Page 6 of Still the Sun

“I will see it done. But only in return for your success.”

I glance back to the machine. “Successes. This is a mess. Any improvement should be rewarded. And ... you said there were other machines?”

“Three that we’ve found.” Moseus tucks his hands into his robe and walks toward the stairs. “We’ve been unable to reach the others. The top two stories of the tower are inaccessible, as you will see.”

I stare at a spot between his shoulder blades as we ascend.Inaccessible?Who builds a fortress and then makes almost half of it unusable? And wouldn’t it be better to make the bottom more stalwart, to stand against an army?But what army would wander out here to attack this citadel? It’s defending nothing.There’s nothing to defend except, perhaps, the machines themselves. All of Emgarden couldn’t penetrate this tower.

We reach the second floor, which has windows, which means light. A second machine sits to my left, almost exactly over Machine One. Whistling, I approach it. At first glance, it looks identical to the one on the first floor, but studying it closer, I see that’s not the case. Machine One has a delicate feel to it, intricate like lace. This second machinelooks intricate as well, but it seems ... I don’t know,heavy. Its casings and coils are thick and robust, and more of the machine takes on that familiar bronze color I’ve come to associate with the Ancients’ tech, though this is another unfamiliar alloy. Already I can see where some plates should connect but don’t, an easy fix. There’s a notable pulley system here as well, though gods know how I’m going to access it.

“There’s a third upstairs,” Moseus says. I turn to glance at him, then notice part of the ceiling that’s been cut away to access the third floor. “Cut away” is putting it kindly; it looks like it was hammered, chiseled, and clawed open. A ladder leans against the wall nearby. I walk toward the rough unevenness of the hole and peer upward. Above is well lit, but I can only see a ceiling.

“And you ... can’t do that for the other floors?” I gesture to the malformed hole.

The sharp lines of the stonework soften as the tower quivers in a gentle earthquake. I steady myself on the stout stone wall. The quake passes, leaving everything still and unscathed.

“No.” Moseus glances out the nearest window. “We have tried.”

I move to the ladder, but then I spot a large lantern beside it. Changing my mind, I grasp it, light it, and take it back downstairs. I approach Machine One again, holding the lantern high, peering between the expertly cast loops. When I hear Moseus’s footsteps behind me, I say, “I’m going to need more light. And a stool.”

“We have them.”

“And those tools you promised.” I walk around the machine, squeezing past where it nearly meets the wall, and press the lantern to the exterior, squinting at the gears within. “I can start now, if you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you. The sooner these are functional, the better.”

I turn to reply, but over Moseus’s shoulder I spy a third person standing on the stairs. For a moment I think I’m seeing double, but no, these two are different. The newcomer radiates strangeness in precisely the way Moseus does—pale skin, long white hair, odd clothing—but his hair is loosely fastened in a braid, with another network of braidsworked into it that reminds me of the machine at my side. His clothes are a mix of brown and deep green, mostly leather and a softer fabric similar to what Moseus wears. His face is broader than Moseus’s, as are his shoulders, though his countenance is ... hard. Stony as the tower itself.

He shifts, and light from the second floor hits his face. Like Moseus, he has green eyes, but they’re bright, nearly acidic in both color and expression. He is bizarre andotherand I can’t take my eyes off him. The need to take a closer look, to prod at him like I have at this machine, overwhelms and confuses me. A sharp breath brings my thoughts back into focus.

I meet those eyes, and the ensuing tension drives back the chill of the room and kills my captivation. I can’t really place it—that glare is the look of an enemy, a victim, and a skeptic all at once. It’s both accusatory and ... I want to sayhurt, but he really isn’t close enough for me to know. He might just have one of those faces. I certainly do. Still, the discomfort undulates, smelling like cool, moist clay.

Moseus cracks my mental poetry. “This is my companion, Heartwood. Heartwood, this is Pell.”

Unsure what else to do, I tip my head in greeting. Heartwood merely turns and takes the stairs up, and I wonder how much of that four-second exchange was in my head. Unlike mine, Heartwood’s footsteps don’t echo. Like he’s a ghost and nothing more.

“Charming,” I mutter, resisting the urge to rub the lingering discomfort from my sternum. “Is he your brother?”

A sardonic half smile pulls on Moseus’s mouth. “Only in purpose. The resemblance is happenstance. It’s ... common, among our people.”

Our people.So there are others like them. It makes sense; I doubt the World Serpent just spat up two quasi clones after building this world. I try to imagine an entire village of Moseuses and Heartwoods, but my mind can’t conjure it.

“Interesting name.” I glance back to the machine, wondering where I should start.

“We are named for our animus,” Moseus supplies. When I cock my head, he adds, “Our intendment. Our ... initial purposes.”

“Heartwood,” I reply. His name weighs oddly heavy on my tongue. “That’s like a tree thing, yes?” There aren’t many trees around here, and the ones we have are short and bristly.Just like you,Arthen once said with a laugh, before I poured his ale into his stew.

Moseus nods.

“And what does yours mean?”

His lip ticks upward, a little more sincerely this time. “I am a peacekeeper.”

“Okay, then.” I set the lantern down, face the machine, and plant my hands on my hips. “Trees and peacekeeping. Got it.”

No wonder they haven’t been able to fix these things on their own.

Figuring out where to start proves my biggest challenge. Moseus fetches a small but impressive toolkit and watches me for a few minutes before blessedly retreating. I’m not used to being watched while I work. Not when I tinker, and not when I dig. Filling myself with a deep breath, I circle Machine One a few more times, turning sideways to push through where it nearly kisses the wall. Something tells me I don’t want to go upstairs, where the bone-chilling Heartwood lingers. Not a fair assumption, maybe, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me.

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