A Weave of Lies (The Woven Worlds #1)

Chapter 01

Wisdom said only a madman would walk uninvited into a witch’s lair.

A madman, or a desperate fool.

The door to Semras’ hut slammed against the whitewashed stone walls, startling her away from her bubbling cauldron.

Spinning to face the intruder, she dropped to one knee and pressed her palms to the floor, ready for a fight.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears; her hands shook against the rustic red tiles.

No one had ever entered her home without knocking before. No one. The few trusted souls she’d told where she lived knew better. It could only mean trouble.

A man stepped over the doorway, his dark silhouette illuminated by the glow of the late morning sun. A dark burgundy cloak, fastened over one shoulder by a twelve-pointed star insignia, covered most of his white finery.

Semras’ heart lurched. Those were the distinctive marks of an inquisitor—the judges, jury and executioners of the radiant god Elumenra.

Both a madman and a fool, then.

But not a lone one. Behind the inquisitor, armed men swarmed the grounds in front of her home, ready to step inside. Their deep reddish-brown capelet, thrown over a pale gambeson, identified them as Venator sword-bearers, another division of the Church of Elumenra.

“Stay outside,” the inquisitor ordered them. His gaze never turned away from her. “I shall handle the witch alone.”

Her breath shuddered out of her, blowing a strand of long white hair away from her face. So he knew what she was. It could mean only one thing.

The Inquisition had come for her.

She had committed no crime, but they wouldn’t care, and she wouldn’t plead for mercy. If they wanted to arrest her today, she’d give them a legitimate reason to.

The witch bit her lower lip, steadied her nerves, and began weaving magic. “Let’s see you handle this,” she hissed under her breath.

Her fingers reached for the Unseen Arras—the invisible tapestry making up the fabric of the world. This was her home, and she knew its warps and its wefts better than anywhere else. With practiced gestures, she unravelled the world’s threads and wove them back to her will.

In front of her, from the depths far beneath, came the low rumble of disturbed soil. The floor tiles splintered, and brambles burst through the cracks in an explosion of clay shards. Their thorny arms speared through the air toward the intruder at a dizzying speed to restrain him.

They never reached him.

The briars recoiled almost instantly. With growing bewilderment, Semras watched flames spread along the branches, burning the threads she was directing them with.

Slipping from her control, they thrashed against the round walls and vaulted ceiling.

From wooden shelves, books and jars fell along the brambles’ destructive path, littering the floor with glass shards and papers.

The herbs hanging from the ceiling’s pine beams didn’t escape the violence of their dying throes as the branches ripped through them.

Dried leaves and petals rained down before her eyes.

In a final wheeze of boiling sap and crackling wood, the charred remains of the brambles hit the floor, writhed, then stopped moving.

Semras stood, dusting with shaking hands the brown smock that covered her black dress. Wide-eyed, she stared at the smouldering embers. How could it have happened? Her first and only prepared line of defence—gone up in flames in mere seconds.

Had she wielded them too close to the fireplace’s flames? There was no time to linger on it—small fires had begun where the branches flailed through the room. They’d burn her house down if she didn’t deal with them right now.

With practiced movements, the witch wove the flames out of the Unseen Arras and discarded the hot, stinging threads into the fireplace behind her. Her yellow eyes never strayed away from the inquisitor standing in the doorway.

He stepped over the brambles with a smirk, hands hidden in his pockets with threatening nonchalance. From his belt, a broadsword hung next to a pair of witch-shackles. Their iridescent shine of cold iron sent a shiver down her spine, but it was his leer, his confidence, that shook her the most.

This man would drag her to the pyre with a smile on his lips.

Gritting her teeth, Semras grabbed a paring knife from her worktable.

Old Crone be praised; even after being startled, she hadn’t forgotten about it.

She stared at its dull edge, still soaked in the green sap of herbs, and grimaced.

It wouldn’t injure anyone severely enough to act as an effective deterrent.

She needed something else. Her scrambling mind flickered through all her options, but nothing came to her. The inquisitor was blocking her only way out, and even if she could somehow slip past him, the men outside would catch her instantly.

She was trapped.

Without a warwitch’s training, she couldn’t fight unprepared against so many witch hunters, unless … unless she resorted to another, far more drastic way. One forbidden by both the Inquisition and the Covens.

The Bleak Path.

It would work, it beckoned her. The witch could weave the inquisitor’s mind to hers and bend him to her will.

She could make him walk away, far away from her home, a puppet held by strings he couldn’t fight back against. She could even …

even have his hands seize his sword, lift it up to his neck, and …

It would work.

A shiver ran down her spine. The Bleak Path might help her survive the day, but she’d never leave it again.

She’d fight and inevitably succumb to the temptation of twisting the Unseen Arras’ threads that way again, and again, and again, until nothing remained of her but an inhumane bleakwitch drunk on her own power.

She couldn’t risk it, even at the cost of her freedom. But if he had come for her life …

Her mind filled with dark visions of her future. Bruised wrists tied against rough wooden poles. The smell of burnt flesh. The agony of flames melting her skin. Her voice screaming, and screaming, and—

Semras’ trembling hand tightened further around the knife. “Old Crone, be my witness,” she breathed, hoping the blade would be enough to stop the intimidating man. Hoping she wouldn’t have to commit the unforgivable, and—

“Enough.” The inquisitor raised his hand. “I have not come to arrest you, witch, but keep this up, and I might reconsider it.”

Semras froze. Her eyes studied the man, searching for a trick. When she found none, she cautiously lowered her knife. “I am under no obligation to welcome a guest I don’t recall inviting, Inquisitor. Get out, and I might forget your face,” she mocked him, her chin lifted in defiance.

The intruder stopped a few steps away from her. His eyes—a piercing shade of icy blue—looked her up and down. They lingered too long on her lips.

“Now,” she said.

He scoffed. “This does not need to be so unpleasant. I know witches are little more than wild animals, but please do try to contain yourself. I have only come here to speak.” He stepped closer to look down at her. “You can gather a modicum of courtesy for a conversation, can’t you?”

Arrogance dripped from him like water after a rainfall. He smirked at her, and she saw red.

An unbidden growl rippled out of her throat. “Fine. I’ll show you courtesy.”

One flex of her fingers closed the front door with a bang, prompting cries of alarm outside. Her next weave kept it tightly shut against the doorframe.

Separated from their master, the Venator guards fell into a frantic panic. Their voices shouted demands to be let in; their fists pounded at the door. Heavy footsteps circled the small hut in search of a paned window large enough to go through. They’d find none.

Her house was her domain. She alone reigned here; she alone would choose who to welcome inside—and how.

Semras plastered a withering smile over her lips. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I’m afraid my humble abode cannot entertain more than a single guest. Please, take a seat.”

With the tip of her knife, she pointed at a small dining table behind him, then wove threads to yank forward one of the chairs.

It bumped into the back of the inquisitor’s knees, sending him falling onto its seat.

Pleased with her pettiness, Semras left him behind to walk to her small kitchen corner.

Turning her back on a witch hunter left her feeling dreadfully vulnerable, but she showed him no sign of fear. From a nearby shelf, she fetched a teapot, cups, and a tin of tea, then returned to the table. Her fingers expertly wove wefts of ambient moisture into water to fill the teapot.

“Tea, inquisitor?” she asked, voice mocking. “What type would you prefer? I always let my guests choose.”

Leaving him no time to answer, Semras held his gaze and cast a handful of round, wide leaves of wintergreen into the pot.

A smirk spread across her lips as she wove a few more threads to bring the tea to a boil.

The leaves needed to be infused—not boiled—for several minutes to properly extract their flavour, but she didn’t care to impress the inquisitor.

He’d get the bare minimum of the courtesy he so wanted.

After pouring the pale liquid into two cups, Semras pushed one toward her unwanted guest and sat across from him, keeping the front door in her line of sight.

The inquisitor’s men hadn’t abandoned their attempts at breaking it down.

She could hear the unnerving trembling of the hinges and the muffled sounds of shouts outside.

The inquisitor scrutinized her, his careful gaze following each of her gestures—analyzing, calculating, anticipating. When she took a sip of the minty tea, his eyes fell on her lips and remained there, as if waiting to see if they’d turn blue from poison.

Ridiculous. If she wanted to poison him, she wouldn’t use something so cliche.

“See?” she said. “It’s potable. Drink.”