Page 15 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Talon

Maevruthans are beautiful creations—my personal favorite. A well of memories, a pool of purity. A group of people gather in complete solidarity, surrounded by utter trust. It should have been infallible, but people are eager to prove they are incapable of harmony.

-Excerpt from Lady Entia’s private journal

Sprinting down a sheer mountainside was a fantastic way to get yourself killed. Voices echoed through the snow as Talon skidded down the slope, yanking a dagger from his belt.

The assassin, dressed in Kahn armor, glanced back, and Talon threw.

Thud. The dagger lodged into a tree as the assassin slipped into the woods.

Did Seoras, the wind god, ferry the man’s steps? Darting through the trees, Talon emerged in a clearing where a dirt path led to one of the city’s smaller entrances.

But there was no assassin to be found.

Straightening his hair and catching his breath, Talon tried to figure out where he was. The road curved toward a looming arch of stacked rocks, guarded by cefran warriors in red tweed. The Cefran Enclave, home of the Gaevral clan.

Chieftess Heras’ clan, where all the city’s cefra came to share memories at least once a year.

Jogging forward, Talon spun in a circle. Had the assassin doubled back into the woods? Cursing, he gave up the chase and set his sights on another lead.

Heras’ memories were stored in this enclave. Finding the assassin would prove needless if Talon saw within her memories the truth of her strange behavior.

It was, admittedly, a far-fetched hunch. The only crime Heras had committed was staring at Janus in an odd manner. But Talon had no other leads. He doubted Kahn had been brazen enough to send those men—the attire was doubtless an attempt to shift blame.

Brand’s sudden arrival was far more worthy of scrutiny. It hadn’t been easy, tailing Janus through the woods. And all for naught. Talon hadn’t realized Brand’s escort intended to strike until they were upon Janus.

Talon approached the enclave gates, pausing so the guards could search his features. Seeing his brilliant purple eyes, they nodded their welcomes to kin and uncrossed their spears. Bowing graciously, Talon winced as his boot sloshed through a puddle of mud.

Most would make an annual pilgrimage to their maevruthan, but some lived here, upholding the old isolationist lifestyles cefran clans had once led.

Talon preferred cities. Why one would choose to live in dirt huts was beyond him.

A pool of viscous, silver water lapped against muddy shores at the enclave’s center, the rich soil decorated with river pebbles. A family on pilgrimage knelt by the shores, the mother and father dipping their hands into the waters, eyes closed, while two small children looked on.

Fires raged where cooks gathered, and groups of hunters strode past, bows strapped to their fur-covered backs.

An icy-eyed hunter stalked toward him. “You.” He barked in cefran. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting the home of my grandfather.” Talon lied. “I was in the city and wanted to stop by.”

“Make it quick.”

“I thought all enclaves were open to kin.”

The hunter’s mouth thinned into a line. “Now is not a good time.”

“And why is that?” Talon pressed.

He didn’t answer. “Make it quick.” He strode away.

The hunters glanced at Talon when their comrade returned. Interesting. Why was now a bad time? Did they worry he’d come to glean the truth of Heras’ secrets?

Pretending to draw in a journal, Talon studied the maevruthan and eyed the surrounding landscape. This clearing had nowhere to hide; sneaking to the maevruthan would be impossible.

Cefra held dear an implicit rule: you did not peer into another clan’s memories. Should anyone see Talon graze the silver waters, he would be tossed out and permanently exiled.

Despite the egregious breach of cefran law, Talon needed to see Heras’ memories. He could hardly approach her and ask for tea. She had no motive to assault Janus, which gave Talon no means of approach.

So how would he get to that pond without being seen?

What is he doing? A low voice questioned.

He’s going to get caught. A deep voice agreed.

They’ll see.

Snapping his journal closed, Talon looked down to see mist bleeding out of the soil, snaking between trees and huts before slowly rising into the sky, clinging to rooftops and hanging from branches. It spread across the maevruthan, shrouding the water in white.

Every cefra sank to their knees and bowed their heads as they vanished into the mist. Lowering himself, Talon joined them, feeling the frigid mist seep into his skin.

Altanese mist could never be mistaken for fog after a rain. Thick and opaque, it covered the world in a veil of deathly white. Figures moved in the mist, they said. Phantoms. The Altanese worshiped them, believing those walking in the depths of the sudden fog to be their revered ancestors.

To dip your hand in another’s maevruthan was a sin. To disrespect the ancestors was another.

Talon waited, holding his breath until the mist was so thick he could not see an inch before his face.

Counting the spaces between himself and the edge of the maevruthan, he rose and crept forward, feeling for anyone in his path.

Eventually, his boot brushed the pebbles surrounding the pond, and he dropped to his knees.

What he was doing was doubly sacrilegious. He’d better not get caught.

Taking a deep breath, Talon plunged his hand into the maevruthan, feeling the viscous liquid resist him.

A chaotic mess of sounds and images flew through his mind, disorienting.

This was not his first time infiltrating a different clan’s memories, but the experience was no less unsettling.

His own maevruthan, accessed by the crystal around his neck, was pleasant.

Calm. Everyone’s memories were precisely where you expected to find them, as though ordered into a file system in the back of your mind.

This pool was anything but. Attempting to wrest control of his mind, Talon sifted and searched. Heras. Heras of the Gaevral.

Memories stirred. Images of a young woman growing up in the city, a stranger amongst her people.

A talented hunter, Heras proved her worth as the next chief of the Gaevral by slaying an eyeless arachnid that lived deep in the mountains.

Talon winced at the memory of her hauling its towering corpse on a cart to her people.

The rest of the images flew by in a blur. As the Gaevral claimed the crown of the Royal Chief, Heras ascended shortly after the old chief passed. She’d married another Gaevral man, one of their trackers. Together, they bore two sons. Brand and Felsin.

Years passed as the children grew. Everything seemed normal. Happy.

Then gaps began to appear. Anomalous holes in her memory, some small, some spanning days. Black spots blinded Talon’s eyes where the sights should have been. Could Heras not remember these days, these moments? Did she suffer from some kind of amnesia?

The day of her husband’s funeral was here, recalled in clarity, yet the day of his death was absent.

And sure enough, if there was a valid excuse for her vacancy at the last Thruinc council, Talon could not find it.

Desperate, he peered between the memories, searching for anything unusual or any mention of Janus’s name.

He found only one, a seemingly insignificant moment from a month prior.

“That boy.” Heras’ iron eyes flashed as she set down the ball’s guest list. “The youngest son of King Vallides.”

A man sat across the desk from Heras. Copper skin, long black locks. “The one who died in that tragic accident, you mean?”

“Was it an accident?”

The man watched as Heras rose and walked to the window. “Are you suggesting he was murdered?”

“I’m considering it.” Heras brushed aside the curtains, staring into the courtyard.

“What would it matter?”

“Say my son was murdered. What would happen, then?”

Eyes flicking around the room, the man sat back. “I don’t follow.”

“Think. Felsin is my youngest. What would happen if he died?”

Realization clicked on the man’s face. “Brand would. . . I see.” He sat forward, brows knit and hands clasped.

“Someone else knows.” Heras insisted. “That child was murdered.”

“By whom?

“I don’t know. But there’s a good chance the one holding the knife will be at the ball.”

The man rose. “Shall we be rid of them?”

The memory slipped away from Talon abruptly. A flurry of sounds and voices rushed through his mind. Gritting his teeth, he thought instead of Brand, the brutish prince who had glared at Des with hateful eyes, who delivered assassins to take her head.

His head ached as memories flew by, but the son reflected his mother—if Brand had ever spoken about Des before his brash encounter with her at the ball, the memory had disappeared from the maevruthan.

One final image flitted through Talon’s mind: Brand, watching Des from the shadows as she departed the ballroom at the end of the night.

Talon yanked his hand from the maevruthan, gasping for breath.

The fog receded from around his ankles, and the sky cleared of its haze.

Tripping over himself, Talon rose and backed away, assuming a kneeling position a few paces from the shore.

The white faded, revealing the shapes of people prostrated in respect to their ancestors.

Slowly, they rose and returned to their day, the hunter’s eyes falling back on Talon.

Hardly anything of use had emerged amongst the deluge of imagery. Save for the fact Heras believed Eros had been murdered.

And they wished to kill the one responsible. Janus had been but a child at the time, and Felsin had never met Eros. Neither matched.

Grimacing, Talon hurried out of the enclave, anxiously drawing another dagger from his belt.

Janus’ assassins were still out there—she was not safe. Des was not safe.

He had one, solitary lead. The copper-skinned man who’d sat across the table from Heras.