Chapter 09
Semras strode between the trees, uncaring if Inquisitor Velten kept up with her pace or not.
A cold rage consumed her mind. She couldn’t focus on where to bury her coven sister, but she didn’t need to. The Vedwoods had been the elderwitch’s home; it would honour her wherever her remains would rest.
Wrapped in her dark woollen shawl, the bones softly rattled in her arms. She had refused to carry them in the inquisitor’s cloak, brushing off his offer with a vitriolic silence. Themas had suggested his instead, and Semras refused it as well.
She wouldn’t disrespect the dead by wrapping a victim of the Inquisition in its colours. Her shawl was the only suitable option. Like a cherished sister’s embrace after a long journey away, the soft black wool would keep the bones warm and loved in the craft of her kind.
Perhaps, somewhere within the Unseen Arras, what had been born from the witch’s death now smiled at her. Perhaps it would send her a sign.
The wind lifted dried leaves off the ground in a small twirl, directing her attention to the right. There, slightly ahead of her, lay a small glade under the warm rays of the sun.
Semras stopped walking; the woods had guided her to the right place. Before her, trees thinned around a ring of ancient, monolithic stones, each menhir as tall as two men and three times as large.
Long ago, a fey gate could be opened here. A place of dancing, trade, and wild magic—lost when the Inquisition drove most of the Fey folk far, far away, beyond the Unseen Arras and back into the Night whence they came.
Now the cromlech remained here, forgotten by all but those who could recall a world once full of eerie wonders. A world long since dead, its bones scattered around in the smooth curves of old stones, and in the dried stumps of once mighty trees, and in the ruins of ancient fey raths.
Killed by the likes of the man following her.
Paying Inquisitor Velten no mind, Semras looked around. A wide tree grew among the standing stones, and she knelt before it to rest her hand against its bark. It was old, far older than the bones themselves were.
A younger tree and a fresher body to lie to rest would have been better. A gravewitch should have conducted the rites while the Coven wailed, begging the soul to return its mortal coil to the Arras and honour the cycle of the Old Crone and the New Maiden.
But neither was here. It all felt so wrong. The witch purges were long past, but the wounds they had left behind still bled red.
Semras shivered. If the words of Inquisitor Velten could be trusted, a new one could start at any moment.
She hadn’t forgotten about it; there had just been no opportunity, not a single moment left alone, to warn her Coven.
Finding the bones was a sobering reminder she had to prioritize sending that message.
It was a warning as well of what awaited her and her kin if the collaboration with the inquisitor went awry.
Semras glanced behind her. Velten stood a few steps away, sullenly staring back. Her mouth opened, but words refused to come out—unwilling to ask his permission to weave, yet still wanting it. The violent reaction of the Venator guards still lingered in her mind.
The inquisitor understood her silent question anyway. “There are only you and me here. Do what you must.”
She nodded.
After carefully laying her shawl between two surface roots, Semras stood and went to retrieve her bag from Velten. He had insisted on carrying it for her after she’d refused his cloak.
He gave it back with no resistance. Something brewed behind his sombre eyes. “… May I watch the rites?” he asked.
The witch eyed him warily.
“I will not disrupt them,” he said, passing his hand through his hair. “Think whatever you want of me, but I shall not ruin something so sacred. I know only too well what it is to grieve.”
A weight on her shoulders lifted. Somewhere deep within, she’d half expected the inquisitor to stop her from honouring her sister the ‘heathen’ way, as he’d called it earlier. His respectful request—when they both knew she didn’t really have a say in the matter—was a surprise, but a welcomed one.
“You may,” Semras replied.
She returned to the tree and took a bundle of small, thin beeswax candles out of her bag.
With a fallen branch nearby, she traced around the trunk a wheel divided into twelve parts, then placed a candle in each of its dials.
She wove them alight one by one, whispering a ritualized rhythm to dictate her tempo.
Wax dripped onto the soil and fallen leaves. A fragrance of honey, myrrh, and sandalwood floated to her nose.
Gravewitches traditionally used frankincense, but she had none at hand. Just one more thing that was wrong, lost already in an ocean of so many other wrongs.
Kneeling on the soil before the circle, Semras stripped off the upper part of her dress.
The chilly air hit her naked chest, raising goosebumps along her skin.
With a needle, she pricked each side of her fingers, drew out blood, and then mixed it into the ashes of a small container.
It formed a thick, bloody paste the witch used to draw familiar whorls upon her face and torso.
Dried leaves rustled behind her, and Semras straightened her back. She had conducted rituals while half-naked in front of coven sisters before, but never with an inquisitor in her blind spot. The sudden reminder of his presence made her feel hyperaware.
Sigils completed, Semras opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and began chanting. Her soft voice carried the prayer to the tree, the soil, the roots. Eerie words echoed through the glade.
The wind dropped, branches stopped rustling their leaves, and the woods fell silent. It listened.
Then answered.
Crackling roots pierced through the soil in a low rumble.
They warped around the shawl and its bones, then dragged them deep into the damp earth.
Their passage ripped out weaker plants from their beds and buried their sappy remains into freshly turned dirt.
One by one, over the several minutes the ritual took, the candles went out.
When the last one died, Semras ended her chant and smiled with relief.
The tree had agreed to its role as a guardian. It would keep the witch’s bones and give them back to nature, and they’d feed and fortify it for years to come. A fair Bargain, as befit the will of the Old Crone and the New Maiden. This was a true burial for a witch.
Slowly, timidly, the forest returned to its former peaceful self.
The disquieting silence made way for the songs of birds and bugs.
Critters of all kinds crept back from where they’d retreated, and the wind blew once more against tree leaves in a soothing, rhythmic rustling. The funeral rites were done.
But Semras wasn’t. She had been waiting for an opportunity; now she had it.
After gathering threads of wind around her fingers, the witch wove them into the airy shape of a butterfly. On its wings, she whispered her message to Yore, then let it fly away. The small, newly born air spirit would unravel once her words entered the ears of the Coven Elders.
A diabalhist could have bound it into that shape permanently, but she only needed the elemental for an ephemeral message.
It wouldn’t even have time to form a will before it informed her Coven of the threat they could soon face.
The task only took her a few minutes. The inquisitor wouldn’t know it wasn’t a step of the funeral rites, and her message would remain a secret.
Satisfied, Semras gathered what remained of the candles before standing up, her knees protesting after kneeling for so long. With a wince, she forced them to obey.
She closed her bag on her belongings, took a mental note to buy more ashes next time she’d visit Yore, and then turned toward the inquisitor. Her dress still hung around her waist. Once he’d taken the bag off her hands, she’d cover herself properly again.
The strangest of sights greeted her. Leaning against one of the outer standing stones, Velten held a hand firmly clasped over his eyes, a deep blush colouring his ears and neck. His head was turned as far away from her as he could.
Semras blinked, then said, “I am done.”
“Good!” He cleared his throat. “I mean, good. Let’s leave then.” He stayed unmoving, still refusing to look at her.
“Yes? I’ll need—I … Are you … alright, Inquisitor?”
“Perfectly fine,” he replied, neck strained. “You may get dressed at your earliest convenience. Such as right now.”
Semras hummed. She stepped into his view, and the inquisitor turned his head away. She did it again, and he dropped his gaze to his feet, eyes still firmly shielded behind his hand.
The witch smirked, amused.
Crouching to catch his eyes, she watched with amazement as Velten stared away once more, still stubbornly ignoring her exposed chest. She chuckled.
His skin darkened into a deeper red.
“That can’t be right …” Her face broke into a wide, gleeful smile. “Inquisitor Velten, please tell me you have seen a naked woman before.”
“Inquisitors are ordained clerics, you know,” he grumbled.
“And did that ever stop you, O holy man?”
He bit his lip, fighting back the curl of a smile. “Not really.”
“Well then,” she said, “there’s no reason to keep your eyes closed, is there?”
“We do not have time for this. Get dressed.” His voice sounded strained. “We are going back. Now.”
“Hmm … I can’t,” Semras replied, smirking.
For once, she had the upper hand, and she would enjoy it while it lasted.
Tossing her bag aside, she spread her arms to offer a nice, clear view of her naked breasts.
“As you can see, I must wash first. You don’t want my dress to get dirty, do you?
Imagine, Inquisitor Velten, I’d have to strut around naked—”
“I will not imagine that! You have other clothes, so stop rebelling and get dressed. I will buy you the finest silk in all of Castereina if that will make you obey for once!”