Chapter 15 #3
Done with his inspection, Themas dragged his chair closer and sat next to her. “Please eat,” he said, nodding at the food. “You’ll need your strength once Inquisitor Velten comes back. He shouldn’t be long now. Castereina is a three-hour ride from here, and he left early.”
Semras ate her breakfast slowly, struggling to make every bite go down her throat. Once she was done, she stood and searched for the nearest reflective surface.
She found it in a tall wardrobe mirror, silver-backed and clean.
Within, a thinner woman than she remembered looked back at her.
Her eyes were sunken. A dark red line had bloomed around her throat, and her face looked haggard and ashen.
Semras touched her reflection, and sorrow washed over her.
This was what the world of the Deprived did to witches.
It slowly turned them into shells of who they once were.
Her reflection steeled her resolve. A similar fate awaited her accused coven sister, and only a monster would abandon her to it. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let fear make one out of her.
The inquisitor had offered to return her home; she would refuse.
After finding her bearings, Semras peered into the Unseen Arras. In the mirror’s reflection, her eyes glowed with gold.
Waiting patiently, Themas stood behind her in the form of a faceless warpshade.
The witch raised her hands to her throat, then began the delicate operation of weaving back together what had unwoven from the violence done to her. Under her fingers, her bruise faded and her throat muscles relaxed.
To her distorted perception of time, the healing weave took half an hour to complete, but she knew it had been more than that when she returned to reality. For, instead of Themas, Estevan now stood behind her.
Semras watched him through the mirror, a controlled expression drawn on her face. “Three men?”
“Three men to rot in jail, and a corpse to rot elsewhere,” he replied, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “The rest I graciously escorted back to their Confraternity headquarters. I left an honest recommendation there to never let them handle cases involving witches ever again—unless they wanted me to get personally involved in the matter.”
Brow furrowed, Semras turned to face him. “A corpse?”
“Your attacker. I slit his throat and hung him where he would best serve as an example.” Estevan stepped closer and gently grazed her neck with his fingers.
“The fool thought my hands were tied by orders above, and that I would deeply appreciate him ridding me of you. Or maybe he thought you had bewitched me. I admit I cared little for his pathetic pleas. The how and why did not matter as much as the act. No one usurps the authority of the Inquisition.”
Semras looked away. Of course, it had been about him, not her. She was still fooling herself. At this point, she deserved the disappointment.
“Do you want their names?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t want to know. I … I’d rather not …” Remember them. A breath shuddered out of her. “How did you know I was in distress?”
“You screamed. More importantly, how are you feeling?” he asked, his hand still lingering on her throat as if it were fighting between staying and leaving.
“I’m fine. Or at least, as fine as I can be. I repaired the worst of the damage.” Semras eyed him. “You won’t reproach me for weaving magic for this, will you?”
His lips twisted into a thin, painful smile. “No, of course not. I failed in our deal, and you are free. Rejoice; I shall order you around no more. You are going back home, Semras.”
He had used her name the night before too, but the way his voice softened around it still made her heart skip a beat. “You would let me go? What about—” She couldn’t finish her sentence, unsure of how she really wanted to end it.
“I would. I am honour-bound to respect my word.”
Whatever answer she had hoped to hear from him, that wasn’t it.
Confused feelings of disappointment and bitterness bubbled into her mind; she fought them back.
“It … it would take you at least four days to make the round trip again. And you’ll waste time finding another witch to consult, and …
” Semras paused, searching for excuses. “And the corpse will have decomposed by then. You will … waste so much time,” she repeated lamentably.
“I will waste it for you,” Inquisitor Velten murmured. “I gave you my word, and I broke it. You deserve to go home. You deserve to get away from this mad, violent world of mine.”
Semras didn’t want to go home—she had a coven sister to save, and …
He had a lover.
Was she the witch of Yore accused of killing a man? Was all this done in her name? All of Semras’ sufferings and trials and wounds—a tribute of Estevan’ love for Nimue?
It did not matter. Saving a coven sister—any of them, at any cost—was all she needed to keep going.
It had to be. They were all she had.
“I’ve come so far, I might as well see it through to the end,” she said, smiling tentatively at him. “What do you say? I’d rather go on with the investigation. What about you?”
Estevan studied her. “So you choose this.”
“… Yes.” Her smile widened and quivered. “Yes, I do.”