Chapter 38 #2
This wasn’t the Bleak—no, no, she was justified. She had no other choice. The tribunals had declared war first.
The hand on her shoulder squeezed into a grip of metal, chill and unyielding. Semras snarled at whoever dared touch her. Her gaze fell on Cael.
“For the sake of my brother,” he whispered in her ear, “do not force me to slay you before his eyes.”
“Let me go,” she snarled.
His grip only tightened more, and her bones protested the excruciating pressure with crackling sounds.
So he had chosen to stand in her way. A Seelie would be a hard foe to rip apart, but she knew his weakness; she knew he hated being called a changeling. She could use that to destabilize him, and then—
“Semras is innocent!” Estevan said, raging against his binds. The men who attacked him lay groaning some distance away.
More sword-bearers burst forward to take their places.
Two seized his arms while a third man kicked the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel.
Through it all, he kept struggling to be heard.
“If you want a culprit so badly, tribunals, then take me alone! She has nothing to do with any of this! She is no bleakwitch! Semras would never be one—never!”
Her Wyrdtwined’s words ripped her eyes open. Blinking in shock, Semras stared inwards at the Bleak Path lying before her.
If she walked it, she’d be going where he would never follow.
She had always known it; Estevan had dedicated his life to protecting the innocent, lost friends to bleakwitches, and taken the brunt of their violence on his skin.
He believed so ardently she could never be one of them.
If she proved him wrong, he’d never forgive her.
If she walked the Bleak Path to save him, he would be lost to her.
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Her stomach lurched. She felt sick—with herself, with the choice that lay so close beneath her feet. The Bleak Path had been tempting her so much since meeting Estevan, and now … now it almost drove her away from him.
Its voice, a sweet poison pouring into her mind, still whispered to her, but she heeded it no more. Amidst the chaos of the Chamber of Judgment, as more sword-bearers swarmed the room and the rhythmic slamming of gavels filled the air, Semras faced the Bleak, contemplated it, and then turned away.
For good.
Air filled her burning lungs, as if taking a deep breath after holding her head underwater for too long. At long last, her mind was clear.
“I will not go,” Semras said lowly—to Cael, to herself. “I will not.”
Cael slowly removed his hand from her shoulder, then stepped back. Sword-bearers surrounded her at once. They seized her, twisting her arms behind her.
She would not go—and for it, Estevan and she would face a fate worse than death. At least they would be together.
The grim thought brought a bitter smile to her lips as she waited calmly for the searing numbness of witch-shackles. It never came.
Cardinal Velten stood, swept his gaze over the chaos, and took control.
His face turned into a mask of cold command.
“Sword-bearers, your allegiance is to the Church of Elumenra first and foremost, not to the Inquisition,” he declared.
“Stand back at once; your cardinal demands it. On this day, I officially censure the decision of Tribunal Garza, Tribunal Whitmore, and Tribunal Pajov. This farce has gone on for long enough.”
At once, the Venator guards let go of her. After respectfully bowing toward the cardinal, they retreated to the far back of the room.
Semras watched them go blankly. She had only stepped into the eye of the storm; it would not last, and they would return.
Tribunal Garza let out a rage-filled scoff. “So you choose family over duty,” he said. “This will not be the end, Cardinal Velten. I shall file a formal complaint to—”
“No, I did not,” he replied. “I am acting in my capacity as the regulator of the Inquisition. My actions now are only to shield an innocent from a flagrant case of injustice supported only by mere speculation. Not for my son—you made it very clear I cannot intervene in his case. But for her, I can.”
The cardinal stared at Semras. Through his stony gaze, she felt the depth of his sadness and empathy. He couldn’t save his son, but he meant to save her for him, at least.
Faces distorted by rage and resentment, the three tribunals stared at each other, then nodded curtly.
Whitmore broke the silence. “We see things differently, but so be it. Let the ‘injustice’ walk away. For today, at least. No doubt the bleakwitch shall strike again, and then the remaining two tribunals will no longer be able to oppose you, Your Eminence.”
Estevan spat on the ground. “I keep telling you that Semras is not the Anderas bleakwitch. That monster died on the pyre, and I watched her burn until nothing remained of her but ashes and bones!”
“Spoken like the Hammer of Witches, boy,” Tribunal Garza said, head shaking.
“Moments like these make me realize why Torqedan claimed so vehemently you would be his true legacy. Letters upon letters of him claiming you would be the one to restore the Inquisition to its former glory, and yet …” The old man threw a contemptuous glare at Estevan, then slid it toward Semras.
“What a disappointment you turned out to be. I wonder what he would have had to say about all this.”
Whitmore sighed. “One more mystery among the many we shall have no answer for now. To think we all came here on his personal invitation and arrived only to see him dead.” His glasses slid down his aquiline nose, and he pushed them back up. “Now we shall never know why he insisted on this reunion.”
The old men kept on talking among themselves, reminiscing about old times of greater violence and prejudice. Their voices faded within the blankness of Semras’ mind.
She felt empty. Their bickering and complaints and endless chatter didn’t matter when her world had suddenly turned so grey. Even the Unseen Arras, dancing at the edge of her vision, looked devoid of the joy and life she once found in it.
But it didn’t matter. Without her Wyrdtwined, she’d wither and wane and join him soon enough. A small blessing, she realized now.
“Come,” Cael said. “You may have my protection for as long as you remain in Castereina. I shall see to your safe return home just as promised before.”
She looked blankly at him—no, through him. Her mind couldn’t focus. The world had become too dark and lonely.
Tribunal Pajov snorted. “So you have been compromised by the bleakwitch as well, Inquisitor Callum.” Sighing loudly, he shook his head. “This woman has truly poisoned this entire investigation.”
Semras blinked. Poisoned the entire investigation, he said?
Oh.
Her eyes widened in shock. The entire murder investigation had been poisoned, yes—from the very start, and in the same way the little flask she had analyzed in Estevan’s office had been.
Only poisoned in their perception of it.
“Estevan, the gin,” she called softly, flashing an excited smile at him. “Remember?”
He furrowed his brow at her. Then his eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his lips as he turned to Tribunal Garza. “He wrote to you about my inheriting the legacy of the ‘Hammer of Witches’? Tribunal Torqedan personally wrote you these exact words?”
Raising an eyebrow impressively high, Garza nodded. “It is indeed ridiculous when considering the events here today, but there is no need to doubt my word. Why are you asking about our private correspondence?”
The brothers exchanged a silent glance, and Semras exhaled in relief. Cael had caught on too.
“I do have,” Cael said slowly, “one last line of inquiry before you take my brother away, Your Honours.”
“Go on. One more question will change nothing. Unless His Eminence has a reason to oppose it?” Tribunal Pajov replied. Bitterness dripped from his voice.
Cael turned to her. “You recounted earlier your method of identifying the medicine. You mentioned examining the victim’s body back then.”
“I did,” Semras answered, fighting back her smile.
“You mentioned as well the medicinal properties of prickly comfrey. Please repeat the ones Tribunal Torqedan used the ointment for.”
“It was to soothe his aching joints—specifically his hands.”
“Thank you. Warwitch Leyevna’s letter does indeed confirm she made her ointment for the tribunal’s hands.” Cael looked to Garza. “And you, Your Honour, just mentioned you received a decent amount of private correspondence from your colleague. Do you mean to say he penned them himself?”
Frowning, the tribunal nodded slowly. “He did. I have known Torqedan for long enough to recognize the difference between his handwriting and his secretary’s. Why?”
“That is all.” Cael addressed her once more. “In your professional opinion, would the application of the ointment help regain sufficient function of the hands to write?”
“There are things that neither weaving nor medicine can fix. Stiff joints are a degenerative affliction. We can control the pain they cause and reduce their inflammation, but we cannot restore the full function of the joints. A man suffering in his hands would never write as well as he once did. His handwriting would be severely altered, to the point he would need someone else to write for him.”
“Alas, we all grow old,” Tribunal Whitmore lamented. “Every year, there are fewer of us. And every year, fewer men join our ranks. The youth these days have forgotten the fear of the Tainted. Who will safeguard the world once we are gone?”
Ignoring his peer, Tribunal Garza frowned at Cael. “Where are you going with this, Inquisitor Callum?”
“I am suggesting, Your Honour, that Tribunal Torqedan should not have been able to write his own letters.”
“And yet,” Semras added, smirking, “you just told us he did.”