She threw her head back and laughed, treasuring these small moments of levity among all the heavy things they were dealing with. She refused to feel guilty for them.
Tristan fished severaldrachasfrom his pocket, likely given to him by the Meridon Vestians, and left them on the table to pay for their breakfast. “Let’s go, Daredevil. The Artisan is expecting us.”
She winced as she pushed up out of her chair, her thigh throbbing in protest. “Where’s her house?”
Tristan pointed towards a hill beyond the city where several buildings were nestled in the dense jungle. One dwelling in striking jewel tones of red, blue, green, and yellow perched on the crest like a tropical bird sunning its feathers. “It’s a long walk. Will you please let me carry you?”
She waved him off. Her gait smoothed as she left the table and aimed for the rainbow-colored house on the hill.
“I’ll manage.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
She couldn’t manage.
Cassandra’s injured leg quivered with every step up the sloping avenue. She swore the house on the hill was retreating into the jungle. Beads of sweat dotted her brow, soaking the hair at her temples and trickling down her jawline.
She focused on Tristan’s clomping footsteps, trying to hide how much she was struggling.
She’d been depending on herself and herself alone for the past eight years. And though he’d very willingly offered assistance, she didn’t want to come to rely on him. Safer to cling to her independence.
On her next stride forward, her leg buckled. She’d barely laid her forehead against a rough, plaster wall before strong, warm hands curled around her and Tristan launched them into the sky.
The cool tug of the wind against her face was bliss, the relief she felt from being off her injured leg divine.
“Tinystubbornhuman,” he grumbled, aiming for the Artisan’s house.
A few moments later, Tristan landed in the packed sand, his wings kicking up plumes of dust. He settled Cassandra on her feet, keeping an arm out for her to steady herself, but she swatted him away as her awed gaze roamed over the psychedelic dwelling.
A riotous explosion of color and sound greeted them. Wind-chimes of every imaginable shape and material hung from the eaves, translucent crystals and multi-hued shards of glass scattering prisms along the bright stucco walls. The crystals tinkled a tranquil melody in the lively, tropical breeze while metal tubes of silver, copper, and brass added harmonious bell-tones.
A willowy female clothed in a purple caftan floated through the front door with open arms.
“Welcome, welcome! May Nemosyna the Chronicler bless your memories,” the Artisan sang in a serene, lilting voice. Her androgynous face was a striking contrast of strength and fragility, with a sharp nose, round cheeks, and supple lips. Short, pale hair in the same soft peach as her glowing skin crested above her forehead. Her piercing jade-green eyes sparkled merrily, framed by crinkling lines—remnants of her bygone mortality.
She grasped Tristan’s hands and pressed a kiss to each side of his face. “Officer Saros, I was so pleased to receive your message. Lovely to see you again.”
“And you, Psylbe” Tristan bowed slightly. “Just Tristan will do, though.” He gestured towards Cassandra. “This is my partner Cassandra Fortin. She’s a former Shrouded Sister as well.”
“Praise Letha,” the Artisan intoned, arching a wispy eyebrow.
“Praise Letha,” Cassandra echoed, the greeting pulled from her mouth on instinct.
“Rare to meet another wayward member of the flock.” The female turned back to Tristan. “Where is your other partner? Officer Zephyrus? He was here a little over a week ago.”
Tristan’s genial smile disappeared and the Artisan mirrored his grim expression, as if compelled by her boundless empathy.
“What’s happened?” she whispered.
“Let’s discuss it inside,” Tristan said, inspecting the untamed greenery pressing in on the house. Plenty of shadowy pockets to hide an enemy or four. Not to mention the cacophonous blanket of sound from the chimes that would mask their approach.
The Artisan led them towards the home’s ornately carved door, reminiscent of the Temple library entrance in Thalenn. This frieze honored Nemosyna, Goddess of Memory and ancient rival of Letha.
The Chronicler stared out from the door, naked from the waist up with a flowing skirt cascading from her hips and tangling in her feet. She cradled a candle in the upraised palm at her stomach, the flame’s glow banishing curved, talon-like shadows creeping in around her. Despite the danger, Nemosyna’s face was placid, confident. As if the Goddess had absolute faith that her light would keep the darkness at bay.
The Artisan stepped in front of Cassandra, breaking her mesmerized scrutiny of the door, and swung it into a wide room full of gentle curves. No interior walls divided the single-storied space, distinct areas instead delineated by silk-printed screens or gauzy curtains.
Psylbe led them to a row of screens across from the bed, behind which stood a waist-high, weathered wooden table. Several shelves were crammed with glass vials, both empty and glowingly full, and rows upon rows of stones and crystals in every size, sheen, and color imaginable.
