Chapter 16 #2
“Not as often as I ought to,” he replied, laughing.
“I dredge through backwater swamps in search of heretics and criminals more often than I am resting at home. Superstitions are, sadly, not fashionable in Castereina, so I am seldom called by distressed witchfinders to investigate within the city itself. Truth be told, most citizens do not even remember your kind are more than folktales.”
“Your sword-bearers seemed to believe in them enough to fear me,” she said sourly.
He scoffed. “They are not mine. Sword-bearers belong to petty church duties, like guarding dusty buildings and aging, venerable priests. They know about your kind but have no training to fight against magic. In my experience, the fear of the defenceless always, invariably, turns into virulent violence and hatred.” His eyes darted to her neck.
“We are all just animals deep within. When backed against a wall, survival is all that matters. At any cost.”
Distracted by the streets scrolling by the window, she replied idly, “Speaking of which, where are the animals? Where are the trees? The wind, the water, the soil?”
“Not all of the city looks like this. We are crossing a commercial area.” Estevan leaned to look through her window.
“The poor live in worse and the rich live in better, as it goes everywhere else. The divide here is simply … wider.” His face drew closer, and she fought down the urge to glance at him.
“There are parks filled with trees and pleasant fountains,” he continued. “And there are slums hiding desperation out of sight. You will not find much fresh air until we have reached the affluent districts. Spare yourself the view until then.”
He drew the window curtains in front of her nose.
A jolt startled Semras awake.
The steady rocking of the carriage, paired with the advancing hour of the night, had lulled her to sleep. She looked around, confused, then remembered where she was. Her eyes darted to Estevan.
He was still there, leaning back on the cushion of his seat with crossed arms. His eyes, burdened by dark circles, were fixed on the window. “You woke up just in time, witch. We have arrived.”
Semras peeked outside.
The carriage slowed to a halt before a wall of pale stone blocks crowned by wrought iron fences.
Ivy climbed over it all, obscuring most of the view beyond.
A shout from the coachman announced their arrival, and a grand, ornate metal gate opened before them.
The carriage entered the private grounds beyond.
An elegant white mansion stood in the middle of a park.
The inquisitor seemed to have a taste for trees—tall and ancient oaks grew as they pleased on the lawn, their high canopy shielding the road leading to the front door.
It looked like a grove planted right in the middle of a city of bricks and stones.
The estate was large, and its cost most probably prohibitive. Semras had no time to guess the extent of the inquisitor’s wealth before the carriage door opened.
Behind it, Sir Ulrech nodded at Estevan, then stood aside to let them out. The inquisitor stepped off the carriage first, shaking the small compartment as he dropped onto the ground, then turned around to look at her with his hand stretched out.
Semras looked at it, a little dumbfounded. She couldn’t remember if that gesture meant courtship or simple politeness to the Deprived. Or did it depend on if bare skin was touching or not? Leather gloves covered his hands, but not hers. Did it count?
Madra, the witch she’d heard it from, had never been quite reliable on what she taught the others.
In their youth, she had enjoyed embellishing meaningless gestures to aggrandize her own love stories too much.
Maybe Madra had exaggerated, and it meant nothing.
Still, just in case, she preferred not to take any chances.
The witch stood from her seat and approached the small door, decisively ignoring the inquisitor’s hand. Her confidence deflated at the sight of the narrow step meant to help her down.
“Take my hand, witch,” Estevan said. “Or do not. I would rather you fell so I may catch you in my arms.”
“How dare you—!” she started.
“My lord, how could you—!” Ulrech’s thundering voice drowned hers.
Estevan exploded with laughter. Stunned, Semras exchanged a glance with the knight only to see her confusion mirrored on him.
After a few more snickers, the inquisitor regained control of himself. “Looks like you both finally found common ground! To think you would join hands to attack me like that.”
“My lord,” Ulrech replied, grumbling, “I would never attack you. I only meant that this kind of behaviour in front of the help—”
“What, as if the people curated by Master Sin’Sagar would tattle?” Estevan glanced at the servants lining the path to the front door.
Semras hadn’t seen them until now, too concentrated on the carriage’s step. Keeping their heads respectfully bowed to the ground, none of them had reacted to his words.
“What is there to gossip about?” the inquisitor continued. “I already have a witch; now I have a second one. The novelty must have worn off by now.”
‘Have’? As if she belonged to him, like she was a pet? Estevan really had to remind her of how much of a bastard he truly was—and just as she’d begun to think better of him.
Words of recrimination threatened to spill from her lips, and Semras swallowed them back with bitterness. Bastard or not, she doubted he would enjoy being yelled at in front of his people. She could always do it later, in private, and scream at him as loudly as he deserved.
Sometimes, she really felt like the only reasonable person around.
“Of course, my lord,” Sir Ulrech replied curtly.
He, too, was reasonable, she decided. Maybe she should join hands with him. With their combined might, they might just manage to temper Velten’s moods.
The inquisitor turned back to find her still gripping the sides of the carriage’s doorway. Smirking, Estevan seized her wrist. “Besides, who would dare stop me from getting what I want?” And then he pulled.
In a yelp, Semras fell and closed her eyes, bracing for the impact on the ground.
It never came. She knew it wouldn’t.
Estevan caught her in his arms, just as he had wanted. When she opened her eyes to meet his, she made sure they conveyed the height of her displeasure.
“Welcome to my home, witch,” he said, grinning. “Do not get too comfortable in it.”
The bastard.
Estevan escorted her into a spacious entrance hall illuminated by gas sconces. Frescoes of woodlands and fields had been painted in the space between the lights, bringing a touch of colour to the white plaster walls.
Waiting with poise, a grey haired man stood in the middle of the hall.
“Master Sin’Sagar,” the inquisitor greeted.
With a perfectly maintained posture, the older gentleman bowed to Estevan, then to Semras.
Kohl lined his amber eyes, highlighting them against the cool bronze shade of his skin—an Andakkadian, Semras noted.
Dressed with impeccable taste in a black beaded garb, Master Sin’Sagar eyed her, then turned his attention to the inquisitor.
“My lord,” he replied in a deep, mellow voice. “May I suggest the construction of a north and south wing to the manor?”
Estevan frowned, confused.
In the same deadpan manner he had spoken so far, Sin’Sagar continued, “Considering the current occupant of the west wing and that this young lady here will surely be hosted in the east wing, I believe we should plan for the future, my lord.”
The inquisitor’s confusion turned to bafflement and then vexation as understanding dawned on him. Semras burst into laughter.
“Remind me why I keep you in my retinue, Sin,” Estevan said, ears reddening, “because it certainly is not for your banter.”
Indiscreetly wiping a few tears from her eyes, Semras stopped her snickering. “Perhaps the inquisitor doesn’t care for it, but I would gladly welcome your conversation anytime, Master.”
Sin’Sagar bowed his head to her. “I see the lady possesses an excellent disposition. Allow me to commend you on your taste, my lord.”
Muttering curses under his breath, Estevan crossed his arms and looked away, ears still tinted red.
Sin’Sagar turned his attention back to Semras, then smiled politely.
“I was informed of your pending arrival. Welcome to Inquisitor Velten’s household, Miss Semras of Yore.
I am his master steward, Sin’Sagar il-Mashdara’Nirngalu.
You may call me Master Sin’Sagar, or Master Steward.
” The gentleman delicately took her hand, then bowed over it, eyes still trained on her.
“And once we’ve become friends … you may call me Sin. ”
Blushing slightly, Semras smiled. The older man had manners, unlike certain inquisitors whose icy eyes currently burned holes into the hand he held.
“Master Sin’Sagar, I insist you call me Semras,” she replied, grazing her fingers on her neck.
Estevan groaned. “Do not call her so familiarly,” he said to the steward, then added for her, “I thought I already talked to you about propriety, witch?”
“Sir Ulrech tried to tell me. You just screamed something at me.”
“A most likely occurrence, miss. Allow me to apologize in his stead.” Bowing once more, Sin’Sagar smiled. His eyes turned into two thin, gleaming slits of amber. “I know how confusing the rules of the Vandalesian gentry can be. I had to learn them myself when I came here in my youth.”
An exasperated groan escaped Estevan. “Great. You two are getting along wonderfully. That is great,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We will not need new wings, Master Steward. And you will not prepare the east wing for the witch. You will prepare the side bedroom.”
Sin’Sagar arched a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “… The one connected to your room, my lord?”
“Stop fretting like an old maid. She will not remain here for long. This is only to keep her close by during her stay with us.”