Chapter 26 #2
In front of her eyes, a pattern began forming.
‘Still investigating.’ Semras wrote that part after remembering the autopsy report and the cross-checking of testimonies she had found in his study.
He had told her earlier that people were expecting him to conduct them, and yet …
She added after it the word ‘extensively.’ Beyond the autopsy itself, no one would have known if he had skipped combing through interviews, letters, and pharmacological notes.
Besides, there was the matter of that ‘incriminating letter’ he was still looking for—one that could prove his guilt …
but how could it have been lost in the first place when he could have easily retrieved it among the evidence?
There were still too many blanks. She needed more, much more, to make sense of it all. Anything could be useful.
Semras started adding some smaller, seemingly insignificant details, such as ‘Bleakwitch suspicions,’ ‘Honest liar,’ ‘Protects his people at cost to himself,’ and ‘Respected the witch burial ritual,’ with ‘Allowed the collection of devil’s helmet.’
The last one earned a place in her diagram, and she mused upon it a little. She still remembered how he had changed his mind after initially refusing her request. Hovering her pen over a blank part of the paper, she hesitated, then wrote a guess with ‘Earning favour.’
It didn’t feel right; shaking her head, she drew a line through it and decided on ‘Guilt-driven?’
Her eyes surveyed what she had so far and caught the name of Nimue. It made her think of ‘Lied about paternity,’ ‘Barely back home since baby’s birth,’ and ‘Witch hunt in the Anderas.’
Semras watched these last pieces of paper with her mouth hanging.
She understood now. The truth lay bare before her eyes, as improbable as it seemed. A curt laugh escaped her. Nimue had told her that improbable didn’t mean impossible. She was right.
Inquisitor Estevan Velten claimed to be the murderer of his mentor, Tribunal Eloy Torqedan, but the timeline didn’t add up.
He had almost no time to meet with his mentor before his death.
The Anderas Mountains were a month of travel to the northeast; after being away for so long, it seemed improbable he’d have jumped straight out of his carriage and into plotting a premeditated murder.
And he had secretly consulted a witch on the cause of death and the poison’s origin. As the murderer, Velten should have already known about that. Still, he had risked the disapproval of the Inquisition to obtain such information.
These weren’t the actions of a murderer seeking a scapegoat for his crime, but … if she discarded all the preconceived notions that had poisoned her perception until now, just like she had to do during the gin’s analysis …
Semras set two of the papers aside, pushing ‘Velten confessed to the murder of Torqedan’ and ‘Plans to frame a witch for his crime’ out of sight to the edge of the desk. And there it was. The truth.
Velten hadn’t murdered his mentor. The lying bastard was covering for the true culprit: a witch.
Just as she had first discovered, so many days ago in that room suffocating with death and decay.
Semras tapped the pen on the papers again. Flecks of ink flew off its tip to splatter the desk. She stared at the dull, matte shine of the spots forlornly.
It was senseless. All of it was.
Who didn’t matter as much as why—why would a witch kill an old man already at the dusk of his life?
While his reputation among the Vandalesian Covens was less than stellar, her kin knew better than to take revenge years after the offence.
Killing a harmless, retired inquisitor now would only remind the Deprived of how dangerous her people could be, so the death of Torqedan at the hands of a witch would only give cause to—
Her blood turned to ice.
—to start a new witch purge.
In his efforts to lessen the mistrust toward her kin, Tribunal Torqedan had made it known to all of Castereina that he took a witch’s remedy to treat his ailments—and now, that same remedy had killed him.
As soon as this became public knowledge, a wave of hysteria-driven persecutions would sweep through the entire peninsula.
And Velten knew that. He had warned her about it the first day they met.
All along, he had wanted Semras to escape him and reveal his false murder confession to the world, trying to avoid a war between their people by taking the blame for it.
That was why he had wanted to know how he could procure prickly comfrey on his own: he needed it for the false confession he’d give the Inquisition once she’d have turned him in.
The idiotic martyr had plotted for her to be his executioner.
Semras gritted her teeth. “You absolute piece of—”
A deep breath calmed her down. Now wasn’t the time for retribution. There was a dead body filled with witch poison about to start a war nobody wanted.
Except the one who did. The one who’d benefit the most from a new purge. Someone from the Inquisition, who didn’t appreciate its dwindling numbers and fading relevancy. Someone who had a clear vision of what it should be—and who should be part of it.
The true killer: Inquisitor Cael Callum.
The very man who professed to her that witches did not belong to the current era, who had been present during the time of death, and who had both the cunning and the strength of the Fey to carry out his murderous ploy.
Eyes now cleared of lies, Semras could see how all the pieces fitted together.
Callum had been working for years on purging the Inquisition of the witch sympathizers who could oppose his plan. He had attempted for a long time to have Velten discharged from the institution, and now, he had murdered the only tribunal supporting her kin’s rights.
It all made sense now that Semras knew Inquisitor Callum was a Seelie. These fey would rip the world apart if it meant its broken pieces would better fit their vision.
And he was a changeling Seelie. Shudders ran down her spine. She couldn’t imagine a worse combination—the half-fey would be a tough opponent to stop.
She should have realized all this earlier when Callum had wanted her to tell him all the details of Velten’s investigation. Clearly, he had wanted to know if his plan had deceived his colleague.
And soon, Velten would know they had talked in private—if he didn’t already—and think she had revealed the murder confession to him. The bastard would now be expecting Inquisitor Callum’s forces to come take him away at any moment, just as he had planned.
Semras groaned. If she had lied about the poison, none of this would have happened. She confirmed Velten’s fears. She made him the villain she had always, deep down, expected him to turn into.
And the self-sacrificing bastard had chosen to become one to save them all from war.
A knock rattled the door. Panicked, Semras swept the pieces of paper away. “A moment! A moment, please!” she begged.
Some fell on the floor at her feet, near a bundle of dirty clothes lying there, while others scattered on the desk over scattered pages of blank paper. Most of them ended up shoved into her sleeve.
The knock returned. “Miss Semras?” Themas called out. “Meal and laundry are here.”
Right. Velten had ordered the maids to come in twice a day for meals and room cleaning. She had forgotten about it.
“Oh,” she said. “Let them in.”
The door opened to reveal a young woman next to the knight. Holding a platter of food in one hand, she rested a basket against her hip with the other one.
“Here, miss.” Themas held the door with a kind smile. “Do you need help with anything else?”
After shaking her head timidly, the maid stepped into the room and brought the platter to the desk.
Semras stayed immobile in her seat, fearing the scraps of paper in her sleeve would fall if she moved. They kept too many secrets and lies she didn’t want anyone finding out.
Once the maid stepped away, the witch released her breath.
The young woman set out to tidy the room, gathering the discarded linens lying around and remaking the bed. Themas and her watched her work wordlessly. When he noticed they were doing the same thing, he winked at Semras.
The maid retrieved her laundry basket with both hands, nodded respectfully, and then crossed the doorway.
The knight trailed after her. “I insist, miss, allow me to help you carry the basket below stairs. A young woman like you lifting all this weight alone …” The door closed, and his voice faded away.
They were gone. Semras exhaled in relief.
Discarded left and right on the table, her mind map rested partly beneath the platter of food.
Over painfully long minutes, Semras assembled the scraps of paper one by one, fingers fighting their metallic cage at each new shred to pick.
Once done with those on top of the desk, she bent down to gather those that had fallen at her feet.
She found none.
Semras blinked. Then looked again. Some had fallen that way—she’d swear she saw them fall. Right before the maid came into the room, she had shoved most of the scraps into her sleeve, and then—
Oh. Oh no. The maid. The laundry.
Inquisitor Callum’s request.
He had told her that an agent of his would retrieve any message slipped into her laundry; her written musings would fall into his hands if she didn’t get them back in time.
Old Crone take her; if the wrong papers had fallen, he would learn about how Velten was about to thwart his plan.
Worse—he could have her written word about the poison being from a witch, and then he wouldn’t even need to manipulate the investigation’s outcome.
He’d just go straight to the tribunals with it, and then war would drown the land in blood.
And it would all be on her hands.
Semras sprang to the door. With trembling fingers, she retrieved the key Themas had given her earlier. It slipped from her shaking hands and fell to the floor, and she wasted precious minutes retrieving it with unwieldy, cold iron-laden fingers.
At last, she slid it into the keyhole. The mechanism clicked.
Semras threw the door open and then ran.
An hour passed before she found the laundry room, lost amidst the labyrinthine basement the servant’s staircase had led her into.
With ragged breaths, Semras barged inside the warm and steamy room, startling the maids working within. Some yelped away from the clothesline. Others dropped baskets of laundry onto the blue-tiled floor.
Her eyes hunted for her clothes and didn’t find them.
“Where is it?” Semras stepped inside, gaze still scanning left and right. “Where is the basket containing my laundry?”
A matron with sturdy arms and wary eyes silently pointed toward a copper boiler. Semras found her clothes soaking in it. If the shreds of paper hadn’t been removed first, then the water would have destroyed them by now. She had no way now of knowing what had been lost or not.
She was too late.
In the basin’s reflection, gaunt eyes filled with dread looked back at her. While the water could have eaten the papers, something in her knew she couldn’t be so lucky. Callum’s secret hands had most certainly seized them.
And left her no other choice than to involve him.