a machine. There’s not enough air in this room. Not enough air. I take the lift back down and climb to the third floor to press my head to the window, trying to empty my thoughts.
Madness has a feel to it. Smooth, subtle. Like the oil nestled in those hinges, but thinner. It doesn’t leave a noticeable mark. No grease stains. When it first starts dripping, it feels wrong, the way I imagine a knife through the gut might feel. But I can see how one could become used to it. Even comfortable. Oiled up and slick and satiated, forgetting there was ever anything else.
And I wonder, staring out into the mist, if I’ve forgotten something. My theory of the Ancients speaking to me through their work has crumbled around the edges. The Ancients didn’t know Heartwood. He isn’t part of these machines.
Steeling myself, I return to the second floor. Heartwood’s earlier position wasn’t comfortable; perhaps he changed and now rests on his pallet on the floor. Maybe his leathers are dirty. That’s two reasons to unclothe. And I am desperate. The oil is seeping in, and it terrifies me. I have to know.
Late mist. No clock, but it will dissipate soon. Quiet as an ant, I turn Heartwood’s handle and open the door just a crack. Catch my breath before it can give me away.
He’s awake. Facing away from me. Pulling off the leathers he wears over his clothes. He carefully folds a piece and sets it on the windowsill.
I pull back a moment. I’m ready. Whatever the answer is, I have to accept it. I will run, if I have to. Leave the tower and its machines—all Ancient work—forever, to preserve myself. I’d rather have this missing piece nagging at me than lose who I am.
Ready, I peek through the crack again. But Heartwood isn’t there.
The door wrenches from my hand.
Heartwood’s closeness exaggerates his size. Looking down, his eyes blaze like they did when he pinned me to the wall by Machine Three.
“What,” he seethes, his voice low and callous, “are you doing?”
I stand my ground, wishing my knees didn’t shake. “I want answers. I want to know—”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Tell me what I don’t know!” I hiss.
He lowers his face to mine. “There is nothing for you to know. There are no secrets with me or this room. Your only purpose is the machines. You must—”
He stops. I don’t know why he stopped. Until I realize I’m crying.
Ruin me. I hate crying.
Wiping angry hands over my eyes, I say, “I don’t understand.” I hate how my voice shakes, but all the bottled fear twists my stomach and pushes up my throat. “I’m seeing things, Heartwood. I see things in the machines. Hear things. Past, present, I don’t know. I’m ... I’m losing my mind.” I try to suck in air, but it’s a mere trickle. “Injuries I don’t have, machines not ... not as they are. And I see you.”
He steps back like I’ve physically pushed him, insulted his person, his people, and his country while setting fire to his garden.
I wipe my face again—more like a slap—before any new tears can fall. “I see you, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. I have to know if I’m going mad.”
He says nothing. I wish he’d say something. I can’t tolerate the quiet, so I keep talking.
“Y-You have these things, on your back,” I add, and his expression slackens. “I don’t know what they are. It was just a flash, really. Like scars, but not. And I know it sounds absolutely absurd, but I keep seeing strange things, and I don’t know what they are, or what they mean, or if they even exist. I don’t know what’s happening!” I raise my voice despite his warning. Smack away a tear. “Please ... just tell me if I’m sane or not. I need to know—”
“Stop,” he whispers, like I’m hurting him. I’m not even touching him. “Stop, please.”
I chew down a sob. Shake my head. A headache forms just beneath my skull, and I wince, ready for another vision, but none comes.
Heartwood’s calloused hand grasps my forearm. He pulls me into his room, then shuts the door firmly. Pauses. “You did something.”
“I oiled the hinges,” I confess.
He sighs. Releases me. Undoes the single button at his collar, turns, and pulls off his shirt.
I gasp.
It’s there. It’s all there.
A dozen scars—two dozen—cross his broad shoulders, raised like someone filled them with water, though they don’t look soft. Small, medium, large. They branch off his shoulders and join at the middle of his back, where they merge into one solid form that disappears beneath the waist of his trousers. It looks like a tree might, if we ever took the time to nurture one.
I reach forward, but Heartwood tugs the shirt back on, trapping his hair beneath it. “Go.”
“I ...” My feet have gone numb. My tongue, apparently, as well.
He pushes past me and opens the door. Peers out into the open area beyond before looking at me expectantly.
“But ... what is it?” I ask, sounding like a child. “Why ... how did I know?”
“You must be a seeress.” His words are terse, and he doesn’t meet my eyes. “Go, Nophe. Please.”
Dumbfounded, I shuffle from the room. The moment I clear the door, he shuts it behind me, the latch clicking heavy and final.