Page 33 of Still the Sun

I remember what Moseus had told me, about his people’s names. They were called after their ... what was it? Animus. Their purposes. Moseus had called himself a peacekeeper. He sought out peace, stillness, often meditating without distraction. Did that bolster him somehow? Heal him? If it did, perhaps Heartwood likewise needed somethinglike this garden—something I’ve never seen elsewhere on Tampere—to find the same solace. That would explain why, whenever he returned, he seemed in good health.

What would my animus be? What recharges me? The earth? Water? The machines ... I do have an affinity for them. And people. I like being around people. Perhaps I feel so outside myself lately because I’m not visiting Salki as often, or conversing with others at the alehouse, or waiting out the mists with Arthen or Maglon. Yet none of those ring true. I am not a machine, and I don’t want to be named after one. Neither am I a person to be shaped by others. Which brings me back to earth and water. I suppose, in the end, I am a digger, carving holes into the ground to bring life or hide death. In that sense, I’m a shepherd of spirits, and I don’t mind the lofty metaphor. Not here, where I’m surrounded by so much beauty.

Eventually I sit up, brushing an ant off my leg, and shake air into my sticky shirt, loosening the sash. I follow the garden path to its far end, where the slot canyon continues. Charcoal ready to mark my path, I follow it, sating my curiosity despite knowing it must be well into late sun by now. But I’ve never seen these sandstone channels, and everything around Emgarden is so stagnant, always the same. I want to explore.

At one point, the way gets so narrow I can barely squeeze through sideways. It forks again, and I choose right. Climb up a shallow rise and find myself off to the side of a small mesa. I’m circling it, wondering if I can climb up, when I hear the tone.

It’s so loud, here. In Emgarden, when I catch it, I can excuse it as a ringing in my ears. No one else seems to notice the one-note song. Even out here, the desert wren’s call has more weight to it, but I hear the note so crisply and clearly, I cannot deny it. It calls to me.

One hand on the mesa, I look out to the Brume Mountains, where they curve to cradle the country Emgarden rests upon. There must be something about the elevation, or the angle at which I watch, but I see the mist appear over the rough peaks. See it rise from one in particular,billowing upward in a column like steam from a kettle, measured and precise.

The thought forms so easily: the tone doesn’t match the single note Machine One made when I got it moving, but it’s similar. That sound, the formation of the mist itself, my mind names itmachine, without any further evidence. Of course the mists come from machines. It makes sense, doesn’t it? And yet I’m not startled by this revelation in the slightest.

Andthatscares me.

The next time the mist comes around, I return to Machine Three.

I sketch out what I think it may look like, drawing several iterations. Some of the loose pieces fit together, so I work on those, then sort out how they might fit into the machine itself. It’s an enormous and frustrating puzzle, but I learn more about the Ancients’ technology each cycle.

There’s a coupling in this foundation, and after some searching, I’m confident I’ve found the shafts that connect to it. Those components all attached to a gear network that fits what I’ve already installed. With a grunt, I lift the thing into place, then reach to set the gears—

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 Machine One, trying not to get blood on it. Great, this will make 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—

Air rushes out of me all at once.

It takes several seconds before I realize I’m on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. A small sprocket pokes my thigh. I don’t remember falling.

I stare, and stare a little longer, before pushing myself upright.

My hands shake.

“What is happening to me?” I whisper, pressing unscathed palms together. My fingers are colder than the stone floor. My blood pumps quick and hot. My pulse thrums beneath my skull.

Something is wrong with me. Something is wrong with these machines.

Then I’m on my feet, retreating from the half-formed behemoth, tripping over a steel coil. I’m not tired. This isn’t lack of sleep. I was awake when I saw...whatever I saw. I’m always awake when I see it. And I’ve never seenthis muchbefore.

What is it? A mental lapse? Avision? Of what, the past? The future? It’s not nothing. Once, it told me how to repair a piece of Machine One, and it worked.It worked.

“Ancients save me.” No, not the Ancients. They’redoingthis to me. Somehow, their technology is messing with my head. Theirmagic, though I hesitate to believe in such a thing.

Reaching the window, I inhale deeply, letting curls of mist into my lungs. Stiff, I turn back to Machine Three. It’s just as I left it. Unfinished, lifeless. A mystery.

The Ancients were powerful beings. The first created by the gods. Maybe only powerful people were meant to work on these artifacts. Am I testing the ghosts of those before, tinkering with the tower this way?

Don’t be absurd,my mind snaps, but it’s already absurd. These machines are doing something to me. Making me see things.

Has the same happened to Moseus? Is that why he can’t work on them anymore? I could ask, but what if I’m wrong? What if I’m alone in this madness? He might dismiss me. Why does that thought make me feel sick inside? But I know the answer even before I finish the question.

Something is missing.

This tower fills a void in me, that empty space only ale could occupy before. There’s somethinghere, something important. I feel it in my bones. And what the machines have shown me...none of it isbad, necessarily. I saw an injury, yes, but hardly a lethal one. And I saw hands taking care of me.

Pale hands.

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