Page 64 of Still the Sun

“My name is Heartwood.” He steps back, giving me some breathing room. “Please, Pelnophe.”

He says my name strangely, elongating the vowels. “PEL-nuh-fee,” I correct. “Pell is fine. Preferred. And ... how many machines?”

“Two.” He again checks the road. “But we’ve nearly reached a third.”

“Nearly reached?”

“I will show you, if you swear secrecy.”

He has the wrong person. There’s no way I’m capable of ... but who else around here would be? And ... I have to see for myself. Bring a kitchen knife and a hammer, in case things get ugly. I can fight myself out of a corner if I need to, especially if there are only two of them. Maybe.

“How do you know about me?” I ask.

“Not many venture out into the desert,” he says. “We’ve seen you coming and going, with Ancient tech in your hands. You’re our best hope at fixing the tower.”

I digest this. “And ... what do the machines do?”

He considers me for a long moment. “I will explain on the way.”

Then, probably because Iama little drunk, I agree, and let this “Heartwood” escort me to a long-forgotten, impenetrable tower.

He doesn’t touch me again.

The machines are ... broken. Badly broken.

The first has most of a foundation, but the rest lies in pieces on the floor. The second is similar. The third ... they’re still burrowing through the ceiling to reach a third. They’ve made enough of a hole in the nearly impenetrable barrier to look through. A machine lingers there.

I wonder who attempted to build such an incredible network of technology, only to abandon it. And fear I can never possibly fix it.

“Heartwood is a strange name,” I quip, hanging nearly upside-down in Machine One to attach some wires. “A deer made out of wood? Who names their kid that?”

He scoffs. “It’s the center of a tree.”

“Trees barely have centers.” The wickwoods make up ninety percent of the trees around here, and they don’t grow any thicker than my thigh. “Moseus has ... well”—I grunt and turn a nut—“amorenormal name. Can you hold that thing higher?”

Heartwood obliges, casting light over my work. Strands of hair stick to my eyelashes, and the blood rushing to my face makes it feel thick.

“Moseus’s name is in a very old tongue,” Heartwood replies. “It does not translate well.”

“And yours does?”

I guess he nods, but I can’t see it. A beat later, he says, “Yes.”

“Well, what’s youractualname then?”

He chuckles, more to himself than at me. “You would never be able to pronounce it.”

“Try me.”

He hesitates, suddenly sober. In soft tones, he confesses, “I have not heard my true name for a long time, even from my own lips.”

Grabbing a beam, I right myself. Several uncomfortable seconds pass. “You don’t have to ... if you don’t want to. I’m just goading you.” Though I’m sincerely curious now.

The barest smile curves his mouth. “Ytton’allanejrou.That is my name in Thestean.”

It’s so elegantly lyrical on his lips, I don’t dare try to repeat it.

I rest my shovel on the ground, wiping sweat before it streams into my eyes. We’ve dug a sizeable hole outside the tower, yet we’re getting nowhere. The root of Machine One just keeps going, going, going.

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