Chapter 30
Chaos had erupted within the inner chamber of the Mother-Tree. Witches swarmed around the base of its central staircase, seeking a better view of what happened around the structure of petrified wood.
Heart pounding, Semras elbowed her way through the crowd, darting her eyes left and right as she desperately searched for Estevan.
Above her head, thousands of fireflies flew around a vaulted ceiling of bark and branches.
Their small lights reflected on the polished obsidian floor below like the scintillating stars of a night sky—a veneer behind which the Night waited for new souls to join It.
Judging by the shocked gasps of the witches ahead of her, It wouldn’t have to wait for long.
Semras made it to the front of the crowd—and then froze. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, out of reflex more than to stop any sound from escaping. She couldn’t have screamed anyway; pure horror had robbed her voice from her.
At the base of the staircase, gnarled roots pierced out of the stone floor like the grasping hands of a primeval, hungry beast. A prey writhed and struggled within its claws—Estevan.
The roots had woven themselves around his limbs and were now squeezing and pulling them with a slow, meticulous intent. They hadn’t torn his limbs off.
Not yet.
Two warwitches circled Estevan like birds of prey.
Dressed in capes of owl feathers and wearing whorled tattoos on their bare chests and faces, they kept the spectators at bay.
Stitched mouths prevented them from speaking, but they didn’t need them to command order.
The sheer primal energy emanating from their gazes told anyone standing too close to behave—or be ready to join their prey.
Another warwitch stood a few steps away from the others. Eyes whitened by a thick film covering her irises, she was weaving the roots around her prisoner. In her fingers, the threads of the world turned into instruments of violence and pain. Of death.
Devoted to defending their Coven by all means, all warwitches walked a Path dangerously bordering the Bleak. Only intention separated the two; where one killed for joy, the other killed to protect the Covens or dispense justice to its members. Semras knew it well.
And yet, she could no longer see the difference between the two. Dazed with horror, Semras watched the slow, dispassionate torture the warwitches inflicted on their captive.
Through the excruciating pain, Estevan grunted but didn’t scream.
Beads of sweat ran down his face as he strained to resist the roots’ pull, his clothes ripping at the seams from the effort.
The inquisitor was stretching his hand out in search of his broadsword—the one she’d insisted he leave behind, unaware then that her message had put the Coven on high alert.
He had nothing to defend himself with, nothing to save him from the fate the warwitches were weaving for him.
In an agonizing creak, the roots tightened further, and a low, strained grunt escaped him. The pained sound shook Semras to the core. Under her horrified eyes, the nightmarish vision suddenly became far too real. Her blood froze in her veins.
She was watching Estevan die.
He would die slowly, excruciatingly—as surely as the sun would go down at dusk and rise at dawn.
A wave of pitch black despair engulfed her. Panic turned her mind into a garbled mess and her voice into a feeble shriek. “I-I pe—”
“I petition the Elders!” a strong, clear voice rang through the chamber, silencing the assembly.
Footsteps reverberated against the obsidian stone. Clad in a red gilded gown, a witch walked into the no-man’s-land between the crowd and the warwitches.
Gazes momentarily ripped from their prey, they let her come closer. The roots stopped pulling at Estevan’s limbs but didn’t release him. His grunts of pain echoed around the polished hall. He sounded quiet, subdued, but—Old Crone be praised—still alive.
The red witch sauntered confidently next to the inquisitor. Curled, mousy brown hair cascaded down her back, and layers of golden necklaces adorned her neck. She turned back, smiling at her attentive audience.
Semras recognized her at once—Fleshwitch Madra, her old acquaintance. Her hands curled into fists. The way the fleshwitch had been ready to step up made the situation all too clear for her now.
Estevan hadn’t been caught and dragged here by warwitches like she first feared: he had been set up.
And she could hazard a guess as to who did it and why—Madra had spotted a lone diabalhist and saw something she could leverage out of him to Yore’s advantage.
But what exactly, and how the other witch had managed to lure Estevan into her trap, still eluded her.
“I petition the Elders,” Madra repeated.
“This intruder has stepped into our sacred temple—whether obliviously or maliciously, it does not matter. We all heard of our poor coven sister, lost after warning us of the Inquisition’s nefarious plans, and I do not advocate negligence during such uncertain times. No, dear sisters, I do not.”
Semras dug her nails into her palms, seething at the fleshwitch for speaking faster and louder than her—and at herself for speaking more slowly and hesitantly than her.
Splaying her fingers over her heart, Madra continued, “We must give intruders the same courtesy as is given to us, and that is sadly very little. Yet we mustn’t forget: if conflict is to rise once more, we cannot stand alone.
We need to turn strangers into friends.” She turned to point at Estevan.
“Look at this male. Look at his eyes and how they see as ours can see! He looks strong and healthy. Let’s spare him, sisters, and let’s make him ours. I petition the Elders!”
Whispers flew through the crowds, but Semras couldn’t hear what they were saying. Blood thundered in her ears as her mind drowned in a sea of panic.
Now she knew what Madra wanted.
As the fleshwitch suggested, only one word could spare Estevan from his ghastly fate; only one act could turn him from foe to friend in the eyes of the Coven: taking him as Wyrdtwined.
And Madra meant to force him into becoming hers. The Crone-cursed fleshwitch thought she had tricked a diabalhist into tying his bloodline to her own. But Estevan wasn’t one, and he’d be killed as soon as the trickery was discovered.
Semras closed her eyes. May the Old Crone and the New Maiden forgive her for what she was about to do—for what she had to do to save Estevan’s life.
When she opened them again, the Elders had heeded the call and were slowly stepping out of their sanctum high above.
Seven elderwitches walked down the wooden stairs—seven matriarchs of various advanced ages, each attended by two younger witches.
Layers of colourful veils woven with enchanted gems covered them from head to toe.
Around their necks, medallions carved with Yore’s sigil swung softly as they stepped onto the great hall’s balcony.
Some leaned on canes of twisted wood. Others rested their hands on the offered arms of their white-clad attendants. Two had nearly lost their sight, their eyes taken by old age.
A surge of empathy washed over Semras. These matriarchs wouldn’t live for much longer now, and the Fey sheltering Yore would soon come to reap the last of their toll before the end.
Semras bowed her head to each of the Seven, joining the Coven in paying their respects.
In a thunder of groaning wood, the roots loosened their vice-like grip around Estevan.
He fell on the cold stone floor, biting into his arm to muffle an anguished cry.
Tremors of pain shook his entire body. His gaze—wide and blank, a lingering agony haunting within—swept through his surroundings blankly, as if unable to process anything after the ordeal he had endured.
A mix of worry, fear, and anger shook Semras, but she couldn’t go to him. Not yet, not until her own lesser ordeal was over.
Moving unhurriedly, the Elders cast their wizened gaze over the scene below. Semras waited anxiously as their attendants whispered in their ears. A long, excruciating minute passed before the Elders nodded or shook their heads in judgment of Madra’s petition.
Lips trembling, Semras mouthed numbers as she counted. One nod, two. One denial. Three nods. The fifth Elder shook her head to add a refusal, followed by another from the next one, and …
A final nod came from one of the blind Elders. Four approvals, three denials. Semras’ breath shuddered out of her. It had been close, too close.
One attendant, a woman wearing the white and yellow stole of the Voice of the Elders, walked to the edge of the balcony and rested her hands over the balustrade.
Her clear, soft voice floated down the hall.
“The Elders bless the petition of Madra, daughter of Ilivia,” she announced.
“Who will take this man among you, sisters of Yore?”
“I—” Madra began.
“I’ll take him!” Semras stepped out of the crowd, hand raised high in the air. Cold sweats slithered down her spine, but she kept her back straight. “I will take that man before the Old Crone and the New Maiden.”
Amidst the crowd, a few witches snickered at her interruption.
Fingers curling into a fist, Madra slowly lowered her arm. Her venomous glare dug into Semras, then slid toward the giggling women, shutting them up at once.
From the corner of her eye, Semras felt the stunned, hazed eyes of Estevan on her. She didn’t falter. She kept her eyes on the Elders, waiting for their answer. Silent prayers filled her mind—each of them filled with pleas for his life.
And for her own.
The Elders knew she was back now. Soon, they’d demand answers and then would learn of her betrayal—for no lie could survive the scrutiny of an elderwitch’s sight.
Gazes inscrutable, the Seven stared down at Semras. Then one Elder leaned to weave words to another. Her silent message was passed along the wizened women, generating frowns and head shakes as it went.