He gave it back with no resistance. Something brewed behind his sombre eyes. “… May I watch the rites?” he asked.
The witch eyed him warily.
“I will not disrupt them,” he said, passing his hand through his hair. “Think whatever you want of me, but I shall not ruin something so sacred. I know only too well what it is to grieve.”
A weight on her shoulders lifted. Somewhere deep within, she’d half expected the inquisitor to stop her from honouring her sister the ‘heathen’ way, as he’d called it earlier. His respectful request—when they both knew she didn’t really have a say in the matter—was a surprise, but a welcomed one.
“You may,” Semras replied.
She returned to the tree and took a bundle of small, thin beeswax candles out of her bag. With a fallen branch nearby, she traced around the trunk a wheel divided into twelve parts, then placed a candle in each of its dials. She wove them alight one by one, whispering a ritualized rhythm to dictate her tempo.
Wax dripped onto the soil and fallen leaves. A fragrance of honey, myrrh, and sandalwood floated to her nose.
Gravewitches traditionally used frankincense, but she had none at hand. Just one more thing that was wrong, lost already in an ocean of so many other wrongs.
Kneeling on the soil before the circle, Semras stripped off the upper part of her dress. The chilly air hit her naked chest, raising goosebumps along her skin. With a needle, she pricked each side of her fingers, drew out blood, and then mixed it into the ashes of a small container. It formed a thick, bloody paste the witch used to draw familiar whorls upon her face and torso.
Dried leaves rustled behind her, and Semras straightened her back. She had conducted rituals while half-naked in front of coven sisters before, but never with an inquisitor in her blind spot. The sudden reminder of his presence made her feel hyperaware.
Sigils completed, Semras opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and began chanting. Her soft voice carried the prayer to the tree, the soil, the roots. Eerie words echoed through the glade.
The wind dropped, branches stopped rustling their leaves, and the woods fell silent. It listened.
Then answered.
Crackling roots pierced through the soil in a low rumble. They warped around the shawl and its bones, then dragged them deep into the damp earth. Their passage ripped out weaker plants from their beds and buried their sappy remains into freshly turned dirt. One by one, over the several minutes the ritual took, the candles went out.
When the last one died, Semras ended her chant and smiled with relief.
The tree had agreed to its role as a guardian. It would keep the witch’s bones and give them back to nature, and they’d feed and fortify it for years to come. A fair Bargain, as befit the will ofthe Old Crone and the New Maiden.Thiswas a true burial for a witch.
Slowly, timidly, the forest returned to its former peaceful self. The disquieting silence made way for the songs of birds and bugs. Critters of all kinds crept back from where they’d retreated, and the wind blew once more against tree leaves in a soothing, rhythmic rustling. The funeral rites were done.
But Semras wasn’t. She had been waiting for an opportunity; now she had it.
After gathering threads of wind around her fingers, the witch wove them into the airy shape of a butterfly. On its wings, she whispered her message to Yore, then let it fly away. The small, newly born air spirit would unravel once her words entered the ears of the Coven Elders.
A diabalhist could have bound it into that shape permanently, but she only needed the elemental for an ephemeral message. It wouldn’t even have time to form a will before it informed her Coven of the threat they could soon face. The task only took her a few minutes. The inquisitor wouldn’t know it wasn’t a step of the funeral rites, and her message would remain a secret.
Satisfied, Semras gathered what remained of the candles before standing up, her knees protesting after kneeling for so long. With a wince, she forced them to obey.
She closed her bag on her belongings, took a mental note to buy more ashes next time she’d visit Yore, and then turned toward the inquisitor. Her dress still hung around her waist. Once he’d taken the bag off her hands, she’d cover herself properly again.
The strangest of sights greeted her. Leaning against one of the outer standing stones, Velten held a hand firmly clasped over his eyes, a deep blush colouring his ears and neck. His head was turned as far away from her as he could.
Semras blinked, then said, “I am done.”
“Good!” He cleared his throat. “I mean, good. Let’s leave then.” He stayed unmoving, still refusing to look at her.
“Yes? I’ll need—I … Are you … alright, Inquisitor?”
“Perfectly fine,” he replied, neck strained. “You may get dressed at your earliest convenience. Such as right now.”
Semras hummed. She stepped into his view, and the inquisitor turned his head away. She did it again, and he dropped his gaze to his feet, eyes still firmly shielded behind his hand.
The witch smirked, amused.
Crouching to catch his eyes, she watched with amazement as Velten stared away once more, still stubbornly ignoring her exposed chest. She chuckled.
