Page 8 of A Tower of Half-Truths
Mavery winced as she sat up; though her body was stiff, she felt no pain. She wore a thin white gown. On a chair near the bed, she recognized her clothes—clean and folded and resting atop her pack. Her coat was draped over the back of the chair, her boots sat beneath it.
And then she remembered everything: the coldness of Neldren’s voice, the thunder of the gunshot. Tears stung her eyes as her breath caught in her tightening throat.
She’d trusted him, and he’d shot her in the street like she was nothing more to him than a stray dog. Her fingertips prickled withwhite-hot arcana that begged to be let loose.
Focus,she thought.Stay in control.
She clenched her fists, blinked away the tears. Then, as she’d learned years ago, she forced those troublesome emotions to the deepest depths of her mind. Her arcana subsided.
To ensure it stayed that way, she needed a distraction, and assessing the physical damage seemed as good as any. She pushed aside her blanket and hitched up her gown. To the left of her navel was the scar from the first time she’d ever been stabbed. Below her ribcage was the scar from the second time. But there was no sign of a bullet wound.
A healer stepped around the room divider. No doubt Mavery’s stirring had drawn her attention. She was a short blonde woman in a gray and white smock. Embroidered across the front was a pair of clasped hands, dripping with blood.
“Careful, now,” she said, though there was little trace of concern in her tone. “You had surgery three days ago. You need to rest.”
“Where am I?” Mavery rasped.
The healer sighed, then delivered in a flat voice, “You are in the infirmary at the Temple of Lavestra, in Burnslee. I am Acolyte Emma, and I have been assigned as your healer this afternoon.”
Mavery couldn’t recall how many times she’d ended up in infirmaries like this one. And, like all those times before, she must have appeared a penniless drifter. The temples were duty-bound to treat anyone in need of healing, regardless of their ability to tithe, but that didn’t mean every acolyte was going to be thrilled when a charity case was placed under their care.
“You were found outside our door three nights ago, unconscious after suffering a gunshot wound,” Emma said, reading from Mavery’s chart. “You were taken into surgery, and you’ve been in and out of consciousness ever since. Now, lie back down.”
“How did I get here?”
Emma shrugged. “Don’t know. I don’t work the night shift.”
She appeared at least a decade older than Mavery, but it was always difficult to tell with healers. Healing magic—Soudremancy, the scholars called it—was one of the more demanding Schools of Magic. Healing required giving up part of your life force. A smallcut required only a tiny sliver, but a life-threatening wound could prove fatal to the healer. That was why Mavery couldn’t have saved Fennick, even if she’d known the proper spells. Career healers were constantly giving up their life force, and so they aged more rapidly than other mages. Healers tended to be quite literally the self-sacrificing types. That was especially true for the ones who served Lavestra the Benevolent; to them, shortening their lives for the sake of extending others was the ultimate way of serving the Goddess of Afflictions. Mavery couldn’t wrap her head around any of it—the altruism, the religious devotion—but she was nonetheless grateful to have found her way here. Somehow.
Had she regained consciousness long enough to drag herself to the temple? No, more than likely, some kindhearted stranger had seen her bleeding out and had stopped to help her. Neldren had wasted no time breaking into her pack. He would have vanished the second he claimed her share of the payout.
Her breath hitched.
The payout…
“Can you hand me my pack?”
Emma begrudgingly obliged, handing Mavery a patched-up rucksack that was far lighter than she remembered. Dread tightened in her chest as she unfastened the front flap.
“You want something to eat?” Emma asked.
“Sure, fine,” Mavery muttered. While the healer stepped away, she took inventory of her few possessions: her comb, the book she’d stolen from the manor, her Compendium, her lockpicking tools…
“Damn it!”
Just as she’d suspected, her cut of the payout was gone, as well as her lantern and dagger. She only hoped Neldren hadn’t gotten too greedy and stolenallof her money.
With Emma away, Mavery swung her legs over the side of the bed. After three days of lying prone, her unsteady legs nearly collapsed beneath her. Using the wall for support, she inched closer to the chair. She picked up her left boot and prised away the insole to find a wad of notes, along with a few coins, she’d stashed away ages ago. She then checked the hidden pockets she’d sewn into herclothing: one inside the right cup of her brassière, and two along each inner thigh of her trousers. Since her clothes had been laundered, the notes clung together but were otherwise untouched. She peeled them apart and totaled up what now comprised her life savings: forty-seven potins and twelve coppers.
She would leave a few potins in the tithing box before she left this place. Even the entirety of her money was a pittance compared to the value of being brought back from certain death. But she needed to leavesomethingbehind.She hated being thought of as a charity case—even if she was one. She returned her money to its hiding spots and padded back to bed.
Emma returned, carrying a tray with a bowl of hot broth, a hunk of brown bread, a glass of milk, and a newspaper. Mavery placed the newspaper aside and devoured the food. She nearly choked on a mouthful of bread, and Emma scolded her to slow down.
“How long do I need to stay here?” Mavery asked when Emma reached for the empty tray.
“That’s for the Head Healer to decide. She will need to examine you before she discharges you.”
“Is there anything stopping me from leaving right now?”
