Page 18 of Still the Sun

They both nod.

“And they ... look like you?” I gesture between them. “I’d recognize them, if I saw them?”

Heartwood frowns. Moseus answers, “More or less. You can understand the importance of the mission. And our frustration. Where we come from”—he touches Machine One, almost like it’s a lover—“there’s nothing like these. The Ancients weren’t like us.”

“They weren’t like any of us,” I agree. Despite all my study—myattemptsto study—I don’t know much about those who came before. They’re legend, like the World Serpent and the gods. They were the first living creatures the gods made, strong and long-lived, and eventually they moved on. I can’t say I blame them; surely other worlds shed by the Serpent have more resources and beauty than Tampere.

And that explains why none of us has ever seen people outside Emgarden. They must be behind that wall. To think we’ve been sharing this world for so long and never knew ...

“But you’re here,” I offer.

Heartwood sighs. “We’re here.”

He looks and sounds so devastated that I don’t dare interrogate him further. I wonder who lives behind that wall. A family. A wife, a mother, a brother. The thought of being parted even from Salki hurts; I can’t imagine if I were separated from a child or other blood rel—

I lose my train of thought.

“One of these may open a door,” Moseus says tentatively. “Another may be a means of communication. We’re not yet sure. But, for now, the mist holds. Please see what else you can do.” He crosses the chamber,his footsteps loud, and slips into his room. I wonder what shapes his thoughts take, that he’s so comfortable sitting with them.

Turning back to the machine, I roll my lips. I’m not entirely sure what more to do. How could a machine here open a passageway in an impenetrable crystal wall kilometers away? But the Ancients crafted mysteries. Moseus was not off the mark when he called it magic.

“Is he okay?” I ask, not meeting Heartwood’s eyes. “He seems ... ill.”

A long, slow breath stirs the air. For a moment I believe Heartwood will not reply, but after a beat he says, “He often is,” sounding as hollow as Moseus’s cheeks. I wonder whether that wall and the people behind it affect Moseus’s health. Or, perhaps, if Heartwood does.

I press my hand against a silvery beam crossing Machine One’s middle like a belt. I’ve come so far already. Proven myself. So why do I feel so far away? For a moment, it’s as though the tower might crumble around me.

“Do you ever feel,” I murmur, “like something’s missing? I don’t know. As though ... your purpose is unfulfilled, your future is uncertain, or ... like you’re forgetting something?”

If the silence that settled during Moseus’s departure was a snuffed candle, this one is a choked fire. A few seconds pass before Heartwood answers, “I wish I could.”

Then he, too, leaves, abandoning me to the vexing mystery.

The following cycle, I’m near the end of my trek to the tower through the fog when I see a shadow moving away from it. I know immediately it’s Heartwood. The more time I spend at the tower, the more easily I can tell Moseus and Heartwood apart, in more ways than one.

Moseus has slimmer features and a slimmer build. His eyes are a deeper green and endless in a way that makes him feel older than he is. An old soul, Salki would say. He’s simple, unadorned in his appearance, behavior, and speech. He masks his emotions well. He sees a task thatneeds to be done and does what’s required to fix it without complaint or fanfare. He thinks using facts, reason, logic. It’s definitely something I can appreciate.

Heartwood has broader features, both in face and body. While he’s far from gaudy, he likes embellishment. He wears more complex clothing than his counterpart, and his leathers are etched with an array of designs, most of which I’ve yet to identify. I’ve never seen him with his hair down or simply held back in a cord. There’s always a braid, a knot, a loop, often all three. He tries to mask himself as Moseus does, to put on a face of serenity, but he isn’t good at it. He’s often frustrated, consternated, or simply sad. Sometimes I sympathize with him. Usually, I’m annoyed. When Heartwood looks at me, it makes me think of discovering a feral cat in a basement in the light of a flickering lamp. That eerie green sheen in the eyes, the hissing of self-defense, knowing it’s too small to win a battle. Whether in the tower or the mists, something about Heartwood deeply unsettles me, like we’re two magnetic north poles, repulsing each other with some unseen, unknown, and aggravating force.

But what really strains me is the knife. Why did Heartwood have Arthen’s knife, especially when we’re so desperate for metal? And why did Arthen thinkItook it?

Slowing my pace, I watch Heartwood leave as I approach. I’ve considered asking him about it directly, but while Moseus might be up front with me, Heartwood would not. He would have an excuse, dismiss the accusation, or simply not reply. Perhaps hide anything else that might give me answers to whatever happens in this bizarre fortress. I’m starving for answers. Can’t risk it.

But I keep the knife on me, just in case, and wonder where Heartwood is going. There’s nothing to see around here. There’s a privy in the tower, and a well hidden in feathery, brown brush to the southwest. I enter the tower and light my smallest lantern. Sling two tool bags over my shoulders. Hang a couple of slates from my belt. I stare at Machine One, then trek upstairs.

I’m glad to be up here. Not just for something new to work on—something that might help me understand the remainder of Machine One—but because of the light. This floor has a friendlier feel and a slightly more open floor plan. The windows keep it from getting stuffy, whereas the air downstairs flows thick enough to chew, even when Heartwood’s gone. I should stay here a sun sometime; I imagine it’s downright pleasant.

And I suppose I’m more of a bronzy woman than I am silver, both in preference and appearance. Machine Two is just ... prettier.

But it’s also different, and again I get that sensation of taking two steps back for every step forward. As though I’m fighting against the Ancients themselves. They continually force me to retreat, but I won’t be conquered.

“All right.” I set down my equipment, save for a wrench and a hex turnscrew. “Let’s see you naked.”

I loosen plates, struts, and fasteners, cataloging each in small script on a slate, making a mental note to ask whether Moseus has parchment I can use. I don’t know how he would, if he doesn’t trade with Emgarden, but I saw some in Heartwood’s room, so it’s a possibility. Once I have a better look at Machine Two’s guts, I carefully take off a cylindrical piece I don’t recognize, surprised at how heavy it is. Put it back on, and do the same for ... I want to call it a gear or a wheel because of its shape, but it doesn’t have teeth or rivets, so I deem it a hell-if-I-know and move on.

Toward the center of the machine, spines and shafts bloom open like a flower. Doesn’t take long to determine they shouldn’t be doing that, yet I can’t imagine what would make them fall apart in such a way. There’s nothing to fasten them upward or apply pressure inward. They just ... collapsed, as though weary of being part of something so large.

I’m reaching for one of the spines when I feel a hand on my shoulder and warm breath on my neck. Seizing, I whirl around, scraping myself on loose parts—

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