Page 141 of A Weave of Lies
He hummed, then started walking away.
Semras grabbed his sleeve before he could get out of her reach. “Estevan. Promise me you’ll leave if I’m caught.”
Glancing back, he gently took her hand off his clothes, then kept it in his. His thumb traced mindless patterns on her skin. “If you are in danger …”
“Promise me,” she repeated.
Estevan studied her, opened his mouth, and then closed it. At last, he said, “Do you want me to lie to you?”
Her breath hitched. “I …”
Eyes never breaking away from hers, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the top of it. His lips lingered one moment too long on her skin. Then, he let her go, his hand squeezing hers one last time. “Then do not get caught.”
With these last words, he disappeared amidst the flowing crowd.
Noneofthestallson the left had sold prickly comfrey, but it wasn’t a complete waste of her time. Semras took the opportunity to purchase a new tin of activated charcoal, replacing the one she had emptied days earlier in the glade.
Once done, she sat on a stone bench and waited for Estevan, wandering her gaze around.
Braided into an arch, two bent trees nearby marked the entrance to the Mother-Tree’s great hall—a vast chamber carved within the primordial trunk where the Elders conducted the Coven’s most sacred rites. Witches were entering that place, murmuring to one another, and Semras watched on passively, mind distracted. A minute passed while a growing crowd gathered within.
Tapping her foot on the ground with impatience, she focused back on searching for Estevan amidst the coming flood of people. Her last-minute purchase had made her a little late, and she had expected him to be already waiting for her when she arrived. His absence made her nervous, but he’d join her soon enough—he couldn’t have been caught. She’d seen nowarwitches prowling the darkness around the coven grounds, so he had to be safe and just … just late.
Something tickled her cheek. Semras distractedly waved it off.
It came back, and she batted it away again.
On the third time, her brain suddenly became aware of the moth. It fluttered across her skin, repeatedly trying to land on her. A lurching anxiety twisted her heart when she recognized its black wings.
It was Blyana’s.
Semras let it land on her cheek. Woven into its wings, her friend’s voice unravelled into her ears as soon as it did. The message contained only three words: ‘Friend. Danger. Mother-Tree.’
Fear—cold, sweaty, the kind that rattled bones and seeped into the bloodstream until each finger grew numb and stiff—seized her.
She stood, eyes snapping to the Mother-Tree’s entrance just as a horn blew out. Long and piercing, the chilling sound only lasted for seconds—it felt like a lifetime to her.
Warwitches had caught an intruder. They were calling the Coven to witness their judgment.
Semras rushed inside.
Chapter 30
Chaoshaderuptedwithinthe inner chamber of the Mother-Tree. Witches swarmed around the base of its central staircase, seeking a better view of what happened around the structure of petrified wood.
Heart pounding, Semras elbowed her way through the crowd, darting her eyes left and right as she desperately searched for Estevan. Above her head, thousands of fireflies flew around a vaulted ceiling of bark and branches. Their small lights reflected on the polished obsidian floor below like the scintillating stars of a night sky—a veneer behind which the Night waited for new souls to join It.
Judging by the shocked gasps of the witches ahead of her, It wouldn’t have to wait for long.
Semras made it to the front of the crowd—and then froze. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, out of reflex more than to stop any sound from escaping. She couldn’t have screamed anyway; pure horror had robbed her voice from her.
At the base of the staircase, gnarled roots pierced out of the stone floor like the grasping hands of a primeval, hungry beast. A prey writhed and struggled within its claws—Estevan.
The roots had woven themselves around his limbs and were now squeezing and pulling them with a slow, meticulous intent. They hadn’t torn his limbs off.
Not yet.
Two warwitches circled Estevan like birds of prey. Dressed in capes of owl feathers and wearing whorled tattoos on their bare chests and faces, they kept the spectators at bay. Stitched mouths prevented them from speaking, but they didn’t need them to command order. The sheer primal energy emanating from their gazes told anyone standing too close to behave—or be ready to join their prey.
