Page 71 of Still the Sun

Pelnophe, you’ve been asked to work on the tower before. The first time Heartwood came for you, the second time, Moseus. Heartwood is your ally. He is your everything. If you’re reading this, you’ve forgotten, but I (you) foresaw this, so I wrote everything down. Listen carefully.

I put my maker’s mark—the rhombus with three lines—at the end of the sentence, then follow it with a few facts only I could possibly know. So future me will believe present me.

And then I write everything, every action and thought and theory, until my hand cramps and seizes, and I hide it away in that cubby in the floor, where no one but Salki could possibly find it. Or me.

I massage my hand as I stare out my window at the Brume Mountains, waiting for the mists to fall. Stress squeezes my stomach too hard for me to coax any food into it, and nothing on Tampere could possibly distract me from the issue at hand. The earth shakes once, then twice, while I wait, as though my nerves have found a way deep into the soil, disrupting the entire desert.

I’ve walked to the tower in the sun a couple of times before, but Moseus prefers the mist. I don’t want to draw his ire, just in case.Please be wrong,I think as I push on my thumb to stretch out my cramped writing muscles. I need to be wrong. But I also need to see Heartwood and explain. He’ll wonder where I went. Perhaps I should have woken him with a sort of explanation, but my mind wasn’t in a good space. It still isn’t. I’m clueless as to what words could bridge this uncertainty, but I have to bridge something. I have to learn the truth, one way or another.

I feel the slightest chill on the breeze before the mists foam over the peaks like the head on a drink. I dance restlessly, waiting for the fog to stretch its hand over Emgarden. The moment the air gets the slightest fuzzy edge, I’m off to the tower, too nervous to walk, too afraid to run. If my dream held any meaning, I can’t let Moseus suspect anything is wrong. Not one word, movement, or hair can be out of place.

It’s the same mindset I had in the dream, and it didn’t help me then.

The shadow of the tower pierces the mist, growing in clarity with every step. I still have no idea how to power the machines, but I’ve gotto work it out, or at least put on the air of working it out. My goal is Heartwood. I pray he hasn’t said anything to Moseus about the state of my mental retentiveness.

The first floor, shadowed save for where blue-tinged light slips down the stairs in its center, stretches quiet as a grave. The silence makes me nervous. I push the door shut behind me, loud and steady, as I always do. I glance toward Moseus’s room. The door is ajar.

I take the stairs up. The tower’s tool bag sits at the top of it; I grab it and carry it with me, scanning the floor. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Heartwood’s door is shut. I head straight for it, grateful again for its oiled hinges—

He’s not here.

My nerves double over and twist in complex knots. He wouldn’t still be in the garden, would he? Perhaps higher in the tower?

I see the room anew. I’ve sat in the alcove of that window. I brought the pink quartz on the top of the cairn in the corner. I found it while turning new land for the crops. Heartwood doesn’t sleep well in here; the bed is nearly as hard as the stone floor. He prefers being outdoors.

“Are you looking for something?”

Moseus’s voice behind me screams like a giant bell, with me hanging from the clapper as it rings. I turn around, forcing myself to relax. He looks better than usual. Less tired, and that sets me on edge.

I need to get good at lyingright now.

“I was hoping Heartwood could help me out with the machines.” I mentally scramble for details, because I know Moseus will ask.

He stands at the top of the stairs, his narrow face tilted slightly to the right, his arms folded. The pale fingers of one long hand rest atop his sleeve.

Cold hands grab the sides of my head—

“For what, precisely?” he asks.

I turn toward Machine Two, taking half a second to glance over it, quietly rejoicing when something valid comes to mind. “To move the door,” I say. I’d nearly forgotten about the seams in the wall; I’d beenso distracted at the discovery of the lift, and subsequently the fourth and fifth floors, that I hadn’t revisited it. I realize it probably masks the mechanics for the lift itself, but it’s something I haven’t fully explored. “I want to know what’s behind there, and I thought he might be strong enough to move it.” I search my memories, careful not to recall anything I shouldn’t know. “No offense; you don’t really strike me as one who enjoys physical labor.”

Moseus cocks an eyebrow at me but doesn’t dispute it. His dark green eyes shift toward Machine Two. “I’ve tried. We both have. It’s immovable.”

Grateful for a reason to move away, I approach Machine Two, set down the tools, and trigger the mechanism to shift it away from the wall. “Maybe if I study it a little longer I can figure it out.” I clear my throat; my voice pitches too high.Go away, go away.“It’s got to be this or Machine Five—”

I hear steps on the stairs, and Heartwood emerges. Moseus shifts aside to give him room. Heartwood’s gaze immediately locks on me, and a mix of confusion and relief pulls at his features. “Nophe, where—”

“Here,” I interrupt, gesturing to the hidden door behind the machine. “This is where I need you, but Moseus said you already tried.”Need a reason, a good reason ...“I want to see if I can wedge a turnscrew in here, and if not, maybe file one down to get between the slabs of stone. Look, I’ll show you.”

I emphasize the last words as subtly as I can, jerking my head in the direction of the door.Play along, Heartwood, please.

I don’t wait for him to follow, just crouch down like I’m getting to work, praying to any gods outside this tower that Moseus will leave. He doesn’t. But Heartwood approaches and crouches down beside me just as I pull my narrowest turnscrew from the tool bag.

I don’t look at him. “Say nothing while he’s here,” I whisper. Plead. I hand him the turnscrew and point out the seams. “Hmm,” I say a little louder, “They really are tight. We can’t break through like you did with the ceiling?”

“We were able to find a weak spot in that floor’s integrity,” Moseus answers. “There are no others. I’ve spent years searching.”

Exactly how long have you been here?I want to ask, but I can’t figure out if that’s something memory-wiped Pell would say or not. I’m overthinking this, I know I am.

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