Shaking off the tension in her shoulders, Semras gathered the pieces of her broken cup into her palm. Her eyes lingered on the shards before she dropped them into a nearby basket with a sigh.
Next time she’d visit the coven grounds, she’d get it repaired by a witch sister. Semras walked the Path of the Woods, not the Path of Craft. Its ways weren’t well known to her, and she wouldn’t risk destroying her favourite cup by attempting to learn it unguided right now.
Turning her attention back to Inquisitor Velten, she saw him flexing his wounded hand, his dreadful glove now discarded out of sight.
She cleared her throat. “Is this what you offer? Protection?”
Eyes stuck on the blood pooling in the lines of his palm, he didn’t turn his attention toward her. “No man shall harm you while in my company.”
“Does that include yourself?”
“You do not need protection from me,” he replied, clenching his fist once more to observe the blood oozing out. “As long as you steer clear of the Bleak Path, that is.”
Semras paled at the threat. “Why did you choose me?”
He finally turned toward her. “Do not flatter yourself. There were others. Some lied to me, some hid. You did not. Be grateful; if you prove to be useful, I might intercede in your favour in front of a tribunal one day.”
Huffing, the witch rolled her eyes, then went to grab bandages and a small ceramic container off a shelf. “Inquisitor Velten, was it?” she asked. “You have your deal; I’ll go with you. I am Semras of the Yore Coven, though I suppose you must already know my name.”
When she walked back to him, his lips had curled into a single-sided smirk. He knew. Of course he did.
Sighing, Semras opened the container. “I’m not doing this for you,” she said, scooping out some of its pale green unguent. “I just don’t want to deal with an infection later.”
She seized his hand. He tensed but still let her spread the salve on his cuts and wrap bandages around them. “Of course not,” he replied. “No charitable witches, remember?”
“Silence, or I shall hex you,” she mumbled under her breath, caring little if he heard her or not.
A light chuckle shook his shoulders, and she glanced up. He looked much nicer laughing than scowling, she noted.
Once done, Semras patted the bandaged wounds and grinned at the hiss it prompted from him. “Well now, O powerful Inquisitor, who’s going to fix my door and sweep my floor? I’m not returning to a vandalized house once this is over.”
Chapter 02
ItfelluponthreeVenator sword-bearers to sweep her floor, then fix her door.
What magic could have managed in mere minutes would take them an hour to tackle. The ‘volunteers’ complained after being chosen for the task, until the glare of Inquisitor Velten sent them cleaning frenetically, their loud protests turned into quiet mutterings.
Hands busy dusting off a waxed canvas bag, Semras watched it happen from the corner of her eye. A thin smile on her lips threatened to split wider. There was something satisfying in seeing an inquisitor take the side of a witch, even if he only did so because of their deal.
After giving orders to his men, the inquisitor returned to her. “We are bound for Castereina,” he said, leaning against the closest wall. “Have you ever been there?”
Semras eyed him, then knelt before the low chest of drawers near her bed. “No. Most witches steer clear of the city-states.” She opened the old drawers with a loud creak, then rummaged through the clothes kept within. “Too many people.”
“Then expect a two-day trip,” he replied. “Bring only necessities. I will pay for your lodgings and your food. A horse will be provided to you, along with everything necessary for the road.”
Semras hummed, mind focused on listing what she’d require.
Two days to get to the city, one or two for the investigation’s needs, and then two days to come back home, she reckoned. That meant she’d need clothes for about a week—shifts, stays, socks and frocks, the basics—and some alchemy tools for her work.
“Anything else you require,” the inquisitor continued, “may be yours upon your request, and my—”
She dragged out linen stays and garters from a drawer.
“… my … generous …”—he cleared his throat—“indulgence.”
Then his previous words hit her, and Semras groaned. “Did you say a horse?” Setting aside the intimate garment on the floor, she returned her attention to the chest, digging for more clothes. “Are we not travelling in a carriage?”
When the inquisitor gave her no answer, she glanced at him questioningly.
