In the Unseen Arras, even time stretched out into threads.
The witch came back to herself with a gasp, lungs screaming for air as if her head had emerged from underwater. She had no time to recover. A hand jerked her backward, then someone else’s shoved her behind them.
Looking around, she blinked away the last remnants of the Arras.
The tall stature of Inquisitor Estevan Velten obscured most of her view. One arm held his sword in front of him, while the other extended backward to shield her. Further away, Sir Ulrech and Themas, hands on the handle of their swords, faced three Venator guards with weapons drawn. The rest of the sword-bearers had retreated to the fringe of the road, where they stood frozen in apprehension.
“Do not move,” Velten said. His voice sounded poised, calm. Focused. “Not by a single hair.”
Whether he was addressing her or the armed guards, Semras couldn’t tell. It didn’t make any difference.
Ulrech pulled his sword out by an inch. The blade slid out of its scabbard in a threatening shing. “I will repeat myself only once. Stand back, Venator Brothers, by order of the Inquisition.”
The closest sword-bearer, a man with a clean-shaven face and high cheekbones, glanced at the silent threat of the blade. “I’mtellin’ you, that witch was castin’ a spell on us. Her eyes glowed, and—”
“And she’s trouble,” interrupted the one on his left, standing slightly behind him—Lorencio, Semras recognized.
He spat on the ground to emphasize his point. “I say we get rid of her. There’s no way you’re not itching to do the same, Inquisitor.”
Semras’ breath shuddered out of her. Blood pounded in her ears, chanting a single, repetitive word:mob, mob, mob.
Old Crone save her; the inquisitor had been right. She just couldn’t understand what had been the spark.
“The difference between you and me, Lorencio,” Velten replied, “is that I do not act upon myitchings. The other, most crucial difference is that I am empowered by ecclesiastical authorities to take lives as I deem necessary. You do not have such a privilege. You and the little friends behind whom you hide will stand down, or you will all face my judgment. I warn you …” His voice dropped into a low growl. “I am not known for my mercy.”
Shielded by his body, Semras felt absurdly grateful for the width of the inquisitor’s strong shoulders. Instinctively, she shuffled closer, and his hand pressed the small of her back, bringing her even closer. The protective touch sent shivers across her body. Estevan wouldn’t let them get to her.
Part of her had feared he’d agree with Lorencio and turn against her. He hadn’t; she could have kissed him for it.
After a heavy silence, the three guards sheathed their weapons and stepped back. The rest of the Venators gave them a wide berth, unwilling to associate with the pariahs.
Estevan kept his sword in his hand for another heartbeat, then sheathed it. With unsettling nonchalance, he raked his fingers through his hair and moved away from her.
His sudden absence pinched her heart. Semras didn’t linger on why. It had to be anxiety at the Venator sword-bearers’ sudden violence.
It had to be.
Ulrech approached them with Themas following closely. “Bloody Void,” the older knight cursed. “That forest is fraying their nerves beyond control. Tell me you found what is wrong with this place, Miss Witch, or else your little stunt will have cost us more than it was worth.”
“My … little stunt?” Semras blinked. “You mean I caused this?”
Themas arched his eyebrow. “Did you not hear them?”
“I was peering into the Arras. Time is—well, it doesn’t flow the same way within,” Semras said, twisting her hands together. “By the time I was back, I had missed some crucial seconds, or … or maybe a full minute? I don’t know. The longer you look, the more affected you become. It’s like dreaming. It takes time to wake up.”
“Your eyes were glowing,” Estevan said. “The sword-bearers noticed it, and some decided you were hexing them.” With a thin smile, he added, “You should thank Sir Ulrech. He pulled you out of reach just in time and almost received a sword to the face for his trouble.”
“Do not,” the knight warned her flatly. He turned to the inquisitor. “What would you have us do with the dissenters, my lord?”
“Nothing for now,” the inquisitor replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The men are agitated enough as it is. But I want both of you to keep an eye on those rebels and who they talk to. Once we reach Castereina, I will jail them for contempt of the Inquisition. Make sure you do not tip them off about our intentions until then. I do not need a damn mutiny on top of everything.”
The knights bowed, and the inquisitor dismissed them. Left alone with him, Semras braced herself against his upcoming ire.
It did not come.
Instead, Estevan leaned his back against a tree and closed his eyes, face drawn. The deep circles around his eyes spoke of many restless nights. What had carved them there, she wondered. Stress perhaps or something else?
“I thought you’d blame me for this,” she said at last.
