Cassandra surveyed the Artisan’s workshop with awe. “What are the crystals for?”
“They are God-touched stones, conduits of divine power. They influence the manipulated memories, alter the narratives to fit my client’s needs.” With a graceful hand, the Artisan plucked up a deep, ruby-colored crystal, flat on the bottom and jagged on top—like boiling blood. “This one channels Vestan the Warrior, adds conflict. An innocent comment or conversation can be tinted to be remembered as a fight. A declaration of war, even.”
Psylbe replaced the blood-red crystal on the shelf and grabbed a shimmering violet cube. “Thakavi the Scholar’s crystal. It grants knowledge and understanding, can coax out even the deepest held secrets.”
The Artisan glanced sidelong at Tristan, but he didn’t acknowledge the look, and maintained his mask of aloof curiosity.
“But this cheeky little bugger is my favorite.” The Artisan’s jade eyes danced as she switched out the cube for a white, egg-shaped stone glistening with rainbow-colored flecks. “A fire opal bestows the influence of the Fallen Goddess. A memory will shatter into fragments, sowing chaos and confusion. Or it will coalesce into a narrative of such supreme balance that the viewer will swear they understand the meaning of all life in the universe. And I never know which outcome to expect. At full power, the stone is capable of manipulating time and space itself.”
“Full power?” Cassandra asked.
“There are sites throughout the continent that have been blessed by the Gods. Pockets of their power in this world where the stones can be…recharged, shall we say,” the Artisan answered with an enigmatic smile.
“What else do you know of the Fallen Goddess?” Tristan asked.
“Very little outside of the effects of the fire opal, unfortunately.”
“We need to learn more about her history. Think we’ll have any luck at the Temple library downtown?”
“Perhaps, though I wouldn’t hope to find much. Most of her literature was destroyed after the war.” The Artisan settled the opal back on the shelf. “Her powers, the powers of all the Gods, are not to be taken lightly.”
Cassandra couldn’t help a spark of indignation. “And yet you sell your services to Maksym, the highest bidder?”
The Artisan eyed her coolly, an ineffable expression shuttering her features. She didn’t balk at Maksym’s name; Tristan must’ve told her about the client who’d been commissioning her services in the message he’d sent to arrange their visit.
“Is that what you think I did? I don’t have to tell you that while his methods may be questionable, the seeds of doubt he intends to sow among the Fae will put Ethyrios on a path to true freedom. And I do nothing without Nemosyna’s blessing. She has willed this.”
“The Goddess wantsMaksymto rule Ethyrios?” Cassandra sputtered.
“I did not quite say that, did I?” The ethereal female’s coy grin stoked Cassandra’s annoyance. “But we’re getting off-track. I am sure this is not why you’ve come to see me?”
“No,” Tristan answered. “Please forgive my companion’s impertinence, Psylbe. We had a rough night and the information we seek is crucial. How much did Maksym’s messengers tell you of his plans?”
“Only the barest details. As I mentioned, I confer with the Chronicler before taking on any job. I ask potential clients a single question before agreeing to take their commission. What do you seek through this work? I pass their answer along to Nemosyna, who either approves or denies the commission.”
“And what was Maksym’s answer to that question?” Tristan asked.
“An upheaval of power. Cleverly stated and vague enough to suggest the Goddess blesses an end to the Emperor, but not necessarily the installation of Maksym in his place.” The Artisan aimed a knowing look at Tristan, and seemed inclined to say more but pressed her lips shut instead.
“Nemosyna would truly sanction a return to the days before the Accords? When the two species were at war with each other?” Cassandra asked.
“The Gods are neither fully benevolent, nor malevolent,” the Artisan answered. “They would not sanction the destruction or subjugation of an entire species.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You should ask yourself whether life since the Accords has really been so beneficial for our species.”
Cassandrahadbeen asking herself that question, for a while now. “You still consider yourself human?”
“I was human for the first forty-two years of my life and I consider it a great honor to have lived as both species,” the Artisan answered, her voice as rich and sonorous as the Temple’s grand bell. “When Cleo offered to turn me, I agonized over the decision for months. I was afraid of losing my mortal capacity for wonder. What surprises could the world possibly hold after centuries of existence?” The Artisan paused, blinking her green eyes several times slowly. “I needn’t have worried. Each day truly can be a gift, if one remains grateful, humble, and purposeful.”
Cassandra suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, but could tell by the female’s expression that she’d meant every word. “Why don’t you have wings? If you were turned by a Windrider, surely her ability to fly would’ve been passed to you?”
“Only the most powerful Windriders can bestow the ability to fly upon a Turned mortal. It’s one of the few reasons, besides her family’s influence, that Cleo was spared the death penalty after her crime. She’s not powerful enough to have given me wings and therefore my Turning wasn’t seen as an immediate threat to the royal family’s power.” Psylbe turned to face Tristan. “But surely, he has—”
Tristan cut her off with a sharp glance. “We’re wasting time. Allow me to explain why we’ve come. I’m guessing neither Maksym nor his messengers shared with you how he plans to distribute the manipulated memory?” Psylbe shook her head. “He intends to add it to a large batch of Delirium which we assume he’ll filter throughout the continent. He’s working with Richelle Pacha, the daughter of a mortal Delirium exporter and former Sister herself. They need to add the blood of active Shrouded Sisters to the drink in order for the memory to affix within Fae minds.”
“Horrific,” the Artisan breathed out.
Cassandra fought the urge to call out Psylbe’s hypocrisy. The Artisan had willingly participated in this scheme, and nothing the female had said today inclined Cassandra to let her fall back on the excuse that the Goddess of Memory had willed it.
“They also need Thalassium to stabilize the mixture,” Tristan continued. “They’d intended to acquire it from a rock attached to a diamond necklace, which is now missing. Hidden somewhere by another brave Shrouded Sister who was working to thwart their plans the whole time.” Cassandra’s chest squeezed at the mention of Cora, her dear friend now lost to the mists of obliviation. “She buried the knowledge of the hidden necklace’s location within a memory, which she scrambled by ingesting tainted Delirium. That memory was delivered to Cassandra last week. She’s watched it hundreds of times, but can’t make any sense of it. You’ve helped me unscramble Delirium-addled memories before. I thought you could do so again.”
