Chapter 03 #2
A spike of anxiety stabbed her gut. One man rode right in front of her, barring her passage ahead. Three others accompanied him to flank her on each side, while another lingered behind. It hadn’t been accidental; their gazes roved over her dress, her hair, and her eyes with brazen fascination.
Semras repressed a shudder. Every inch of her was subjected to their invasive inspection. She was used to curiosity, but not from armed people surrounding her on all sides. Where was the damn inquisitor and his promised protection?
Riding at the head of the column, leaving her completely exposed—that was where.
Once they had leered to their heart’s content, the men exchanged glances. The sword-bearer on her left broke the silence. “Hey, witch,” he said with grand eloquence.
Semras side-eyed him, her nose scrunching up in reflex. He reeked of days-old travel.
Peeking out from a deep reddish-brown capelet far too large, the guard’s crooked smile and surprisingly shining black eyes greeted her.
His heavy, pale gambeson couldn’t hide the thin frame of a man barely past the adolescent age.
Despite his youth, Semras didn’t doubt he knew how to use the short sword hanging at his left hip—its scabbard’s metal shone too dull to still be unused.
“Hey,” he repeated. “You can talk our language, right? Barco claims he heard you talk.”
Her unimpressed silence didn’t discourage him, and neither did the wary glances she kept throwing around.
“I’m—no, wait.” He paused, wincing. “I’m not giving you my name. My gran told me witches can take them, and then you end up nameless, or-or something.”
“She was speaking of the Fey, not of all the Fair Folk,” she replied, hoping her chilling tone would cut short his interest in a conversation.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure old Gran said it’s the witches.”
Semras didn’t dignify old Gran’s wisdom with an answer. The allegedly name-stealing witch kept her eyes firmly fixed on her gelding’s mane instead. It was a pretty colour, a darker brown contrasting nicely with its pale coat of mixed white and brown.
“Raphene!” called someone behind her back. “Ask her about—”
An angry hush cut him off. “Shut up, Barco! You want her to steal my name, or what?” Raphene—old Gran’s grandson—turned his attention back to her. “So … you’re a real witch, right?”
Semras eyed him. As if she’d admit it out loud while surrounded by Venator sword-bearers. “I’m an herbalist.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” Raphene didn’t wait for her answer. “Why is your hair white? Are you an old hag using magic to look young or …?”
The witch sighed deeply. If she was to be harassed with nonsensical questions, she might as well have fun with it. “You’re right. I am twice as old as your gran,” she said.
“What, really?” Barco exclaimed behind her. “I knew it!”
“Of course not,” she replied. “They’re just—”
“They found a witch with white hair in my village once,” said another, older voice on her right. “The old folks burned her when I was a youngling.”
Semras stared at him. The pale blond man must have been very young during the last witch purges if he had witnessed them in person. Or perhaps that was a case of ‘justice’ handled discreetly by his community, without the involvement of the Inquisition.
“She hexed the whole place from atop her pyre,” he continued, “and then the crops failed two years after! The farmers had to dig up her bones, grind them, and dust them over the fields to make them fertile again. But the creepy part of the story was when they found her body. She looked as if she had regenar—regeneni—she had healed! But with a completely different face, they said.”
The ridiculous claim, delivered with the absolute confidence of fools, irritated her. Hexes didn’t work that way, and neither could a dead woman’s magic reach out that far in time. Only ancient legends spoke of witches wielding such formidable power, and even Semras doubted their veracity.
Besides, healing grievous burns was still something far out of the reach of magic.
Fire ravaged the Unseen Arras in a way that took decades, or sometimes centuries, to mend.
That was why the Inquisition condemned her kin to the pyre.
A burnt witch couldn’t come back from it, and any hexing weave she’d have created would burn right alongside her.
That village had dug up the corpse of another woman.
Semras glared at the confident idiot. “That’s not how—”
“I’m not surprised,” Raphene said, nodding. “My gran told me if you take a witch’s heart, you’ll live for a century! Seniors of the Confraternity say I misunderstood, but I’m sure they just didn’t want us to go around and break the law killin’ witches to live forever.”
The witch blanched. “That’s not meant to be literal!” The idea of someone carving her organs out because of some stupid misconception appalled her. “This is a poetic—and lovely!—way of saying a witch’s Wyrdtwined lover will be cared for—”
The rider in front of her groaned. “Radiant Lord! That kind of thinking is why folks from Al’Andakkad consider us uncivilized.
They may be right if that’s what the new generation of brothers has come to.
Superstitious fools …” he said, head shaking.
“The only thing you need from a witch is her ashes in a grave, and that’s that. ”
Semras clenched her hands around the reins until their knuckles turned white. “How dare you—”
The confident idiot gasped with fright. “It’s the Evil Eye! The witch is hexing us!”
Wide-eyed, she whipped her attention to him. “I-I am not—”
Around her, sword-bearers placed their hands on the pommels of their weapons. Before they could decide to draw it or not, a senior Venator guard slowed down to join them. “Enough. Do not speak with the witch,” he said, voice calm.
Semras opened her mouth to thank him, but then he added, “Her malevolence is clearly affecting your minds. Let Inquisitor Velten deal with her. He knows best how to silence her kind for good.”
She blinked once, then twice. “Are you deaf? I am not—”
The sword-bearer drew his blade and pointed it toward her throat, strangling her voice within. “Stop your tricks at once, witch,” he said. “We sword-bearers train all our lives to protect the officials and holy places of the Radiant Lord from people like you. You won’t bewitch us.”
The other guards whispered among themselves.
“Look at him go, thinking he’s the new Hammer of Witches,” one muttered.
The name made her clench her jaw. Back during the last witch purges, an infamous inquisitor had earned that nickname by crushing the hands of witches, depriving them of their ability to weave. Years later, the Covens still remembered him.
The Confraternity as well, it seemed—but in an entirely different way.
“Didn’t you hear that the old man had turned senile? He’s endorsing witches now,” Barco whispered back. “Gone mad from chronic pain is what everyone says. Why else would he be boasting about the servants of the Void’s healing skills?”
Semras pressed her lips tightly together. It was useless to defend herself; no amount of logic would break through their bigotry.
“What is happening here?” From behind her, another unfamiliar voice joined the fray.
Great. Another misinformed, prejudiced Venator guard, she bet. Eyes rolling, Semras glanced behind at the newcomer.
Riding on a white steed, Sir Themas broke through the barrier of horses and men around her. “Sword-bearers, step away,” he said, voice low but firm. “Your duty is to protect the inquisitor, and nothing more. Leave his guest alone at once.”
His warm hazel eyes flickered toward Semras. He looked younger than her by many summers, but a surprising maturity ennobled his face.
She kept her judgment pending. He could still end up being another deceptive fool.
Sir Themas stared pointedly at each sword-bearer. “Understood?”
A chorus of ‘yes, Sir’ answered him, and the guards prompted their steeds to trot a little faster, leaving them alone at the back of the retinue’s column.
“Thank you,” Semras said carefully.
The knight bowed his head and gave her a sorry smile. “My apologies, Miss Witch. I should have intervened sooner. Rest assured, I shall report this incident to Inquisitor Velten as soon as possible.”
He talked to her politely, albeit with a little awkwardness. This man was not used to speaking to her kind, she thought idly. Neither ‘witch’ nor ‘woman’ kind.
She repressed a chuckle. For some reason, he reminded her of Keran.
“Why are they like that?” she asked. The knight looked at her with confusion, and she specified, “Why are they acting like I am a threat? I didn’t give them any reason to be concerned.”
She now felt inclined to, but that part she kept to herself.
Sir Themas took a moment to ponder. “I suppose they’ve put too much faith in the stories of old.
Most of these men were either mere boys or not yet born during the last witch purges.
So was I, to be honest. We’ve all grown up hearing stories of Bleak witchcraft and the feats of warwitches.
Mix in some morbid fascination for a people as mythical and rare as yours and …
well, you’ll find a breeding ground for superstition. ”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Me?”
“You don’t seem scared or curious.”
The Venator knight chuckled, revealing dimples on his cheeks.
“Of fear, I know enough to not show any if I ever felt it. As for curiosity, I like to think my father raised me better than to harass a young woman just for my personal satisfaction. I am curious, but I can be patient until you feel comfortable enough to speak to me.” He paused, clearing his throat.
“Regardless, if someone in the retinue gives you trouble, Miss Witch, please let me know, and I shall handle it.”
Semras’ face bloomed into a grateful smile. His eyes widened, and he looked away, a blush sprawling on his cheek.
“I will, Sir Knight.”
The young man’s flush deepened. “Oh! I did not introduce myself, forgive me! I am Sir Themas de Maldoza, Knight-Brother of the Confraternity of the Venator Choir. It’s an honour to assist you, Miss Witch.”
“Just call me Semras,” she replied. “I am pleased to stand beneath the sky with you, Sir Themas of the Venator Choir.”
With a hand over his heart, he bowed his head to her. “So am I, Semras.”
They spent the rest of the day’s ride in a comfortable silence.
Keeping close to her, Themas stopped any other guards from approaching, letting her concentrate on keeping up the pace atop her gelding. Whenever Semras fell too far behind, the knight slowed down too and gave her discreet tips on how to handle her gelding.
The sun had begun its descent toward dusk when the retinue stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. Semras prayed it meant they would take another break. Her legs were cramping after spending so long in the unfamiliar riding position.
Themas rode ahead to take the news, then came back a few minutes later. “There was an argument between Sir Ulrech and Inquisitor Velten about our travelling plans,” he said. “I believe Sir Ulrech won and that we will stop for the night soon.”
She scoffed. “I have a hard time believing anyone could win an argument against that man.”
“The men and the horses are tired.” Themas gave her an apologetic smile. “Inquisitor Velten knows that and has graciously accepted to slow down the pace.”
“How gracious of him indeed,” Semras said, rolling her eyes.
Now if Inquisitor Velten could only be gracious enough to leave her be for the evening, her day would end better than it had begun.