The inquisitor still took a full minute to examine them again, then helped her put on the gloves again. A breath shuddered out of him.
“I’ll try to find a fleshwitch while we’re on the Coven grounds,” Semras said, smile thin. “I know of one in Yore. Let’s hope she’ll be here today.”
In truth, she’d prefer the help of any other fleshwitch. Madra was a skilled healer, but from the young girl infatuated with the world of the Deprived Semras had known in their youth, she had grown into an increasingly haughty witch. Semras wasn’t sure she could endure another hour of criticism of the Covens’ decline in front of the modern world—not after experiencing firsthand how right Madra was.
Taking Estevan’s hand in hers again, Semras led him through the woven trees, slowing their steps to the rhythm of an ancient chant. She sang, and her haunting melody called out to the primeval beings guarding the path to Yore from beyond the Unseen Arras. The witch had never seen them—mustn’t ever see them—but trusted they’d grant her passage as they always did.
Through their eternal slumber, they heeded her call, and the trees bent and twisted around Semras and Estevan. From the soil, thousands of autumn leaves flew upward to shroud them in a carousel of reds and yellows. The light of the sun melted into gloom. The sound of birds faded away.
When her song ended, the corridor had closed behind them, and the coven grounds sprawled before their eyes.
They had crossed the fey gate to Weirlaind, to the space between time and threads. Above their heads, the darkness of the eternal Night sprawled into a lightless sky. Within, the Peering Void lay in wait.
“Welcome to Yore,” Semras said, smiling proudly.
Undertheoutreachingcanopyof the Mother-Tree, Yore bustled with activity.
The ancient tree stood at its centre, spreading its thousands of braided branches and roots around the coven grounds, ensconcing it in its protective arms. Sap still bled out of the numerous runes carved into the primordial tree’s bark. Even from a distance, star-like glimmers shone within the seeping black liquid—each of them the soul of a witch kept safely out of reach of the Night far above.
All around the Mother-Tree, stalls and buildings sprouted from roots and bark along narrow alleys. Women of all ages walked on the winding stone paths, while a few small children wobbled next to some of them. Amidst the human crowd, the familiars of pactwitches trailed behind their masters—most ofthem cats, goats, and ravens, and all of them behaving with a striking, anthropomorphic obedience.
The smell of aromatic herbs wafted down from open fires scattered across Yore. From their high places atop poles, the flames illuminated the coven grounds, casting away the encroaching shadows of Weirlaind. A gentle conversational rumble rose up and down and mixed pleasantly with the echoes of faraway, rhythmic music.
Semras smiled. It felt good to be back home.
When she turned to see the inquisitor’s reaction, she found him gaping, eyes sweeping left and right to take it all in. “This … this is …”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Much better than Castereina, I daresay.”
He let out a small laugh. “And I daresay I now understand how Yore survived the last witch purges. It is … well hidden.”
Semras scowled at him. “Do not say those words here. Not in this place of beauty. Yore only survived by learning from the sacrifice of those who didn’t. What you see here is unique among the Covens, but only because the others couldn’t afford to deal with the Fey or … well, didn’t deal with them safely enough.” Looking around to orient herself, she added, “Come, the herbalists sell their stocks down these two rows of alleys.”
They walked through the crowd cautiously. Estevan’s icy blue eyes turned the heads of many witches, but he never noticed it in his increasing wonder of Yore. Trying to keep his attention on a curiosity shop or an odd familiar, he stumbled multiple times, and she ended up linking their arms together to let him gape at will.
His childish enchantment made her look at Yore with fresh eyes. Once upon a time, she too had bumbled around trying to take it all in, dreaming of the day she’d join it.
It felt incredibly nostalgic to realize only a year had passed since she finally did.
“Semras!” called a light, feminine voice.
Diving through the crowd, a young woman hurried to join them, soon followed by the cloud of black moths hovering around her.
Semras smiled as she recognized her dark brown hair and doe-like eyes. “Blyana? It’s been a while!” Letting go of Estevan, Semras opened her arms in time to receive the witch in a hug. “I haven’t seen you in—oh, I don’t know how long anymore! How is the Lumne Coven?”
“Smaller than Adastra, but with fewer old women,” Blyana replied, winking. Her gaze trailed to the side, and she stepped back with a mischievous smile. “I’d ask what you have been doing these days, but … I should probably ask ‘who.’Wellmet, Master Summoner. I am Blyana, a friend of Semras.”
Estevan smiled in an uncannily accurate imitation of his steward. “Well met, miss. I am Master Sin’Sagar. Charmed, I am sure.” Then he bowed as courteously as the real one would have done.
Blyana fanned her face with a hand. “Oh … he’s a good one.” She slyly looked back at Semras. “You secretive rascal, you never told me about him in your letters! Are you here to petition the Elders for him? I remember you used to dream of doing that. You’ve always been such a romantic.”
“No! No, no, no!” Semras flustered, fighting back a blush. “I—we, um … we’re not—I mean, Sin’Sagar is just visiting Vandalesia. He wanted to buy some exotic goods to bring back home, and he’s leaving very,verysoon.”
The mere suggestion of taking him before the Elders … Oh, thank the Old Crone the inquisitor had no idea what her friend had just suggested. She’d have died of embarrassment.
“I might yet change my mind if all your friends are as welcoming as she is, Semras,” Estevan purred. “It would be ashame to leave before experiencing the rule ofxeniain such lovely company.”
He was having too much fun, and Semras knew exactly what to say to make him drop his damn grin. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love talking with Blyana. She’s a pactwitch, you see? Very similar magic to what is studied by followers of the Diabalah, except she makes pacts with existing creatures, not with summoned spirits as you do.”
