Page 24 of The City Of Fractured Memory

The Memonic Council is made up of old men stuck in their archaic ways, and they are responsible for the tomes which reside here. I wouldn’t put it past them to restrict certain histories and retain their knowledge, shaping it into their own agenda. I shake the thought from my head, trying to maintain my positivity, and walk quietly up to the ornate, gilded desk that stands in the centre of the Archives.

As we approach, a head of golden hair pops up from underneath, and I instantly recognise the accompanying golden beard, framing the wizened face of my old friend.

“It’s been a while, Cyril,” I greet him and he beams as he takes me in, scrambling up off the floor and running round the desk to see me. “Did you drop something?”

I lean around him to try to see what he had been doing on the floor, but he shifts back in front of me, filling my vision.

“Don’t you worry yourself about that,” he says in his hoarse wheeze. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Wren?”

“I need to do some research, though I fear the information I need may be err… restricted,” I admit with a grimace, and I feel Xavier fidget uncomfortably next to me, his hand tensing where it still rests against my back. Cyril’s gaze turns weary as he mirrors Xavier’s shuffling, but in a blink of an eye, it’s gone, replaced with his warm smile once again.

“Of course, Miss Wren. What is it you seek?”

“Anything you have on memory siphoning,” I say, and his eyes widen, but I continue before he can ask any questions. “I’ve also been told you may be the person who can tell me more about this ink. The individual who sent it is a key suspect in a murder case.”

I pull out the latest note from Corvus and present it to him, pointing to the cursive letters that glitter faintly in the candlelight. Xavier leans in to watch, his curiosity finally piqued. Cyril takes it from me gently and holds it up to the light, cursing quietly under his breath. The action makes my heart lift with hope, but he dashes it instantly.

“I can’t tell you who wrote this,” he admits quietly, and my shoulders drop in defeat. “But, I can tell you there’s only one thing that can make this particular shade of blue with that shimmer.”

Xavier and I exchange a shocked glance before we both turn back to Cyril. “What is it?” I ask eagerly.

“Moonveil petals,” he whispers in awe. “A flower that only blooms once a decade under a lunar eclipse. Its petals bleed a deep midnight pigment when pressed, but the flower is said to vanish into mist if harvested too greedily. Whoever owns this ink must be extremely wealthy, unless of course, they stole it.”

My mind reels at the revelation. “Where could you buy such a thing?”

He blows out a breath as he deliberates. “Most likely the Maw in Aethermere. But it’s such a rarity, I can’t be certain.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, accepting the parchment as Cyril returns it to me. “You’ve been so helpful.”

He nods with a smile. “Glad to be of assistance my dear. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and fetch those restricted books you require. Feel free to venture into the Archives while you wait, I’ll come and find you.”

As soon as Xavier is out of earshot deep in the stacks, I whisk the phial out of my pocket and set it onto the little wooden desk in front of me, smiling at Stryx as she floats around in her tiny form. I heave a huge, leather bound tome onto the desk with a thump, sending dust scattering through the glimmering air.

“That’s a big book.” Stryx’s voice whispers into my mind as she presses her long whiskered nose up against the glass to see better.

“It’s an ancient text on the art of Mindweaving, written before it became prohibited. It might educate us on the darker aspects of the practice,” I say quietly, opening up the cover and running a gloved finger down the contents page. Touching these texts without gloves is a sin punishable by banishment, and not one I’ll ever risk.

“Let me out, I want to see,” she begs, and I huff a sigh, looking around to make sure no one can see us before I do as she asks. I remove the seal and she floats out with a flip, darting through the air to hover over the book.

“Don’t you dare change size,” I warn her. “If you accidentally knock over a bookcase with your tail, imprisonment will look like a vacation compared to what would be in store for us.”

She nods her little head before floating over the page, reading the lines of text scrawled across it.

“Here,” she says, stopping by a line of text at the bottom of the page. “Go to page 327. It mentions the dangers of going too far with Mindweaving.”

I flip the pages enthusiastically until I reach the passage we need and quickly scan the text, looking for anything that stands out.

“It mentions the physical consequences for the wielder, but not for the target,” I mutter, disappointment rushing through me. It’s not like I expected our answers to be in the first book I found, but it would’ve been nice to start off on the upper hand for once.

Stryx flies back and forth above the pages, reading at lighting speed, but quickly comes to a stop with her head hanging a little lower.

“No mention of anything to do with fog either,” she notes.

I frown as I recall Riven’s words. “If he was messing with me, why would he say that specifically?” I wonder aloud. “Surely it must mean something. Maybe he was referring to the ‘fog’ of the victim’s mind when the memories have been totally siphoned?”

Stryx floats up and sits gently on my shoulder. “What if he’s not talking in metaphors? What if he means actual, real-life fog?”

“What do you mean?” My frown deepens as I turn my head to look at her.