Chapter 12
Inquisitor Velten had lied to her.
Of course he had. He was a master of deception: playing with her feelings, taking turns between terrorizing and seducing her, making her too confused to realize it all. Old Crone curse her; at past thirty-one springs, she should have known better than to believe in his sweet lies.
But lies he would give her no more. Tonight, she’d get answers, even if she had to pry them out of Inquisitor Velten’s warp shape herself.
Attempting to calm her anger, Semras sought the refuge of the forest, leaving Themas alone around the campfire.
Darkness embraced her like an old friend.
Beneath her feet, dried leaves rustled. The soothing chirps of crickets filled her ears.
Moths flew all around her like tiny, flickering stars descended from the twinkling night sky.
Among the sea of birch and beech trunks, the witch walked, and walked, and walked.
It took her an hour to steel her mind into a cold blade, tempered by the resolve of scorned women.
Ready to face the worst man she’d ever met, Semras strode toward the small tent.
The inquisitor and his knight were still inside; the flickering light of a lantern cast their shadows against the taut fabric. Lurking around, she waited patiently for her prey to be alone.
Most of the sword-bearers had gone to sleep, but a few were still chatting among themselves, shivering as the night progressively became colder.
They made her nervous, but she knew Themas was watching over her and would intervene if any of the guards tried to corner her.
The tingling feeling of his gaze on her nape had stuck to her after she returned from her midnight stroll.
She smiled privately, grateful for his protective attention.
Within the tent, one shadow moved toward the tent’s entrance flap. Semras crept closer, waiting for Ulrech to leave.
She paused, frowning. Entering the inquisitor’s tent so late at night would probably look outrageous after what Themas had revealed to her. Chewing her lip, Semras glanced toward the young knight, unsure of what he’d make of her action.
But no one sat around the campfire.
Frown deepening, she searched for him. Some steps away from the fire, the young knight had rolled himself up inside his bedroll. He was sleeping soundly.
A cold sweat ran down her nape. She still felt watched, but if it wasn’t by him … then who? The witch darted her gaze around with growing anxiety.
Before she could find its source, the feeling dissipated.
Unsettled, Semras hurried to the inquisitor’s tent. Ulrech’s presence be damned; remaining alone in the darkness of night no longer felt safe.
The knight staggered out just as her hand brushed against the tent’s flap. “… hypocrite!” Ulrech said, glancing over his shoulder. “That is—that is different, Velten!” Alcohol slurred his speech. Even if it hadn’t, the smell of red wine emanating from the knight would have tipped Semras in.
Behind him, she heard Velten’s voice. “Var Hesser, for the hundredth time, you tell me nothing I have not told myself.”
“I ought to … to slap some sense into you instead of stitching you up,” the knight muttered, jerking out of the tent.
He stumbled into Semras, and she fell backward, eyes wide with surprise.
Sir Ulrech caught her by the elbow. “You,” he said, brow furrowed.
“Me, indeed. How kind of you to notice me, Ulrech. Care to let me go now?”
“It’s S-Sir Ulr—Oh, never mind. Where—where do you think you are going?”
Semras raised her eyebrow. “Does it matter when you cannot stop me?”
“Nobody listens to me. You’re both so … so damn stubborn!” His eyes dropped to her neck, where her velvet dress covered the bite on her skin, and his frown deepened. “You—you are going to start a bloody war.” Letting go of her arm, the knight stomped away.
Puzzled by his words, she watched him stagger through the trees.
A war?
Semras stepped inside the inquisitor’s tent, ready for a fight. “You lied to me,” she declared.
Compared to the scraps of waxed canvas beneath which the Venator guards slept, the tent looked better—but barely so. Flasks of wine littered the tarp-covered floor. One small lantern, sitting near the central pole holding the tent fabric up, illuminated the area.
Elbows resting on his knees, Velten sat on a bedroll behind it. After barely sparing a glance at her, he stretched his arm, opened the lantern’s window, then killed the candle’s flame between his fingers.
Semras scoffed at his childish dismissal.
She stepped closer and waited until he acknowledged her presence.
It took a minute, but he eventually gave in, eyes fixed on the ground between his knees.
“Unsurprisingly, I hope,” he drawled. “It is nothing a little confession will not absolve me of. So, pray tell, which lie are you mad about? During my next confession, I will put extra emphasis on it just for you.”
“You thrive on being as abrasive as you can be, do you?”
“I always aim to provide what is expected of me,” Velten replied, arms spread wide open.
Cocky and insufferable—that was just like him.
“Well.” Semras plastered a fake smile on her face. “In that case, I expect courtesy and honesty from the inquisitors I travel with.”
“You have followed other inquisitors? You wound me, witch,” he said, theatrically slamming his hand over his heart.
How childish.
“And here I thought I was your first,” he finished.
From childish to crass now. Her blood started boiling. “You’ll be my first for something much less pleasant if you don’t give me answers tonight, Velten.”
“Must I? I am tired. I would appreciate some peace for once.” His eyes avoided hers.
Semras frowned. He always sought to make her squirm beneath his gaze. This avoidance gave her pause.
Then, it hit her. “Are you drunk?”
She leaned down and grabbed his jaw to examine him. The smell of alcohol on his breath hit her nose at once, and she stepped back, cheeks reddening at her boldness.
In his drunken state, Velten followed her retreat, then collapsed back onto the bedroll. “Merciless witch,” he muttered.
His gaze darted to the entrance of the tent. Before he could plan his escape, Semras knelt in front of him and levelled their gazes. He turned away, visibly intent on ignoring her.
She grabbed his shoulders and pinned him in place with a blazing glare. “Why would you even drink so much?” she asked, irritated. “You’re the one who keeps saying we need to make haste and be ready when the sun rises, and you—!”
“I have nightmares,” Estevan said, voice hoarse. “I keep seeing the moment when I found my friend’s—when he … I-I have not slept well in weeks.”
Made wordless, Semras stared at him. Ulrech had been inebriated too; she should have realized earlier that they had drank for their deceased friend.
“So this, witch,” he said, gesturing at a nearby flask, “is medicine for the mind. You will not be so cruel as to take it from me, will you?”
“I …” Semras felt lost for words. She found some anyway—platitudes, but at least they filled the silence. “I’m sorry. For your friend. Truly.”
“Do not be. You are not responsible, and I do not resent witches for the actions of a single one.” Passing his hand over his drawn face, Estevan looked away, his attention lost toward the collection of alcohol bottles.
“Var Hesser, he … Please forgive his temper. I wish he blamed me too; then he would have an outlet for his grief.”
Semras studied Estevan, trying to reconcile her understanding of the inquisitor with the man before her. “I … I don’t think you are to blame for Sir Jaqh’s death either. I’m sorry. It never crossed my mind you’d have nightmares about it. You always look so sure, so … infallible.”
Grief flashed through his eyes before a snarl smothered it. “I am human too, even if people forget when they see … this.” He gestured at his cloak, lying discarded on the floor tarp.
Pinned onto it, the golden, twelve-pointed star looked tarnished when no light touched it.
“You …” he muttered, “you forget it too.”
“I …”
“You are scared of me.” It wasn’t a question.
Deep down, she knew he was right. Inquisitor Velten was a murderer sanctified by his church to hunt down people like her. There was no place for trust between them.
But Estevan was a drunken mess right now, and not liable to remember any part of this conversation later.
“Not now,” she murmured. “Not when you’re like this.”
“But you were scared in the glade. And … in the inn’s room … I think? And in your hut. You fear me when I approach you. Touch you.” His hand reached for her face, as if trying to illustrate his point. “I want—”
She batted it away. “Don’t toy with me. You’ve mocked me, threatened me! And you—” A shiver shook her. “… You wanted to kill me. How could I not be wary of you? You meant to kill me.”
Face scrunching with pain, Estevan closed his eyes. “I should have. Still should. You were too close to the Bleak. And I cannot … I cannot forgive those who walk the Bleak.”
His words froze the blood in her veins, but she shook it off. She wouldn’t cower, not in front of him. Not now. “I am scared of cages, not of you, Estevan. And I—”
A hand slammed onto her mouth, while the other caught her wrist. With muffled cries, Semras struggled and tried to push him back—to no avail. Even in his advanced state of inebriation, he remained formidably strong.
Her back hit the tent’s central beam. The sensation of the wooden pole against her spine felt uncomfortably close to being tied to a pyre.
“Shhh, listen. Listen to me,” the inquisitor drawled. “Do not. Do not stop fearing me. I would kill you; I would really do it. I have killed before for less than that. If I had—shhh, do not struggle.”
She hadn’t—horror was what had shaken her limbs.
“If I’d had a single doubt about you,” he continued, “I would have done it. Still might. I swore an oath to the Inquisition, and I will uphold it. Even if … even if it costs me.”