Was this what the graceful lady had felt that day? A held breath, a skipped heartbeat, a blooming blush on the cheeks? Would it happen to her too, one day? Would it be him, that handsome man who’d—
The inn’s door opened again, and Inquisitor Velten stepped through the doorway. He stood there, surveying the courtyard, until his attention stopped over Semras. His damnably sharp gaze soaked her like cold rain.
The daydream vanished in an instant. Semras shook off the naive fantasy, then smiled at Themas. “Of course I forgive you, but only if you drop the ‘miss’ and just call me Semras, as I asked before.”
“This is a great honour you bestow upon me. I will accept it, but only if you simply call me Themas in return.”
He rose back up with a warm smile of his own, and Semras wondered if she had imagined the gentle squeeze on her hand before he let it go.
Therestoftheevening passed by uneventfully. After Themas had entrusted the care of her gelding to a junior sword-bearer, he led her into the inn’s common room to sit at a long, thin table. A lively tavern maid soon came through the brightly painted yellow room to distribute food.
To the inquisitor’s credit, it wasn’t the promised gruel but a rather good, if simple, meal that awaited the company. Semras feasted on legume stew sprinkled with salted bacon, rye bread,wine, and even hot cocoa—a drink from Mundomera that she knew the Deprived adored but that she didn’t have much occasion to try herself. She liked it, though it was a little too sweet for her taste.
Themas downed two bowls of it. “My father drinks his with far more sugar than this,” he told her. “This much sweetness is nothing compared to what he used to make for me when I was younger.”
Semras held back a chuckle as he poured himself yet another bowl.
Splashes of wine soaked the table as the tavern maid, a comely blonde with lightly freckled skin, served the men with giggling recklessness. Chatter mingled with the music from a flute one of the sword-bearers had a surprising talent for. Without the oppressive presence of the inquisitor among them, the men relaxed and enjoyed their respite.
Most steered clear of the witch. Seated near a corner of the wall, Semras enjoyed some level of isolation from the merry retinue. By her side, Themas kept her well entertained with light tales, staying away from any story related to witch hunting.
One time during the evening, a few drunken Venator guards approached her. Emboldened by the wine, they came with lecherous questions concerning witches and their—apparently famed—‘nightly rituals,’ asking with a leer if one or two of them could assist her with them.
It didn’t faze her. Most men spoke these false platitudes to women, obeying some bizarre custom of the Deprived to pay compliments to anyone wearing a skirt. Semras had received that sort of polite attention ever since she’d grown into a woman. It was nothing to be taken seriously.
Themas didn’t share her opinion. He sent them running outside to sweat the alcohol out of their system, and soon theother sword-bearers decided to prudently keep their curiosity to themselves.
That left her plenty of time to satiate her own. “How did you find my house?” Semras asked.
Themas took a sip of his tankard. “Hmm … In truth? I do not know.” Semras waited patiently, and when her continued silence and attention wore him down, the knight ceded more details. “Inquisitor Velten told us nothing. We left Castereina in a hurry, so there was no time for a briefing. Or if he gave one, I didn’t catch it. I joined his retinue on the cardinal’s order just before they left. I asked the sword-bearers later, but they told me they had no idea where we were going.”
Semras hummed. “So, no one asked questions?”
“There was no occasion for it. We rode in such a hurry, the horses barely made it. We stopped by Bevenna to break our fast, and then he led us to your home. Even now, we still don’t know exactly why you are with us. I don’t think Sir Ulrech himself knows exactly what is going on.” Themas swept his gaze around the common room. “Speaking of which, where is he?”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Semras said, chewing on her rye bread, “I’d much rather he stays away while I eat. His scowling will ruin my appetite.”
Themas huffed out a laugh. “He’s a knight of the Venator Choir; they’re all like that.” He paused, hesitating. “I mean … I am not, but I do not really relate to the other Venator knights. Most are much older than I am.”
“Some sword-bearers look like they’re around your age,” Semras said, grinning slowly. “But something tells me you wouldn’t get along with them either.”
“No. No, I wouldn’t,” he replied with a chuckle. “And even if I did, I would not be free to mingle with them. The Confraternity is a religious militant order, but we do not all play the same role. Knight-brothers are often called upon by the Inquisition to serveas its sword. That is not the case for sword-bearers. They are lower-ranked guards, not used to fighting so much as escorting and guarding officials and holy places. Their presence with us is quite … um, irregular.”
“Is it?” Semras cocked her eyebrow. “I thought your Confraternity existed only to harass us witches.”
“It’s … um.” Themas blinked, then sighed deeply. “Well, I certainly did not enroll for that reason. Venator knights swear the same oath as inquisitors—to protect Elumenra’s light from those who’d try to extinguish it—and that is what I joined to do. But, I admit, yes … most of the older knight-brothers think it means they must ensure witches follow the princes’ laws. By force, if necessary.”
Semras trailed her spoon through her stew. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t need your people to police ourselves. We’re not as wild and unruly as the Inquisition likes to pretend.”
“I am genuinely sorry for that,” he said, voice contrite. “If it helps, it’s obvious to me the Confraternity will not survive another century. There are fewer recruits and donations every year. Give it a hundred more, and the Confraternity of the Venator Choir might be entirely gone.”
Her spoon stilled between her fingers. Glancing around, Semras observed more closely at the sword-bearers scattered across the common room.
Beyond the brief altercation earlier, she hadn’t really taken notice of their individualities, favouring instead to view them as a monolithic group. But here, as the evening slowly advanced, as more and more Venator guards rose in merriment at the abundant wine or fell asleep slumped on tables, their faces buried in their arms, she could tell just how disparate they were.
The younger sword-bearers, among whom she counted Raphene and Barco, were at least an entire generation apartfrom the older members. Many men in the latter group seemed close to retirement—and they made up most of the company.
“Then the Venators are a dying breed,” Semras commented. Her appetite returned, and she grabbed more bread to dip into her soup. “What about the Inquisition itself?”
