Chapter 15 #2
The witch shivered violently. A pervasive chill had seeped through her bones. How she longed to curl up far away from the world of the Deprived, back into hers where warmth and safety had been so easily found.
Her eyes fixed on the wall next to her. There—that was where she’d been trapped earlier, between the noose and the wall. There, the man had approached her. Had grabbed her throat. Slipped the noose around her neck, and pulled, and pulled, and—
“—emras?”
Estevan’s voice. It brought her back to the present.
Semras turned her attention toward the door. The inquisitor still hovered at its threshold, as if he didn’t dare come closer. Her gaze fell on his blood-soaked shirt. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she fought to keep them at bay.
“Void take me …” Estevan muttered. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Sir Themas, please bring her to my room in a few minutes. I need … I need to clean up.” After one last glance toward her, he vanished into the hallway.
Themas stepped into the room. “Semras, can you stand? I will assist you. Here, grab my arm.” She did, and he smiled softly. “Yes, that’s good. I won’t move, so rise when you feel ready. Sir Ulrech, I think I can take it from here.”
“… Yeah,” Ulrech replied quietly. “Best you do that.” The older knight exited the room, leaving them alone.
On the nightstand, the flame of a small candle vacillated. It threw shadows vaster than life onto the walls, painting all around her a world far bigger and darker than she remembered it.
It took minutes before Semras felt strong enough to move. When she finally stepped outside of the room, an invisible weight lifted from her. She hadn’t realized just how unnerving it had been to remain in the same place where she almost … had almost …
Themas led her to the inquisitor’s room. After knocking on the door, he opened it.
Arms crossed, Estevan was looking through the window. The flames of a burning fireplace nearby bathed his profile in an amber glow. “Thank you, Sir Themas,” he said. “You may retire.”
Semras had never heard him speak so politely to the young knight before.
After helping her sit on the bed, Themas left. Behind him, the door closed with a dry thump.
Estevan sighed deeply. “I have failed in our deal,” he said, voice grave.
“I promised you protection, and you did not have it when it mattered the most. My decision to … to leave you alone tonight was a risk I carelessly bestowed upon you without your assent, and you paid for it. Speak up, and I shall escort you back home. Damn the investigation.”
She hadn’t expected it. “You take … oaths seriously,” she rasped. Slowly, word by word, her voice was improving.
“Shouldn’t we all?” he replied, still watching out the window. “When you work with lies as I do, you crave every moment of genuine honesty.”
That was honourable, she thought, but not what she needed. “Sleep first. Please.” Once she’d recovered more, she could think his offer over. Not now. Not when the world still felt wrong. And numb. And colourless.
Estevan faced her. He had swapped his bloody shirt for a fresher one, and his shoulder cloak was nowhere to be seen. He looked just like any other man now—not like an inquisitor. “Of course, my apologies,” he said softly.
“Cold. Keep me … warm?”
His expression froze. Semras knew she was pushing it, but she had already slept in his embrace once. It wasn’t right, not for Nimue nor for herself, but … what was one more time?
What would he think of one more time?
Just once, just until she remembered what warmth was. Then it would never happen again.
He approached her slowly. “Is this what you want?” he asked, voice barely past a whisper. “Truly want? As an inquisitor, I know I am seldom seen as a … a source of comfort. Surely you would be more at ease with Sir Themas? I will not be offended if you ask me to fetch him.”
Semras pondered his offer, then slowly shook her head.
Themas would be more comfortable, but she wouldn’t feel safer.
Something about the wild, violent aura of the inquisitor made him …
what, exactly? More reassuring? As if getting close to a dangerous man would shelter her from other dangerous men.
Perhaps that was why Nimue stayed by his side.
Her, again. Semras didn’t want to think of his lover; she wanted to be selfish. She wanted—
Estevan studied her, assessing her request with far more hesitation than she had expected. Of course—he was thinking of his lover.
The weight of her imposition on him crushed her heart. Guilt made her ask what she didn’t want an answer to. “Nimue …?”
His eyes widened. “She … she will not mind,” he muttered, evading her gaze. “She never does.”
He was lying. His fleeing eyes and hesitant excuse made it painfully obvious.
In her heart, the tiny, ridiculous hope it might have all been a misunderstanding died without a sound.
Semras felt cold. So damn cold, and so damn alone. Stifling a miserable, traitorous sob, she looked away.
She couldn’t do this to a witch sister. Couldn’t selfishly demand to be the one he wanted to embrace. Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face, ashamed. She wasn’t the one he wanted to—
Estevan drew her into his arms. His warmth, soothing and comforting, suffused her heart at once. “Semras …” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “You can cry. You are safe now, you can let go. I am here. I am not going anywhere. You are safe.” His hand gently caressed her head.
Sudden, silent sobs wracked her entire body. Semras clung to him desperately, fearing she’d go adrift in a storm of panic and fear and self-loathing without him to anchor her to the present. Her broken nails hurt from clutching his shirt, but she didn’t let go.
Couldn’t let him go. Old Crone curse her; she needed him too much.
Safe in his embrace, Semras cried her heart out. Tears fell freely down her cheeks, each sob wrenching new ones out of her. Her throat hurt, her tears drenched his shirt, and Estevan held her through it all.
Minutes passed before she felt strong enough to compose herself. After a few final sniffles, she released him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Slowly, as if worried he’d make her scamper away, Estevan wiped the last remnant of her tears off her cheeks.
His caution made her feel like a small animal being tamed.
She wasn’t one, and she was tired of being handled like delicate glass.
Staring directly into his eyes, she waited silently. Questioningly.
“Lie down,” Estevan commanded in a gentle voice.
For once, she obeyed him, slipping beneath lukewarm blankets before settling in the middle of the bed. By their disarrayed look, she could tell the inquisitor had been sleeping during the … while she was …
Semras tried to wipe that memory from her mind. The bed smelled faintly of Estevan, and she clung to it desperately, chasing after the lingering feeling of his arms around her.
He shrugged his shirt off, and she looked away before her attention lingered too long on his naked chest—she had stolen enough glances the previous night. Instead, she rolled on her side, away from him.
The mattress dipped behind her. Seconds later, his warmth enveloped her once more as he cradled her. “Say the word,” Estevan whispered in her ear, “and I will have Sir Themas take my place.”
Semras glanced at him over her shoulder. “Your fault. Your respon—” She coughed. “—responsibility.”
He drew her closer into his arms, and she let herself drift into sleep. Tomorrow, she would process what had happened. For tonight, she’d rest and gather her strength back.
At the edge of her slumbering mind, Semras dreamt of Estevan’s voice.
“I was not too late. Blessed be the Radiant Lord, I was not too late.”
Bright sunrays warmed the room up by the time Semras woke up. The first thing she saw was Themas, sitting on a chair and facing the door in a silent vigil, sword planted between his feet.
The second thing she noticed was the empty, cold space behind her where Estevan should have been. Ignoring the pangs of disappointment blooming in her heart, Semras shuffled out of the blankets and sat at the edge of the bed.
Her hand flew to her neck, softly probing the skin there. It felt horrible, bruised without a doubt, and still throbbing. She cleared her throat softly, checking how her voice fared now. It still hurt, but the pain was manageable.
“Them—Themas?” she asked. “How … how long did I sleep?”
The knight slightly turned his head, carefully avoiding looking at her directly. “We are well past noon, Semras. Worry not, we have the inquisitor’s blessing. He had … business to tend to.” He stood and walked to the door. “I shall call some breakfast for you. Please wait a moment.”
After exchanging a few muttered words with a passing inn maid, he closed the door again and leaned his forehead against it.
“What business?” she asked.
“Inquisitor Velten will be back shortly to escort you home. He left earlier with Sir Ulrech to bring the sword-bearers back to Castereina. Three of them are under arrest. They’ll face a tribunal of the Inquisition for what happened to you.”
“So it was one of them that tried to kill me … I thought—” Semras cleared her throat. “I thought I recognized his face. Three, you say? I remember only one man.”
A knock on the door called for Themas’ attention. He answered it, then brought a platter of cheese and fruit back to her. After laying it on the bed, he inspected her from head to toe, his worried eyes stopping briefly at her throat before continuing down.
Semras expected him to flee as soon as he’d realized she was wearing only a nightgown, yet he did not. Puzzled, she furrowed her brow. The shy, gallant knight must have been deeply perturbed by the night’s events—he wasn’t even blushing.