She threw him an irritated glance but still took the cape off. The offending piece of linen was barely back in Themas’ hands when she felt something heavy fall over her shoulder.
Velten had replaced the knight’s cloak with his own. The golden Elumenra insignia was still pinned onto it.
She examined it, lifting a corner of the dark red fabric with the tip of her fingers. What would her sisters think of her, wearing the insignia of the Inquisition so openly? At least Themas’ cloak had been embroidered with the more neutral, silver version of the Church.
“I don’t really need this anymore,” Semras said. “The water has dried—”
He glowered at her, cutting off all desire to explain any further.
The two men were acting oddly. The inquisitor was seething while Themas looked ashen, his face devoid of any expression.
“You better keep it,” Velten told her. “If I find it gathering mud down the road, Radiant Lord help me, I will—”
“Fine, fine!”
After one final glance at her, then at Themas, the inquisitor rode away just as quickly as he had come.
Semras watched him leave, her face set in a mix of exasperation and befuddlement. “What was that about?”
“No man likes to see another lay claim to what is his,” he said quietly, fiddling with the cloak on his arm.
“Lay claim? But I am not yours, nor his.”
And what did clothes have to do with any of this?
Flinching, Themas put his cloak back over his shoulders, then surveyed the sword-bearers guiding their horses onto the road one by one.
She persisted. “What claim do either of you have on me?”
“Oh, it’s …” He cleared his throat. “Draping a cloak over a lady’s shoulder is considered a gesture of courtship. As a … a token of affection.”
Semras pursed her lips. “That cannot be it,” she decided. “You told me yesterday that Inquisitor Velten already has a lover. He’s probably just … trying to control who I get along with.”
Themas’ expression brightened. After mounting his horse, he grabbed the reins and glanced at her. “You would do well to stay wary of him,” he said.
The witch raised an eyebrow. “Should a knight speak so ill of his master?”
“Sir Ulrech would certainly say no. I trust you will keep it a secret for me, Semras,” he replied with a wink. Dimples appeared around his smile.
She laughed. “Not such a perfect shining knight you are, then! Fear not, your secret is safe with me.”
The loud, irritated voice of Inquisitor Velten commanded the company to depart, and the horses took off on the road with rumbling hooves.
Theinquisitor’smooddidnot get any better as the sun rose higher in the sky. He drove them all hard, skipping as many breaks as he could get away with without needlessly tiring outthe horses. In one of those rare stops, Semras gave him his cloak back, and he wrapped it on his shoulder without taking his eyes off his map.
It was obvious he wanted to make up for lost time. They should have reached Castereina within two days of leaving Bevenna, but by the time noon came and went, it became plain that the third day wouldn’t be the last one spent travelling.
Themas had told her the sword-bearers had been on the road with little comfort or break for almost a week now, and it showed: their resentful glares followed her every time they had to slow down to give the horses some respite. Themas’ constant presence at her side was probably the only thing keeping them from verbally laying blame at her feet.
It unnerved her, and she carried her head high to conceal it.
Riding out of the Vedwoods took most of the morning. The dirt path, overgrown and in various states of disrepair or abandonment, turned into a trampled road once they reached vast gilded fields, small villages, and lonesome farmsteads. It was late afternoon by the time the road took them through a small, refreshingly cool grove. Under the shade of its trees, they slowed down at last for a sliver of respite.
As soon as Semras rode by the plant, her trained eyes spotted it.
The tall stem peeked out from behind a fallen, mossy trunk. Dark leaves splayed like fingers climbed toward numerous hooded purple flowers—a devil’s helmet, she identified. Its bloom was almost over, and its seed heads were ready for harvest.
Semras smiled excitedly. Devil’s helmets had grown increasingly rare in the past few centuries. Overzealous hunters had collected too many for the poisoned baits they used to hunt wolves; finding one here was a stroke of luck she could barely believe.
