Page 21 of Still the Sun

The heavy, circular artifact sits on the far end of my table. “Honestly, no. I haven’t put much thought into it.”

“That surprises me.” Salki takes a bite of bread. Unlike me, she takes her time to chew and swallow before speaking again. “You’re usually all over this stuff.”

You have no idea.“I’ll be right on it.”

We chat for another half hour before Salki glances at my clock. “We should get to the fields.” She sighs. Casnia overhears and lets out a wailing protest, then grips the doorjamb with two hands as the ground quivers underfoot. It’s a little stronger this time, but nothing my knees can’t handle, and it passes within seconds.

“You’re welcome to stay home,” Salki says to Casnia as she rises and pushes her chair back in. “But you can’t stay here.”

Casnia pinches her lips and eyebrows together.

“I’m just going to nap, Cas,” I insist. “It’ll be boring.”

Salki coaxes Casnia to her feet and, with a hand on her back, guides her out the door. “See you, Pell. Maglon says you should drop by sometime.”

“Thanks, Sal.” Visiting the alehouse would be a good idea, so people don’t start wondering where I’ve run off to. I could use some friendly company, too.

She waves and slips into the brightness of the sun.

I wrap up the remaining half loaf and stow it in my cupboard, safe from pests. I bring down my clay bowl and cloth for a bath, then pause, my attention turning back to the artifact on my table.

Sighing, I pick it up and take it outside. Climb the rickety ladder at the back of my house to my roof. Moseus likes to think in the dark; I like to think up here. It feels like it’s been too long.

I set the heavy plate with its funny triangular fin next to me and lie back against the sun-warmed shingles, staring up at a faded blue sky until my eyes hurt. I close them, and when I open them again, I know I drifted off. I don’t drool when I’m awake.

Wiping my mouth, I sit up, then stretch and look over Emgarden. Most of our buildings are only one story, so I can see all the way out to the fields. A cluster of pink and green emilies has popped in the road leading out of the town, the same one I take to the tower. If only our crops could grow so fast.

I glance at the plate. “If you really are just for picky eaters, my opinion of your artisan is going to plummet.” I pick the thing up; it weighs about a kilogram and a half. Set it on my knees. Turn it, following the numbers up to thirteen, then back down again to five. On the second turn, though, I notice something.

That right triangle jutting up between the fives. Or, rather, the shadow it casts.

Resituating myself, I balance the plate on my knees, turning it slower, keeping a steady grip. Watching as the shadow thickens and moves up the numbers. Like the magnetic ball bearing scrolling past the tick marks on my clock.

A clock? But why would the numbers one through four be excluded, with no markings to delineate the mists? There’s those strangeO\ and /Osymbols, but they’re not at the fives, eights, or thirteen. The sun shines for eight hours, and the mists settle for five. Always. But it doesseemlike a clock, especially with the high number being thirteen—the length of one cycle.

I flip the artifact over, expecting a hole of some sort for a connection to a rotational device, but there isn’t one. Nothing to indicate moving parts.

Unless.

I stare at the sky until my eyes water, then climb up to the peak of my roof. Straddle it. Set the artifact right on top to keep it flat. Again, I turn it. The shadow falls up the numbers to thirteen, then back down again. There’s not much of a shadow near the bottom in the curve between fives, but keep turning, and it starts again. Just how a clock might work.

I stare at those circular symbols with their lines. The first circle is to the left of the line. The second, to the right. Inverses of one another.

That’s ... not supposed to be thesun, is it?

Because that’s the only thing that would work. This artifact isn’t made to turn. But thesuncould mark the numbers. But that would only be possible if the sunmoved. The sun never moves. It stays right where it is, just off-center in the sky, slightly east. Steady, constant, unchanging.

I keep turning the dial in my hands, watching the shadow marker rise and fall.

But the sun doesn’t move. The sun doesn’t move. The sun doesn’t move.

But maybe, in the time of the Ancients, it did.

Chapter 7

I clench my teeth and hands and pull the pliers as hard as I can. My shoulders are ready to pull from their sockets when the stupid piece of debris finally comes loose, and I go flying toward the stairs, stumbling backward a few steps before falling on my butt. I curse Ruin and the World Serpent both before dropping the pliers and shaking out my fingers.

Grimacing, finding my feet, I glare at Machine Two. Snatch up my pliers and resume work. At least now I can move this beam, which hinges farther up on the machine’s body and is made to move, and then pull up this plate at the base to see what’s underneath. Machine Two bears only a few similarities to Machine One, so the guesswork has started all over again, though I think I’m getting accustomed to the Ancients’ art of wiring.

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