Chapter 11
Sir Themas’ eyes went wide when they emerged from the forest.
In retrospect, walking back to the company in their current state was bound to raise questions, and not the kind Semras felt inclined to answer.
More concerned about the sword-bearers’ reaction than the bemused knight’s, she looked past him at the newly raised, makeshift camp set in the undergrowth next to the path.
The men had laid bedrolls around a few campfires scattered here and there.
Waxed linen tarps hung between trunks to shield them, doing very little to fight the cold, humid evening breeze.
There was only a single tent, standing in retreat next to a fire attended by a lone silhouette.
The remains of a drizzle bathed the woods in a soft glimmer.
Beyond the crowning branches of trees, myriads of stars had begun twinkling.
They really had been gone for far longer than she’d thought.
The sword-bearers hadn’t yet noticed their return. Busy eating their evening meals from pots hanging above the campfires, they sat huddled in small groups around the flames. The men looked tired, resigned to sleep under the canopy of trees at the mercy of the damp forest.
Relief flooded Semras’ mind. The cover of the night would shield her from their waning attention span.
Hastily dressed, lips smeared with blood, Semras knew she looked as if she had stepped out of a fairy tale—as its devious, villainous witch.
Or maybe she’d be given the role of the evil temptress, considering the bite mark clearly displayed on her neck.
Velten hadn’t had the decency to give her one where her dress could cover it.
The bastard. It still throbbed, each pulse an irritating reminder of the glade’s madness.
Themas stared at her neck, his face twisted by a worried grimace.
“Don’t worry,” she said. Her lips stretched into a mirthless grin. “He bled more than me.”
Bewildered into silence, the knight shifted his gaze to her side.
Velten stopped next to her. With his smeared, ripped clothes and visible wounds, he looked far worse than her. The blood on his lips had dried in small, dark crusts, and the cuts on his cheeks had turned into thin raised lines.
“Sir Ulrech gave the order to camp for the night?” he asked, observing the encampment with critical eyes.
“Yes, my lord.” Themas watched him cautiously. “You were … gone for longer than we expected. I suggested sending people to look for you, but Sir Ulr—”
“Sir Ulrech is well aware I can handle a single witch.”
Semras scoffed. Hopefully, he didn’t ‘handle’ all witches the way he had handled her.
Beckoned by the campfires and their drying heat, she walked away. Without her enchanted shawl to keep her warm, her rain-soaked dress chilled her thoroughly.
Behind her, Themas spoke, his voice growing fainter and fainter at each step she took. “I … can see that, my lord. You … you should go speak with Sir Ulrech. He looked quite angry, and …”
Semras walked into the camp, and the knight’s words faded into the indistinct murmur of ambient conversations.
Wary eyes snapped to her as she strode past groups of guards and clusters of bedrolls.
Some sword-bearers averted their gaze, while others sized her up, squinting their eyes trying to see her through the shroud of darkness. None looked welcoming.
Back kept straight, Semras eyed with rancour the lone tent standing in the back. That one was for Inquisitor Velten, she’d bet on it. Privileged bastard.
Sitting alone around the nearby campfire, Sir Ulrech was sharpening his blade with long, drawn-out movements. When she approached, he stopped and stared at her. Then he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sit here,” he said, gesturing to the wide, freshly cut logs propped up around the fire.
Paying her no more attention, Ulrech returned to his task.
Semras dropped her bag next to the improvised seat and sat. “I thought you’d have questions.” Rubbing her hands, she brought them closer to the fire. A pot hung above its flames, carrying to her nose the scent of a watery soup.
Ulrech didn’t look up. “I do not ask questions. That is Inquisitor Velten’s privilege, not mine.
” The slick sound of the sharpener running along the blade’s edge punctuated his answer.
“He gives orders, and I execute them, regardless of what I think. He wanted to bring you along; he did. Nine years at his service, and he has never listened to me once.”
She stilled, eyes fixed on the flames without seeing them truly. “He wanted to?”
“Inquisitor Velten quite insisted he needed a witch. He was so set on the idea, he did not even tell the tribunals. They should have sanctioned it first, but Inquisitor Velten is remarkably stubborn when he wants to be.” The sliding of metal on metal stopped.
“You must have noticed by now,” Ulrech said, contemplating the sword’s edge by the light of the fire.
Its iridescent shine gave her a shiver of dread.
Semras took a deep breath. So, the inquisitor had lied to her. He had wanted a witch for his investigation, despite denying it when they first met. How much of their conversation in her home had he crafted in advance to ensure she would accept to follow him?
Taking hold of a branch, she stirred the fire with feigned nonchalance. “Why would he? Does an inquisitor really have the power to act so secretly?”
The knight’s bark of laughter startled her. “Your guess is as good as mine. Inquisitor Velten does whatever he damn well pleases with the backing he has. If he goes over the line, at worst he might receive the censure of his peers, but he would not be given any official sanction.”
In the fire, a log crackled, sending glowing sparks into the air.
“I will be frank with you.” Ulrech rested an elbow on his knee and leaned toward her.
“This is not the first time Inquisitor Velten has done something … let’s call it ‘unsanctioned’ by the Inquisition, and he is already under the scrutiny of—um, never mind who.
Your presence at his side is a liability.
As soon as your involvement in the case is over, go back home at once. ”
“That’s the plan, I assure you,” she answered icily.
As if she’d want to remain around such an unpleasant man.
The ghost of Estevan’s lips lingered on her skin. She cast its memory away.
“Good. We may get along then.” The knight returned his focus to his sword. His inspection over, he carefully placed it back in its scabbard. “You will find a tarp far back with a bucket of water behind, should you want to … um, wash, Miss Witch.”
She stood with a sigh. “Why can’t any of you use my name? Themas does, and—”
“And he should know better. You, I do not expect you to.”
Semras stared blankly at him.
Ulrech pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.
“Do not misunderstand me. I do not blame you for your poor upbringing—wait, that came out wrong. I mean to say, we are knighted gentry, Sir Themas and I. We do not use first names, especially with women. That would be incredibly rude or suggest a desire for … um, more intimacy than is appropriate between unmarried people.”
Semras narrowed her eyes. Estevan refused to call her anything other than ‘witch,’ but that hadn’t stopped his wandering hands from seeking intimacy earlier. In comparison, Themas had been a perfect gentleman.
That made no sense to her.
“And yet,” she said, “you just called Themas by his name …”
“I called him Sir Themas. That is different. Listen, I will not give you an etiquette lesson about knighthood and proper forms of address. Call him ‘Sir Themas,’ or ‘Maldoza’ if you insist on being too friendly—or if you want to be disrespectful, I suppose. But nothing else. Likewise, you must address me as ‘Sir Ulrech.’ Do that with everyone you meet, and that should prevent you from blundering—no, wait. My explanation lacks the finer details of—ugh, just … just ask me how to address people first before you do it.” Irritated, the knight passed his hand over his face.
“I cannot believe I keep having this conversation again and again.”
“That sounds complicated for no reason at all,” she mused out loud. “But fine, I get it … I think. How do you want me to call Estevan?”
“Not that! Did you not listen? You—!” His eyes fell on her neck, and he faltered.
“Never mind. If he gave you his name and that bite, then fine. Call him Estevan. Just do it in private, and spare us all the sight of … of whatever you …” Sir Ulrech gestured away behind her.
“The tarp with the water bucket is over there.” He huffed and rubbed his neck, gaze averted from her.
Hearing his silent dismissal, Semras slung her bag back onto her shoulder and thanked him with a nod. He replied with a grunt.
On the way, her mind spun in circles. The witch didn’t care for the Deprived’s ridiculous rules on how to address pompous lordships; Ulrech’s instructions had barely registered in her mind. No, something else troubled her.
Estevan’s secret requisition of her expertise made no sense. Why had he lied about it? If he had wanted her to accept his deal, kindness would have been … well, suspicious, if she had to be honest. No witch would be foolish enough to follow an inquisitor who wanted them to.
What else had he lied about?
She thought back to their first conversation.
He had said, ‘pretend to know nothing’ about what had killed the murder victim …
Was he already certain the poison came from a witch, and only needed another one to confirm his suspicion?
He had been particularly tight-lipped about his investigation too, sharing almost nothing of it with her.
Maybe this entire trip was a trap, but even if that was true, a simple murder would never warrant so much scheming.
Then, it could only mean it wasn’t one. It was a high-profile assassination.