She persisted. “For what other reasons did you choose me?”
When he deigned to answer her at last, it was with a wicked grin. “Reasons? Why, because you are a ‘good woman,’ I suppose.”
He dropped his arm, and the horses spurred into a gallop onto the open road ahead.
Semras’geldingfellbehind.
Horses passed by her as they gained speed, and hers didn’t. With both of her legs trapped on the same side of the sidesaddle, she was unable to prompt it into galloping.
Before she could be completely left behind, the brave, well-trained gelding spurted forth on its own to keep up with its fellow horses, and the witch rode surrounded by the inquisitor’s guards rather than at his side. She nearly convinced herself that she did it on purpose to avoid the rude man, that she knew what she was doing.
When the horses slowed down after hours of changing speed and gait, she didn’t believe it anymore. Half a day spent clutching her leg around the sidesaddle pommel had utterly drained her and soaked her dress in sweat. Even her eyes fought to stay open. Surrendering to fatigue at last, she closed them with an exhausted sigh, hoping for a bit of rest before the next leg of travel.
A minute passed. Horses huffed loudly next to her, startling her. Her eyelids ripped open.
The company had reached a small countryside road now, and fields of gold spread across the horizon, their oats glimmeringbeneath the afternoon’s sun. The view was beautiful, peaceful, and utterly ruined by the Venator guards closing in on her.
A spike of anxiety stabbed her gut. One man rode right in front of her, barring her passage ahead. Three others accompanied him to flank her on each side, while another lingered behind. It hadn’t been accidental; their gazes roved over her dress, her hair, and her eyes with brazen fascination.
Semras repressed a shudder. Every inch of her was subjected to their invasive inspection. She was used to curiosity, but not from armed people surrounding her on all sides. Where was the damn inquisitor and his promised protection?
Riding at the head of the column, leaving her completely exposed—that was where.
Once they had leered to their heart’s content, the men exchanged glances. The sword-bearer on her left broke the silence. “Hey, witch,” he said with grand eloquence.
Semras side-eyed him, her nose scrunching up in reflex. He reeked of days-old travel.
Peeking out from a deep reddish-brown capelet far too large, the guard’s crooked smile and surprisingly shining black eyes greeted her. His heavy, pale gambeson couldn’t hide the thin frame of a man barely past the adolescent age. Despite his youth, Semras didn’t doubt he knew how to use the short sword hanging at his left hip—its scabbard’s metal shone too dull to still be unused.
“Hey,” he repeated. “You can talk our language, right? Barco claims he heard you talk.”
Her unimpressed silence didn’t discourage him, and neither did the wary glances she kept throwing around.
“I’m—no, wait.” He paused, wincing. “I’m not giving you my name. My gran told me witches can take them, and then you end up nameless, or-or something.”
“She was speaking of the Fey, not of all the Fair Folk,” she replied, hoping her chilling tone would cut short his interest in a conversation.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure old Gran said it’s the witches.”
Semras didn’t dignify old Gran’s wisdom with an answer. The allegedly name-stealing witch kept her eyes firmly fixed on her gelding’s mane instead. It was a pretty colour, a darker brown contrasting nicely with its pale coat of mixed white and brown.
“Raphene!” called someone behind her back. “Ask her about—”
An angry hush cut him off. “Shut up, Barco! You want her to steal my name, or what?” Raphene—old Gran’s grandson—turned his attention back to her. “So … you’re arealwitch, right?”
Semras eyed him. As if she’d admit it out loud while surrounded by Venator sword-bearers. “I’m an herbalist.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” Raphene didn’t wait for her answer. “Why is your hair white? Are you an old hag using magic to look young or …?”
The witch sighed deeply. If she was to be harassed with nonsensical questions, she might as well have fun with it. “You’re right. I am twice as old as your gran,” she said.
“What, really?” Barco exclaimed behind her. “I knew it!”
“Of course not,” she replied. “They’re just—”
“They found a witch with white hair in my village once,” said another, older voice on her right. “The old folks burned her when I was a youngling.”
Semras stared at him. The pale blond man must have been very young during the last witch purges if he had witnessed them in person. Or perhaps that was a case of ‘justice’ handled discreetly by his community, without the involvement of the Inquisition.
