Page 12 of A Tower of Half-Truths
Turn around.
Leave.
Mavery stopped. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
And there it was: the taste of copper. The air was filled with warding magic strong enough to manipulate her thoughts. With a shudder, she wondered if there was some Mysticism involved. She couldn’t make herself immune to magic this powerful, but simply being aware of it dampened its effects.
As she pressed forward, she focused all her thoughts on the act of putting one foot in front of the next. The intruding thoughts persisted, but now they were suggestions rather than commands.
She did not need to see the number on the door to know she had the right place. The door at the end of the hall was radiant with magic. The thoughts now screamed at her, begged her to turn around. She ignored them and instead focused on the warding magic itself: a half-dozen spells, each represented by a tendril ofcolorful light, and woven together like an intricate tapestry—a masterpiece crafted from arcana. Rarely could she recall seeing magic so breathtakingly beautiful, soflawless.
This was a test, she deduced. The wizard must have planned for his applicants to prove their worth by getting through the front door.
She lowered the box and leaned as close as the magic would allow. Even the most complex ward could be manipulated; it was just a matter of finding a weak point. With her nose inches away, she could identify the individual spells by color. Blue for protective wards; violet for soundproofing; gold for alarms; sage green she couldn’t identify, but assumed it represented the thought manipulation spell. Luckily, she Sensed no red-hued blasting wards, so at least this wizard didn’t intend to maim anyone.
“Aha!”
She spotted the weak point at last: a single thread whose aura was duller than the others. This spell had nearly run its course. She raised her hand and pinched the thread between her thumb and forefinger. Of course, she couldn’tphysicallytouch it, but it responded to her magic as though she had. With the precision of a surgeon, she pulled it loose and created a hole no larger than a pinhead. Using the same technique she’d used on Baron Roven’s safe, she tried coaxing the tiny hole to widen. It refused to budge. She held firm and focused her arcana.
“Come on, you,” she muttered.
Like an invisible game of tug-of-war, she pulled, and the ward pulled back. The hole widened to the size of a coin, then the size of an apple. But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t freeze the hole in place, much less break the ward. She would have to act quickly.
In one swift movement, she slipped her hand through the hole, gave the door two quick raps—the soundproofing ward muffled them—and pulled her hand back. With asnap, the hole shrunk to a pinprick again. Heart thrumming against her ribcage, she sighed with relief. Early in her career, she’d managed to ensnare herself in a ward—an unpleasant experience she never wanted to repeat. Moreover, she didn’t want to look like a novice to the wizard sheplanned to impress.
The magic didn’t take kindly to her efforts. The intruding thoughts now pounded inside her skull, too loud to ignore.
YOU’RE NOT WANTED.
BEGONE, TRESPASSER.
LEAVE, OR ELSE.
She would not leave, not when she’d come this far.
A moment passed, and then the door opened an inch. A face, partially hidden in shadow, peered at her through the gap. The violet tendrils vanished; the stranger had dismissed the soundproofing ward.
“Who are you?” The voice was masculine, though soft and somewhat strained.
“Hello, I’m Mave Reynard.”
She’d put enough distance between herself and Burnslee; it felt safe to resume using her real given name. The surname, however, was fake. It was the go-to alias for thieves who wished to remain anonymous, but she doubted a wizard would know that.
“Did Declan send you?” the voice asked.
“Who’s Declan?”
“Volsegar?”
She shook her head; she didn’t recognize either name.
“Never mind. Why are you here?”
“I’m inquiring about the position.”
“What position?”
“The wizard’s assistantship.”
