“As for your supposed witness, Inquisitor Callum, I doubt this man exists, considering he is not part of the preliminary report you submitted.” Whitmore sneered. “Is this a trick of yours to delay this trial?”
“I ask not out of trickery,” Cael said quietly, “but out of fairness. Your unexpected presence today in the Chamber of Judgment is an irregularity. You ought to have been called only once all parties had readied themselves for the trial. And yet you are here, insisting on presiding today, so I must insist on postponing it … with all due respect.” His tone had grown increasingly chilly, his eyes darker, his stance more still.
Taken by a shiver, Semras shifted her feet at the sight of the Seelie peeking out of the human shell.
The tribunals looked at each other. Low murmurs ran across them as they debated Cael’s request. Semras bore the wait with gritted teeth. Rage simmered beneath her skin; she held it back.
But only barely.
“It shall not be postponed,” Tribunal Garza declared at last. “This trial may indeed be expedited, but the charges are exceptional and the matter serious enough to allow such a derogation. We will now proceed with putting the accused to the question to get the answers we are still lacking. Today.”
Semras stared blankly at the old men, unable to muster any surprised reaction for their predictable words.
After all this. After fighting so much to make these withering, elderly relics of the pastunderstand, they were back where they began. She wanted to cry, to bury her face in her Wyrdtwined’s chest and let him hold her and lie that everything would be fine.
She so dearly wished he’d lie to her.
“Semras,” Estevan murmured. “I will be fine. When they see my answers do not change under torture, then they will know I speak the truth, and we will be reunited after. Just … just wait for me and pray to your Old Crone or your New Maiden for me—whichever you think might take the most pity.” The smile he gave her held none of the playfulness she had come to adore. Even his eyes looked dimmer, subdued.
They both knew the tribunals wanted to condemn him—and through him, her. They both knew there was no time limit on the Inquisition’s torture sessions.
And they both knew Estevan was ready to die to protect his own.
Tears prickled her eyes. Blinking them away, Semras leaned toward him, seeking comfort in his proximity—not daring to touch him in fear it would be the last time she ever did. “Don’t do this to me, Estevan,” she murmured. “Don’t leave me behind. Not you too.”
Her Wyrdtwined remained silent, beholding her instead. Despair tainted his tender, sorrowful eyes—as if giving her one last look before being dragged away to his death.
He might just be.
His throat bobbed. “I never wanted—”
“Sword-bearers,” Tribunal Garza’s booming voice covered his words, robbing her of them too. “Take them both away.”
Semras blinked.Both?
Weapons drawn, the Venators surrounded them with terrifying speed, ready to seize the inquisitor and the witch.
Estevan rammed his elbow into the sternum of the nearest guard. The man fell screaming, and two other sword-bearers lunged to take control of him.
Eyes fixed on her Wyrdtwined, Semras didn’t hear the footsteps coming at her from behind until a hand fell on her shoulder. Screaming, she raged against it, thrashing wildly to resist their pull—in vain. The cruel hands dragged her away from Estevan.
Dodging hands and blades, Estevan rushed toward her. “Semras!” Before he could reach her, the sword-bearers tackled him to the floor.
Semras blanched. “Estevan!”
Heated voices came from the high table. “Order, order!” roared one of the old judges. Gavels fell repeatedly, unheeded by all.
More sword-bearers burst into the room. They flooded the Chamber of Judgment, an army of chilling, mindless obedience. Semras froze as they approached her. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning her in the erratic beating of her own heart.
The faint, protesting voice of Cardinal Velten floated through. “Wait—”
Then rage, blinding and burning, devoured her mind, and she heard no more. A deep, primal growl rumbled out of her chest, sending the nearest sword-bearers stumbling back in fear.
She’d kill them all.
She’d rip their warp shapes apart, rend the pathetic remains of their lifeforce into ribbons, and hang them from the ropeshe’d make from their guts. Oh, how sweetly the tribunals would writhe and wail as she’d slough the skin off their bones.
This wasn’t the Bleak—no, no, she wasjustified. She hadno other choice. The tribunals had declared war first.
