Page 135 of A Tower of Half-Truths
“How recently?” Mavery interrupted. Alain could hardly blame her for breaking decorum—not after they’d just disparaged her primary contribution to the tome. Muttering rippled across the High Council’s bench, but she stood firm. “When, exactly, was it removed?”
Seringoth shuffled some of his notes. “The twenty-third of Pluviose.”
Two days after her trip to the library. One day after she’d spoken of her encounter with Head Arcanist Tristan. Alain had dismissed her concerns, insisted they would revisit that topic after the presentation. If only he’d known at the time they would be nearly a fortnight too late.
“Aventus, Ms. Culwich, the sooner you let me proceed without interruption, the sooner we can all be on our way.” Seringoth shuffled his papers again. “Secondly, while you dedicated a lengthy portion of the discussion section to the spell’s theoretical implications, you failed to identify a singlepracticaluse. As it stands, this spell is little more than a parlor trick.”
Mavery clenched her fists, and Alain could nearly feel the heat emanating from her skin. But he couldn’t find it within himself to share her rage. Rather, he stood still as a statue, hands clasped behind his back, as he let the Archmage’s deluge of criticism wash over him.
“To rectify these shortcomings, you must conduct a rigorous field experiment. Test the spell on any Gardemancy spells of your choosing, so long as they were not cast by yourself or your assistant, then present your findings to the High Council in one week’s time. Inside the tome is a portal pass for your follow-up presentation. Fail to appear, and your rank will be rescinded immediately.”
Alain dared to look up. He wished Seringoth’s gaze contained simmering fury, or even utter contempt. Either would be preferableto what he found instead.
Regret.
“To speak frankly, Aventus, the High Council is most disappointed in your performance today. A wizard of your fortitude ought to be capable of more sophisticated spellcraft—especially following a year-long sabbatical. Consider the follow-up presentation as a one-time courtesy.”
The Archmage fell silent as he returned his attention to his stack of papers. Though he’d spoken on behalf of the High Council, Alain knew the truth behind Seringoth’s words: the disappointment was personal. For a moment, Alain remained frozen on the spot, unable to say or do anything. He felt like a boy of twenty-three again, the first time he’d failed to meet his mentor’s expectations.
Seringoth looked up. He raised his brows, as if surprised to see Alain still standing there. “Unless you have any further questions, you are dismissed.”
Alain swiftly tucked the tome under his arm, slung his satchel over one shoulder, and turned for the double doors. Behind him, fabric swished and heels clacked across stone as Mavery hurried to catch up.
He remained silent as he retraced his steps through the waiting area and down the corridor, pausing only once he’d returned to the portal room. He handed Mavery the vial of anti-Sensing potion, then turned toward the University of Leyport’s portal. She grasped his shoulder.
“Alain, wait.”
He stopped and turned to her, though all he wanted was to keep moving and get away from this place.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I think you did an amazing job.”
He shrugged, then said flatly, “If only that was worth anything to the High Council. Come on, let’s go home.”
“But wasn’t the plan to visit Kazamin next?”
“I’m afraid the plan has changed.”
He readjusted his satchel, then stepped through the portal.
It was said that, in the seconds preceding death, one’s entire life would flash before one’s eyes. In Alain’s case, he thought of nothing from his past. His thoughts focused solely on the present.
And the present was pain.
His body erupted in acute, white-hot agony. It originated in his chest and spread in waves to his extremities. Bones, blood, muscle, skin… Every inch of him, inside and out, was on fire.
The pain vanished as everything turned to darkness.
Then, after what could have been either a second or eternity, light returned.
He lay on a metal table in an unfamiliar room. He sat up. The air was cool and somewhat damp against his skin. A dull ache pulsated from deep within his chest. He looked down and found himself undressed from the waist up. An incision—raw, violent pink—bisected his torso, from an inch above his navel to the center of his breastbone.
“Idiot boy.”
He flinched at the familiar voice, then looked to his right, where Seringoth sat in a chair. Behind him, a surgeon rinsed his bloodstained hands in a sink. But there were no healers present, nor were there any surgical instruments lying about. The walls were lined with jars containing organs—hearts, lungs, livers, kidneys—suspended in viscous liquids. The room was still enough for Alain to detect a faint undulation of arcana in the air.
This was not a surgeon’s operating room, but a Resurrectionist’s chamber.
“I told you to leave that section of the incantation alone,” Seringoth said. “Yet, you, an assistant scarcely three months graduated from university, thought you knew better than an Elder Wizard.”
