Blushing with embarrassment, Themas looked aside. “My apologies. I just wanted to make conversation.”
“It’s alright, Themas,” she said, smile thin and forced.
Ulrech glowered at her, then shook his head, mumbling about given names and proprieties.
“This ‘conversation’ is turning into an interrogation by virtue of my presence here,” Estevan said. His gaze darted to her. “You can stay quiet. Or I can leave if you would like to keep discussing this subject away from the ears of an inquisitor.”
Semras recognized his words for what they were: a peace offering for what had transpired in the grove. She wasn’t ready to accept it, but she’d make use of it. If he got out of the way, his knights might talk more freely, and she had questions of her own.
Themas mouthed a ‘sorry’ toward Semras. She smiled at him, then turned to Estevan. “I—”
“Wait. What Coven are you from?” Ulrech cut her off, voice laced with traces of mistrust.
“Adastra,” Estevan replied. “Do not worry; she is not from Talion.”
Semras blinked, unnerved by the accuracy of his answer.
“I thought you said you were a witch of Yore?” Themas asked.
“I am. But I …” She glanced at Estevan. Would he be able to answer that too?
Noticing her, he raised his mug and smirked.
“I was initiated into Yore a year ago, but before that I lived on Adastra’s coven grounds.” She looked back at Estevan. “How doyouknow—”
“Initiated?” Eyes bright with curiosity, the young knight leaned toward her. “That was your choice, then?”
Annoyance started to brew within her. Semras had meant to fish for information, and she ended up being the one questioned. “Yes. The Elders of Adastra wanted me to join them, and I refused. I wanted to keep to the Woods Path, and there was a skilled potion maker at Yore I hoped could help me walk it. A famous warwitch—but I suppose the Inquisition would call her infamous. I wanted her to take me as an apprentice.”
“A warwitch the Inquisition does not like …” Studying her with open suspicion, Sir Ulrech leaned forward. “And you freely admit to wanting to learn from her.”
Now ithadbecome an interrogation.
Semras scowled. “You’ll find nothing to reproach her. She’s the one who brokered the peace that ended the witch purges, and her War Path is long behind her. We still refer to her as a warwitch to honour the sacrifices she made walking it for us, but she’s a woodwitch nowadays.” She huffed, exasperated. “Besides, she’s quite reclusive and doesn’t take part in the Coven’s life very often, so I have yet to cross paths with her. I hope that answers all yourworries, Sir Ulrech.”
Next to her, Themas gave her a kind, placating smile. “She sounds very impressive,” he said. “What is her name?”
Estevan tapped his fingers on his knees. “You do not have to answer them, witch. Change the subject.”
Mellowed by the young knight’s dimpled grin, Semras ignored him. “Warwitch Leyevna. She is really impressive; everyone knows about her. She even has the ears of the Elders of Yore.”
“I hope you get to meet her one day,” he replied with a bow, a hand placed over his heart.
“So do I …” The witch leaned closer to the fire. “I’m a wild daughter, so I always had to find mentors on my own.”
“A ‘wild daughter’? I’m very sorry to bother you this much, Semras. It is all just so fascinating to me,” Themas said. “I grewup thinking witches were just legends of the past. That your people were all gone by now.”
“We could have been …” A thin, forced smile spread across her lips. “‘Wild daughters’ means orphaned and raised communally by the Coven. The last witch purge made many of us, so I’m far from the only one, but … well, I had no mother to support me.”
“… A void no one else can fill …” Estevan muttered to himself, flask held near his lips. Their gazes crossed, and he gave her a soft, heavy smile.
She knew the curve of it well. She had given similar ones to other wild daughters after hearing their own stories of loss—not a smile born of pity, but of empathy, and drawn from personal experience.
Her heart fluttered.
Estevan understood her. He too knew the same bitter longing as she did—the desperate, irrational mix of yearning and resentment for the parent who abandoned them.
Themas cleared his throat, snapping her attention back to the present.
