Page 143 of A Weave of Lies
Lips trembling, Semras mouthed numbers as she counted. One nod, two. One denial. Three nods. The fifth Elder shook her head to add a refusal, followed by another from the next one, and …
A final nod came from one of the blind Elders. Four approvals, three denials. Semras’ breath shuddered out of her. It had been close, too close.
One attendant, a woman wearing the white and yellow stole of the Voice of the Elders, walked to the edge of the balcony and rested her hands over the balustrade. Her clear, soft voice floated down the hall. “The Elders bless the petition of Madra, daughter of Ilivia,” she announced. “Who will take this man among you, sisters of Yore?”
“I—” Madra began.
“I’ll take him!” Semras stepped out of the crowd, hand raised high in the air. Cold sweats slithered down her spine, but she kept her back straight. “I will take that man before the Old Crone and the New Maiden.”
Amidst the crowd, a few witches snickered at her interruption.
Fingers curling into a fist, Madra slowly lowered her arm. Her venomous glare dug into Semras, then slid toward the giggling women, shutting them up at once.
From the corner of her eye, Semras felt the stunned, hazed eyes of Estevan on her. She didn’t falter. She kept her eyes on the Elders, waiting for their answer. Silent prayers filled her mind—each of them filled with pleas for his life.
And for her own.
The Elders knew she was back now. Soon, they’d demand answers and then would learn of her betrayal—for no lie could survive the scrutiny of an elderwitch’s sight.
Gazes inscrutable, the Seven stared down at Semras. Then one Elder leaned to weave words to another. Her silent message waspassed along the wizened women, generating frowns and head shakes as it went.
Pressing her lips tightly together, Semras kept her face neutral. If they decided to delay their interrogation until after the ritual was over, then there would still be hope. She could flee the Coven with Estevan before they’d catch them, and they’d never learn of her betrayal.
The Elders couldn’t know about the presence of an inquisitor in Yore. Each of the Seven bore the weight of the Fey Bargain that protected the coven grounds; each of them had paid—and still kept paying—for it. Semras’ betrayal was a mockery of the sacrifice they made to keep the Coven protected from the Inquisition. They’d never forgive her if they knew what she had done.
Heads nodding and shaking in turn, the Seven kept quietly debating among themselves. Their hands wove words only they could hear to one another, and each second that passed without a resolution made Semras blanch even further.
At long last, the Elders settled, and the Voice turned her attention back to the crowd. “The Old Crone and the New Maiden take and give in turns,” she declared. “This claim, is it sustained?”
A booming silence filled the chamber. Semras dared not yet release her breath—it was not over.
All awaited Estevan’s answer. Eyes darting around like a wild animal trapped against a wall, the inquisitor didn’t seem to realize it. His gaze fell on her at last, and Semras dragged his attention to the Elders with a still, jerky move of her head.
They needed his consent. If he did not give it, then Madra would get her chance again. Whether he refused or accepted the fleshwitch—her or any other volunteering witches after—made no difference. Choosing Semras was the only way to ensure his survival.
Breath frozen in her lungs, she prayed that he would.
At last, the inquisitor looked up and nodded dryly.
A deep relief loosened the tension in her shoulders. Estevan would live, and all it had cost her was a little lie. The Wyrdtwined Oath wouldn’t take if they didn’t complete the last step of the ritual. She’d let it fail, just like Madra would have done once she’d gotten what she wanted from him, and then—
Deep within her, something unravelled.
The wefts of Semras’ heart flew out of her, soon replaced by Estevan’s. With stunned disbelief, she watched her own threads anchor themselves around the inquisitor’s warps. Horror crept through her veins.
The ritual had taken root. Their beings, now bound by an unbreakable oath of devotion, would never feel complete again in the absence of the other.
Distressed, Semras stared at Estevan. He had drunk the last sip from her cup a day ago, completing the ritual in advance. How could she have forgotten?
She glanced around, eyes wide and fearful. Some witches were still looking at the Elders, but most had plunged their sight into the Arras to watch the rare sighting of a Wyrdtwined Oath, lips stretched into curious and dreamy smiles. With the ritual being completed now rather than later in private, they must have thought Estevan and she had planned for this.
Within the slowed time of the Unseen World, no one seemed to notice her horrified reaction; the small mercy didn’t rid her of her profound dismay.
“So be it,” the Voice said. “Twined by the wyrd, until the Old Crone beckons and the New Maiden weeps.”
She dismissed the crowd, and the Seven returned to their sanctum in slow, prudent moves, helped by their attendants. For a brief, blissful moment, Semras thought the Elders had decided to leave her be.
Then the Voice of the Elders fixed her eyes on Semras and began to walk down the stairs, each step holding the gravitas of an unwavering purpose.
