Chapter 13
Thirteen
Like a giant vivarium, the cavernous library is filled with stacks that rise into shadow, the ceiling constructed of domes of shimmering glass.
Bridges and walkways crisscross above, lined with more shelves, more tomes, more secrets than any one person could hope to unearth in a lifetime.
Light filters down in threads from glowing orbs suspended high above, and dust shimmers in their beams.
I exhale slowly, the awe pressing into me once again. “It feels alive today,” I whisper.
“Maybe it is,” Xavier murmurs, his hand pressing to my lower back as he gently encourages me on. His tone is flat and dismissive, as though even here, in the beating heart of memory itself, he refuses to be moved. But for the first time, a thought creeps through me, quiet and unwelcome.
Maybe he’s right not to trust it.
The Memonic Council is made up of old men stuck in their archaic ways, and they are responsible for the tomes which reside here.
I wouldn’t put it past them to restrict certain histories and retain their knowledge, shaping it into their own agenda.
I shake the thought from my head, trying to maintain my positivity, and walk quietly up to the ornate, gilded desk that stands in the centre of the Archives.
As we approach, a head of golden hair pops up from underneath, and I instantly recognise the accompanying golden beard, framing the wizened face of my old friend.
“It’s been a while, Cyril,” I greet him and he beams as he takes me in, scrambling up off the floor and running round the desk to see me. “Did you drop something?”
I lean around him to try to see what he had been doing on the floor, but he shifts back in front of me, filling my vision.
“Don’t you worry yourself about that,” he says in his hoarse wheeze. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Wren?”
“I need to do some research, though I fear the information I need may be err… restricted,” I admit with a grimace, and I feel Xavier fidget uncomfortably next to me, his hand tensing where it still rests against my back.
Cyril’s gaze turns weary as he mirrors Xavier’s shuffling, but in a blink of an eye, it’s gone, replaced with his warm smile once again.
“Of course, Miss Wren. What is it you seek?”
“Anything you have on memory siphoning,” I say, and his eyes widen, but I continue before he can ask any questions. “I’ve also been told you may be the person who can tell me more about this ink. The individual who sent it is a key suspect in a murder case.”
I pull out the latest note from Corvus and present it to him, pointing to the cursive letters that glitter faintly in the candlelight.
Xavier leans in to watch, his curiosity finally piqued.
Cyril takes it from me gently and holds it up to the light, cursing quietly under his breath.
The action makes my heart lift with hope, but he dashes it instantly.
“I can’t tell you who wrote this,” he admits quietly, and my shoulders drop in defeat. “But, I can tell you there’s only one thing that can make this particular shade of blue with that shimmer.”
Xavier and I exchange a shocked glance before we both turn back to Cyril. “What is it?” I ask eagerly.
“Moonveil petals,” he whispers in awe. “A flower that only blooms once a decade under a lunar eclipse. Its petals bleed a deep midnight pigment when pressed, but the flower is said to vanish into mist if harvested too greedily. Whoever owns this ink must be extremely wealthy, unless of course, they stole it.”
My mind reels at the revelation. “Where could you buy such a thing?”
He blows out a breath as he deliberates. “Most likely the Maw in Aethermere. But it’s such a rarity, I can’t be certain.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, accepting the parchment as Cyril returns it to me. “You’ve been so helpful.”
He nods with a smile. “Glad to be of assistance my dear. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and fetch those restricted books you require. Feel free to venture into the Archives while you wait, I’ll come and find you.”
As soon as Xavier is out of earshot deep in the stacks, I whisk the phial out of my pocket and set it onto the little wooden desk in front of me, smiling at Stryx as she floats around in her tiny form.
I heave a huge, leather bound tome onto the desk with a thump, sending dust scattering through the glimmering air.
“That’s a big book.” Stryx’s voice whispers into my mind as she presses her long whiskered nose up against the glass to see better.
“It’s an ancient text on the art of Mindweaving, written before it became prohibited.
It might educate us on the darker aspects of the practice,” I say quietly, opening up the cover and running a gloved finger down the contents page.
Touching these texts without gloves is a sin punishable by banishment, and not one I’ll ever risk.
“Let me out, I want to see,” she begs, and I huff a sigh, looking around to make sure no one can see us before I do as she asks. I remove the seal and she floats out with a flip, darting through the air to hover over the book.
“Don’t you dare change size,” I warn her. “If you accidentally knock over a bookcase with your tail, imprisonment will look like a vacation compared to what would be in store for us.”
She nods her little head before floating over the page, reading the lines of text scrawled across it.
“Here,” she says, stopping by a line of text at the bottom of the page. “Go to page 327. It mentions the dangers of going too far with Mindweaving.”
I flip the pages enthusiastically until I reach the passage we need and quickly scan the text, looking for anything that stands out.
“It mentions the physical consequences for the wielder, but not for the target,” I mutter, disappointment rushing through me. It’s not like I expected our answers to be in the first book I found, but it would’ve been nice to start off on the upper hand for once.
Stryx flies back and forth above the pages, reading at lighting speed, but quickly comes to a stop with her head hanging a little lower.
“No mention of anything to do with fog either,” she notes.
I frown as I recall Riven’s words. “If he was messing with me, why would he say that specifically?” I wonder aloud. “Surely it must mean something. Maybe he was referring to the ‘fog’ of the victim’s mind when the memories have been totally siphoned?”
Stryx floats up and sits gently on my shoulder. “What if he’s not talking in metaphors? What if he means actual, real-life fog?”
“What do you mean?” My frown deepens as I turn my head to look at her.
“The Echofae have this myth,” she murmurs, her voice a gentle echo in my mind.
“I always thought it religious pandering, but it is said that if a being is to die by their own hand, their soul will be incarcerated in the Voyd instead of joining with the mists of the Veil. So maybe it works the other way too? If they died by another’s hand, could the fog left in their minds be their souls uniting with the mists of the Veil? ”
I think about that, and an old memory surfaces. “I’m sure I’ve heard that before, in a children’s story? But even if it is true, it doesn’t exactly help us find their killer.”
“No,” she agrees, floating back towards the book. “Let’s keep looking, there must be something here that can help us.”
I shut the book with a thud that echoes through the cavernous space and wrestle it into my arms to return it to the shelf, Stryx sticking close to me as I venture further into the stacks.
“It’s very quiet in here,” Stryx comments, shifting about nervously. “Not in a good way.”
I can’t help but agree as I run my finger along the various titles, an odd feeling in my gut starting to churn as I note how long it’s been since Cyril left us to locate the restricted books.
The silence of the Archives is almost reverent, broken only by the whisper of pages and the scratching of my pen as I jot down my observations on a scrap of parchment.
The smell of dust and vellum clings thick in the air, as though centuries of knowledge have sunk into the stones themselves.
Stryx and I continue to examine the various titles with as much luck as we started with.
My mood plummets with every dead end, and my anxiety slowly increases as I note how much time Cyril has been gone.
The sound of boots scuffing on the stone floor draws my attention, and my head snaps up as Stryx’s tiny form presses in close to me.
“Quick,” I whisper sharply, lifting the phial and gesturing for her to return inside. She shoots in immediately and I stuff the phial into my cloak less than a second before Xavier comes striding round the shelves.
I exhale a breath of relief as he stops beside me, noting the numerous books I have laid out on the desk.
“Any luck?” he asks, absently running his fingers over the closest tome.
I shake my head in disappointment. “No. I assume you’re the same?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, nodding his head noncommittally.
“What is wrong with him today?” Stryx whispers into my mind, as if she’s worried he can hear her somehow.
I’ve been wondering that too, but when I look up at him, he finally gives me his usual smile, and I find myself relaxing a little.
It’s been a crazy few days, he must just be exhausted, that’s all. Gods know I am.
As soon as that thought enters my mind, my Shadow materialises, and my anxiety increases tenfold. Though I know Xavier can’t see him, it still makes me nervous, like I’m going to slip up and give myself away. No one other than Stryx knows of my condition, and I want to keep it that way.
“So, where do we go from here–”
“White hair!” The voice, cracked with age and sharpened by contempt, hisses from behind us, cutting Xavier off.
The words land like a curse, and I realise too late that my hood is still down after I pulled it back earlier to stop it falling into my eyes whilst reading. We both turn to find an old man glaring at us, his eyes, yellowed and rheumy, fixed on me with revulsion.