“I have things to say, and I will be heard,” Semras said, lifting her chin.
Tribunal Whitmore scowled down at her. “The testimony of a witch—”
“Are any of your fancy laws against it?” she asked.
“None are,” Cardinal Velten replied, raising his hands appeasingly. “Cael, you may use her testimony. Young lady, would you step closer so we can hear you more clearly?”
Semras joined Estevan’s side. With his hands still chained behind his back, he could do nothing more than watch her approach. A deep worry creased his brow.
She gave him a soft, soothing smile.
“Semras, they will seek to trap you …” he whispered. “These men have been playing this political game for longer than we have been alive.”
“I can’t just sit by idly and let them have at you, can I?” she replied.
He glanced behind her. “What of my brother? Did he catch you? Did you make a Bargain with him? And what of Sin? Is he coming?”
Semras followed his gaze to Cael. “Long story,” she whispered. “Just know that your brother’s on our side.”
Then there was no more time to speak.
Cael closed in on her. Only a twitch in his jaw betrayed the depth of his irritation at her intervention. “State your name for the tribunals,” he said.
“Semras of Yore, wild daughter of Sarana of Endor.”
A murmur coursed through the judges, passing from shaking heads to frowning brows, and the witch shifted on her feet. Did they know her mother?
Cael’s voice dragged her attention back to him. “State your occupation and place of residence.”
“Oh, um … herbalist,” she answered. “I live near Bevenna.”
Cael glanced at his brother, then continued. “And in your capacity as an herbalist, you were consulted by Inquisitor Velten on the matter of the murder two weeks ago. Is that correct?”
“It is. I—”
“Ask about her relationship to the accused,” Tribunal Garza said. A sneer slowly spread across his wizened lips.
Semras gritted her teeth. By her side, Estevan sucked in his breath. His chains rattled.
Clicking his tongue, Cael gazed at her, his eyes as blank as ever—as if none of this concerned him. As if he wasn’t the reason her Wyrdtwined now stood in chains and why she had to endure the bigotry of old men.
It angered something deep within her, something wild and dark and begging to be let out.
“I will cut short this question to ask directly the object of Tribunal Garza’s curiosity: are you Estevan’s rumoured ‘witch lover’?” Cael’s eyes pressed her for an answer—the one he had offered on a silver platter.
Fighting back a smirk, she took it. “No, I am not the witch lover from the rumours.”
Not a lie, on a technicality—these rumours concerned Nimue, not her. Just like his brother, the changeling knew how to skirt around the truth.
“… Fine,” Garza spat out. “Proceed.”
“In your capacity as an herbalist,” Cael said, “what did you uncover during the investigation?”
She cleared her throat, giving herself time to choose her words carefully. “That the victim had died of an overdose of prickly comfrey.”
“Tell us how you came to work for Inquisitor Velten and what brought you to this conclusion.”
Her mind filled with the visions of her time with Estevan. Of his callousness and arrogance and infuriating smirks since they met. How he had apologized, embarrassed for flirting with her in the first inn room they shared. Then his teasings, his open admiration, and his fierce protectiveness—part cockiness, part devotion—in front of both the sword-bearers and the wolves.
