Chapter 22 #3
Professor Grant appears as she usually does, the same expression, hands folded in her lap …
but there’s something off. I squint at her, testing the air around her, trying to find what it is that’s making me hesitate …
and there it is. Her eyes. Her gaze drifts over the gathering and I notice a slight glint, barely noticeable if I’d already convinced myself that she was the key to this Ordeal.
It’s not her at all. It’s someone else, a masquier, pretending to be her.
‘You almost had me, but not quite.’
Grant chuckles and her eyes change colour for a fraction of a heartbeat, before settling back to the shade the masquier has assumed. ‘What gave it away?’
‘There are no gargoyles outside in this Ordeal, but there were in the last.’
‘The professors always switch it up.’ The masquier bites her lip. ‘Off you trot then. I’ve got more than one hopeful to trick out of their code word this evening.’
I turn and collide with Knox. The dregs of toquay in my glass slosh over his jacket and I gape as he swears theatrically, brushing away the blooming stain. ‘Shit, sorry—’
‘Just give me the code word, DeWinter, and we’ll forget about it.’
‘What?’ I say, taking a step back.
‘The code word?’ he says in impatience. ‘You’re meant to give it to me. Come on, time is ticking.’
I frown at him, not buying it for a second, and discern a distinct ripple around him. ‘You’re a good imitation; I’ll give you that.’
He hesitates then shrugs in defeat. ‘Worth a try.’ The ripples around him intensify, his whole being seeming to shift in and out of focus.
Then before me stands a scholar I vaguely recognise from the class I snuck into, a young woman with black hair, brown skin and the most vivid green eyes I’ve ever seen. I chuckle, inclining my head to her. ‘How many hopefuls has that worked on?’
‘You were my first attempt to be honest,’ she says. ‘There’s a few of us scattered about. I believe you just spoke to another from my class. What gave me away?’
‘The ripples,’ I say, indicating the air around her with my toquay glass. ‘And your terrible acting. Plus, why would it be a fellow hopeful?’
‘You can see my magic?’ she asks, intrigued. ‘Interesting. I knew you were wielding, I could sense a slight pressure, but I couldn’t tell how exactly … I’m Belle. If you become a scholar, come and find me. I’m in Godolphin.’
She slips away into the crowd and I’m left still chuckling as I take another sip of toquay.
So they rope in masquier scholars for this Ordeal.
Figures. I look around, narrowing my eyes, and notice a shimmer around several other hopefuls now.
And professors. It seems the lies have begun, and time is running out to find the correct person in this hall for me to give my code word to.
I crane my neck, searching for Alden in the crowd, but he’s still eluding me. Could he still be stuck in the library?
‘Always an interesting part of this Ordeal,’ a voice says at my side.
I turn and find the masquier professor I met the other day, Professor Silver, tall and regal in gold silk, black hair coiled and piled high on her head.
She winks at me, pointing to the young woman, Belle, who tried to catch me out.
‘She’s a decoy, but there are several people telling the truth in this room.
A useful skill, being able to discern truth …
and being able to see the magic wielded, well … ’
I raise my eyebrows. There are no ripples around her, no glimmers to suggest this professor isn’t who she appears to be.
That’s at least one count in her favour.
‘I’m not sure if you’re lying yet, but you are Professor Silver.
Tell me one true thing, something no one else would know, but would help me in being sure of you. ’
‘Clever …’ she says. ‘All right, I’ll play. My truth is that I’m waiting here for five hopefuls to give me their code words, and they all have roots in the words our old gods would claim.’
I blink quickly. My word, I know, would be claimed by Argus the just and mighty, but I’m wondering if I can trick her into more specificity. ‘Any specific god?’
She smiles. ‘For you, it would not be Aline the gentle and giving, nor Gwydion, the lesser goddess of trickery.’
I hesitate, but her response would fit. The word pushes to the forefront of my mind, rising up my throat to pool on my tongue—
‘And here’s another truth, DeWinter,’ she says, focusing back on me.
‘The first three Ordeals have weeded out those without courage, or cunning, or conviction. They’ve played on your fears and tested how you overcame them.
But you may have noticed, we have not yet truly tested the depths of your magic.
The fourth and final Ordeal, Initiation is the real test. And if your magic is not strong enough, you will not make it through. ’
My breath hitches and I gulp down my drink.
It’s eerily close to the Collector’s warning.
Her answers twined together are like a carefully constructed word puzzle, which all lead me to the one word: ‘truth’.
My code word is the old word for the opposite of lies, spoken by the gods themselves, if the church’s teachings are still to be believed.
I look her in the eye and say a single word.
‘ Veritas. ’