Page 4

“Pelnophe, let me in,” he says, his voice crisp, confident, low. Accented in a way I can’t define.

I don’t react. My mind struggles to understand his presence, barely able to hear the demand past the hammering pulse in my ears. And, as he pushes past me, to understand how on earth he knows my name. Numbly, I close the door behind him, swirling tendrils of fog that seem just as curious as I am about this stranger’s appearance. He doesn’t acquaint himself with the small room. Indeed, he seems completely disinterested in it and merely turns to face me.

Are we not as alone as I thought? How far did this man travel to arrive here?

He’s beautiful, in a bizarre way. The way a new artifact is beautiful. Striking and whollyother.

“I-It’s just Pell,” I try, finding my voice. I’m too shocked to be angry at the intrusion. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

He studies me a moment, his face hard. “You’re an engineer, and I’m in need of one.”

I come to myself suddenly, as though I’m one of Casnia’s drawings finally finished. “Excuse me? How do you know my name and what I do?” I glance at the table, the half-intact artifact there.

He doesn’t follow my gaze.

“I have made it my business to know,” he replies calmly.

“Who are you?”

“Are you capable or not?”

I turn his question over in my mind. “I’m a mere tinkerer.”

He nods, as though expecting as much. “A mere tinkerer in a village of farmers will do. No one else understands the machines, and there is no one else, so I need you,Pell.”

I look him up and down again, unabashed in my appraisal. Why shouldn’t I be? This man barged intomyhome. I have every right to take a good look, though that robe hides most of him. He looks middle-aged, and yet somehow ageless.

It takes that long for a specific word of his to catch me. “What machines?” A hint of breathlessness dilutes the question. Any machine could only come from the Ancients.

“In the tower.”

I lean back against the door. Thetower. He could only mean the fortress to the northwest. “You ... you’re from there?”

“My companion and I, yes,” he explains. “We’ve dwelled there a short time, and”—he takes a deep breath—“desperately need it operating again.”

Operating? It’s been a while since I last scouted out that tower, but it’s impenetrable, with nothing of use on the outside. Five stories tall, composed of three diminutive, cylindrical tiers and a strangesomethingjutting at a roughly twenty-degree angle from the top tier like a pruned tree branch.

Was it part of amachine? And that tower, it’s so large, so strong. If the Ancients stored their tech inside, it must be in order. Far morewhole than what I’ve been able to scavenge. The very thought of beholding such a thing, let alone touching it, springs shivers down my spine. My fingers twitch. It doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real.

There’s only Emgarden, and—

“Will you—” he begins.

“What is your name? Who are you?” I demand, desperate for clarity.

He exhales slowly. “My name is Moseus. I am one of two keepers of that tower. Will you assist me, Pell of Emgarden? The tower must be functional again.”

The twitching intensifies. I want to screamYES, but I need more information. “Functional in what regard? What does it do?”

Moseus’s lips press into a thin line. “That is not something I wish to discuss at this time.”

“But if you want me to—”

“You have not yet agreed,” he points out, the threatening sharpness in his tone betraying his thinning patience.

I’m aware that I’m stubborn, but our conversation has hardly broached the limits of what I’d consider tactful. Stepping away from the door, I ask, “How do you know what I do?” I gesture to the table. Everyone in Emgarden knows my fascination with the Ancients’ tech, but Moseus is not of Emgarden.

He raises a white eyebrow. “Because I have eyes and a high vantage point. Your digs are hardly secret.”