Page 131 of A Tower of Half-Truths
“Precisely as I suspected.” Seringoth turned to Mavery again. “Ms. Culwich, if you would please follow Elder Yuriva into the antechamber.”
As the Mystic descended the stairs behind the bench, Mavery looked to Alain. His face was even paler than usual.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have listened to Kazamin and had you evaluated right from the start.”
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered back, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She knew the stories from Neldren and countless others who had been unlucky enough to be interrogated by Mystics. None of those stories were pleasant. She tried to push all that from her mind as she crossed the chamber and met Mystic Yuriva at the bottom of the stairs.
“Right this way, Ms. Culwich,” she said. She placed her hand to the stone wall, and a section of it shifted aside, revealing a wooden door. She opened it and gestured for Mavery to enter first.
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. Iwill 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 nottheearliest—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?
