Chapter 17 #2
“And here I was being sincere,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Well, witch, here is your answer. Miss Covenless has a little gift for seeing your Arras in motion. She can foretell future events, pathways of choices—that sort of thing. You must know about this better than I.”
Semras gaped at him. “… Nimue’s a seeress …?”
Velten nodded. “She paints the visions she sees. And this,” he said, shaking the drawing in her face, “was a portrait of the witch she said would solve my issues. I asked for more, and she had visions of Bevenna. I went there, and the local priest told me about the wild, white-haired kitten who sneaked into his church once. He informed me of who knew her, of what they had said about her during confession …”
Semras paled. A single instance of curiosity about the customs of her new hamlet had cost her so much.
“That little blacksmith boy of yours had some interesting thoughts about you, witch. Lots of little provincial dreams of living with the charming woman in her hut, a few steps off the creek to the north of the village. It was not difficult to follow that trail … and there you were. Identified, chosen, and located. How very convenient it is to have a seeress at hand, wouldn’t you say? ”
So Keran had been infatuated with her, and she hadn’t noticed it—nor the danger it had posed to her secrecy.
Shaking off thoughts of the blacksmith’s apprentice and his bundles of flowers, Semras took the painting from Velten’s hands. “She chose me then, not you …” she said, eyes following the lines of the drawing.
Her heart fell; she didn’t want to dwell on why. Perhaps it was because of Keran’s accidental betrayal, or the very deliberate one of an unknown witch sister, or … or something else.
“I like to think I had the final word on it,” Velten said, “but, in a sense, yes. She did.”
“You must hold her in great esteem.” Semras looked up to see a soft smile gracing the inquisitor’s lips.
“I do,” he replied. “I owe her a lot.”
She hated that smile more than any other he had ever shown her.
A knock on the door startled them both before her mind could dwell on why.
“Ensi-il-ensi, Maz’s here!” a feminine voice singsonged.
The inquisitor bade the newcomer to enter, and a thin person wrapped in dark clothes slipped between the barely open doors.
‘Maz’ showed not a single inch of skin, not even through the dark, vaporous fabric covering her eyes. She moved curiously, as if ready to bolt at any moment, each step jingling the bells sewn in her clothes. In her hands, a stack of papers threatened to spill onto the floor.
“Here it is, Ensi-il-ensi! I’ve gathered the usual: testimonies, visit calendar, detailed description of what we found at the scene.
And I put together a somewhat decent timeline of what we know so far.
Oh, is that her?” She glanced at Semras, then returned her attention to the inquisitor. “There’s just—”
“Give the report to me, Maraz’Miri,” Estevan said, presenting his palm.
“And do not call me that. I told you to address me as ‘my lord’ if you want to be respectful. None of that ‘Ensi-il-ensi’ nonsense. I am not your master, or priest, or whatever that word is supposed to mean in Andakkadian. You know Sin dislikes being called that too.”
His harsh interruption didn’t deflate her enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, I will. And I won’t. You are the Ensi to my Ensi, and thus you are Ensi-il-ensi, and neither of your opinions on that subject matters to me. Oh! Before I forget—”
Estevan sent her a dark glare, shutting her up with an impatient flip of his hand, and she passed him the papers with a dramatic huff before raising her hands in silent surrender. Flipping through the report, the inquisitor skimmed through the content of each page.
The veiled woman turned to Semras. “You really collect the most curious things, Ensi-il-ensi!” A nervous laugh shook her, and she leaned toward the witch. “You’re a poisoner? You selling? I’d like to buy—”
“Maraz’Miri il-Ninzalag.” The inquisitor’s eyes did not lift from the report.
“Sorry, sorry, Ensi-il-ensi. It’s just professional curiosity,” she said, shrugging at Semras. “I was an assassin before. You see those bells? I spooked Ensi-il-ensi one time too many, and Ensi asked me to wear them at all times around him. They’re such bores, the both of them.”
Semras blinked. An … assassin …?
“Ensi is Sin’Sagar,” Maraz’Miri whispered, voice hushed as if she were sharing a great secret.
Estevan dropped the report on the desk, then turned, holding a blank piece of paper. “More exactly, you and your brother tried to assassinate me, and I made you both a better offer. Which I am now reconsidering. Why am I holding a blank testimony file, Maz?”
Bringing her hand to Semras’ ear, the assassin loudly whispered behind it.
“I’m no longer suffocating people, but I’m still quite good at listening to them.
Bidden and unbidden!” Then she spun to the inquisitor in a jingle of bells.
“This, Ensi-il-ensi, is what I was trying to say earlier. I caught wind of an unregistered visit to the victim on the night he died. I couldn’t stalk the suspect; hence, a blank page. Still quite exciting, I’d say!”
“And why, pray tell,” he said, exhaling, “could you not?”
“Upper right corner. I wrote it there,” she replied. Estevan widened his eyes at the small spiderlike letters, and Maz snickered. “Yes, yes! The plot thickens!”
Estevan let out an obscene curse. “Why would Inquisitor Callum visit so damn late at night? What was he doing there?”
Shrilling with delight, Maraz’Miri clapped her hands, and the bells sewn on her sleeves rattled joyously in support. “He’s always lurking around! Every time you do something, he shows up! It’s incredible! Why is he obsessed with you like that?”
“He must have wanted to talk with the victim about how I handled the Anderas witch case,” the inquisitor replied, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. “Now I need to determine if the death occurred before or after that meddling prick’s visit. Great.” He scoffed.
Semras arched her eyebrow. “You’ve mentioned him before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Cael is the one who thinks I do not belong in the Inquisition. He has been trying for many years to convince the tribunals to discharge me over that ‘fact.’”
“Trying …” the agent singsonged, “and almost succeeding when he heard Nimue got pregnant! Oh, what a fight that scolding turned into, haha! The cardinal himself had to personally step in! I wonder who would have won if he hadn’t?”
The inquisitor huffed. “Irrelevant. He may be an inquisitor, but you still should have infiltrated his home, Maraz’Miri. At least to gather some information.”
“Oh, no. I am not doing that, not even if Ensi begs me to. Callum is scary. I am a bit, you know, mad,” she said, bouncing on her toes, “but I am not ‘let’s infiltrate the house of that inquisitor’ mad. I don’t fancy being caught spying on him. And trust me, I’m good, but he would.”
Sighing, Estevan walked behind the desk and dropped into the chair. “Fine. Tell your brother to send in an official summons. If we are lucky, he will answer it before the end of the month.”
With a click of the heels that sent her bells jingling, Maraz’Miri bowed. “Yes, Ensi-il-ensi!” Then she sauntered toward the door, humming foreign words to herself in the singing tone of Al’Andakkad.
“Wait,” he called her back. “Hand it over.”
Whining loudly, the agent walked backward to drop a small bottle into his open palm, then slipped out of the room with a jingle.
Estevan placed the flask on his desk and grabbed Maz’s report again. After organizing the papers in a manner only he understood, he took out a feather pen and jotted down notes in the margins.
Semras sat in the plush seat in front of the desk and observed him working, searching for the right words to break the silence.
She didn’t find them first.
“I do not like having my privacy violated,” Estevan said, still scratching the papers with his quill pen. “I do not appreciate being spied upon, nor having to stay on my guard in my own house, where I have, I remind you, welcomed you in.”
“Have you now?” Semras retorted. She didn’t recall drinking or eating since her arrival. The rule of xenia was still unfulfilled.
Quill resting over a dot, the inquisitor stared at her. “And I forbade you from weaving magic days ago. You have broken your word twice now.”
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
“Are we to bicker like children every single time you refuse to honour your word?”
“You cannot possibly believe you can demand such a horrible thing from me,” she replied, fuming. “I am a witch; this is how I live and breathe. Forbidding me to weave is akin to asking me to shed my skin! I’ll wither and fade into nothing. You cannot demand it.”
“I can, and I still do. Do not force me to make you abide—”
“Break the bones of my fingers, then, Estevan! The blood of the Fey flows in my veins. I can’t exist without the Arras. I can’t ignore its call.”
The inquisitor leaned back in his seat, abandoning his quill pen on the desk.
His gaze dropped to the stains of ink slowly permeating the paper.
“I understand. By the Radiant Lord, I understand,” Estevan murmured.
“Can I at least ask you to keep your magic out of my affairs and out of sight? At the very least? I know you would slip between my fingers even if I forced you to agree. So just … do not let me catch you.”
It was an olive branch, but Semras felt bitter, unwilling to take it. “Oh, I’ll agree … if you beg,” she said, smirking mockingly.
Her smile dropped as soon as the legs of his chair rattled against the floorboards. Inquisitor Velten stood and stalked around the desk to join her.
Semras watched him approach, ready to bolt out of the door at the slightest provocation.