Semras bit her lip. She’d broken through her skin so often by now that no blood spurted forth anymore. Her nerves weresharpened raw, stabbing her heart and lungs and throat over and over again.
Cael had been thorough in his investigation of his brother; the tribunals had been reviewing all the information he’d gathered on him for the past half hour. None of it made Estevan look good.
“Then he indeed had the opportunity to tamper with the package’s contents before its delivery,” Whitmore declared. After setting down the report, he adjusted his glasses with a smile. “The culprit could have procured some poison from the Anderas bleakwitch he hunted before coming back to Castereina. She was a fleshwitch, wasn’t she? The ‘Path of the healer is the Path of the killer,’ as our scriptures say.”
Tribunal Pajov shook his head. “Despicable creatures,” he muttered.
Semras dug her nails into her palm. The pain barely helped her restrain herself from reacting, and she glanced at Estevan, hoping to find an anchor in his presence.
His gaze crossed hers, and he smiled softly. They were standing apart, separated by chains and the paralyzing gaze of the tribunals, but he was here, and he was safe. They’d get through the end of this nightmare—together.
Cael cleared his throat. “He did not tamper with the medicine, Your Honour. Tribunal Torqedan died of—”
“An overdose of prickly comfrey, yes,” Tribunal Garza said, waving him off. He turned toward his colleague, his face crinkling into a heavy frown. “You forgot the chemist’s report on the forged letter, Tribunal Whitmore. The medicine was not tampered with directly. Only the instructions on its dosage. Do keep up.”
“My apologies,” Whitmore replied curtly, side-eyeing his colleague. “Go on.”
“What forged letter?” Estevan’s voice rose, an edge of panic hidden within. “What forged letter are you talking about?”
Semras shifted on her feet, fighting the urge to go to him. If only they’d had time—any amount of time—to speak to him. Her Wyrdtwined was following her lead and letting his brother talk, but he had no idea Cael wasn’t their true enemy. He just trusted her blindly to have made the right choice in coming here with him.
Tribunal Pajov raised a hand trembling with old age. “I also desire to speak more about this letter. You claimed it was forged, Inquisitor Callum, but I am not convinced. It came from Warwitch Leyevna, after all, and we all remember how close she came to killing Torqedan during the last purge. She could have succeeded now, in a revenge years in the making. Could she have forged her own letter to blur her tracks?”
Cardinal Velten stiffened in his seat, brow touched by the ghost of a frown. Semras could see the gears turning in his mind, confronting the choice she had to face herself not so long ago—Leyevna or Estevan. Accuse one to save the other.
She dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to choose either.
“There is no supporting evidence behind such a theory,” the cardinal began softly. “And Warwitch Leyevna is no fool; she would have known revenge would cost her the peace that has made her renowned. Torqedan and she had been at odds in the past, but I doubt his death would make her rejoice now.” His serene smile twitched once.
Semras hid her mild amusement behind a cough. Either Estevan’s father made for a poor liar, or she was becoming wise to the guiles of the Veltens.
Scowling, Pajov leaned back in his seat, muttering about grudges under his breath.
“Besides,” Cardinal Velten continued, “do we have confirmation that she made the medicine?”
“The letter directly confirms it,” Cael replied. “Warwitch Leyevna is the one who was preparing the comfrey ointment. Its authenticity is not in question either; I took that letter directly from the crime scene before the culprit could return to it.”
Estevan glowered at his brother. “Soyouwere the one who stole it.”
“‘Stole’ is a strong word,” Cael replied darkly.
“Please,” Cardinal Velten said. The single word calmed his sons down immediately. “Continue.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” Cael cleared his throat. “I investigated all of Castereina’s apothecaries to confirm the medicine’s provenance. None of them reported making any comfrey ointment for the victim, though one establishment had been consulted about its efficiency and risks in the past. This came as no surprise; Tribunal Torqedan had made it public knowledge that he procured his medicine from a witch as a show of goodwill toward their kind.”
Garza scoffed. “A show of goodwill! From the man we once called the Hammer of Witches? Laughable. I never believed it, regardless of how often he raved on about it in his letters. It had to have been dementia talking.”
For once, she agreed with the balding old bigot. The man Estevan had described to her simply didn’t fit the monster remembered by the Covens of Vandalesia.
“An honourable legend like him would have never stooped so low as to consort with the enemy,” Tribunal Garza concluded.
Now they were in disagreement again.
“Yet hedid,” Semras snapped. “And whoever tampered with Warwitch Leyevna’s letter is the true culprit. Estevan couldn’t have done it, so release him!”
Tribunal Garza hummed, then leaned down to peer at her. “We have tolerated the presence of that witch here for too long,” he said. “If you will not put her to the question, InquisitorCallum, then give her leave. This affair does not concern outsiders.”
Too long had she let men decide where she’d stand, when she’d talk, and whether she ought to be there at all. Enough.
