Chapter 28
When Semras regained her senses, Estevan was mumbling and pacing across the room. “… Need to make haste …” he muttered, “travel lightly tonight … if someone trails us …” He came to a halt, then hummed. “A decoy should take my place here, but for how long?”
“It’ll take a day and a night to reach Yore from Castereina,” Semras answered him.
Wide-eyed, the inquisitor spun and stared at her as if he’d forgotten she was still there. “Yes, thank you. I, um … I have to give some orders. Do not panic; I will explain all later,” he said, looking around without focusing on anything in particular. “Maraz’Miri, come at once.”
A gust of wind flew through Semras’ hair, and she looked at the window, expecting to see it open.
It wasn’t.
She frowned. “Wh—”
“Maz’s here, Ensi-il-ensi!”
Startled, the witch whipped her head toward the source of the voice—and found none. Papers took off from the desk to swirl around a spot next to the inquisitor. The strange wind didn’t alarm him—and neither did the disembodied chuckle coming from it.
“The plan has changed,” he told it. “Tell Sin’Sagar to come here, and once I am done with him, call the Venator knights for me.”
It couldn’t be. Mouth hanging, Semras peered into the Arras.
A vortex of threads, loosely woven into the shape of a woman, stood next to the faceless warp shape of the inquisitor. The whirlwind danced back and forth violently, laughing in the face of gravity.
Some of its wefts unravelled into a voice. “Will do!” Spinning its limbs around, the vortex condensed once more to wave at the witch.
“The draft …? It was you all along, Maz,” Semras said softly. “You unlocked the door for me.”
A chuckle answered her. The whirlwind folded within itself, then dispersed into thousands of threads in all directions.
They flew under the bottoms of doors, through the cracks of the leaded windows, and into the smallest of gaps in the walls.
One draft flicked past her face, trailing along her cheek before joining the others.
Semras came back to Estevan holding her by the shoulders and staring straight into her eyes. She blinked.
“Please do not panic,” he said, smiling tentatively.
She pushed him away. “What was that!”
Stepping back, Estevan raised his hands in front of him. “Maraz’Miri is a gidim il-saru. An Andakkadian demon of—”
“I know an air elemental when I see one! What do you mean, Maraz’Miri is one?”
“I did not summon her. Sin’Sagar did, and that was long before he worked for me.”
“And now you tell me Sin’Sagar is a diabalhist?
” Semras threw her hands in the air. “Your horse is half-kelpie, your brother has fey blood, a seeress works for you, your spy is an air demon, and your steward is a spirit summoner. What’s next?
Ulrech is a shapeshifter, and you’re a genuine devil taking the shape of a man to torment me specifically? ”
A placating smile drew across his face. “Nothing of the sort. It is a long story. I could tell you—”
“Oh, you will tell me everything on the way,” Semras said, fuming. “Callum doesn’t know how right he is when he says you disregard your own dogma. What kind of inquisitor are you even?”
“A reformist, who believes integration over segregation to be the best way forward for all of us.” Scratching his neck, Estevan added, “Or so I like to think.”
“Well, I don’t. You’re a heretic, more like. Or a hypocrite—that could work too.”
He laughed. He dared laugh.
“If my brother were not trying to doom us all, you two would have been a great match. I can already hear the bells to a wedding I would be banned from.” He gazed fondly at her.
“What a sight you would be. Alas, we will have to take him down instead. Should I compensate for your loss with my person?”
Cheeks flushed, Semras looked away. “You realize this is the second time you’ve offered yourself to me?” Semras grumbled. “I know inquisitors cannot marry, what with your oath to your god and all. So, be serious for once. This is no time to joke around.” Or flirt, she thought.
His face sobered up at once. “My apologies. That is just my way of coping. I assure you, I take Cael’s threat seriously. I just … I missed that. Our banter … your laughter, and your miffed glares too, and—”
A knock startled them both. Taken aback by the reminder that the rest of the world still existed, Semras nervously pulled on the edge of her sleeves.
The inquisitor strode to the door and opened it. Beyond it, Sin’Sagar bowed with his usual polite manner.
Semras eyed him from head to toe. The dark-skinned man looked nothing like an upper-sect member of the Diabalah.
He lacked a certain mystical, holy aura to him—and the scent of myrrh and scriptures inked into his skin.
His decorum certainly fit the image of the revered summoners, but his role as steward didn’t.
A diabalhist should be walking among believers, binding into servitude some of the thousand Andakkadian sphinx gods or creating elemental demons to help their people prosper. Not here in Castereina, listening to the inquisitor of a foreign god.
“Change of plans, Master Steward,” Estevan said. “I will need Pagan and one more horse prepared for a two- maybe three-day stealth mission.”
Sin’Sagar nodded with a courteous smile. “Glad to hear it, my lord. I must admit, it was the most idiotic, egocentric, irrational plan you ever pigheadedly decided upon. I bow before your wisdom.” He did, looking unmistakably mocking. “Your steeds shall be ready before midnight.”
Semras snickered. The older gentleman might not look the part of a diabalhist, but he was certainly a wise man. Clearly, he had never approved of the inquisitor’s plan; it restored him in her esteem.
“Hilarious,” Estevan said, groaning. “If you have time for quips, you will have time to clean up my household. A spy of Inquisitor Callum is in our midst, probably among the laundry maids. Have Maraz’Miri investigate them. I do not care if I come back to rumours of ghosts running wild.”
“Anything else?”
“Have two evening meals prepared at once, and bring them here yourself. I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone outside of my inner circle until we leave.”
“Immediately, my lord Inquisitor. I am glad to see your appetite has returned at last, along with your wisdom.” Sin’Sagar threw a quick glance at Semras. “Should we revisit the plans for the wing expansion?”
“Master Sin’Sagar,” Estevan said slowly. “I have made your career, and I can unmake it too if I so please.”
A sly smile graced the steward’s lips. “Perfectly understood, my lord.”
Estevan shut the door on him, then turned to Semras and crossed his arms. “You need to stop encouraging him. He loves having an audience to rile me up for.”
Smiling, Semras shrugged. “You deserve all that he said after you—after …” Her smile fell, and she looked down at her maimed hands.
Her blistered fingers quivered in her attempt to bring them back under her control. They trembled and curled slightly after some effort. Some part of her yearned to test if she could still weave with her fingers in such a state, but she didn’t dare try.
She dreaded too much discovering them truly impotent.
“May I?” Estevan said, catching her attention. He was standing in front of her now, presenting a small ceramic jar in one hand and a wet towel in the other.
Semras nodded stiffly, and he knelt before her, biting the fingertips of his gloves to pull them off. With reverent care, he washed her hands with the warm towel.
As soon as the soothing heat caressed her skin, a wave of relief suffused her entire being. For the first time in a week, her fingers felt clean. Semras closed her eyes to savour the sensation of the inquisitor’s careful ministrations.
The soft clink of ceramic, followed by the smell of beeswax, came to her before she felt Estevan massage an ointment onto her hands. Fragrances of mullein, calendula, and rosemary oil drifted to her nose, and the witch hummed her approval.
“No comfrey?” she teased him. “Not that I mind it. This is a good mix … and, again, a witch’s recipe.” Semras opened her eyes. “Where did you get—”
Before her, Estevan’s ears and neck had reddened far beyond what could qualify as crimson. The sight of it was enough to stun her into silence.
“If Father saw me now,” he said to himself, “he would excommunicate me. And disown me. And he would be right to. Radiant Lord above, he would be right to.”
“For … what … exactly?”
Estevan didn’t answer her. “Here. You can use these,” he said, giving her his gloves. “To … to cover your wounds. Do not take it the wrong way. I do not mean to offend you with that gesture. This is only …”
The witch blinked in confusion.
“Listen, if … if someone asks …” he continued, mumbling, “say they are nothing more than a trophy.”
She blinked again. “What more could they be? They’re gloves. I mean, beyond what the colours represent for the Inquisition.”
The inquisitor winced, skin still furiously red. “Must be nice living in a world with no rigidly codified names and titles and gestures. And with no … um, hidden meaning behind some gifts.”
“Yes, it’s very nice indeed. You should try it sometimes, Estevan.” Semras slid her hands in the gloves. They were too big, but their warmth felt pleasant and comforting.
He glanced away. “Good. Let us never speak of this again, Miss Witch.”
“‘Miss Witch’? Why do you sound like Sir Ulrech suddenly?”
“I am trying to establish some propriety between us.” Estevan grimaced. “If you prefer, I suppose that ‘Miss Semras’ could be appropriate too.”
“I think I preferred when you just called me ‘witch.’” Semras flexed her fingers to test out the gloves. Slowly but surely, she could feel them coming back to life. Smiling privately, she added, “Because now you just sounded like Themas.”
His grimace deepened into a scowl.
Not too long after, Sin’Sagar came back carrying dishes for them.