Chapter 13 #2
Mug in hand, Semras stood to greet the inquisitor.
He walked past her with a dry, curt nod, completely missing her offered cup. Bemused, the witch silently watched him stride toward his horse.
Standing uncannily still by the main path, Pagan was bullying a few sword-bearers attempting to groom it despite its placid disdain.
After a curt order to stand aside, Velten retrieved the brush from the guards’ hands, then shooed them away and spoke a few words to his stallion.
The half-fey bent its neck, and the inquisitor began brushing its coat.
Semras watched him work, feeling a little foolish with her useless mug in hand in the middle of the woods.
A cough from Themas directed her attention toward Sir Ulrech a few steps away. The knight hadn’t had the surprising recovering ability of the inquisitor, and his face betrayed a dire need for more water and more sleep.
She approached him with a smile. “Sir Ulrech! A soothing tea for your hangover?” she asked, offering the mug.
The knight blinked a few times, sniffed its contents, then stumbled away, nose wrinkling. “No. Um, thank you,” he grunted. Then, with stiff, tottering steps, he walked away.
And accidentally bumped into her. The mug tipped over her velvet dress, splashing its contents over her bosom. Semras gasped.
Mumbling a few repeated ‘sorry’s,’ the Venator knight shuffled toward Velten. “My lord Inquisitor!” he called, hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “A sip of your fancy hangover cure-all, for the love of the Radiant Lord!”
Semras lifted her hands, intending to dry herself by weaving the water out of her dress. Her eyes caught the Venator guards surrounding her on all sides, and she lowered her arms slowly as Velten’s warning about mobs echoed in her mind.
She flinched. What madness had driven her to wear velvet in a forest? Her priciest dress would discolour now, and she’d have to scrounge up an insane amount of coins to pay for another one.
Although … Inquisitor Velten had threatened to buy her whatever she wanted in Castereina. She could take advantage of that … but he had promised silk for her obedience, and she had neither obeyed nor wanted silk.
A cold draft blew over her wet frock, and Semras shivered.
It would be uncomfortable, but the wind would have to dry it for her, and the inquisitor would have to pay for a new velvet dress, she decided.
She’d settle for nothing less than one embroidered with real golden threads and made with the finest laces from Sena, and he would spend the rest of the year begging for alms to financially recover from it.
A cough interrupted her vengeful thoughts.
Themas was looking at her expectantly, dark burgundy cloak hanging from his hand. “May I be so bold …?”
Smiling gratefully, Semras let the young knight drape his cloak over her shoulder. He stepped closer to her as he adjusted its weight, ensuring it shielded her appropriately from the cold morning air.
“I should take you before the Old Crone and the New Maiden, Themas. Once again, you save me. My knight in shining armour,” she teased.
The cloak’s warmth did wonders to lessen the discomfort of damp velvet on her chest.
Had she been among her coven sisters, she would have changed her dress out in the open. But the Deprived always reacted oddly to the sight of nakedness; changing without a natural landmark to hide behind would only cause her more trouble than it was worth.
“I-I deserve no such praise, Semras,” the young knight replied, cheeks flushed. “I simply aim to serve you gallantly, as any knight should.”
“A shame,” she said, sighing.
She didn’t really mean it. Themas was kind, but he buckled beneath her will too easily. If she ever decided on taking a man before the Coven, he’d have to be just as wild as her.
Their horses were waiting patiently next to the path, and they walked together to them.
Themas broke the silence. “What does it mean?” His warm hazel eyes slid toward her. “To ‘take before the Old Crone’? It is not an expression I have ever heard.”
The witch considered his question, then decided on a half-truth. She’d only been joking; she didn’t want to deal with the implications her words had suggested. “It’s a … an oath of lasting fellowship,” she said. “One only made between people who trust each other deeply.”
The knight did not need to know how romantic such a grand, lasting witch ritual was.
Eager to drop the subject, Semras rubbed her little gelding’s neck, faking more bravado in front of the horse than she truly felt. Its jerky movements and twitching ears still made her wary, but she wanted to get used to it. Better than getting used to cuddling Inquisitor Velten on his half-kelpie.
Her throat still remembered the touch of his blade. And of his lips.
She wasn’t sure which one should be feeling worse.
“May I?” Themas knelt next to her, fingers linked to offer her a step up.
“Thank you,” Semras replied. With his help, she climbed onto the sidesaddle.
Themas stepped back and adjusted some straps, then secured her bag on the saddle. Once satisfied, he rubbed the horse’s coat. “All set, Semras. If I may be so bold, I would like to ride by your side today. For, um, for your security. If you would allow me.”
Smiling, the witch nodded at him. If anything, his presence would keep the Venator guards and their idiotic questions away from her.
A jangling trot alerted her to a rider approaching them from behind. She led her little gelding aside, clearing the path for whoever was coming.
Instead of passing by her, the rider hailed her with a furious voice. “What is the meaning of this?”
Semras groaned. Was Inquisitor Velten fond of starting a day’s ride screaming at her? His mercurial moods really shouldn’t be surprising to her anymore.
“What did I do this time?” she asked. “I am ready to ride, am I not?”
“That damn cloak. Remove it.” Velten twirled his steed around her, then stopped by her side.
She threw him an irritated glance but still took the cape off. The offending piece of linen was barely back in Themas’ hands when she felt something heavy fall over her shoulder.
Velten had replaced the knight’s cloak with his own. The golden Elumenra insignia was still pinned onto it.
She examined it, lifting a corner of the dark red fabric with the tip of her fingers. What would her sisters think of her, wearing the insignia of the Inquisition so openly? At least Themas’ cloak had been embroidered with the more neutral, silver version of the Church.
“I don’t really need this anymore,” Semras said. “The water has dried—”
He glowered at her, cutting off all desire to explain any further.
The two men were acting oddly. The inquisitor was seething while Themas looked ashen, his face devoid of any expression.
“You better keep it,” Velten told her. “If I find it gathering mud down the road, Radiant Lord help me, I will—”
“Fine, fine!”
After one final glance at her, then at Themas, the inquisitor rode away just as quickly as he had come.
Semras watched him leave, her face set in a mix of exasperation and befuddlement. “What was that about?”
“No man likes to see another lay claim to what is his,” he said quietly, fiddling with the cloak on his arm.
“Lay claim? But I am not yours, nor his.”
And what did clothes have to do with any of this?
Flinching, Themas put his cloak back over his shoulders, then surveyed the sword-bearers guiding their horses onto the road one by one.
She persisted. “What claim do either of you have on me?”
“Oh, it’s …” He cleared his throat. “Draping a cloak over a lady’s shoulder is considered a gesture of courtship. As a … a token of affection.”
Semras pursed her lips. “That cannot be it,” she decided. “You told me yesterday that Inquisitor Velten already has a lover. He’s probably just … trying to control who I get along with.”
Themas’ expression brightened. After mounting his horse, he grabbed the reins and glanced at her. “You would do well to stay wary of him,” he said.
The witch raised an eyebrow. “Should a knight speak so ill of his master?”
“Sir Ulrech would certainly say no. I trust you will keep it a secret for me, Semras,” he replied with a wink. Dimples appeared around his smile.
She laughed. “Not such a perfect shining knight you are, then! Fear not, your secret is safe with me.”
The loud, irritated voice of Inquisitor Velten commanded the company to depart, and the horses took off on the road with rumbling hooves.
The inquisitor’s mood did not get any better as the sun rose higher in the sky.
He drove them all hard, skipping as many breaks as he could get away with without needlessly tiring out the horses.
In one of those rare stops, Semras gave him his cloak back, and he wrapped it on his shoulder without taking his eyes off his map.
It was obvious he wanted to make up for lost time. They should have reached Castereina within two days of leaving Bevenna, but by the time noon came and went, it became plain that the third day wouldn’t be the last one spent travelling.
Themas had told her the sword-bearers had been on the road with little comfort or break for almost a week now, and it showed: their resentful glares followed her every time they had to slow down to give the horses some respite.
Themas’ constant presence at her side was probably the only thing keeping them from verbally laying blame at her feet.
It unnerved her, and she carried her head high to conceal it.
Riding out of the Vedwoods took most of the morning.
The dirt path, overgrown and in various states of disrepair or abandonment, turned into a trampled road once they reached vast gilded fields, small villages, and lonesome farmsteads.
It was late afternoon by the time the road took them through a small, refreshingly cool grove.
Under the shade of its trees, they slowed down at last for a sliver of respite.
As soon as Semras rode by the plant, her trained eyes spotted it.