Chapter 01 #2
He kept observing her closely instead, and she held back a scoff. The inquisitor was staring at her as if she looked outlandish—she wasn’t.
Semras was a witch, a daughter of the Night, blessed with a faraway fey ancestor. Her long white hair and feral yellow irises betrayed her blood legacy, but she looked human enough without the scales, horns, or heavy freckles adorning their more direct offsprings.
And even if she hadn’t, nobody would even think about suspecting her of being a witch or a changeling.
Most people nowadays believed them to be a thing of the past, just like the humanoid fey were now.
The Vandalesian Peninsula had the Inquisition to thank for that; men like the one sitting across from her had chased them all away decades ago.
The inquisitor stared at the offered tea. “I do not take orders. I give them.”
Semras rolled her eyes. “How surprising,” she muttered. As if she cared to entertain his overgrown sense of importance.
Despite his own words, he took the cup, if only to examine it closer. The rustic clay glittered with specks of metallic ore under the sunlight filtering through the windows.
Semras sighed, imagining its comforting weight in her hand instead. That cup was one of her favourites. She loathed lending it to him, but if the shiny clay cup could appease a follower of the radiant god Elumenra, her sacrifice would be worth it.
The Church of Elumenra obsessed over the reflections of light on mundane objects—in crystals, precious metals, or even in old earthenware speckled with uneven glaze.
Its exact source didn’t matter, as long as it reflected their god’s pure light keeping at bay the darkness of the Ever-Encroaching Void, like stars in the night sky.
Elumenra was simply another aspect of the New Maiden—and the Void, part of what witches called the Night—but she wouldn’t be the one to start a theological debate on the subject with an inquisitor. Especially one she hadn’t invited. What could he possibly want from her?
“You call my people uncivilized, yet you know nothing of the rules of xenia?” she asked, expecting no answer.
“Unsurprising. You don’t even know that knocking on doors isn’t out of fashion yet.
” She grabbed her cup again and took one large gulp.
A drop of tea fell on her chin. “Drink first. Then, we talk.”
The inquisitor followed the droplet down to her neck and kept staring even after it faded into her dusty beige skin.
Daydreaming about twisting it, she reckoned.
At last, he wrenched his gaze away from her throat and rolled his eyes, sighing. “I did knock, but I saw no reason to wait for an answer.” He took a sip, exhaled, and let his gaze fall down on the cup. “What does it mean? That word, ‘xenia’?”
“It’s the rule of hospitality. By consuming refreshments, we swear to bring no harm to one another for as long as we remain under the same roof. That’s xenia. And you drank, so now talk.”
A deep chuckle escaped the inquisitor. He looked far too comfortable sitting at her crooked table, drinking from a cup that wouldn’t fetch a penny at a hamlet’s market.
White garments never agreed well with stone huts lost in the middle of woods, and with his impeccably coiffed black hair, he should have looked out of place.
Yet, not a trace of discomfort shadowed his pale eyes nor strained the smirk on his angular, pale brown face. He looked young, she noted, no older than a spring or two past his thirties.
A little older than her then, if Semras guessed correctly.
“I received orders to requisition a witch for my investigation,” he said. “I confess, I had hoped you would give me cause to slay you and abstain from all this nonsense.”
Semras struggled to keep her expression neutral. Her panic earlier had almost given him his wish.
Outside, the inquisitor’s guards still hurled their fists against her door. The hinges trembled and whined, but still resisted—for now.
“Alas, you did not,” he continued, ignoring them. “And here I am, under ‘xenia’ as you called it. Are you familiar with poison?”
The witch frowned at the sudden change of subject. Gesturing at the teacups, she sneered. “I told you already this wasn’t—”
The inquisitor threw a pointed look over her shoulder, and she followed his glance to her cauldron.
Its unattended contents had boiled for too long now, and she groaned at the wasteful sight. Her batch of rat poison was lost, and the hamlet of Bevenna would have to deal with their pest problem another way.
“… I might be,” she replied, gaze narrowing. How had he known what she’d been doing?
“A shame.” His eyes brightened—in scorn or excitement, she couldn’t tell. “Now, I shall have to bring you along. Your task is quite simple; you could not ruin it if you tried. You examine the victim and pretend you know nothing of what killed him.”
Semras blinked. Why would she do that? Then it hit her, and her jaw clenched. The inquisitor either thought she’d deceive him on principle, or that he could force her to lie.
“Then,” he continued, “you may return to your lovely life here in this … charming hut.” The inquisitor glanced around. Its cozy charm didn’t impress him, judging by the way he lifted his eyebrow.
Semras crossed her arms. Her home might have been simple, but it was comfortable.
She had hung the green curtains over the thin leaded windows herself, fixed cracks in the walls without help, and bothered the blacksmith’s apprentice to help her hang cauldrons over the central fireplace pit only once or twice.
The inquisitor smirked. “Quick and simple. And predictable,” he said. “I have yet to meet a charitable witch. You will be no exception.”
By the Old Crone and the New Maiden, that man loved the sound of his own voice. He was getting on her nerves on principle before; now, he seemed devoted to turning it into something personal.
Outside, the sword-bearers’ shouts intensified. The door trembled and creaked, sending a shudder down her spine.
Semras hid her worry behind a snarling smile. “You don’t want me involved, and neither do I. Just tell me what you’re dealing with, so you and your yapping dogs outside can leave faster. I bet I can identify your poison by symptoms alone.”
The corners of his lips curled up with smug confidence. “The exact nature of the poison matters little. I need confirmation that a witch did not make it.”
With slow, measured movements, the witch poured herself more tea. She was stalling, she knew it. Her mind swirled with confusion, begging for time to digest what he’d just said.
If that was what the inquisitor wanted from her, then it could only mean one thing: he strongly suspected a witch, yet didn’t want her to be the culprit. It made no sense.
The surface of the pale, translucent tea reflected no answer back at her. Still, one improbable, ludicrous possibility came to her. “Do you mean to …” She paused, hesitating, “… acquit a specific witch, perhaps?”
“The details of the crime do not concern you. However …” He threw her a sharp glance over his cup. “If it makes any difference, a witch of Yore is indeed suspected, but I doubt her guilt. So I shall ask this only once: will you assist me with this investigation?”
Yore. That was her Coven, her sisters. This whole affair had indeed turned personal.
Semras downed her second cup, regretting with each gulp that she had chosen tea instead of alcohol. “If I’m doing this,” she said, “it is only for the benefit of my coven sisters. I know them. They couldn’t have done something so heinous. I’ll help clear their name.”
The inquisitor’s eyes brightened. “Good. I would expect nothing else from you. We have a deal then.”
Eyeing him, she raised an eyebrow. “You need to offer something in return if you want a proper—”
The front door crashed to the floor with a thunderous boom.
Semras jolted from her chair as Venator sword-bearers poured into her small abode.
In mere seconds, the men swarmed her, weapons raised toward her throat.
Uncoordinated shouts ordered her to back away from the inquisitor, show her hands, close her eyes.
The cacophony rang in her ears, and she froze.
By reflex, her fingers curled, seeking the familiar comfort of the Unseen Arras.
The sound of shattering clay cut through the air. Silence filled the hut. Neck stiff from rattled nerves, Semras turned her gaze to the inquisitor.
Beneath his clenched fist, her favourite cup lay in pieces. Blood slowly seeped from the punctured thin leather of his gloves, almost invisible against the red colour of their palms.
Nausea threatened to overtake her.
The inquisitor’s black gloves had red palms. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now that she did, she couldn’t wrench her gaze away. She knew of these wretched things and what they implied.
Inquisitors earned these infamous marks of distinction by taking a life—with blade or bare hands—in the name of their god. This man had blood on his hands, and he had been rewarded for it.
She had granted xenia to a killer. Under different circumstances, this ‘visit’ could have taken a very different turn for her—just as she first feared.
And now, he looked furious, ready to kill. Furrowed brows pulled his face into a snarl, and rage-filled eyes glared past her. For the first time since he had entered her home, the inquisitor wasn’t looking at her.
Semras followed his gaze to the Venator guards. They shuffled on their feet, glancing nervously at each other.
Then the inquisitor rose and stepped between her and his men. In front of their superior, the guards lowered their swords. “Inquisitor Velten?” asked one of them in a small voice.
So that was his name, Semras registered faintly, still dazed by the realization she’d been drinking tea with a murderer.
“I recall, and I do recall correctly, asking you all to wait outside. This, here,” the inquisitor waved around, “is decidedly inside. Where you all now stand. I would ask you to explain this curious fact, but I am now certain you simply have no cognitive capacity to do so.”
“M-My lord Inquisitor, we’re only obeying the orders of the cardinal. He told us to protect you from—”
“I do not care to hear it. The cardinal is not here, which means I am the highest authority. You will obey my orders, not his. Lower your weapons and retreat outside. Now,” he said, voice low. “This woman is under my protection.”
His protection. The word shook Semras out of her stupor. His protection—yes, he didn’t come to her home to kill her. He came because he needed her.
Bowing deeply, the guards filed out of her hut one by one. Some glared at her as they left, and she held their gazes until they disappeared past the doorframe.
One man lingered next to the exit, waiting with crossed arms while the sword-bearers exited her home. His long burgundy cloak and black brigandine had turned him into a sinister shadow against the pale plaster wall.
Semras sucked in a breath. This one was no mere common sword-bearer, but a Venator knight. Had he come through her door instead of the inquisitor, she’d have run right away. Even now, his presence brought a shiver down her spine.
A single Venator knight, clad in the cold iron that was anathema to the Fair Folk, could decimate a coven in a single night.
They existed for one reason only—to wage war against the servants of the Night, in all the shapes and forms they took.
Even if that shape bore no guilt beyond the circumstances of its birth.
The last of the sword-bearers left her home, and the knight followed them outside wordlessly.
Shaking off the tension in her shoulders, Semras gathered the pieces of her broken cup into her palm. Her eyes lingered on the shards before she dropped them into a nearby basket with a sigh.
Next time she’d visit the coven grounds, she’d get it repaired by a witch sister. Semras walked the Path of the Woods, not the Path of Craft. Its ways weren’t well known to her, and she wouldn’t risk destroying her favourite cup by attempting to learn it unguided right now.
Turning her attention back to Inquisitor Velten, she saw him flexing his wounded hand, his dreadful glove now discarded out of sight.
She cleared her throat. “Is this what you offer? Protection?”
Eyes stuck on the blood pooling in the lines of his palm, he didn’t turn his attention toward her. “No man shall harm you while in my company.”
“Does that include yourself?”
“You do not need protection from me,” he replied, clenching his fist once more to observe the blood oozing out. “As long as you steer clear of the Bleak Path, that is.”
Semras paled at the threat. “Why did you choose me?”
He finally turned toward her. “Do not flatter yourself. There were others. Some lied to me, some hid. You did not. Be grateful; if you prove to be useful, I might intercede in your favour in front of a tribunal one day.”
Huffing, the witch rolled her eyes, then went to grab bandages and a small ceramic container off a shelf. “Inquisitor Velten, was it?” she asked. “You have your deal; I’ll go with you. I am Semras of the Yore Coven, though I suppose you must already know my name.”
When she walked back to him, his lips had curled into a single-sided smirk. He knew. Of course he did.
Sighing, Semras opened the container. “I’m not doing this for you,” she said, scooping out some of its pale green unguent. “I just don’t want to deal with an infection later.”
She seized his hand. He tensed but still let her spread the salve on his cuts and wrap bandages around them. “Of course not,” he replied. “No charitable witches, remember?”
“Silence, or I shall hex you,” she mumbled under her breath, caring little if he heard her or not.
A light chuckle shook his shoulders, and she glanced up. He looked much nicer laughing than scowling, she noted.
Once done, Semras patted the bandaged wounds and grinned at the hiss it prompted from him. “Well now, O powerful Inquisitor, who’s going to fix my door and sweep my floor? I’m not returning to a vandalized house once this is over.”