“Inquisitor!” she called, pulling on the reins to stop her horse. “A moment, please!”
Riding on, Velten glanced at her, then returned his attention to the road without pausing.
The bastard.
“Would it kill you to heed me?” she said, teeth gritting.
“You are well aware we are in a hurry,” he replied, eyes still focused on the road ahead. “You do not seem in distress or in need of anything; hence, we ride on.”
“Idohave need of something. There’s a rare plant right here. A devil’s helmet. I must have it.”
Wolfsbane was its more common name, but she wasn’t about to use it. She’d look suspicious, wanting a plant so well known for the potency of its poison.
Riding past her, the sword-bearers scoffed and laughed and whispered among themselves about how ‘the witch wanted to stop for flower picking.’ These brutes had no idea just how useful the highly endangered plant could be for crafting remedies—once it had been processed safely, at least.
Velten raised his arm, bringing the company to a halt, then turned to her. “Should I define to you the word ‘hurry’? We have no time for foraging.” The inquisitor’s tone was blunt, final, with an edge of impatience that tolerated no talk back.
The sword-bearers shifted in their saddles. Their eyes bore holes into her.
With a sigh, Semras prompted her horse back into a walking gait. “… I suppose I’ll get it on my way back home, then.”
“Wait.” The inquisitor stopped Pagan, then dismounted in the middle of the road.
Bemused, Semras watched him join her side.
He surveyed the grove for a moment. “That plant?” he asked at last, pointing at the wolfsbane.
The witch blinked. “… Yes?”
“And I suppose I cannot fetch it for you?” Velten looked up at her. “I confess I know nothing about plants.”
“No, it’s—” Her brow furrowed. “… How did you know which one I wanted?”
“Its colour is dark purple.” Velten cleared his throat, then raised his hands toward her waist. “Fine. Take it now, but do not delay us for more than a few minutes.”
A dazzling smile bloomed on her lips. Wasting no time, Semras twisted on the sidesaddle to fetch gloves and a small glass vial from the bag hanging behind her.
“Is this your way of saying you can dismount on your own?” Estevan asked. “A shame. I was so looking forward to being of use to you.”
Her eyes snapped to the hands hovering near her waist—still waiting to help her down. Face flushed with mortification, Semras let the inquisitor lift her off the horse effortlessly, then set her down on the ground. “Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly bashful. Then her mind registered his previous words, and she wrinkled her nose in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘it is purple’? How is that supposed to be an answer?”
Estevan grinned. “Witch, you always wear a shade of purple. Either dark, or with a reddish tint like your current—” Frowning, he glanced down her frock. “What happened to your dress?”
“Well, Inquisitor,” she said, sweeping her hand over the stained velvet, “maybe if you let people talk instead of interrupting them rudely, you’d know all about it. Sadly, you do not, so you will never learn why you must buy me a new dress.”
He hummed. “A new dress?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “You promised me anything I’d need.”
“I am not protesting,” he said, chuckling. “Tell me more about the dress Imustbuy for you.”
She huffed. “Well, it shall be purple.”
“Obviously.”
“Dyed with Dharati indigo.”
“You have luxurious tastes, witch. What about a dark lilac?” he countered.
