Page 24 of Still the Sun

“Good.” He glances out a window. “Do you intend to leave?”

However much I love this place, I’m exhausted, and my brain feels like porridge. “I’ll try to be discreet.”

Moseus frowns. “That is not part of the deal. You must travel in the mists only.”

“Yeah, I know, but if I’m not around, people will ask questions.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’ll loop around and come from another direction. People are used to me being about.”

Moseus’s frown persists. “Be careful. There is much at stake.”

Grateful I don’t have to sit around for seven hours until the mists settle, I continue, “And you’resureyou can’t punch your way into the rest of the tower? Like you did here?” I point to the hole above my head.

“I have tried.” His voice sweeps like wind. “Many times.”

“Are you ... okay?”

The question startles him. “Okay?” He repeats it like it’s a foreign word.

“You seem ... tired.” It’s the kindest explanation I can give.

Moseus considers. “Such is my disposition. I am well enough.”

“Peacekeeping taking its toll, I suppose.” I wonder what happens at the tower when I’m away. How Moseus and Heartwood interact when there are no eyes to see. But I don’t inquire, only make my exit.

Leaving my tools, I take the stairs down, meeting Heartwood at their base. Ignore the way my stomach tightens. Raising an eyebrow, I say, “I wasn’t going to fall.”

“No”—he looks away—“I don’t suppose you would have.”

He says nothing more, only passes me on the stairs, and I walk home with the unmoving sun in my hair.

My mind and body both need a break from the tower, so for the next two cycles, I stay in Emgarden.

I sleep for half a sun before treating myself to a visit to the alehouse. I catch up with several folk from town, including Maglon. He has always been easy to talk to. It’s not the ale, which is often weak and sour, but his open demeanor and tight-lipped attitude. I could tell that man that I killed Entisa with my bare hands, and he wouldn’t reveal it to a soul. Not that he wouldn’t take retribution out on himself, in one way or another. Maglon is a vault, but he’s just. When Frantess starts bragging about her “win” with my forfeited metal, he tells her to pipe down.

I pick up my grain rations, visit Salki and pull a sliver from Casnia’s finger, then head home. I tuck away my artifacts, including the sundial, and then rest and watch the mist curl outside my window, without pattern or shape. I think I hear that distant tone when the mists arrive, but it might just be my imagination.

When the sun returns, I venture out toward the farms and test new areas for wells, marking two that might be promising. After that, I wander to Arthen’s forge. He’s not in, so I help myself to his drawers and pull out my rover plans, using a charcoal pencil to sketch in extra ideas and a few equations, things I’ve learned from working on the Ancients’ enormous machines.

Arthen says nothing when he arrives, merely looks over my shoulder. Points with a thick pinky finger. “What does this mean?”

“It’s an idea to use the energy of the wheels to keep them spinning,” I say. “So the steam doesn’t run out as quickly.”

“Wheels powering themselves?” He snorts and grabs a bowl of new nails and a file to finish them.

“It could work.”

“I suppose it could. Body should be easy enough, if I have the metal.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

He studies me. Waits until I look up from the plans to speak. “Where’re you getting it, Pell?”

I purposefully don’t look up. “Digs.”

“These digs are suddenly a lot more fruitful.”

I glance through the nearest window, toward the amaranthine wall, though I’d have to climb onto the roof to see it. “I’m trying some new techniques.”

Ugh, surely I could have come up with something better than that.

---