Page 2 of Still the Sun

I gather my tools and start back, then notice Casnia kneeling down the road, unaware of the funeral. She’s small, not any taller than myself, and round, thanks to Salki and Entisa’s care. Short black hair warms her crown, and clean clothes stretch over her back and thighs. She squats, her narrow wood tablet against the ground, her little satchel of colored chalks open and half-spilled beside it. Her tongue peeks out from the corner of her lips.

I approach, making sure she’ll hear my footsteps. “How are you, Cas?”

Though well into adulthood, Casnia has the mind of a child. She bobs her head to the right, then to the left, never taking her violet eyes off her art. She draws as a child would, often portraying the people of Emgarden. It always takes me a moment to sort out who she’s trying to depict; despite many motherly lessons from Salki, Casnia never uses the right colors, merely whatever she fancies in the moment.

“Is that ... Salki?”

She often draws Salki with red hair, or pink if there’s no red, though Salki’s hair is a pale gray with a few strands of blonde. Adjusting the tools on my shoulder, I ask Casnia, “Do you want to come to the alehouse with me to wait for her?”

Casnia continues drawing, seeming to not have heard me. She starts a new person beside Salki, sketching a lopsided head and rectangular body in brown. Yellow hair spikes out of the head. I know this one well—it’s me. The brown is right, at least. I have tan skin, brown eyes, and usually brown clothes. My short hair is brown, too, though Casniahas always insisted it is not. After a few more passes of the chalk, she scoops up her things and clasps them tightly to her chest with one arm, then offers the other to me. I grasp her hand and help her up, then walk at her slow pace toward the alehouse. If nothing else, I can give Salki a little more time to mourn before she has to tend to her charge. Casnia is not hers by blood, but she might as well be. Then again, Entisa wasn’t her mother by blood, either.

By the time I set my tools down and lead Casnia inside, Maglon has already resumed his post behind the modest counter, wiping glasses. Several people are inside drinking, discussing the funeral or taking their minds off it. Every death hits hard. Everyone knows everyone in Emgarden.

“You should be restin’, Pell,” Maglon says over the counter as I situate Casnia at my usual table, choosing a chair against the wall. Her balance isn’t always steady.

“Rested enough.” I tug absently at my breastband. The hot sun has made it especially uncomfortable. Serpent knows why I even bother wearing it; I don’t have much to bind. “How are you holding up?”

Maglon shrugs. “Well as anyone, I suppose. Got a feelin’ I’ll be low in the barrels this sun.”

The alehouse starts to vibrate; my hand finds a wall to steady myself. Maglon leans his weight on the counter, and Casnia pauses long enough for the quake to stop before continuing her work. Little tremors like this happen from time to time. Tampere, the name we’ve given this land, is often restless.

More people enter the alehouse, the ones I’d seen talking with Salki, though she’s not among them. Good. She should go home. Take a mist or two.

I get an ale and a cup of water, the latter for Casnia. She ignores my offering and sets down her things, unbuttoning her pouch and spilling the chalk. Two sips of my drink go down before I lean my head against the wall and rest my eyes. They burn a little when I do. Guess I should get some water for myself, too.

“... trowels aren’t working,” I hear when I open my eyes again. I wonder if I dozed off. The townsfolk fill the alehouse, leaving only a few chairs empty. Casnia has started a new picture, drawing me with yellow eyes.

Arthen rubs a hand over his bald head. “I can sharpen it again for you, but it’s all I can do.”

Frantess, another farmer, sighs. “The whole thing will snap in half if you do.”

“Don’t get on his case about it.” Gethnen finishes off a glass. “He can’t do nothing about it.”

“I know that,” Frantess snaps. “I’m just frustrated by it all.”

“We’re all frustrated,” Balfid adds from another table. Amlynn, the town doctor, nods her agreement.

“Pell’s got scrap metal,” Frantess says. “Just take it from her.”

“No thanks,” I say. By the way her face reddens, I don’t think she noticed me in the corner.

Skin flushed, Frantess leans into the argument. “And what good is the scrap to you? We need more tools!”

“What good is the windlass on the well?” I ask, picking at dirt beneath my nails. “Or the clock on the wall, or the flour mill you took from Ramdinee’s?” All of which I constructed by studying and repurposing Ancient artifacts.

Maglon glances over. “Are you the one with the flour mill?”

Frantess’s blush deepens. “I’mnot the one who took it from her house! It’s just been passed around. And it’s not like Ramdinee’s using it anymore. My point still stands.”

“If you want artifacts”—I lower my hands and meet her eyes from across the room—“then go dig them up yourself.”

“I’m too busy digging up your dinner,” she snaps.

Maglon slams a cup down on the counter. “That’s enough of that.”

I force a deep breath into my lungs. Frantess has a point, but so do I. In truth, the idea of Frantess finding something new beneath the red-rock dust, melting it down without even letting me have a gander,makes me nauseous. I could doso muchfor this town if only I had more. More artifacts, more metal, more time. Unfortunately, not everyone shares my view.

In an attempt to keep the peace, I offer, “But if you need to melt down my rock bar, you can have it.” It’s the long steel lever I use for moving large stones when I dig. “I can use my shovel handle.”

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