Page 3 of A Weave of Lies
The inquisitor stared at the offered tea. “I do not take orders. I give them.”
Semras rolled her eyes. “How surprising,” she muttered. As if she cared to entertain his overgrown sense of importance.
Despite his own words, he took the cup, if only to examine it closer. The rustic clay glittered with specks of metallic ore under the sunlight filtering through the windows.
Semras sighed, imagining its comforting weight in her hand instead. That cup was one of her favourites. She loathed lending it to him, but if the shiny clay cup could appease a follower of the radiant god Elumenra, her sacrifice would be worth it.
The Church of Elumenra obsessed over the reflections of light on mundane objects—in crystals, precious metals, or even in old earthenware speckled with uneven glaze. Its exact source didn’t matter, as long as it reflected their god’s pure light keeping at bay the darkness of the Ever-Encroaching Void, like stars in the night sky.
Elumenra was simply another aspect of the New Maiden—and the Void, part of what witches called the Night—but she wouldn’tbe the one to start a theological debate on the subject with an inquisitor. Especially one shehadn’tinvited. What could he possibly want from her?
“You call my people uncivilized, yet you know nothing of the rules ofxenia?” she asked, expecting no answer. “Unsurprising. You don’t even know that knocking on doors isn’t out of fashion yet.” She grabbed her cup again and took one large gulp. A drop of tea fell on her chin. “Drink first. Then, we talk.”
The inquisitor followed the droplet down to her neck and kept staring even after it faded into her dusty beige skin.
Daydreaming about twisting it, she reckoned.
At last, he wrenched his gaze away from her throat and rolled his eyes, sighing. “I did knock, but I saw no reason to wait for an answer.” He took a sip, exhaled, and let his gaze fall down on the cup. “What does it mean? That word, ‘xenia’?”
“It’s the rule of hospitality. By consuming refreshments, we swear to bring no harm to one another for as long as we remain under the same roof. That’sxenia. And you drank, so now talk.”
A deep chuckle escaped the inquisitor. He looked far too comfortable sitting at her crooked table, drinking from a cup that wouldn’t fetch a penny at a hamlet’s market. White garments never agreed well with stone huts lost in the middle of woods, and with his impeccably coiffed black hair, he should have looked out of place.
Yet, not a trace of discomfort shadowed his pale eyes nor strained the smirk on his angular, pale brown face. He looked young, she noted, no older than a spring or two past his thirties.
A little older than her then, if Semras guessed correctly.
“I received orders to requisition a witch for my investigation,” he said. “I confess, I had hoped you would give me cause to slay you and abstain from all this nonsense.”
Semras struggled to keep her expression neutral. Her panic earlier had almost given him his wish.
Outside, the inquisitor’s guards still hurled their fists against her door. The hinges trembled and whined, but still resisted—for now.
“Alas, you did not,” he continued, ignoring them. “And here I am, under ‘xenia’ as you called it. Are you familiar with poison?”
The witch frowned at the sudden change of subject. Gesturing at the teacups, she sneered. “I told you already this wasn’t—”
The inquisitor threw a pointed look over her shoulder, and she followed his glance to her cauldron.
Its unattended contents had boiled for too long now, and she groaned at the wasteful sight. Her batch of rat poison was lost, and the hamlet of Bevenna would have to deal with their pest problem another way.
“… I might be,” she replied, gaze narrowing. How had he known what she’d been doing?
“A shame.” His eyes brightened—in scorn or excitement, she couldn’t tell. “Now, I shall have to bring you along. Your task is quite simple; you could not ruin it if you tried. You examine the victim and pretend you know nothing of what killed him.”
Semras blinked. Why would she do that? Then it hit her, and her jaw clenched. The inquisitor either thought she’d deceive him on principle, or that he could force her to lie.
“Then,” he continued, “you may return to your lovely life here in this … charming hut.” The inquisitor glanced around. Its cozy charm didn’t impress him, judging by the way he lifted his eyebrow.
Semras crossed her arms. Her home might have been simple, but it was comfortable. She had hung the green curtains over the thin leaded windows herself, fixed cracks in the walls without help, and bothered the blacksmith’s apprentice to help her hang cauldrons over the central fireplace pit only once or twice.
The inquisitor smirked. “Quick and simple. And predictable,” he said. “I have yet to meet a charitable witch. You will be no exception.”
By the Old Crone and the New Maiden, that man loved the sound of his own voice. He was getting on her nerves on principle before; now, he seemed devoted to turning it into something personal.
Outside, the sword-bearers’ shouts intensified. The door trembled and creaked, sending a shudder down her spine.
Semras hid her worry behind a snarling smile. “You don’t want me involved, and neither do I. Just tell me what you’re dealing with, so you and your yapping dogs outside can leave faster. I bet I can identify your poison by symptoms alone.”
