Page 23 of The City Of Fractured Memory

I know the feeling. Whilst my instinct urges me to comfort him, his tone demands an end to the conversation, so I begrudgingly take the hint and decide to badger him about it later.

Xavier’s always lived close to the Division, so it’s only a matter of minutes before we are approaching the spiralling walls of the Memosyne, the religious capital of Velmora. As well as being the seat of the Memonic Council, the place is also home to the Archives—a labyrinthine maze of books and rare antiquities housing the city’s fascinating history.

The gates loom before us like the threshold to another world. Golden bars interwoven with filigreed vines shimmer faintly in the pale morning light, their surfaces etched with prayers written in fragments of forgotten tongues. Beyond, the walls rise high and unbroken, carved from pale stone that gleams like its never known grime or shadow. A fortress, yes, but one gilded with sanctity.

The guards open the gates after the necessary exchange of our Division papers, their halberds gleaming as they step aside. I feel that familiar thrill ripple through me as we cross the wards that line the threshold. It feels as though we’ve left Velmora itself behind, stepping into a realm preserved in amber.

The central road stretches long and straight before us, a jewelled artery running toward the heart of the Memosyne. The cobbles themselves seem to glow faintly, veins of gold and silver catching the light beneath our feet. On either side rise statues depicting the Pantheon of our Gods, their stony eyes following our every step. We walk past Virelea, the Goddess of Shared Memory, often depicted holding a book that never opens. There is debate amongst many scholars as to the validity of her existence, but deference is paid to her all the same. Next to her stands Mothan, the Keeper of Souls, his hands raised to the Veil, then Fios, the God of Wisdom, his head bowed in reverence.

Along from them stand two other statues, but unlike the others, these have had their heads forcibly removed. Scath, often referred to as ‘the Mother’ by the Echofae, lost the heads from all her statues back during the Fracturing, when the mortals claimed the Memosyne for themselves. The other is of the Faceless God, the guardian of death and the alleged source of mortal magic, rumoured to have also been beheaded in retaliation. My Shadow appears as I walk past the Faceless God’s statue, and I suddenly feel his attention on me so vividly the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

I shake off the horrible feeling and continue, the numerous statues trailing a path beside us towards the central cathedral, the odd one here or there beheaded. It’s a stark reminder that myths can still cause chaos when believed in by the wrong people.

Incense smoke lingers faintly in the air as we walk, though no braziers burn, as if the very stonework exhales devotion. At the end of the road, the cathedral rises. The main structure, impossibly vast, looks more like a fortress than a religious icon. The towers stretch into the sky, their spires needling the Veil itself, while flying buttresses arch like ribs to hold the monstrous dome aloft. The tip of the cathedral is covered in gold, acting as a lightning rod to lessen the damage caused by the vast storms that often descend from the Veil during high humidity. I crane my neck, swallowing the awe that always swells in me when I visit here. The Memosyne dwarfs everything in Velmora. The city’s history, power, and sanctity manifested into this stunning piece of architecture.

“This place…” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “It never stops being beautiful, does it?”

Xavier doesn’t even glance up. His boots echo hollowly on the ornate road, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “It’s stone,” he says flatly. “Walls and halls built to cage knowledge and people alike.”

I blink at him, startled. How can he walk this road and feel nothing? How can he not see the light in the carvings, the artistry in every curve and seam? The Memosyne is the closest thing we have to beauty in this city, and he just dismisses it with a shrug. Even though magic use has started to hollow my soul and temper my emotions, I still can’t escape the amazement I feel whenever I step foot here.

I watch him from the corner of my eye. Maybe he isn’t blind to its beauty, maybe he simply refuses to see it?

He’s always avoided answering questions about his family and he would never let me visit his home as a child. We only ever used to play in the street together, never entering each other’s homes. Even when we grew older, he would insist on meeting me in taverns or markets, and to this day the only family he has ever introduced me to is his twin sister, Vesper. The only thing I’ve learned in our many years of friendship is that his father was someone very powerful—maybe he has some bad childhood memories linked to this place.

We pass under the shadow of the main gatehouse and the Memosyne swallows us whole. Within these towering walls lay the Archives, and hopefully with it, the answers we need.

The huge golden doors to the cathedral seal shut behind us with a resonant clang, and the grandeur of the Memosyne presses closer with every step. We pass beneath the gatehouse and into the belly of the citadel.

The shift is immediate. In here, the air is thick with the smell of candle wax, resin, and the faint metallic tang of ancient wards still humming in the walls. Our boots echo against polished marble inlaid with sigils of memory—loops, spirals, and interlocking circles that seem to glitter faintly if you stare too long.

The central hall opens before us, a vast nave lined with towering columns carved into the likeness of the Gods, or at least the three that still have their heads intact. Mist-shrouded light pours in through high stained glass, scattering shards of colour across the floor in crimsons, golds and sapphires. High above, the dome stretches into an impossible sky, frescoes depicting the Fracturing and various histories since. Xavier doesn’t look up once, like he’s seen it a million times more than me. His stride is steady, his jaw set and his gaze fixed only on the far archway that leads deeper into the citadel.

“Do you really not see it?” I murmur, my voice swallowed by the vastness of the space. “The beauty of it all?”

He doesn’t even glance at me. “It’s a gilded cage, Octavia. Nothing more. And cages, no matter how pretty, are still prisons.”

The words snag in me, sharp and sour. Perhaps he’s right. But to stand here and feel nothing is something I can’t fathom. I’ve never considered myself religious—I regularly swear at the Gods, not to them—but even I can’t fail to appreciate the majesty of it.

“I want to see!” Stryx’s voice echoes through my head and I try to hold back my smile.

“Later,” I whisper into my cloak, my eyes darting to Xavier to make sure he can’t hear me, but he’s already stalking off ahead.

I increase my pace to catch up with him, when a flash of white hair in my periphery catches my attention. I spin round, eyes wide and heart pounding as recognition floods through me. The Echofae turns in response to my gasp, her eyebrows drawn in confusion, but my shoulders sag as our gazes meet and I realise she’s not the woman I’ve been seeing in my dreams. I mentally chastise myself for being so stupid—of course the woman isn’t real, she’s just a figment of my imagination.

The Echofae slave turns away and hurries after her master, her collar jangling as she jogs to keep up. My eyes follow her until they land on Xavier, who has stopped up ahead, staring back at me with concern. He opens his mouth to no doubt ask me what’s wrong, but I save him the trouble.

“I’m fine, keep going,” I insist as I approach, giving him a reassuring smile, but he clearly doesn’t buy it. Thankfully he doesn’t quiz me any further on the matter and we move deeper into the citadel, dodging the scribes who pad silently past us in robes of deep blue, their arms burdened with scrolls and ledgers. We descend a flight of steps worn smooth by centuries gone by and a pair of guards open the bronze doors for us as we enter the Archives.

Thirteen

Like a giant vivarium, the cavernous library is filled with stacks that rise into shadow, the ceiling constructed of domes of shimmering glass. Bridges and walkways crisscross above, lined with more shelves, more tomes, more secrets than any one person could hope to unearth in a lifetime. Light filters down in threads from glowing orbs suspended high above, and dust shimmers in their beams.

I exhale slowly, the awe pressing into me once again. “It feels alive today,” I whisper.

“Maybe it is,” Xavier murmurs, his hand pressing to my lower back as he gently encourages me on. His tone is flat and dismissive, as though even here, in the beating heart of memory itself, he refuses to be moved. But for the first time, a thought creeps through me, quiet and unwelcome.

Maybe he’s right not to trust it.