Page 11 of Still the Sun

“Come.”

The door creaks open. I hesitate in the doorway.

It’s so ...dark.

Blackness engulfs the entire chamber. No windows, no candles, no lamps. Just ... black. Impenetrable. I lift my hand in front of my face, and even with the dim light coming down the stairs, I can’t see it. I’ve never seen darkness this absolute before.

“Do you have a report?”

I push the door open, guiding the dim light of the first floor inside. I should have brought a lantern. I’m able to just make out Moseus’s pale skin and hair in the center of the small chamber. He’s sitting upright, legs folded, palms on his knees.

“Merely meditating.” He withdraws his hands and looks at me. I think.

Rubbing a sore spot on my shoulder, I give him my update: what I managed to repair last visit and what I intend to work on now. I’m sure he knows, but I add that the digging was unsuccessful. He doesn’t chide me or point out that he was right, which I would have done, were our roles reversed. Merely nods. I think.

“I will not hold you up,” he says. “Thank you, Pell.”

I wave away the gratitude. “A smaller lantern would be useful.” Candles aren’t. They drip on everything, and the wax is hard to come by, anyway.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

I close the door and start toward my machine, pausing halfway when a three-second quake shudders and then sleeps again.

Mymachine. It doesn’t feel wrong to think of it as such.

I start by running my hands up and down the metal loops and straps of its body. There isn’t much space to climbinhere, but these are definitely loose helical gears and more of that damn wiring. Pulling out a slate and chalk, I do some quick calculations to estimate the supposed angle on that axle, assuming it connects to that ... hat-like thingy ... on top. I set aside the slate, shove the tools into my pocket, and get to work.

I have to take apart a few pieces to get to others, which feels like regression, but it is what it is. I find a gear literally attached to nothing, just wedged between an axle and a beam. Great. I glance around, clueless, before tossing it out of the machine. Future Pell can worry about that. Sure enough, the axle goes right where I want it to go, if I adjust said hat-thing, which makes it align with what looks like a rotary unit,though rotary units are for moving fluids, and I don’t see where any fluid would go. I bet the wiring over here goes up through—

I whip my hand back. Blood pools in my palm and trickles down my wrist. Damn it, I should have been more careful.

I blink, staring, a dull headache pulsing at my crown. The same wires. Glance at my hands. They’re fine. Dirty, but fine.

What in Ruin’s hellwasthat?

Leaning on one leg, I bring my right hand to my face and trace a pale scar. But this is an old scar. I got this at ... was it Arthen’s forge? Or digging Ramdinee’s grave?

My pulse thuds behind my eyes, banishing the train of thought.

“Nophe.”

Jolting, I jerk back and whack my head on that stupid hat-thing. Whirl around to see Heartwood there, his brows drawn together, a small, unlit lantern in his hand.

I’m breathing like I was digging. Rub the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“You weren’t responding,” he says softly. He’s in his leathers again. The braiding on the seams looks more complex than anything in this machine.

Shaking myself, I pull my hands down. “Sorry. Thanks.” I take the lantern, my index finger brushing his. The warm flash of his skin surprises me. In the back of my mind, I’d expected him to feel as cold as he sounds.

He regards me a moment before turning for the stairs.

Wait.

“What did you call me?” I ask.

Heartwood pauses.

I knead the handle of the lantern between my fingers. “You called meNophe.” It sounds similar to the end of my full name, but with an error in emphasis. A long O, instead of a half-forgotten, soft U.

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