Chapter 17
Master Sin’Sagar led them up to the first floor and down a hallway, then stopped in front of two tall, heavy doors.
Inquisitor Velten flicked his hand toward them. “Wait inside,” he ordered.
Snorting, Semras slipped past the wooden doors and stepped inside the study room.
Bookcases lined the walls from top to bottom, hiding most of their dark blue shades and gilded trims. Covered in papers, a desk sat in front of a curtained window.
Two sconces flanked it, lit with the same eerie gas light she had seen on the lampposts outside.
They drew long shadows from the piles of books littering the floor.
Behind her, the doors closed with a soft click.
Semras hummed, unimpressed by what she was seeing. Either the inquisitor had left it in a hurry the last time he worked here, or he was a very disorganized man.
A closer inspection of the bookcases revealed them to be filled with law books, accounts of trials, and treatises on witches and the Fey. Semras ran her fingers across the spines, then grabbed one out of curiosity.
It was a report, penned by Velten’s hand five years ago. With morbid curiosity, she read it.
‘March 1794, town of Barletri, south of Morstal Woods, locality of Moramar,’ it began. ‘Local authorities had reported six isolated incidents of mutilated toes amidst the villagers.’
Eyes stuck to the pages, Semras walked to sit on the cushioned chair set in front of the desk.
‘All victims were under six months of age,’ Velten had written. ‘Venator Knight-Brothers Sir Ulrech var Hesser and Sir Jaqh de Bauron were dispatched to protect them until the culprit could be identified.’
Six-month-old children … Her heart dropped with trepidation. She hadn’t needed to read the word ‘duende’ on the next line to know such horror had been the work of the Fey.
The little gnomes that lived in the walls of old homes were considered harmless by most Deprived folks, but they were Seelie—loathsome fey that would break their victims apart to make them fit the mould they’d arbitrarily decided upon.
And since newborn children spent all their time sleeping on their backs, these duendes had, by all appearances, decided young children didn’t … didn’t need their toes.
Semras snapped the book closed, took a deep breath, then reopened it to skim-read to the end of the case.
‘The Fey Court of duendes was located in the local baronet’s mansion.
Per my orders, the building was destroyed by fire to ensure the eradication of the fey infestation.
A complaint from its owner was then recorded by the Inquisition a few minutes later.
The case was argued in front of Tribunal Torqedan and Tribunal Pajov in August 1794 and formally dismissed with prejudice. ’
A loose note had been tucked between the pages, marked with, ‘Cael, read this. Told you I could get away with burning down that pompous lord’s house; so stop haranguing me about what an inquisitor should and should not do.’
Irritated, Semras shoved the book back onto its shelf.
For a moment there, she had genuinely thought Velten had resorted to arson to prevent more children from falling victim to the Fey, but his note made clear he had only done so to prove a point to this ‘Cael.’ The bastard cared only for himself; he had made it clear when he couldn’t even tell her the name of his own baby.
She’d been jealous of Nimue before; now, she only felt pity for her. Velten didn’t care about her. He hadn’t even gone to see her or their child and clearly wasn’t in a hurry to rectify that.
… Not that their private affairs concerned her.
Shaking her thoughts away, Semras approached the desk. Halfway completed, two reports lay on top of the papers scattered there. The first one recorded the sentencing of a bleakwitch in the Anderas Mountains—the same one that had killed Velten’s friend, she recalled.
On the other report lying beneath it, Semras caught sight of the words ‘Sir Jaqh de Bauron’ and ‘bereaved for the loss of’ before she turned her eyes away. That one was a death notice. It felt disrespectful to read something so clearly not meant for her eyes.
That was how her attention fell on the little ball of paper.
It lay on the floor, crumpled next to a trashcan by the desk’s side—and it had her name on it. Brow furrowing, she snatched and unrolled it.
Her eyes widened.
It wasn’t paper; it was the corner of a canvas roll.
Velten’s handwriting had scrawled her name next to ‘Yore’ and the words ‘use her’ in its upper corner.
Next to it, long flowing lines of ink surrounded a half oval with a dot of gold dropped in its upper middle.
More than half of the canvas had been ripped, and the greater part of the drawing was lost now.
It was half a face, drawn in a stylized way that left much open to interpretation, yet it was still recognizable.
As hers.
Bile rose to her lips. Back when they first met, the inquisitor had told her that he needed a witch. That he had spoken to others before her. He had lied.
He chose her—specifically. She hadn’t simply been the only witch to accept his offer out of the many he had visited from a list of Nimue’s acquaintances. She had been selected. Watched, perhaps.
It sent shivers of dread down her spine. Doubts she had once foolishly cast aside now reawakened within her. Semras stared at the closed doors.
Inquisitor Velten had been talking to his steward for a long while now … About what?
Rushing to the door, she stuck her ear against the thick wood.
Faint sounds filtered through from the other side, but nothing comprehensible.
Semras took a step back and concentrated on the surface.
The woven threads of the wood faintly danced before her, and she impatiently unravelled some of them, turning the wood into a more porous surface.
Once more, she rested her ear on the door. This time, the conversation outside rang as loudly as if it were happening next to her.
“With all due respect, my lord,” Sin’Sagar said, “if you do not explain to me what you aim to achieve with all this, then I cannot in good conscience—”
“I have thrown away any scrap of good conscience I ever had for this damn case, Sin, and so will you,” Inquisitor Velten spat out. “Tell me it will be done.”
A pause. Semras held her breath, straining her ears. What were they talking about? Old Crone curse her; she’d been a fool to trust an inquisitor. He was scheming something, and had she started listening in earlier, she’d have known what.
“I understand, my lord,” the steward replied at last. “You have my complete trust, as always. I will give leave to the servants for the night and personally prepare your requests. The carriage shall be ready to leave at your earliest convenience.”
“… If there were another way, Sin, I would have taken it.”
“I know, my lord.”
“I will brief the knights myself once we have returned. They have yet to be privy to …” Velten paused.
A loud bang shook the door on its hinges.
Semras reeled back, ears ringing from the unexpected impact of a fist on wood. In shock, she covered them with her hands.
The door flew open. Beyond it, Inquisitor Velten stood, nostrils flaring with anger. Next to him, Sin’Sagar arched an eyebrow.
She froze in place under their cold, hard gaze.
“I see there is no trust lost between us, witch,” the inquisitor said, sneering. “Sin’Sagar, send me your sister at once. I want her full preliminary report on my desk as soon as possible. This all ends tonight.”
Sin’Sagar bowed. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“For now.”
A storm was brewing behind Inquisitor Velten’s calm voice. He sounded cold. Hardened.
He was mad—but so was she.
Once the steward left, the inquisitor crossed the threshold of the room and closed the doors behind him, eyes still trained on Semras.
The silence that followed was deafening. They stared each other down, neither of them willing to give an inch to the other. Under the icy fury of the most dangerous man she knew, Semras held her head high.
At last, he addressed her. His voice could have sharpened a knife. “Now is the time when you beg for forgiveness.”
Her heart pounded in her ears, but she wouldn’t cower. One mustn’t run in front of wolves—he’d told her that himself.
“Am I truly the one here that should fall on their knees?” she asked, waving her portrait at him. “Explain this.”
Velten strode to her, then snatched the drawing from her hand. “How much have you heard?” he asked, eyes scanning the piece of canvas.
“Do not change the subject. Was I under surveillance?”
Bristling, the inquisitor glared back. “This is the third time you have spied on me, witch, and my patience is all spent. You will answer me. Now.”
“Oh, you think this makes you the victim here? When, apparently, you have ‘no need for a good conscience’? What is that supposed to mean?”
Velten cocked his eyebrow. “Is this all that you have heard?” His grip on the canvas relaxed.
Mistrust flared up in her mind. “You are plotting something,” she accused. “Something for when we return.”
“I am always plotting something. That should be no cause for alarm, but if you must know … those words simply mean that I am following the oath I made as an inquisitor and putting duty above all else. As for this …” He flipped the drawing, showing it to her.
“This is much more innocent than you believe.”
“Oh, is it now?”
“Very much so. You see, I have a—”
“I know. A witch. Nimue,” Semras said. “Get on with it.”
Inquisitor Velten grinned, his eyes brightening by the second. “You continue to impress me. So you knew her name, and that she was a witch too?”
He was trying to change the subject, to bait her into forgetting the answers she wanted. She had fallen for it too often; she wouldn’t this time.
“‘Covenless’ may have given it away, wouldn’t you say?” she retorted. “I am not in the mood for sham flattery. Answer me now.”