“Your sword-bearers seemed to believe in them enough to fear me,” she said sourly.
He scoffed. “They are not mine. Sword-bearers belong to petty church duties, like guarding dusty buildings and aging, venerable priests. They know about your kind but have no training to fight against magic. In my experience, the fear of the defenceless always, invariably, turns into virulent violence and hatred.” His eyes darted to her neck. “We are all just animals deep within. When backed against a wall, survival is all that matters. At any cost.”
Distracted by the streets scrolling by the window, she replied idly, “Speaking of which, where are the animals? Where are the trees? The wind, the water, the soil?”
“Not all of the city looks like this. We are crossing a commercial area.” Estevan leaned to look through her window. “The poor live in worse and the rich live in better, as it goes everywhere else. The divide here is simply … wider.” His face drew closer, and she fought down the urge to glance at him.
“There are parks filled with trees and pleasant fountains,” he continued. “And there are slums hiding desperation out of sight. You will not find much fresh air until we have reached the affluent districts. Spare yourself the view until then.”
He drew the window curtains in front of her nose.
AjoltstartledSemrasawake.
The steady rocking of the carriage, paired with the advancing hour of the night, had lulled her to sleep. She looked around, confused, then remembered where she was. Her eyes darted to Estevan.
He was still there, leaning back on the cushion of his seat with crossed arms. His eyes, burdened by dark circles, were fixed on the window. “You woke up just in time, witch. We have arrived.”
Semras peeked outside.
The carriage slowed to a halt before a wall of pale stone blocks crowned by wrought iron fences. Ivy climbed over it all, obscuring most of the view beyond. A shout from the coachman announced their arrival, and a grand, ornate metal gate opened before them. The carriage entered the private grounds beyond.
An elegant white mansion stood in the middle of a park. The inquisitor seemed to have a taste for trees—tall and ancient oaks grew as they pleased on the lawn, their high canopy shielding the road leading to the front door. It looked like a grove planted right in the middle of a city of bricks and stones.
The estate was large, and its cost most probably prohibitive. Semras had no time to guess the extent of the inquisitor’s wealth before the carriage door opened.
Behind it, Sir Ulrech nodded at Estevan, then stood aside to let them out. The inquisitor stepped off the carriage first, shaking the small compartment as he dropped onto the ground, then turned around to look at her with his hand stretched out.
Semras looked at it, a little dumbfounded. She couldn’t remember if that gesture meant courtship or simple politeness to the Deprived. Or did it depend on if bare skin was touching or not? Leather gloves covered his hands, but not hers. Did it count?
Madra, the witch she’d heard it from, had never been quite reliable on what she taught the others. In their youth, she had enjoyed embellishing meaningless gestures to aggrandize herown love stories too much. Maybe Madra had exaggerated, and it meant nothing. Still, just in case, she preferred not to take any chances.
The witch stood from her seat and approached the small door, decisively ignoring the inquisitor’s hand. Her confidence deflated at the sight of the narrow step meant to help her down.
“Take my hand, witch,” Estevan said. “Or do not. I would rather you fell so I may catch you in my arms.”
“How dare you—!” she started.
“My lord, how could you—!” Ulrech’s thundering voice drowned hers.
Estevan exploded with laughter. Stunned, Semras exchanged a glance with the knight only to see her confusion mirrored on him.
After a few more snickers, the inquisitor regained control of himself. “Looks like you both finally found common ground! To think you would join hands to attack me like that.”
“My lord,” Ulrech replied, grumbling, “I would never attack you. I only meant that this kind of behaviour in front of the help—”
“What, as if the people curated by Master Sin’Sagar would tattle?” Estevan glanced at the servants lining the path to the front door.
Semras hadn’t seen them until now, too concentrated on the carriage’s step. Keeping their heads respectfully bowed to the ground, none of them had reacted to his words.
“What is there to gossip about?” the inquisitor continued. “I already have a witch; now I have a second one. The novelty must have worn off by now.”
‘Have’? As if she belonged to him, like she was apet? Estevan really had to remind her of how much of a bastard he truly was—and just as she’d begun to think better of him.
Words of recrimination threatened to spill from her lips, and Semras swallowed them back with bitterness. Bastard or not, she doubted he would enjoy being yelled at in front of his people. She could always do it later, in private, and scream at him as loudly as he deserved.
Sometimes, she really felt like the only reasonable person around.
“Of course, my lord,” Sir Ulrech replied curtly.
