Page 136 of A Weave of Lies
Semras glanced at him. “I was thinking about how I’d never seen you wear all black before,” she lied.
Estevan stared down at Sin’Sagar’s ethnic garb, where delicate beads traced dark patterns across a long, black vest of cashmere. He had changed into it shortly after they had left Themas behind, teasing her about not taking a peek while he did so.
As if she hadn’t already, in that tent by the forest path. She knew what hid behind the tight, black-on-black fabric; Estevan held no more secrets from her.
Black hair slicked back with pomade and a bag slung over his shoulder, Estevan now looked the part of a visiting foreign diabalhist. Kohl highlighted his blue eyes and traced whorled sigils down his cheeks, and a perfume of myrrh had replaced his usual cologne.
The disguise was her idea, and while Semras thought it clever at first, she now cursed her decision to enhance his already striking blue eyes with kohl. He looked even more dangerously, roguishly handsome than usual. Damn the man and his natural good looks. She should have disguised him as a stable boy instead.
A vision of him in a brown cap and white half-unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled back and frock coat held over his shoulder, spewed forth in her mind.
No,notbetter. A chimney sweeper, perhaps? No, she bet he’d still look good drowning in cinders, even if she would never tell him.
“Does it look good on me?”
Of course, he just had to ask anyway.
“You want my honest opinion?” At his nod, Semras rolled her eyes. “Watch your back once we are at the coven grounds. Summoners from the southeast are rare around here. Some witches might be tempted to add you to their collection.”
“… Their collection?” he asked, watching her with confusion.
“Of shrunken heads. You’d look quite fetching above a foyer.”
Estevan stopped walking, and Semras did as well before he could lose sight of her among the trees—not that she couldn’t find him if he did get lost. She was a woodwitch after all.
“You are messing with me.Shrunkenheads?”
“They’re calledtsantsa,”Semras replied, smiling innocently at him. “It became all the rage after some visiting Kehuari clerics offered a couple of them to the Elders. They told ustsantsacan capture the souls of those we make them from … and I dare say the soul of a diabalhist would be quite the exotic familiar for a pactwitch.”
Estevan gawked at her, and the corners of her lips quivered.
A deep amusement tickled the back of her throat. Unable to hold it in for longer than a second, Semras erupted into laughter, bracing herself against a nearby tree to stay upright.
“Look at who is making jokes in a tense situation now,” he grumbled.
Her snickers lingered a moment longer before she chased them away at last. Wiping tears of mirth out of her eyes, she said, “Half-joking, there aretsantsafor sale at the coven grounds, and they do come from the Kehuari, but they’re made of southern monkeys, not humans. Yore is not a Bleak Coven.” Semras resumed walking, trusting he’d follow her. Dried leaves shuffling behind her proved her right. “I wonder if I could find one with blue topaz gems for eyes.”
“Blue eyes. Now you are teasing me.”
“Alas,” she said, waving distractedly, “I don’t have enough money to afford it.”
“And that is the only thing stopping you?” Estevan sounded outraged. “The witch wants shrunken heads. Shrunken.Heads!Topaz are easy to acquire, at least.”
Semras giggled. “Forget about your white clothes and your fancy house, Inquisitor. You’re about to step into my world now.” She gestured ahead.
Before them, a double line of ancient rowan trees had grown into a twisting corridor. Autumn had stripped them of the last of their leaves, and only bright red berries now hung in clusters at the tips of their branches. Moss covered most of the trunks, but Semras could still discern the sigils lying underneath the green patches.
“We’ve arrived,” she announced.
Estevan stared ahead with dubious eyes. “I see … trees.”
“Take my hand.”
He took it without hesitation, but resisted when she tried to lead him forward. “Wait. Before we go, let me …” Estevan’s voice trailed off, but she knew what he wanted already.
The night before, while they rested at an inn on their way here, he had insisted on examining her hands again. He spent minutes helping her work on their flexibility, diligently massaging more ointment onto her skin to ease the pain. His ears and neck had remained flushed for the entire time their bare hands touched.
Her hands hadn’t changed much between then and now—they were still pale and covered in rashes, but some of the redder areas had begun to recede.
