Chapter 35 #2
Laughing, he embraced her from behind. “Wherever you wish to go, I shall follow.”
In spite of herself, Semras smiled.
With Estevan by her side, maybe she could survive this embarrassment.
By some miracle, they managed to sneak back to camp unnoticed.
Slumped against a tree in an awkward half-sitting position, Themas was still deeply asleep when they tied their horses to a tree. Only the cold embers of the campfire could have given away their long absence.
Semras wove the fire back to life with open delight, then rolled into her bedroll for what little time remained before dawn.
The blanket had grown cold and uncomfortable by now, and she shivered beneath it.
She missed Estevan’s warm arms already. Still, she let out a content sigh; their little stroll and all that followed it would blissfully remain private now.
Her relief lasted until she woke one hour later with the rising sun.
“What happened to the gloves?” Themas asked, passing her a rudimentary breakfast around the fire.
Semras took it with a nod, then looked down at her hands, frowning. Where had she left them? “Um … I didn’t need them anymore. My hands are fine now. The inquisitor, he … he fulfilled a promise he made to me. So everything is settled now.”
“A promise?” The knight glanced at Estevan, still a few feet away and busy caring for Pagan, before scooting closer to her. “Does that have anything to do with the witch he was looking for last night?” he asked, voice low.
“Oh, um. A little? It’s … I was mistaken. It was just a misunderstanding.” She looked away, trying to find a plausible excuse. She couldn’t exactly tell the knight about her Wyrdtwined’s secret after all. “Estevan found someone to heal me. That’s all he wanted to do last night.”
Themas narrowed his eyes. She couldn’t tell if her lie had convinced him or not, but he thankfully didn’t push the subject. “Back to calling him ‘Estevan’ now? I should have expected it, considering the … the state of your skin this morning.” His hazel eyes dropped to her neck.
“The … the what?”
Themas drew his sword from its scabbard, then presented its surface to her. On the shiny, untarnished blade, Semras saw her reflection.
Love bruises and bite marks generously covered the length of her neck. ‘Mine,’ Estevan had said when she asked him about how she looked.
The bastard.
“Are you still mad?” Estevan asked, sitting behind her on the saddle.
Pagan trotted up the road leading to the gates of Castereina. Behind them, Themas rode his gelding, carefully navigating through the walking crowds surrounding them.
The knight had remained uncharacteristically silent ever since they had left the Vedwoods. He barely looked at them both, preferring instead to tend to his horse or keep his gaze trailed on the road ahead.
Too embarrassed by her neck’s condition, Semras hadn’t tried talking to him either, and neither had Estevan beyond a few orders here and there.
Even if there had been no underlying tension between the three of them, her Wyrdtwined would still have been too distracted to talk—he was far too busy sending her adoring smiles whenever he thought she wouldn’t notice.
His wandering hands were a little more difficult to pretend to ignore. One of them sneaked down her thigh and slipped beneath her dress to caress her leg.
She batted it away.
“I shall take that as a yes, then,” Estevan said, sighing.
Riding aside on Pagan, Semras glared at him. “You should have told me about the marks.”
“Told you? So you could hide my greatest artistic endeavour? I think not.”
With a huff, Semras turned her head and watched silently the flow of people coming and going through the approaching gates.
The road was bursting with just as much activity as it had the last time they passed it.
In the queue, carts, horses, and travellers on foot disputed each other for their rightful place; just like before, Estevan’s inquisitorial insignia brought them through with nary a protest—at least none spoken loud enough to let him hear them.
Estevan rested his hand on her waist. “I will not apologize. I will, however, make it up to you as soon as we get some privacy again.”
Her glare turned to him once more. “Do whatever you want.”
Her ire didn’t faze him. Eyes filled with mirth and fondness, Estevan slid his fingers through her hair, then grabbed her chin. “Oh, I will.” Softly, in a silent question, his lips brushed against hers.
Semras rolled her eyes and gave in. With a smile floating on her lips, she lifted her chin to kiss him. Before she could, Estevan raised his head to stare at the city gates ahead. His brow slowly furrowed, and she followed his gaze.
Sword-bearers were barring their way to the city gate. Her heartbeat picked up.
One of them, wearing the armour and gear of a Venator knight, advanced toward them. With his short grey hair and scowling, scarred face, he cut an intimidating figure. Before him, the crowd parted and scattered away.
She shuddered.
“Inquisitor Velten,” he hailed, “I am Knight-Brother Sir Sevran Galdeli of the Venator Choir. By order of Inquisitor Callum, you are under arrest on suspicion of murder and conspiracy against the Inquisition.” The knight rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
His gaze darted to Themas before returning to Estevan.
“Dismount and come peacefully with me to the House of Tribunals for further questioning.”
Around her waist, Estevan’s arm tightened into a protective, vice-like embrace.
Themas walked his horse to their side. “Orders, my lord Inquisitor?” he asked.
“Bring her to Sin’Sagar.”
Themas nodded, and the inquisitor dismounted slowly.
Semras’ hands moved on their own. Shaking helplessly, they grabbed his clothes, clutching around the fabric tightly, as if it would be enough to keep him with her. “No, no, Estevan, don’t—” Panic strained her voice; she couldn’t raise it higher than a whisper.
“I will delay them for as long as I can,” he murmured to her. “Go to Sin’Sagar. He will know what to do. You can trust him. Sir Ulrech too.”
‘Don’t leave me,’ she wanted to beg.
Estevan looked her over one last time, as if etching her sight into his mind, then turned away and faced the Venators. “I will come peacefully, Sir Sevran. But my companions will return to—”
The Venator knight tilted his head toward Semras. “The witch must come with me as well. Inquisitor Callum’s request.”
Estevan drew his sword. “Maldoza! Go now!”
Themas jumped down from his horse. In a swift move, he climbed atop Pagan right behind Semras, and then kicked its flank.
The steed reared on its front legs. They stayed in the air for one heart-stopping moment before hitting the ground with a heavy thud, making the approaching sword-bearers stumble back.
Before they could recover, Pagan galloped through them and passed beneath the gate.
Semras helplessly gazed over her shoulder at her Wyrdtwined—and at the monster of a man he was now facing alone.
Pagan never slowed down its breakneck speed as they rode through the city streets.
Many times over, they got close to running over some unsuspecting pedestrian or ill-timed carriage, and only Themas’ skilled handling of the stallion avoided the crashes by a hair’s breadth. Angry screams and curses thanked him for his efforts.
Semras didn’t care about the ire of the citizens. Her heart was bleeding with each of its erratic, wild beats. Part of her was still at the city gate, and now the gaping hole it left behind was suffocating her.
She had to get it back—get Estevan back.
“Stop, stop, stop!” she said.
It took a minute, but Themas slowed the stallion down at last. Pagan trotted into a circle and then stopped to huff and paw at the ground.
“We need a carriage,” the knight said. “They will be searching for us, and you stand out too much. We’ll hide in one until we can get to the mansion’s front door.”
Semras nodded, and Themas left to hail one of the many carriages advertising rides for a fare on their side.
Standing still, Pagan glared at her.
“I’ll get him back,” she told it. “You need to warn Sin’Sagar that something has happened, because I’m not returning to his house without him. Can you do that?”
Speaking so publicly to a horse would have made her feel a little silly had it not nodded its head at her words.
Smiling, Semras reached out her hand to rub its neck. “Thank—”
It pawed, and she startled away. Ah, yes—the Fey disliked being thanked. She had forgotten it. “Sorry,” she said, chastised.
Themas returned in time to see the stallion trotting off alone into the streets. “Woah, the horse—!”
“Don’t bother. Pagan is going back to the house. We’re not. We”—she lifted her chin—“are going to that House of Tribunals the brute at the gates spoke of. Now.”
“Inquisitor Velten said—”
“And I say otherwise!” Semras replied, snarling. “Bring me there now, Themas, or I will scour this city with flames until I get my Wyrdtwined back!”
Eyes resolutely fixed on the knight, she awaited his answer. If he gave her the wrong one, she’d leave him behind. She didn’t need the fine mind of Sin’Sagar nor the dogged loyalty of Sir Ulrech to save Estevan.
Semras was a witch of Yore, and she was getting her Wyrdtwined back.
With a resigned sigh, Themas nodded, and Semras embarked on the carriage while he informed the driver of their new destination.
The witch paid no attention to the drive.
Deep in thought, she focused her mind on coming up with strategies for how to approach the House of Tribunals—some violent, some more diplomatic.
Words of pleas and threats rolled on her tongue as she searched for the ones who’d give her back Estevan.
Her fingers flexed, relaxed, and flexed again with nervous energy.
Her Wyrdtwined would get out of the House of Tribunals intact, or the House would no longer stand come dusk.
Then, it would be the city’s turn to burn.
Oblivious to the Bleak Path her thoughts were straying onto, Themas pushed aside the window curtain and peeked outside. “We’ve arrived.”
He exited the vehicle first, then offered Semras his hand. Eyes glued to the House of Tribunals, she took it idly and stepped down from the carriage.
The building was … smaller and more private than she had expected. Surrounded by a low wall of red stone, a facade of white blocks devoid of any unnecessary ornament framed the entrance to the House of Tribunals. In a way, it reminded her a little of her Wyrdtwined’s house.
“This is where Estevan is being held?” Semras asked.
“Should be,” Themas replied, staring at the front door. A hint of worry lurked in his eyes. “Come with me.”
He gently pushed her toward the main door. As she walked, her eyes scurried left and right, taking in her surroundings. No one stood in or strolled through the courthouse’s small front garden. The odd silence unnerved her.
It felt like walking into a wolf’s den.
Her shoulders tensed as she turned her attention to the entrance. Beyond the heavy wooden door, her Wyrdtwined awaited her. He needed her.
Themas opened the door and hurried her inside. Frowning at his abruptness, Semras stepped through the threshold, and then came to a halt.
Inside, a wide, luminous hall faced a tall staircase in a layout similar to Estevan’s home. On the ceiling, a coloured glass dome looked down on the foyer. The sun flooded inside from it, throwing prismatic rays of light over the staircase landing above her.
Semras’ eyes drifted upward to the large painting hanging on the wall there: an idyllic countryside view of sheep grazing in a golden field next to a forest. Dissimulated within the undergrowth, the yellow eyes of wolves peered at them, a silent menace known only to those who knew to pay attention to it.
Shudders ran down her spine. This wasn’t the House of Tribunals.
Semras stepped back—and stumbled against the Venator knight waiting for her there. A strong, unforgiving grip seized her hands and twisted them behind her back.
She startled. “What are you—!”
Then the cold bite of metal snapped shut around her wrists, and her words died in her throat.
Cold iron shackles. Bile crept up her throat.
“This way, Semras.” Themas shoved her toward the upper floor.
She raged and trashed against him every step of the way. “How dare you, Themas! Let me go at once!”
“Sorry, can’t do,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I ain’t the one who gets to decide that.”
“Then who does? Who?”
Themas shrugged, then led her to a dark, rich walnut door down the corridor. After knocking on it, he said in a quiet voice, “I told you my profession would stand in the way sooner or later.”
Semras snarled her lips at him. “Your—”
“Come in,” called a voice from behind the door.
Themas dragged her inside the room, and the doors closed behind them with a loud, fatalistic thud. Crossing his arms, the traitor leaned against the door. Her withering glare could have scorched him in place, but he only gave her a dimpled, apologetic smile in return.
Scoffing, Semras glanced around at a study disturbingly similar to Estevan’s. The only difference lay in its cleanliness. Here, every book, file, and piece of furniture had been meticulously organized and arranged where they belonged.
A deep, rich baritone voice drew her attention toward the central desk. “We meet again, Miss Witch.”
Hands uncomfortably bound behind her, Semras turned to face Themas’ true master. “I rather hoped we wouldn’t, Inquisitor Callum.”