“She hexed the whole place from atop her pyre,” he continued, “and then the crops failed two years after! The farmers had to dig up her bones, grind them, and dust them over the fields to make them fertile again. But the creepy part of the story was when they found her body. She looked as if she had regenar—regeneni—she had healed! But with a completely different face, they said.”
The ridiculous claim, delivered with the absolute confidence of fools, irritated her. Hexes didn’t work that way, and neither could a dead woman’s magic reach out that far in time. Only ancient legends spoke of witches wielding such formidable power, and even Semras doubted their veracity.
Besides, healing grievous burns was still something far out of the reach of magic. Fire ravaged the Unseen Arras in a way that took decades, or sometimes centuries, to mend. That was why the Inquisition condemned her kin to the pyre. A burnt witch couldn’t come back from it, and any hexing weave she’d have created would burn right alongside her.
That village had dug up the corpse of another woman.
Semras glared at the confident idiot. “That’s not how—”
“I’m not surprised,” Raphene said, nodding. “My gran told me if you take a witch’s heart, you’ll live for a century! Seniors of the Confraternity say I misunderstood, but I’m sure they just didn’t want us to go around and break the law killin’ witches to live forever.”
The witch blanched. “That’s not meant to beliteral!” The idea of someone carving her organs out because of some stupid misconception appalled her. “This is a poetic—and lovely!—way of saying a witch’s Wyrdtwined lover will be cared for—”
The rider in front of her groaned. “Radiant Lord! That kind of thinking is why folks from Al’Andakkad consider us uncivilized. They may be right if that’s what the new generation of brothers has come to. Superstitious fools …” he said, head shaking. “Theonly thing you need from a witch is her ashes in a grave, and that’s that.”
Semras clenched her hands around the reins until their knuckles turned white. “Howdareyou—”
The confident idiot gasped with fright. “It’s the Evil Eye! The witch is hexing us!”
Wide-eyed, she whipped her attention to him. “I-I am not—”
Around her, sword-bearers placed their hands on the pommels of their weapons. Before they could decide to draw it or not, a senior Venator guard slowed down to join them. “Enough. Do not speak with the witch,” he said, voice calm.
Semras opened her mouth to thank him, but then he added, “Her malevolence is clearly affecting your minds. Let Inquisitor Velten deal with her. He knows best how to silence her kind for good.”
She blinked once, then twice. “Are you deaf? I am not—”
The sword-bearer drew his blade and pointed it toward her throat, strangling her voice within. “Stop your tricks at once, witch,” he said. “We sword-bearers train all our lives to protect the officials and holy places of the Radiant Lord from people likeyou. You won’t bewitch us.”
The other guards whispered among themselves.
“Look at him go, thinking he’s the new Hammer of Witches,” one muttered.
The name made her clench her jaw. Back during the last witch purges, an infamous inquisitor had earned that nickname by crushing the hands of witches, depriving them of their ability to weave. Years later, the Covens still remembered him.
The Confraternity as well, it seemed—but in an entirely different way.
“Didn’t you hear that the old man had turned senile? He’s endorsing witches now,” Barco whispered back. “Gone madfrom chronic pain is what everyone says. Why else would he be boasting about the servants of the Void’s healing skills?”
Semras pressed her lips tightly together. It was useless to defend herself; no amount of logic would break through their bigotry.
“What is happening here?” From behind her, another unfamiliar voice joined the fray.
Great. Another misinformed, prejudiced Venator guard, she bet. Eyes rolling, Semras glanced behind at the newcomer.
Riding on a white steed, Sir Themas broke through the barrier of horses and men around her. “Sword-bearers, step away,” he said, voice low but firm. “Your duty is to protect the inquisitor, and nothing more. Leave his guest alone at once.”
His warm hazel eyes flickered toward Semras. He looked younger than her by many summers, but a surprising maturity ennobled his face.
She kept her judgment pending. He could still end up being another deceptive fool.
Sir Themas stared pointedly at each sword-bearer. “Understood?”
A chorus of ‘yes, Sir’ answered him, and the guards prompted their steeds to trot a little faster, leaving them alone at the back of the retinue’s column.
“Thank you,” Semras said carefully.
The knight bowed his head and gave her a sorry smile. “My apologies, Miss Witch. I should have intervened sooner. Rest assured, I shall report this incident to Inquisitor Velten as soon as possible.”
