Page 66 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Thirty-Eight

The cold, windowless room was even more austere than the presentation chamber. It contained only nine chairs—each large enough to be a throne—arranged around a long table. Orbs of Ethereal light hung near the ceiling, bathing the room in an oppressive onslaught of pure white.

“Have a seat,” Yuriva said, extending her bony hand.

Mavery took the chair closest to the door. With their ornate carvings and lack of cushioning, these chairs were designed to be luxurious but not comfortable. The unyielding wood forced her to sit with a rod-straight back, but that was no matter. A little discomfort would keep her on her guard.

Yuriva picked the chair directly across from Mavery. The Elder Wizard was the oldest person Mavery had ever seen. Her black eyes were rheumy, her wrinkled and liver-spotted skin was the same shade as an overcast sky. As a Nilandoren, she had to be decades older than Seringoth.

“Have you ever undergone questioning by a Mystic?” Yuriva asked. Her accent was Dauphinian. She had either been born on this continent like Nezima, or she hadn’t lived in her motherland for quite some time.

“No, but I’m aware of the process…more or less.”

Yuriva smiled sagely. “Then this should take no time at all. I will ask you a few preliminary questions to establish a baseline. Please, relax and answer to the best of your ability.”

Instead of relaxing, Mavery probed the depths of her mind for every scrap of training from the Brass Dragons.

While this wasn’t the same as resisting the effects of truth serum, she assumed the same principles would apply.

She cleared her mind of all thoughts, and focused solely on the woman across the table.

Mavery’s own thoughts became the least appealing thing in the world.

What mattered most was attempting to memorize Yuriva’s face: every wrinkle, every blemish, every strand of white hair peeking out from under her hood.

She would let the Mystic glimpse her Sensing abilities and nothing more.

“What is your name?” Yuriva asked. There was not a trace of emotion in her voice.

“Mavery Culwich,” she replied in an equally flat tone. She focused on a mole on Yuriva’s left cheek.

“What is today’s date?”

“The sixth of Verdure, 1041.”

“From which country do you hail?”

“Osperland.”

“When did you first develop arcane hypersensitivity?”

“Not long after I first developed magic.” Mavery focused on Yuriva’s thin, dry lips.

“How old were you then?”

“Four, maybe five.”

Mavery blinked and, despite herself, a memory appeared in her mind’s eye.

She was sitting on her mother’s lap, in the kitchen of her childhood home.

Her mother’s face was blurred, partially obscured in shadow, the finer details lost to time and the faultiness of memory.

The most vibrant detail was a ribbon of blue swirling around them—an inchoate protective ward.

Mavery grasped at it with her tiny hands, aware that she had conjured the magic but not yet aware that only she could see it.

Mum wrapped her arms around Mavery, murmured something in her ear.

The specific words had also been lost to time, but they left an impression of comfort.

This was one of Mavery’s earliest memories—if not the earliest—and one she hadn’t thought of in years. A knot formed in her throat.

The room smelled of baked apples, fresh hay, and…flowers?

No, that can’t be right. Mum never kept fresh-cut flowers around the house; pollen always made her sneeze.

Mavery forced her attention on the background, searched for an element that hadn’t been conjured by her own mind.

Her eyes trailed along the whitewashed wall.

Its texture shifted unnaturally. She focused on that spot and glimpsed Yuriva’s features embedded within the plaster.

Mavery gasped as Yuriva’s flew open, locking with hers.

The memory dissipated. She returned to the antechamber, with the real Yuriva watching her from across the table.

What the fuck just happened?

“Language,” Yuriva chided, then studied Mavery for a moment. “I was simply observing your memory, though few are able to detect me so quickly. Have you ever received Mysticism training?”

“No.”

“Curious. Let’s try something else. Focus your attention on my right hand.”

Yuriva raised it and produced a protective ward.

Mavery smelled copper, now interlaced with that floral scent again.

As she watched the ephemeral blue aura, her head throbbed.

She touched the back of her head, though that did nothing to ease the discomfort.

It felt as though an invisible hand were massaging the deepest folds of her mind, in a place she could neither see nor touch.

Impulsively, she squeezed her eyes shut, tried to force out the intrusion.

“This will all be over much sooner if you cooperate,” Yuriva said.

“What are you doing to me?”

“Seeing through your eyes.”

Mavery acquiesced with a sigh. She opened her eyes again, then winced at the sudden intensity of Yuriva’s protective ward. She grit her teeth as she tried to ride out the probing sensation.

It was clear when the spell ended: the floral scent faded, the throbbing in her head subsided. She rubbed her scalp again, though she knew the Mystic hadn’t physically touched her.

“There,” Mavery said flatly. “Are you satisfied?”

“Such impatience,” Yuriva said in that serene voice that Mavery now found irritating. “I detected an air of distress just now. Is that something you often experience?”

Mavery scoffed; distress was a bit dramatic. “Only with very powerful or prolonged magic. To help with that, Al—Aventus—made a potion that dulls my Senses.”

Yuriva’s eyebrows raised slightly, betraying her otherwise stoic demeanor. “Describe this potion.”

“How is that relevant?” Mavery asked.

“Answer the question, please.”

She automatically recalled her most recent memory of the potion: about an hour ago, after stepping through the portal.

“Are you certain you don’t want the anti-Sensing potion?”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“I mean for the trip back.”

The scent of flowers made her stomach lurch.

Yuriva was watching on, and Mavery couldn’t let the Mystic witness how that conversation had played out.

She willed her memory of Alain to freeze in place, pinching the vial between his fingers.

That bought her a few seconds to card through her memories for one that was less incriminating.

She thought back to the morning he’d revealed the potion to her. The teacup filled with the viscous, black liquid. The taste as it slid down her throat—bitter, with that hint of bergamot. Alain standing before her, waiting.

“Do you feel anything?”

“No.”

“Try looking at the door.”

The past version of herself gasped. Then, she was across the room, examining the rippling effect where colorful auras had been only a moment ago.

The floral aroma persisted. Yuriva was still here…

somewhere. Mavery turned around and searched the room.

As this memory was more distant than the previous one, her surroundings were a blur of mismatched furniture, stacks of books, piles of loose papers.

Her gaze roved over it all, seeking a detail that didn’t belong.

“Where did you go?” she asked, both in her mind and out loud.

Yuriva snapped her fingers, and the memory faded. The Mystic’s lips formed a thin line—not quite a frown, but far from a smile.

“Why did you change to a different memory?” she demanded.

Mavery shrugged. “You asked me to describe the potion. I thought you’d prefer to see a time when I actually drank it.”

Yuriva narrowed her eyes. She opened her mouth at the same time the door opened.

“Elder Yuriva,” said the assistant from earlier, “the Archmage wants to know if you’ve finished your evaluation.”

“Yes, Darvis.” Yuriva’s joints creaked as she rose from her chair. “I’m ready to report my findings to the rest of the Council.”

She left the room without asking Mavery to follow.

“You may return whenever you are ready, Madam Culwich,” the assistant said. He began to close the door, but Mavery hoisted herself off her own chair. Her tailbone ached almost as much as her head.

“I’m ready now.” Not only to leave this room, but to put all of this—the presentation, the Elder Wizards, and their tower—behind her.

Back in the main chamber, the podium was no longer imbued with warding magic.

Upon seeing her approach, Alain sighed, his relief apparent even from a distance.

He began to extend a hand toward her, then seemed to think better of it.

Instead, he formed a tight fist that he held to his side.

Seringoth’s voice rang through the chamber.

“Well, Elder Yuriva, what is your verdict?”

“Aventus’s claims are true,” she replied without a shred of enthusiasm. “What I witnessed just now was what I witnessed when I evaluated Deventhal over sixty years ago. Ms. Culwich does, indeed, have arcane hypersensitivity.”

Seringoth looked to Alain. “It seems you are most fortunate. Leave your spell tome on the podium and follow Darvis into the waiting room. He will collect you when the High Council’s deliberations are complete.”

According to the clock in the waiting area, only half an hour had passed, but it felt as though they’d spent half a day in that chamber. Darvis closed the door, leaving Alain and Mavery alone.

“I can’t thank you enough for stepping in,” Alain said. “I think you impressed the High Council enough to overlook what they normally would have considered an outburst.”

“I had a feeling assistants don’t typically speak at these things.”

“Not unless an Elder Wizard addresses them directly, and that rarely happens. Also, I’m sorry again for that spur-of-the-moment evaluation with Elder Yuriva.”

“I can’t say it’s something I ever want to repeat, but it wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh, you must tell me everything!”

As he dug out his notebook and pen, he explained how Mysticism was an esoteric subject, even for wizards. Innate Mystics were exceedingly rare—though nowhere near as rare as Sensers—and only those who’d been trained at the College of Mystics were allowed to practice this School.

So, Mavery spared not a single detail as she recounted Yuriva’s questioning. He only stopped recording notes when she told him how she’d veered Yuriva away from a memory.

“You don’t suppose she suspects anything about us, do you?” he asked, somehow looking even paler than he’d appeared during the presentation.

Mavery shook her head. “More than anything, she seemed annoyed that I was able to derail her procedure.”

The doors to the presentation chamber opened. As Darvis reentered the room, Alain rose from the bench.

“Is the High Council finished already?” he asked.

Darvis hurried past without a word, clutching a roll of parchment. His footsteps echoed down the main corridor as he jogged out of sight.

“I suppose not.” Alain shrugged, then sat down again. “I would have been surprised if they were. Spell tomes usually take a bit longer to review.”

Darvis returned fifteen minutes later, now with a second roll of parchment. He again said nothing as he crossed the room and returned to the presentation chamber. The soundproofing ward prevented any sound from escaping, and the chamber was too dim for Mavery to glimpse the Elder Wizards.

She and Alain continued to wait. Kindling crackled in the fireplace, the wall clock ticked as the minutes dragged on.

Mavery lost track of how many times Alain paced the room.

Eventually, her muscles began to stiffen and she joined him, though she quickly regretted it.

The eyes of Seringoth’s portrait seemed to follow her no matter where she wandered.

When an hour had passed, Alain stopped by the hearth and stared into the flames. He chewed on a fingernail.

“This is the fourth spell I’ve presented to the High Council.” His voice quavered as he spoke. “Deliberations have never taken this long.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mavery said, though she doubted her own words. Her stomach groaned. “You didn’t happen to pack any food?”

Alain shook his head. “No, but I know a spell for that.”

“You what?”

He ripped a blank page from his notebook.

A chill passed between them as he spoke a rather complex incantation.

Mavery knew it was twenty-eight syllables without needing to count; she’d picked up on the rhythm of speech he always used for incantations of that length.

The paper glowed white for a second, then dulled again.

Though it still looked like an ordinary sheet of paper, it had become as firm as hardtack.

“Transmutated grain,” Alain said, his voice slightly less tense. “It’s perfectly safe to eat.”

Mavery laughed. “It reminds me of that old folktale—the one about the demons who learned to talk to humans by eating their books.”

“I suppose every folktale has some basis in truth, but this is only a Transmutation spell. Nothing demonic here, I promise.”

Mavery took a small bite from the corner and nearly choked on it. The grain was flavorless, but its texture was unbearably gritty. She wished she had something—anything—to wash away the sensation of sand coating her tongue.

“It’s more appealing as a slurry,” Alain said. “Add a bit of water, and it becomes something like porridge.”

She wrinkled her nose. Anything that could be described as a “slurry” sounded even less appealing. With a hard swallow, she choked down the grain.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she said.

Alain’s shoulders sagged. “When you arrived in Leyport, I’d gone nearly a month without leaving my apartment at all. When my real food ran out, I sacrificed a few notebooks and survived off this.”

“For almost a month?”

He nodded. “It will ward off starvation, but it’s not intended to be eaten over extended periods.”

“Gods, that sounds awful.” Mavery’s heart sank. Upon seeing him for the first time, she’d assumed he had been ill. She’d been correct, in a sense.

“At the time, I considered it a fitting addition to my self-inflicted punishment.”

She touched her hand to his cheek. “I hope you never have to think that way again.”

With a weak smile, he placed his hand over hers.

The door to the presentation chamber opened. They both flinched, and Mavery jerked her hand away as her heart raced for multiple reasons.

“The High Council has completed its deliberations,” Darvis said. Nothing in his voice indicated he’d noticed their impropriety.

Alain looked to Mavery, then took a deep breath. As he turned to follow Darvis, she tossed the rest of the transmutated grain into the fire.