Page 49 of Still the Sun

I don’t know the names of most of the gods—there are hundreds, at least. But I know the name of one. “I guess Ruin was real pissed when it came around.”

The ground rumbles in agreement.

Heartwood is an interesting creature. An emotional one, yet severe. To save my life, I cannot imagine him at the counter of the alehouse. He sounds very sober when he explains, “Ruin was the last of the first. The Well gave everything it had. Life pulled every last drop from its recesses, until all it could do wastake. That is what Ruin is. A consumer. Devourer.”

“Balance to the universe.”

He frowns. “Some have said.”

Movement across the garden catches my eye. “Moseus,” I say, less in greeting and more in warning. He stands at the entrance of the garden. He looks off—not just from the perturbance nesting itself on his brow, but the hollowness in his cheeks. In truth, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in good lighting. It’s evident that while this garden renewsHeartwood, it does not have the same effect on Moseus, no matter how peaceful I find it.

Then I remember Heartwood asked me not to tell Moseus I’d come here, and that Moseus told me to give Heartwood a wide berth, and my stomach sinks to my knees. My tongue twists, trying to taste out a lie, but I’m not sure what I’m lying about.

Heartwood doesn’t look overly worried. He stands.

“What are you telling her?” Moseus’s usual serenity weaves through the question, but I can tell he’s unhappy. Nervous.

“She asked,” Heartwood replies.

Rising to my feet, I put out my hands in surrender. “I won’t share it. I don’t even really believe it.” I’m not sure if that qualifies as a lie. I’m not sure of any of it.

Moseus holds Heartwood’s gaze for nearly a minute. The garden air practically thickens with it. The sun burns too hot. I take in the shadows of Moseus’s face and pin them to what Heartwood said earlier: that he cannot demonstrate his godhood.

He’s too weak,I realize.They both are.

I want to ask why, but I also want to keep my head on my shoulders, so I excuse myself and venture back to the tower.

Moseus and Heartwood don’t return for a long time.

I rest at home during the following mist, dreaming of gods.

It’s the kind of dream that’s hard to recount: more shapes and colors than anything else, but my mind finds a way to twist sense into it. I see a vast, endless universe of pale blue, and in it spins a great white ring, vomiting serpents and gods, until it turns inside out and becomes something else entirely. Something deep and hungry and dark. I’m eager to take my mind off the fading shapes and incomplete story. As soon as the next mist falls, its gentle, barely-there tone whispering on the breeze, I return to the tower.

Machine Four looks good. Most of its problems are at the top, which means climbing up its complex network of parts, but I enjoy it. Nearly drop my turnscrew, but I snatch it just in time.

“Kiss my mortal ass, Heartwood.” I gesture crudely to him and storm toward the stairs.

“You don’t know what it could do!” he barks behind me.

I whirl toward him. “You’d better walk before I show you whatIcan do.”

He throws his hands in the air and storms away.

I blink, one hand holding tight to a beam as the vision dissipates. What are—were? will?—we even fighting over?

Chewing on my lower lip, I lean into Machine Four. Press my forehead to its cool metal and close my eyes, replaying the scene in my head. Heartwood so animated, so unlike the version of him I know now. I wonder why—

“I came to apologize.”

I sit on the protrusion from the top tier of the tower, looking up at the sun. The mists have begun to gather across the Brume Mountains. I don’t answer. It’s childish of me, but I don’t.

A full minute passes. He sighs. “I hate it when you sit out here.”

Glad he can’t see my smirk, I reply, “I know.”

The vision evaporates. I wait, pressed against the machine, for another. Adjust my position. Roll up my sleeves, wondering if skin contact might trigger something new, but alas, the tower seems done with me, for now.

As I pull back, though, my hand brushes against ... rubber? There’s a short bar under this set of pistons, perpendicular to everything else. I think it’s debris lodged in there, but when I twist and get a better grip on it, it pulls up like a lever.

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