Chapter 14
Hours passed, with still no sight of Castereina on the horizon.
Gloom settled upon Semras’ mood—the sun was descending rapidly in the sky, taking with it both daylight and her hope to reach the city before it died for good.
By the time they arrived at a small settlement, night had fallen.
Stars shone brightly in the darkened sky, and everyone looked both tired and irritable.
With its many inns, stables, and supply shops, the village clearly catered to the incessant flow of people travelling between Castereina and the other city-states of the peninsula. Judging by how busy it looked, business was good.
Taverns were overflowing with crowds from all layers of society.
At outdoor tables, customers sat around food and wine, sharing a bench with too many other patrons.
The clicking of their tankards, lifted in the air to the rhythm of bawdy songs, accompanied the boisterous cheers and laughter echoing through the night.
The rest of the settlement was similarly awake. Some shops still had a lantern glowing within their mud-splattered windows. On the upper floors, giggling women eyed up the inquisitor and his company as they passed by their open windows, waving perfumed scarves to entice the men to join them inside.
The company rode through the settlement, passing by two, three, then four inns bursting with people before Estevan lost patience and walked into the last one.
It wasn’t any emptier than the others, but by the time Themas helped her off her gelding, the inquisitor had long since settled the matter.
For once, she felt grateful for Estevan’s title—his abuses of power seemed significantly less of an issue when she stood on the profiting side of them.
And abuse his power, he had—the inn expelled all of its patrons outside. Locals and travellers alike sourly stumbled out of the red-thatched building, casting nasty glances at those who had chased them away.
The Venator sword-bearers split into two groups. Half stayed outdoors under the direction of Themas to take care of the horses, while the others followed Sir Ulrech to bring bags and belongings inside.
Once it became clear that she wouldn’t be of any help outside, Semras stepped inside the inn.
Landscape murals and trims of ceramics adorned the walls of the common room.
Standing in the middle of it, Sir Ulrech was directing Venator guards with hands full of bags toward the upper level of the inn.
On the main floor, tavern maids hastily dragged in additional tables and chairs to furnish the dining area, while others brought from the kitchen fuming bowls of mushroom stew and pitchers of watered-down wine.
Baskets of red bread were laid next to pots of honey and slabs of butter on the tables.
No meat could be found among the evening’s fare.
It didn’t bother the sword-bearers. As soon as their duties were over, they jumped on their meal with the voracious appetites of weary travellers.
It reminded Semras of the first evening she had spent in their company, back at the roadside inn. The men had been far more turbulent back then when their master hadn’t been there to watch them.
Tonight, however, Estevan was there, sitting alone at a table near the fireplace. Watching the flames dancing before him, he mindlessly chewed on a roasted drumstick. The innkeepers had served meat only to him, reserving it for the exclusive enjoyment of the highest-ranking man in the room.
Not if she could help it, Semras decided. Time to get payback for her bread.
She strode across the main room, ripped the drumstick from his hand, and then sat down in front of him. Her eyes burrowed into him in an unspoken challenge.
He didn’t take it. Smirking, Semras bit into the meat. It was tasty, juicy; she hummed with provocative gusto. “You aren’t hiding in your room tonight, Inquisitor,” she said, finishing her bite.
Estevan arched his eyebrow. “I figured it would be best to remain here and keep you under watch, as you would most likely be trying to run before the end of the night.”
Her smirk slowly fell. “… Why would I?”
“You have something to confess, witch.”
“You cannot be serious,” she said, groaning. “I thought we had sorted it out in the glade already.”
“Inquisitors can take confessions, so I am giving you one chance to come clean.” His eyes brightened with mischief. “Do not waste it.”
Semras watched him warily. No doubt he was only playing with her—again. “I have nothing to confess,” she declared. “Inquire if you must, Inquisitor, but you shall find nothing.”
“Lovely lie, witch, but I am armed with proof this time.”
She huffed. “Then show it, or let me pilfer your plate. I am starving.”
“Take what you desire,” he purred. Gaze still trained on her, Estevan pulled on his collar and slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
Mouth agape, Semras stared at his hands as they moved down.
“I speak of the plate of food, witch.”
A furious blush burned her cheeks. Embarrassed, she stole the inquisitor’s cutlery and busied herself by pushing the food around the plate.
He had a lover, she reminded herself. A witch lover.
The bastard was shamelessly flirting with her in spite of it, but she wouldn’t entertain his ego. “You just have to have it all, don’t you?” she muttered. “You are a fire devouring everything in your path.”
Estevan laughed. “You are not the first witch to compare me to fire.”
Semras didn’t look up. She didn’t want to know if he had kept stripping off his shirt or why he would even do such a thing in front of her. Wondering if anyone else had seen it, she discreetly glanced around.
Further away, she caught Themas staring, mouth gaping just like hers had seconds ago. A deep crimson had spread across his cheeks and neck. Then he caught her gaze on him and turned away to fumble with his cutlery.
“Must be a woman of astounding insight,” Semras mumbled, returning her attention to her plate.
“I do not quite recall the words,” the inquisitor said idly, “but it sounded like the same cryptic speech you witches enjoy so much. About how I had a fire in me that only knew either embers or inferno. It is poetic, I will admit as much, but I am rather partial to ice if I am given the choice. Fire and ice are not so different once brought to their extreme, after all.”
With her silver knife, Semras traced mindless patterns on the plate. “Ice so cold it burns, as the saying goes.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “Which brings me … to you, my little ice cube.”
Estevan lifted her chin, and her eyes fell on the healed wounds of his chest, laid bare by the parted layers of his shirt.
Semras went pale. Oh. That.
“You used magic on me. Last night. On my wounds.” The inquisitor’s tone had turned cold, detached—a stranger speaking with his voice.
Embers or inferno; the comparison had been apt.
“Care to confess now?” he asked.
“T-That’s not—I did it to—”
“Were you hoping to earn my favour? You will have to do better than that.”
Semras glowered at him. Oh, what she’d do to wipe that damn smirk off his handsome face.
“It was just a healing weave,” she said, seething. “Don’t read so much into it.”
Velten stood slowly, then leaned toward her, his hands resting on the table.
“It is not ‘just a healing weave.’ It is more proof that the witch Semras casts spells on unwilling targets,” he said lowly, glancing at the rest of the dining room.
“This is the last time I will tolerate your transgressions, and only because your intentions were harmless. But I warn you. Your deceptive ways will no longer be tolerated. We will enter Castereina tomorrow, and you will be on your best behaviour.”
Semras frowned. “Your mother never taught you to say ‘thank you,’ did she?”
“If you must insist on your nefarious acts, witch, be more discreet. Give me a challenge at least. Make it hard for me to catch you.” His icy demeanour eased back into an indolent smile. “I do so enjoy the thrill of the chase.”
“You are a sick individual, Inquisitor Velten,” she replied, fuming.
He laughed loudly, startling the nearby Venator guards sitting at tables. After a glance, the men carefully looked the other way.
One pair of eyes lingered for much longer, prickling the skin of her nape.
Semras banished it to the back of her mind, too engrossed in reversing who had the upper hand.
“You must either be an excellent investigator,” she continued, “or the Inquisition has some serious recruitment shortages to resort to people of your kind.”
Velten wrinkled his nose. “I assure you: it is the former. I excel at what I do.” He paused, then added, “And I am not the sickest one among them, either.”
“Really. You have no leg to stand on after what happened last night in your tent.” He stared at her with confusion, and Semras smirked. “Oh, Inquisitor Velten, do not tell me you’ve never held a woman in your arms before? And here I thought I wasn’t your first.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischievous malice, but the inquisitor didn’t meet her mockery with a quip of his own. Instead, he went pale and stumbled back into the chair behind him.
Semras scoffed, irritated. She wasn’t that repulsive, surely? Or perhaps he thought she’d tell Nimue, and it was her wrath that he feared.
Justly so, she’d bet.
“You are lying,” he replied at last. “I would not … I swore I would never—”
Her glare shut him up. “You were drunk, Inquisitor. I am telling you the truth. Deal with it as you wish, but I won’t have you accuse me of lies.” Semras dug into the meal before her with vengeance. If he meant to leave all this to waste, she wouldn’t.
“… Did we …?”
The witch stabbed the vegetables with her fork. “Frankly, I’d rather burn at the stake than hear you finish that sentence,” she replied icily.
Velten cleared his throat. “… I will take that as a ‘no’ then. I am sure I would have already been turned to kindle for your pyre otherwise.”