Page 48 of Still the Sun

“You’ve never been particularly religious.” He looks out over his garden, again guessing my next words. Again striking me speechless. He can’t read my mind ... can he? “There are many gods,” he continues, quieter. “I am not one necessitating worship.”

I laugh again, because I don’t know what else to do. I walk down the path a ways, then come back, albeit not as close as before. “Well, maybe I’m a goddess. And I also can’tdemonstrate.”

Heartwood sighs, like I’m a child, and it instantly puts me on edge.

“Okay, Heartwood”—I fold my arms—“from some other Serpent-made world, if we’re to believe the lore. Why in the universe are you on Tampere?”

His answer softens me. “I’m searching for my sister.” He meets my eyes. “What Moseus said about the tower, about the wall, was not false.”

My shoulders are so rigid, they start to ache. I force them to relax. “And what, is she a god, too?”

He pauses. “I should not have burdened you with this.” There’s something else he wants to say; I can see it in the movement of his lips. But he adds nothing.

“Well, I’m burdened.” I stride past him to the rock he perched upon earlier and sit. “Explain.”

He rolls his lips together, debating.

“Tell me where you come from, Heartwood. Give me that.”

He exhales long and slow. Without looking at me, he says, “We trace back—all of us—to the Well.”

“The Well of Creation.” I’ve heard of it. Amlynn is really into the legend.

He nods. “It was in the beginning. It made the fabric of the universe, the stars—”

“What are stars?”

He points to the sun. “The first life to extend from its depths was the World Serpent.” He gestures to me, knowing I’m aware of the great snake. I swear on it often enough. “And after, it stemmed the gods.”

Still skeptical, I ask, “And what number are you?”

A wistful cast envelops his face. “I do not know. After Ether.”

“Ether?”

“My sister.”

“They’re ... kind of all your siblings, aren’t they?”

“In a sense.” He kneels down on the path, then sits, folding his long legs before him. Pieces of hair have loosened from his braid and catch on the subtlest breeze that scoops into the gorge. For some reason, it ... does make him look a little godlike. With the right lighting, he could have an etherealness about him. He’s always been lovely, in that sense.

“So the Well just spit you all out, and you, what, followed the World Serpent around until you settled down?”

He shakes his head. “You are always so matter-of-fact.”

“Am I?”

Heartwood’s gaze turns inward. “The Well made the essence of our forebears, which the world formed. I am not a creation of the Well itself, but a child of it. My parents, if you will, formed me in the depths of a forest a long way from here. Thus my animus.”

“And Moseus was formed somewhere ... like this.” I gesture widely.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Somewhere peaceful,” I specify.

I get a smile from that, and I push back against the fluttering it ignites in my stomach. “I’m glad you find it peaceful.” He considers. “Moseus is very old. When he formed, it was very ... quiet.”

“And this sister, Ether, she just ... formed in the air somewhere?” It was a joke, but Heartwood nods, which makes me feel stupid. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m thinking about this too literally. I still only half believe him. And he gets that half because heisso other. So unlike anyone else in Emgarden. And because he bent steel to his hand, and not a bone on that hand looks like it’s ever been broken.

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