Page 125 of Death of the Glass Angel
Gods, what a beautiful edifice. Janus marveled at it, oblivious to Talon’s presence.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Talon chuckled and walked away.
This morning felt. . . fuzzy. After waking from a nap in the carriage, she had come to, as though pulled from a deep dream.
Last night, Des cried herself to sleep. The memory sat within Janus like a heavy stone. Why could she recall all her life now, when she never could before?
“You alright?”
Janus blinked away her jumbled thoughts and looked up to see Dinu walking beside her. She felt a kindred spirit with him—his hair was never combed, nor his clothes adequately fitted.
“Fine. Excited.” Janus said.
“Right. You’re big on architecture, aren’t you?” Dinu pulled out a cigar and lit it with a flash of fire on his fingertips. “The monolith here is more impressive than Weisskopf if you ask me.”
“Infinitely more.” Janus agreed enthusiastically, lowering her voice as she remembered how many people walked in this procession.
“Hm.” Dinu reached into his bag and carefully pulled out a scroll. “Maybe you’ll find this interesting.”
Delicate parchment was handed to Janus, and she carefully unrolled the scroll. A map painted the page, a sketched mess of tunnels, stairs, and chambers. This was a map of the Monolith.
“That’s not any map,” Dinu said. “It’s the original. Penned by the architect who designed it.”
He was right. Eyes widening, Janus pulled the parchment closer to her face, drinking in the finer details. The dimensions of halls and arches, the planned additions. Probably an outdated design, as the Monolith had been refurbished countless times over the centuries, but Janus didn’t care.
“How did you get this?” Janus asked, incredulous.
“I collect old maps,” Dinu explained, puffing his cigar. “That’s one of several I have in my collection. No one else seems to care much for this kind of thing, but I thought maybe you would.”
“And it’s in remarkably good condition. You must take excellent care of these.”
“Treat ‘em better than I treat my women.” Dinu chuckled, then frowned. “That’s what my mother says, at least.”
“I would never have guessed,” Janus admitted. “You don’t seem the type.”
“Avalon agrees. She still thinks it’s an elaborate lie I’ve conjured to confound her.” Dinu chuckled as he put the cigar back in his mouth.
With the map committed to memory, Janus carefully rolled the parchment up and returned it as if handing over fine jewelry. Dinu carefully tucked the scroll into his satchel as the procession halted before the Monolith doors.
The three Altanbern chiefs were the first to enter, followed by the other nobles with their guards and attendants taking up the rear. The interior hall was cramped, the darkness dispelled by horn sconces hanging upon stone walls. A gentle slope descended into the depths of the earth. The chiefs led the way, guiding the procession down the gradient and deeper into the Monolith.
Arched alcoves lined the walls, two torches illuminating each. A stone sepulcher filled each, with a plaque above denoting the deceased’s name. Janus drank them in as they passed, noting the names written therein. A few rang familiar—ancient Altanbern chiefs who had passed long, long ago.
A shiver ran down Janus’s spine. Between the myriad coffins and the gloomy atmosphere, an unpleasant chill had seeped into her bones. Wrapping her arms around herself, she held her breath. Everyone remained utterly silent; only the rap of their footfalls could be heard.
After a nauseatingly long descent, the corridor evened out, opening into a grand chamber. The vaulted ceilings rose high overhead, crowning the massive statue at the back of the room. A tall, broad man clad in furs and a tweed wrap towered over them, clutching a simple spear. Badulf-Esseg Esseg.
The ancient chief’s tomb lay at the feet of his statue, and several long benches lined the area facing him. Murals decorated the back wall, bas reliefs depicting the three clans and the small villages from which their first chiefs had originated. The Gaevral relief caught Janus’s eye, no more than a tiny cefran village tucked into the woods, cute little carvings of miniature huts surrounding a maevruthan the size of a small pond.
Chief Esseg, a round, jovial-looking man bound in a deep green warp, approached the statue to invoke the judgment of the ancestors. Heras stood to one side of the tomb while the accuser, Chief Kahn, took the opposite side. The remainder of the group scattered around the room.
Gemellus snuck up behind Janus and touched her arm. “Stay put. I’m going to. . . look around, shall we say. Make sure no uninvited guests lie in hiding.”
“Be careful,” Janus whispered.
“There’s no need to worry for me, dear.” Gemellus smiled. “I am the shadows themselves.” He drifted away, melting into a dark corner.
Sitting on a cold bench, Janus observed the remainder of the surprisingly simple ritual. Chief Esseg lit a small incense at the statue’s feet, and as the smell wafted over the cold chamber, he dipped his head in prayer.
