Chapter 10
Semras stared back at Inquisitor Velten. “I saved your life and mine alongside it. How’s that for an answer?”
He studied her face, then pushed her to the ground with the tip of his boot.
Too weak to resist, Semras fell on her side with a soft thud. Dried leaves prickled the skin of her naked chest. Under her throat, the sharp end of the inquisitor’s sword still threatened to take her life at the first wrong move.
“You cast Bleak magic. On me, on the wolf. Do not lie to me,” he said.
His blank face looked sinister, cold—and unfamiliar.
“You cannot even fight me off. Weak as a newborn babe, a sure sign of a Bleak spell that unravelled before completion. A shame,” he said, sneering.
“You had only one chance to take my life, and you failed.”
“Void take you.” With what little remained of her strength, Semras spat on his boot. Her exhausted mind could barely make sense of his words.
“Oh, It will. But It will not take me alone.”
The blade of cold iron nicked her throat in a searing, numbing kiss, drawing out a bead of blood. She hissed. “You’ve spilled innocent blood on your sword, Inquisitor.”
“I will be the judge of that.”
“Can you? When you know nothing of the Bleak Path? You dare accuse me, while you have no idea what I—”
The inquisitor pressed his blade against her skin, and she stopped talking. No mercy softened Inquisitor Velten’s cold stare. His judgment was cast.
Semras bit back her words. They’d only be futile.
“I ask the questions here,” he said flatly. “Now, once again, you cast Bleak magic. On me, on the wolf.”
Barely concealed behind his blank eyes, his scorn burned right through her. These were the eyes of a true inquisitor, filled with authority and self-righteousness and intolerance.
They held none of the softness she had seen within after he protected her from the sword-bearers.
“What spells? Speak.” Kneeling next to her, he grabbed her hair and jerked her head along the blade’s edge—an efficient warning of what awaited the witch if she didn’t talk soon.
A mask of cold command veiled his thoughts from her. There was no room for pity in the harsh planes of his cheeks and in the grim lines of his mouth. She shivered.
He frightened her. Ever since they met, she’d felt distrust for him—and anger, irritation, and even, perhaps, in the darkest recess of her traitorous heart … intrigue.
Now, she only felt horror.
He repeated his question, pulling on the roots of her hair as an incentive. Her heart stung at his cruelty; he had caressed them only a few hours ago.
Weakened by frayed nerves, her willpower wavered. At any other time, she’d have stubbornly kept her silence. But now … now she felt vulnerable.
“Lifeforce transfer, and … and …” Semras wanted to be away, far away and back to her little hut before she met this dreadful man.
Expressionless, the inquisitor stared at her. “I have ways to make your kind speak, Bleakwitch. Terrible ways. Don’t make me use them on you.”
Something wet her cheeks. Was it tears? Or rain? Semras wished it was rain, and that she had shown no sign of weakness before him. She shivered. It was so cold here, pressed against the soil, the skin of her throat numbing from the cold iron’s touch.
A whisper, spoken so low she knew it wasn’t meant for her, drifted into her ear. “Do not make me do this. I beg of you …”
Raindrops started falling; the skies were weeping for her. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Semras felt relief.
The Arras had heeded her call, and the blazing inferno around them would die before it could devour the forest whole. It shouldn’t have mattered to her while her own life was at stake, yet it did. Just like his words shouldn’t have affected her. Not after how he threatened her for saving his life.
Yet they did.
The plea in his voice broke her. It was a trick, most certainly a cruel trick, but the painful inflection in his tone felt so real—like he didn’t want to do this.
“… Mind control,” she admitted in a breath.
Inquisitor Velten shoved her face onto the ground. Twisting her hands forcefully behind her back, he knelt between her hips to keep her pinned down.
Panicked, Semras writhed against his grip. He easily overpowered her; lending him her lifeforce had rendered the witch weak and defenceless. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“All your rights are forfeited as of this moment, Bleakwitch Semras of Yore,” he declared. “You have admitted in front of a sworn member of the Inquisition to the use of Bleak magic.”
No. No. She hadn’t strayed.
Semras whimpered against the ground. She hadn’t. She had walked the Bleak’s edge, but she hadn’t trod on it.
“You have admitted to using it on said member of the Inquisition,” he continued. “It is within my rightful jurisdiction to prosecute you for these crimes and to execute the sentencing myself.”
Execute. A violent shudder robbed her body of all its remaining warmth.
“Everything you say can and will be used against you.” His voice penetrated her foggy, chilled mind like a blade’s edge searing through her flesh.
“What you do not wish to reveal, I have the full authority to extract from you as I see fit. You may be put to the question once, and once only, with no restriction on the duration. Do you understand?”
Inquisitor Velten had delivered his speech in a practiced, monotonous voice, as if it were a mere formality. To her, it sounded like a death sentence.
One of his hands left her wrists, and she took her chance. Gathering all that remained of her strength, Semras threw her entire weight to the side. She had only one opportunity; she couldn’t waste it.
The inquisitor fell off her with a surprised grunt, and she jumped on him, straddling his hips before he could react. Her hands went straight for his throat.
“You bastard!” she growled. A violent shiver shook her body. “You Crone-forsaken bastard! Is this the justice you spoke of? I saved your life, Estevan! Is this your justice?”
Far above them, thunder roared, and the rain intensified. Drops of water fell onto her bare back like icy daggers. They soaked through the fabric of the dress gathered around her hips.
Raindrops—falling from her eyes in torrents—mercifully blurred Velten’s expression.
Her hands shook around his throat, more symbolic of her desire to live than posing any real threat to him.
Even if she could will them to squeeze, she was too weak to choke the life out of him.
He would overpower her again—any second now—but she wouldn’t let him take her life without spitting his hypocrisy back at his face.
He still lived thanks to her, and she’d make sure he’d never forget it.
“You want my life, fine! Kill me, and I will haunt every breath you take! They’re mine, they’re all mine!” Semras said, voice filled with rage. “Estevan, you bastard, my blood will never wash off your hands!”
Falling around her face, her long strands of white hair brushed over him. With all the defiance and blame she could muster, Semras stared him down. Her breath had grown shallow; her hands trembled uncontrollably.
Beneath her, Inquisitor Estevan Velten stayed silent.
Weary, Semras wavered, then fell to the side. The world turned upside down.
The inquisitor jumped over her and caught the back of her head before it hit the ground.
His hand cushioned her fall in an odd, confusing, caring moment.
Then it vanished, and he pinned her down once more, his face twisting into a grimace of anguish.
Grabbing her wrists, he spread her arms on each side of her head. His grip tightened painfully.
Her skin would bruise if she lived long enough to see the next day.
Velten dropped his forehead onto her shoulder, then exhaled deeply. “Enough! Enough, witch.”
Over them, the rain abated. Thunder rolled away from the area.
“Void take me,” Estevan muttered. His breath shuddered out of him, heating the skin of her bare shoulder. “Do not—do not move. Do not call me by my name. I am Inquisitor Velten to you. You hear me? I am Inquisitor—damn it! Damn you!” Raising his head, he relaxed the grip around her wrists.
Her heart still beat out of control, but Semras could sense something had changed. It was subtle, but the inquisitor had mellowed.
He might yet hear her out.
Velten stared straight into her eyes. “I will ask you questions. You will answer them. Do not resist me.”
Back to questioning, then. It was a step in the right direction, at least. No blade threatened her neck this time.
And the hands holding her down were trembling. Just like hers.
“… Fine,” she said.
“You know why I am restraining you. Witches are weakest at close quarters, and, as such, at close quarters you will remain. Will you fight it?”
“No. Even if I wanted to, I’ve no strength left in me.”
“You are suffering from the backlash of your spells, aren’t you?”
She thought of the wolf, and the storm slowly moving away up above, and the heavy smoke emanating from the now-extinguished bushes. She thought of her lifeforce, twinned within his core. “I am.”
“You confessed to using Bleak magic. And you—”
“No,” she cut him off, eyes blazing. “I did not. I confessed to using magic; magic treading on the edge of the Path, I’ll admit, but it wasn’t Bleak. Intentions matter. I didn’t use the Arras wanting to hurt or maim or kill—so it wasn’t Bleak.”
The inquisitor furrowed his brow in a snarl. “You are—!” Disbelief washed over his face. “You are … not lying …”
“I mind-controlled the wolf, but only to pacify it. I … I know it was dangerous, but surely you can see I had no ill intentions.”
“And what about your intentions toward me? You took my lifeforce. I know what that feels like. You cannot deny it.”
“I won’t. You were about to fall, and I … I thought …” She looked aside, unwilling to bare her soul under his gaze. “I couldn’t let you. If you died, and I did nothing to prevent it, I—I had to do something, even if it meant hurting you.”