Chapter 13
Semras woke up to the loud chirping of birds, still stuck in the arms of the inquisitor.
Thankfully, their chatter hadn’t yet roused him, and that small blessing felt like all she needed to consider it the start of a great day. Had Estevan woken up before her, she shuddered to think of the awkwardness that would have followed.
Because they lay together cuddling.
Holding her close against his chest, Estevan breathed softly on her nape. Their legs had somehow tangled together during the night, and her head now rested against one of his arms. In an embarrassingly intimate gesture, Semras had joined her fingers with his and laid their hands over her stomach.
It was not comfortable.
Wincing, she tried to extract herself from his embrace without waking him. One wrong move, and she’d ruin her only opportunity to escape with her pride still intact.
After much patience, luck, and a silent prayer to the New Maiden, Semras slipped out of his arms and rolled onto the dew-covered tarp, grimacing at the cold, damp ground. Estevan was still asleep when she finally stumbled out of the tent, eyes blinking at the brightness that welcomed her outside.
Fresh, clarifying morning air blew on her face.
Sunrays piercing through the canopy of trees warmed the forest, covering it in a thin, rising fog.
Bathed in it, sword-bearers were busy packing up the camp for the journey ahead.
Left and right, campfires were doused, and tarps were rolled and tied.
A ruthless, disciplined efficiency moved the company. They were clearly eager to leave.
Themas caught sight of her. “Miss Semras!” he said, greeting her. His light, cheerful tone felt painfully forced.
Undue guilt gnawed at her conscience, and she defensively raised her hands in front of her. “It’s not what it looks like, Themas.” Semras glanced at the tent behind her. “I didn’t want to spend the night, especially after what you told me. He—he just trapped me in there.”
The knight’s smile vanished. “The inquisitor trapped you?”
She waved his concern away, smiling awkwardly. “No, no. Not like that. It’s not as bad as it sounds. He just said it was safer in the tent, and I had no opportunity to slip out earlier,” she lied.
Probably best to avoid mentioning he had accidentally pinned her against him—and that she had fallen asleep in his arms.
Themas looked at her with indecipherable eyes. “If it’s protection you seek, Miss Semras, say the word and I will gladly dedicate all my nights to you.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, a violent blush spread across his cheeks. “I-I mean—!”
Semras laughed. “Back with the ‘miss,’ and yet so forward. You are trying to confuse me, Sir Themas.”
Hand scratching his nape, he gave her an apologetic smile. “Ah. Sir Ulrech spoke to you too. He insisted this morning that I had to address you more properly.”
“And he told me I should call you ‘Maldoza’ if I, and I quote, ‘insisted on being too friendly’ with you.” A thought crossed her mind, and she frowned. “Um. Does it mean every time Inquisitor Velten calls me ‘witch,’ he means …?”
“I rather think he means it in a more disrespectful manner,” Themas replied, “like he does when he calls me by my family name rather than my title.”
“Yes … you’re right. He’s just being rude, but that’s to be expected, knowing the man.
” Semras gave him a conspiratorial smile.
“Between you and me, I think these rules of propriety are useless. Call me as you usually do, and so will I. What can Sir Ulrech do? Stitch our mouths as if we were warwitches? I’d like to see him try. ”
He returned her smile with one of his own, dimpled and lopsided. “I don’t think I’d like to have my mouth stitched, but I shall do as you say.”
Themas led her to the campfire, wordlessly offering the contents of the metal pot hanging over it to break her fast. Peeking inside it, Semras stared at dried-up oatmeal.
Lips pursed, she poured herself a bowl, then sat on a log.
“Neither would I. The War Path is harsh. Warwitches suffer a lot of privation so they may not grow comfortable walking it.” Eyeing the contents of her bowl, she wrinkled her nose.
“Delightful. This gruel is making me feel like I am one already.”
He shrugged. “We made do with what we had. We used to have better fare, but it was all consumed on the way to your home. There is not much else left after four days of nonstop riding.”
Glancing around, Semras could see what he meant. Eyes tired and clothes dirty, the sword-bearers all bore the marks of travelling for too long with too little rest.
“How far are we from the city now?” she asked.
Themas hummed. “If we hurry, I think we might make it to Castereina after nightfall, though I do not recommend riding horses in the dark. Besides, the sight of the citadel is worth waiting for the sunrise to witness it. Have you ever seen Castereina’s keep?”
“No. I’m a woodwitch. We don’t tend to leave our forests often.”
“Ah.” Themas sat next to her. “I gathered witches walked ‘Paths’ from our talk yesterday, but I am not sure what yours really entails. You said it was the … Wood Path, correct?”
Semras nodded. “It’s a common one. It covers a lot of specialties, and woodlands are plentiful on the Vandalesian Peninsula.
Us witches believe in preserving the balance of the world by giving back as much as we take from it, so my Path means taking care of a forest and using its resources in return. ”
Themas watched her with bright eyes, and she continued, “I specialize in herbal potions and cures, but other woodwitches can do woodwork, or hunt game to balance forest population, or shelter endangered animals. It’s just a matter of personal interest. You can always leave a Path and begin another one whenever you feel like it. ”
A sword-bearer passed by, and she waited for him to leave as he retrieved the metal pot from the fire. His task done, the man nodded respectfully at Themas, ignored her, and then moved on.
“Sounds quite peaceful,” the knight said. “The Wood Path, I mean.”
Semras stared at the guard’s back and snorted.
Typical. “It is a quiet life. I had lived on coven grounds being watched by my Elders all my life, so it’s quite a nice change of pace.
Oh, it’s not always easy, mind you,” she said, finishing her tasteless porridge.
“Try explaining to the Deprived what we’re doing during years of controlled burns.
People do not take well to witches setting their neighbourly woods on fire, but it’s necessary for the forest’s health. ”
“I can imagine,” Themas replied, smiling at her.
“Most of the time, the Path of Woods is thankless, though not as much as the War Path or the Weir. That one deals with the Fey. I tried it once.” Semras frowned at the recollection of sharp, tiny teeth in the dark, still hunting her in her nightmares years later.
“I didn’t pursue it further when I … when I learned what fear was.
True fear. I could deal with the Unseelie, but the Seelie … ” Her breath shuddered out of her.
Seelie were the worst. Ethereal, dogmatic beings who obsessed over people belonging to specific places. They ruthlessly sought to shape the world to fit their eldritch, archaic vision, regardless of if someone fit the hole they wanted them in or not.
It had taken the concerted efforts of weirwitches over centuries to seal most of them away into tumuli across the peninsula and the surprisingly efficient Inquisition Nighthunts to chase the rest of them back into the Night.
Now, only the small, domestic fey critters—with the odd kelpie here and there, apparently—remained on this side of the Unseen Arras, with their numbers dwindling every year.
From the corner of her eye, Semras caught Themas looking at her with fascination. “It must get lonely, walking a Path alone …” he drawled. A strand of her hair threatened to fall into her bowl, and he reached for it.
“I …” Semras suddenly frowned, then mindlessly tucked the strand back behind her ear. “What is Estevan doing?”
Themas’ hand froze mid-air.
For some reason, she had been expecting the inquisitor to interrupt them at any moment. He always seemed to when she was alone with Themas. And yet, despite the advancing hour, he still remained in his tent.
A mighty hangover must have held the inquisitor back, she mused. Sighing, Semras searched for her bag. She spotted it nearby, leaning against the log where she’d left it the prior night. If she recalled correctly, it should contain some ginger in a bottle.
The inquisitor was a menace on his best days, and the witch did not want to find out how he handled nursing a headache.
“I should probably prepare him something,” she said, standing with a sigh. “You know, to spare us all from his moods.”
The knight’s smile twitched. “That would be most noble of you.”
She did have ginger—but not in sufficient quantity to make a cure out of it.
Thankfully, dandelions grew along the forest path, and Semras had spotted what looked like thyme further down too.
The roots of one and the leaves of the other could help with hangovers.
The mix wouldn’t taste good, and she had no aromatics at hand to fix that, but it would help restore the inquisitor’s inner balance.
Mind focused on the brew, Semras retrieved what she needed, then returned to the campfire. After procuring a small, clean pot to boil water in, she infused the dandelion roots, the thyme leaves, and the ginger slices. Themas watched her preparations with curious eyes.
The herbal tea had cooled down by the time Estevan came out of the tent dressed to the nines. Not a single trace of a drunken night remained on his face.
He surveyed the camp’s dismantlement, then beckoned a few guards to come closer. The sword-bearers began taking down his tent with excessive zeal, as if the radiance of their souls depended on the efficiency of their service to him.