Page 43 of Death of the Glass Angel
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 lessunsettling. 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.
