Chapter 08
“It’s stronger here,” Semras said. “We’re close.”
After nearly two hours of tedious riding, they had reached another fork in the path. A tall wooden pole directed travellers to the town of Calcierra to the southwest, and to the city-state of Castereina further east.
“Wonderful,” Inquisitor Velten mumbled. “Let’s get this over with.”
He called for a break, and the sword-bearers spread out on the road to stretch their legs. Velten deftly dismounted without sparing her a glance, then rummaged through his saddlebags.
Semras looked at the ground below her feet. With her lack of experience, she’d probably break her ankle if she attempted to get down on her own. Lifting her head, the witch found Themas dismounting from his horse nearby.
Examining the kelpie with a growing frown, the young knight drew closer. “Your steed could have overheated from carrying two riders for so long, my lord Inquisitor,” he said, tone laden with accusation. “It was reckless to—”
“Do not needlessly fret, Maldoza,” the inquisitor replied. “Pagan can handle it.”
Semras blinked. Velten had named his half-fey stallion Pagan. He either had a terrible sense of humour or a great one, and she couldn’t decide which.
Atop the steed, she called out to Themas. “Could you help me down, please?”
Smirking, Velten lifted his gaze to her. “When you ask so sweetly, witch—”
Themas cut him off by stepping in front of him, souring the inquisitor’s grin. With a soft smile, the knight raised his arms. “May I?”
After she nodded, he lifted her out of the saddle. Through the layers of her dress, his hands felt warm and reliable. He wouldn’t drop her.
“Thank you, Themas,” she said once back on the ground.
His hands lingered around her waist. “It is my pleasure.”
A scoff floated to her ears, and Semras glanced at Velten. He was scowling with his hands curled into fists. Confused, she stared at him.
“I bet it is,” he muttered under his breath. “Maldoza! Leave us. Your presence is not required at the moment.”
Themas pursed his lips, then stepped back and gave her a gallant bow. As he walked away, the young knight and the inquisitor stared each other down.
Then Velten’s attention snapped back to her, and he shoved a waxed bag into her hands. “Eat,” he ordered. “Return to investigating the Unseen once you are done.” Opening another bag, he retrieved an apple and bit forcefully into it. His gaze wandered over the sword-bearers, pointedly avoiding her.
Semras cocked her head. “Should an inquisitor be so eager to make use of a witch’s power?” Somewhere beyond the desire to needle him, genuine curiosity drove her question.
“I will fight fire with fire if that gets me what I want.” His smirk held no kindness. “The tribunals will not care as long as I get them results.”
“Oh, so they only tolerate us witches when we get them results.” She sneered, fishing a hard cheese out of the bag. “Charming.”
It smelled good, a little smoky, and nothing like the kind she could buy in Bevenna. Semras took out some dried meat and red bread to accompany the cheese, then returned the bag.
The inquisitor took it back, eyes still fixed on the Venator guards scattered amidst the horses. “I concur …” he replied distractedly. “They are overbearing.”
The Deprived had a saying about pots and kettles and the colour black that she couldn’t quite remember. A shame—she was itching to throw it in his face.
Instead, she scoffed and looked away. Her eyes fell on Themas.
Leaning against the wooden pole, he had stepped away to eat his fare out of sight of the inquisitor, but not out of ears. When he caught her watching, he winked at her, and she smiled.
His presence emboldened her. “Was it a tribunal that ordered you to consult a witch?”
“Why do you want to know?” Velten finished his apple, then tossed the core into the undergrowth.
“Just asking,” she replied with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “You haven’t told me anything about the victim or your investigation. I’m curious, that’s all. About the case, about what you do as an inquisitor …”
“Curious. About me. Likely story.” He looked at her, a smile slowly drawing across his lips. “You just want to know how I found you.”
Semras shuffled on her feet. He had caught her lying with disconcerting acumen.
“No need to lie. I will graciously tell you.” Eyes gleaming, Velten crossed his arms and leaned toward her.
“I simply followed the trail of men you have deceived with your pretty smile—all the way to your house. As for the rest of your questions, you will not have answers, witch. I see no use in your being aware of such minute details.”
“What a delightful conversationalist you are, Inquisitor.” Semras snorted, then walked away from him, waving her hand. “You don’t want to talk. Fine. Enjoy your own company then.”
Once she located the source of the mournful cry, she’d ride on her own horse for the rest of the trip and suffer his presence no more, she decided. Her sore muscles and his warm, comfortable arms be damned.
Semras finished her fare, then got to work.
The melodious cry filled her senses as soon as she peered into the Unseen Arras. It permeated the air with multitudes of filaments, growing thicker as she traced them back to their source—the roots of the surrounding trees.
The wail’s threads climbed around trunks and stems to spread out in all directions through the air, the strength of their yearning fraying the wefts of the world, disturbing what was and what should be.
Crying out in sorrow, pain, and grief, the forest itself was pleading for help and clinging strongly to whoever could hear it. Semras winced at its intensity.
“I’m listening now,” she murmured. “Speak to me.”
The witch walked around slowly, searching for what the forest agonized over … and then found it. Turning to alert the inquisitor, Semras didn’t find him by Pagan’s side. Her gaze swept over the company, seeking him among the figures standing amidst horses.
Within the Arras, both men and beasts appeared like filaments loosely woven into faceless shapes, their threads of blue, red, and yellow pulsating with the strength of their lifeforce. Some of the humanoid warp shapes turned to her with hazy, dreamlike movements.
One opened a black hole in the lower middle of its face. Then, it screamed.
Thin threads of sound stretched out of the faceless figure, hanging in the air until they faded into the ambient warps and wefts. Soon, others joined it, and three humanoid warp shapes waded toward her, their hands made of filaments reaching for swords made of threads.
Semras stepped back. Her feet lagged far behind her will.
In the Unseen Arras, even time stretched out into threads.
The witch came back to herself with a gasp, lungs screaming for air as if her head had emerged from underwater. She had no time to recover. A hand jerked her backward, then someone else’s shoved her behind them.
Looking around, she blinked away the last remnants of the Arras.
The tall stature of Inquisitor Estevan Velten obscured most of her view.
One arm held his sword in front of him, while the other extended backward to shield her.
Further away, Sir Ulrech and Themas, hands on the handle of their swords, faced three Venator guards with weapons drawn.
The rest of the sword-bearers had retreated to the fringe of the road, where they stood frozen in apprehension.
“Do not move,” Velten said. His voice sounded poised, calm. Focused. “Not by a single hair.”
Whether he was addressing her or the armed guards, Semras couldn’t tell. It didn’t make any difference.
Ulrech pulled his sword out by an inch. The blade slid out of its scabbard in a threatening shing. “I will repeat myself only once. Stand back, Venator Brothers, by order of the Inquisition.”
The closest sword-bearer, a man with a clean-shaven face and high cheekbones, glanced at the silent threat of the blade. “I’m tellin’ you, that witch was castin’ a spell on us. Her eyes glowed, and—”
“And she’s trouble,” interrupted the one on his left, standing slightly behind him—Lorencio, Semras recognized.
He spat on the ground to emphasize his point. “I say we get rid of her. There’s no way you’re not itching to do the same, Inquisitor.”
Semras’ breath shuddered out of her. Blood pounded in her ears, chanting a single, repetitive word: mob, mob, mob.
Old Crone save her; the inquisitor had been right. She just couldn’t understand what had been the spark.
“The difference between you and me, Lorencio,” Velten replied, “is that I do not act upon my itchings. The other, most crucial difference is that I am empowered by ecclesiastical authorities to take lives as I deem necessary. You do not have such a privilege. You and the little friends behind whom you hide will stand down, or you will all face my judgment. I warn you …” His voice dropped into a low growl. “I am not known for my mercy.”
Shielded by his body, Semras felt absurdly grateful for the width of the inquisitor’s strong shoulders. Instinctively, she shuffled closer, and his hand pressed the small of her back, bringing her even closer. The protective touch sent shivers across her body. Estevan wouldn’t let them get to her.
Part of her had feared he’d agree with Lorencio and turn against her. He hadn’t; she could have kissed him for it.
After a heavy silence, the three guards sheathed their weapons and stepped back. The rest of the Venators gave them a wide berth, unwilling to associate with the pariahs.
Estevan kept his sword in his hand for another heartbeat, then sheathed it. With unsettling nonchalance, he raked his fingers through his hair and moved away from her.
His sudden absence pinched her heart. Semras didn’t linger on why. It had to be anxiety at the Venator sword-bearers’ sudden violence.
It had to be.