Page 17 of Still the Sun

His brow twitches at the design. I debate whether or not to ask after his welfare and ultimately decide against it.

“That ... work for you?” I try.

He nods, slowly. “You’ve worked quicker than I expected.” Then, after mulling a moment, “Is this similar to what you’ve ... ‘tinkered’ with at your home?”

I snort. “Hardly. But I strive to impress.” I try to mask how much the comment bolsters me. Icando this. Take that, Ancients.

“I don’t know how to make this for you,” Moseus continues, handing back the slate. “Heartwood might be able to, out of wood, but the strength—”

“A blacksmith in town can build it for me, if I have the scrap, and if I can convince him it’s more important than spades and rakes.” I’ll tell Arthen it’s for the artifact Salki brought me and promise to return it right after, or distract him with other scrap metal from the tower. “It’s simple enough. He won’t know what it’s for.”

Moseus’s deep-green eyes trail up the length of the machine. Something about his gaze feels deeply personal, almost intimate. Like he’s not looking at my work, but at me. A sudden surge of insecurity flows over me, foreign and uncomfortable, and I find myself crossing my arms, which is awkward with the tablet.

“Have it done as soon as possible.” Moseus’s voice is distant, low, masculine. “I’ll give you the materials you need.”

Two cycles later, I return with my turning rod and affix it to the machine. It takes some ties and ratcheting, since I don’t have equipment to weld like the Ancients did, but I secure it, hoping the angle and leverage will help me turn it and provide power to this mystery. Moseus watches from a couple of paces away. The shades of sickness have darkened on the planes of his face. Is he eating? Heartwood lingers near the stairs, appearing perfectly fed.

Hiding a frown, I focus on the machine. I push the end of the handle, which measures about two-thirds of a meter long. It doesn’t budge. I lean my weight into it, but no luck. Heartwood starts to move forward, maybe to inspect my work or give me a hand, but then I abandon the rod and instead grab my longest wrench, lean into the machine, and nearly flay my arm reaching in to smack that switch in the middle of it. Returning to the rod, I push, push,push... and that gods-damned rotary unit starts to move. I grin, even as a few gears grind in protest, not quite aligned and certainly not oiled, but the machine moves. Quietly, briefly, I hear a tone, a note garbled amid the creaking and complaining. And then it all stops, the machine stuck on ... I’m not sure.

“Functionalenough,” I say aloud, pushing the handle the opposite way and turning everything back to where it started. And that tone ... I definitely did something right, if the metalworks are singing to me. Iwonder whether Moseus or Heartwood heard it, but neither comments. “I’m still not sure what it does, but it’s working.”

“Excellent work, Pell.” Moseus steps closer and puts a hand on the network of metal enveloping most of the machine. For the first time, I see him smile, and it lifts his entire countenance, shadows and all. I glance to Heartwood. That vein pops from his forehead again. His expression remains grim, his jaw tight. He tips his head to me. I suppose that’s as much of a compliment as I can expect, from him.

Letting out a long breath, I tell Moseus, “That’s an invitation, you know.”

He pulls back his hand. “Pardon?”

“To disclose what these machines do,” I specify, patting the turning rod. “Because if you want me to fix the others, you’re going to have to tell me.”

Chapter 6

Moseus frowns. “You are using the termfixedvery 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?”

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