“I do not think I will,witch.”
“Very well,Inquisitor,” she replied, “if that’s how you want this to be.” She looked down at her bags, now sprawled in the mud before her. Magic could have quickly removed the dirt from them, but the inquisitor was still there, still watching. She dared not use it.
With magic forbidden to her, the world felt ridiculously restrictive. It felt colourless, cold.
And she felt vulnerable.
She side-eyed him, gauging just how far he’d go to oppress her—and how far she was willing to go to rebel against him.
Inquisitor Velten glanced briefly at her bags. “I am serious about the prohibition of magic.” His voice had lost the edge it held before—that mix of amusement and arrogance that made her want to scream—in favour of a more appeasing, almost apologetic tone. “I might be gracious enough to allow you one minor transgression here and there, but many are not. The last witch purges ended a generation ago, but there are whispers in high places yearning for a new one. I do not need to explain to you how our collaboration could become the catalyst for a new war between our people.”
Her blood turned to ice, freezing all the fight that remained in her.
Born half a year after the last one ended, Semras grew up hearing its gruesome stories from the few witches who survived it. She had thought them to be a thing of the past, never to return now that laws prohibited the persecution and killing of her kin without due cause. Yet, according to Inquisitor Velten, peace held on by only a whisper.
If a new purge was about to occur, her people needed to know.
She’d send word to the Coven about this. Later tonight, when she could weave magic without the meddling inquisitor lurking around her, she decided. In his arrogance, he had let slip something the Inquisition would never have wanted her people to know—she’d make sure they would.
“I know how precarious this situation is,” she replied, “but I will remind you that you are the one needing me. Not the other way around. I am not your prisoner, and I refuse to be treated as such.”
“Then let’s try to extend some trust to one another, so I will not have to treat you like one. No more spying on me.” Inquisitor Velten grabbed her bags and dusted them off. “And you still need to lighten your bags. Keep only the essentials.”
Semras tugged on her belongings.
He did not let them go. “One last thing …”
“What. Now?”
“I expect you to lie to me again, witch, as it is in your nature. But I am warning you, it will be useless. I always know when someone is lying.”
Instead of dignifying his threat with an answer, Semras pulled on her bags once more and spun on her heel. This time, he let them go.
Minutes later, she emerged again from her house with a single bag. Forcing her clenched jaw to relax, Semras straightened her shoulder, then once more made her way to the horses.
How she yearned to be back home already.
Chapter 03
Theeyesoftheentire community of Bevenna clung to Semras. Sitting sidesaddle atop a roan horse, she had never felt so out-of-place as she did now, riding through the hamlet’s main square with the inquisitor’s retinue.
She knew the people living here, had spoken with them, browsed for wares at their stalls, and healed their ailments. Under the shade of the small church of Elumenra overlooking their homes and shops of red blocks, she had observed the Deprived and their colourful fashion with a hidden fascination—the short jackets of blue, red, and yellow of burly men; the darker dresses of women, lace veils worn over their hair for modesty.
Over the past year, the entire hamlet had become full of memories—ones of beginnings and discoveries for the witch who had only lived among her own kin until now. The kind smiles and light conversation that greeted her back then had given her hope she’d found a place to call her own.
Today, a palpable tension hung between her and the crowd. Gazes like a thousand needles prickled her skin.
She rode by a farmer’s stall filled with the fruits of his harvest. The bright shine of red apples caught her attention, along with the farmer. Eyes bulging out of his skull, he was shielding his children behind his protective arms. The witch hoped—foolishly, she knew—it was the inquisitor’s mighty horse next to her that scared him so.
“Papa,” loudly whispered one of the little ones, “where is Miss Sem-Sem going?”
It broke her heart. The poor child had probably never even heard of the existence of witches. If he had, it must have been through folk tales and bedtime stories—nothing that reflected their bitter reality. He must have had no idea what her leaving with the Inquisition meant.
Old Crone bless the little one and his childish innocence. In the privacy of her mind, Semras prayed the New Maiden would preserve it for all his years to come.
The farmer hushed his child. “Don’t ask and stay behind me. Don’t distract the inquisitor.”
Guiding both horses and men through the crowd, Inquisitor Velten looked straight ahead, giving no warning to clear the street of people. He didn’t need to; before him, the villagers parted in reverent fear.
