Chapter 11 #2
Semras shuddered. The weight of morality suddenly felt very heavy on her shoulders. She wanted to believe no witch of Yore could have murdered someone, and yet … if one had done it … if one had betrayed the peace the Elders had paid so dearly for and doomed them all to face a new era of prejudice …
Whose justice should she uphold? The Inquisition’s or the Coven’s?
Questions swirled and twirled and went nowhere in her mind. She knew too little, and her worries had yet to grow a legitimate foundation.
For now, she’d focus on reaching the city-state of Castereina.
Then, she could reassess the situation and plan around what awaited her there.
Besides, if it was a trap, it was too late to escape it by now.
Either she’d reach no conclusive answer, and then she’d look like she was hiding something, or she’d discover a witch had indeed killed a man and have to lie to spare her.
Or … she could tell the truth instead—like he didn’t expect her to do.
When Semras arrived at the tarp, she groaned in frustration.
It hung on a large tree limb and would shield her from sight, but it was an improvised latrine more than anything else. She found the bucket, looked at the water inside, and recoiled. No way she’d wash up with that.
Looking left and right, the witch searched for prying eyes. No one else stood around.
Good.
She stripped out of her dress and picked another one from her bag—a heavy frock of deep burgundy velvet, with a high neckline to cover Estevan’s bite. Velvet in a forest was a bad idea, but at least it would keep her warm.
And she felt so cold. As Estevan’s threads slowly unravelled from her core, her vigour returned to her in a more worn-out shape than she had lent it. A good night of sleep would do her some good. For now, she’d power through her fatigue and weave the dirt out of herself.
The thought of finally refreshing herself after the day she’d had made her smile.
Semras returned to the campfire, ready to probe Sir Ulrech for more answers while he was still alone. Instead, she found Estevan and Themas sitting around the fire with him.
A shame. He had proven to be far more talkative than she had expected.
The witch drew closer, waving silently at Themas after catching his eye. Sitting side by side with their backs turned to her, the inquisitor and his other knight hadn’t seen her yet.
“We should have taken the mountain pass,” Sir Ulrech said. “Would have been safer. And with fewer ‘distractions.’”
Her, he meant. Jaw clenched, Semras walked past him and joined Themas on the opposite side of the fire. She sat directly across from Ulrech, then lifted her head and glared at—
Icy blue eyes. Not brown.
She froze.
Estevan sat across from her, not Ulrech as she had intended. She had mistaken the two men and now faced the one she hadn’t wanted to look at. It didn’t stop her traitorous eyes from roving all over him, taking him in.
The inquisitor had changed his clothes for cleaner ones, but his lips still sported a bruise, and his face, the scratches she gave him. Eyes fixed on the flames, he didn’t acknowledge her arrival.
“Be silent if you have nothing interesting to say,” Estevan said.
Ulrech grunted, then lifted a flask to his lips.
Hand darting toward it, the inquisitor stole the bottle from him, then knocked it back. “Where do you keep that swill, you rascal? Give me more,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a grin.
Ulrech grimaced. “An inquisitor should not drink in excess, my lord. I am afraid it must stay all mine.”
Miffed, the inquisitor frowned, and a rare chuckle lifted Ulrech’s face before falling again into his usual, morose expression.
“I do a lot of things inquisitors should not do,” Estevan grumbled.
“Hm. Like her?”
The mood soured at once. Eyes tethered to the fire, Themas curled his hands into fists until his knuckles whitened. Semras discreetly put her hand on his to soothe him, and his grip relaxed.
Inquisitor Velten stared at his second-in-command. All traces of levity had left his face, replaced with a passive, blank mask. Beneath it, venom dripped. “You have something you wish to tell me?”
She had to acknowledge it: Ulrech could stand his ground when facing the inquisitor at his foulest mood. He neither flinched nor lowered his gaze.
“You would not heed my warnings, my lord Inquisitor,” the knight said. “I will not waste my breath. Do with her whatever you want.” Looking into the flames, he added, “When it goes awry, I will have your back. As always.”
Velten’s eyes flickered to her hand resting on Themas’ fist.
He sneered. “What about you? The new boy knight: young, gentle, polite Maldoza …” He stood and circled around the fire to approach them. “What do you say? Will you follow me without question?”
“My lord,” he replied. “I serve the Inquisition. If you need anything, I await your orders.”
Velten grabbed the edge of his brigandine and lifted him to his feet. “You have big boots to fill, boy. Make sure you are up to the task.” His eyes darted toward Semras. “With no ‘distractions.’”
“Let him go, Velten,” Ulrech called behind them. He had dropped the honorifics, Semras noted. “He is not to blame for Sir Jaqh’s death.”
Velten’s face fell. “… I know.” He let go of the knight, then returned to his seat. His shoulders dropped as he sat down. “I am,” Estevan murmured.
Silence settled around the campfire. Consumed by the flames, a log hissed as heat released a steamy strip of foam from its burst-out vein of sap.
Themas busied his hands by filling a bowl with soup from the hanging pot. Semras had forgotten it, too preoccupied with confused thoughts of murder and schemes—and of who Jaqh was, now.
Themas gave her the bowl, and she accepted it with a short, grateful nod. Mood sullen by the heavy atmosphere, she swirled the spoon into the watery soup. “What happened?” she asked.
Sir Ulrech spat on the ground. “A bleakwitch happened.”
“He died because of me,” Estevan replied softly, eyes fixed on the flames. He stayed still for a long time. The logs cracked; embers sparked into the air. Then, he continued. “We were hunting a suspected bleakwitch two months ago in the Anderas.”
Semras envisioned the mountains to the north of the peninsula that had watched her grow up; the inquisitor had travelled weeks away from Castereina.
“My Venator knight, Sir Jaqh de Bauron, found her first. He wanted to be bait … Promised me his ‘Freran charms would work wonders’ to lower her guard. And I was foolish enough to believe it had worked when she returned his attention. I realized too late what she meant to use him for.” Estevan lifted his gaze to the night sky.
“I found what remained of him in the morning. We found his … his skin much later, when we finally caught her. Sir Jaqh was … he was buried twice.”
“Never seen a prettier pyre than hers. The flames burned hot that day.” Sir Ulrech retrieved another flask from his bag, took a swig, then passed it to Estevan. “I never want to see that again. Or hear those screams again.”
“May the Radiant Lord light our way through the Void.” Estevan clutched the bottle a moment, then drank deeply.
Semras remained silent, caught between their grief and her shame for her Bleak kin.
“I am so sorry for your friend,” she said at last. “Skinwalking is—it’s no worthy art of the Arras.
I had heard the fleshwitches of Talion had all turned Bleak during the last witch purge, but this … They bring shame upon their Path.”
Themas stared at the flames. “Fleshwitches of Talion, you say? What does that mean?”
“Flesh is the Path they walk,” she replied.
“Fleshwitches are healers, but … when you know the threads of the human body as well as they do, you become capable of very dark things once you walk the Bleak.” Semras shivered with revulsion.
“Talion is their Coven. It’s a sort of …
large family, if you want to call it that, but Coven members seldom share blood between each other. ”
Themas cocked his head. “How come?”
The inquisitor answered him, surprising them both.
“They send their children away to be raised by someone else when they become old enough. To an allied Coven’s sister, or other trusted individuals, who then become the mentors that guide them on their first Path.
” Estevan regained some of his composure.
The technical talk visibly grounded him.
“Sometimes, mothers keep their girls to teach them themselves, but it is not commonly done. Boys are always sent to their fathers. At three, five, or seven years old at the latest.”
“That’s … right.” Semras nodded slowly, worried at the Inquisition’s trove of knowledge about her people. “It helps exchange knowledge and foster sisterhood between the Covens. We travel a lot during our sacred rites, so we don’t stay separated from our mothers for too long.”
Themas’ eyes lit up. “What kind of rites?”
The witch paused. His constant questions were beginning to feel intrusive.
“Do not answer,” Estevan said, saving her. “You should already know all that, Maldoza.”
“Youngsters these days …” Ulrech grumbled lowly.
Blushing with embarrassment, Themas looked aside. “My apologies. I just wanted to make conversation.”
“It’s alright, Themas,” she said, smile thin and forced.
Ulrech glowered at her, then shook his head, mumbling about given names and proprieties.
“This ‘conversation’ is turning into an interrogation by virtue of my presence here,” Estevan said. His gaze darted to her. “You can stay quiet. Or I can leave if you would like to keep discussing this subject away from the ears of an inquisitor.”
Semras recognized his words for what they were: a peace offering for what had transpired in the grove. She wasn’t ready to accept it, but she’d make use of it. If he got out of the way, his knights might talk more freely, and she had questions of her own.
Themas mouthed a ‘sorry’ toward Semras. She smiled at him, then turned to Estevan. “I—”