Page 31 of A Weave of Lies
“Do it, then.”
She bristled at once. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
“Yet you have it,” he replied with a grin. “No need for thanks.”
Muttering curses at the inquisitor, the witch turned her attention to the path ahead. Peering into the Arras demanded concentration, and she’d never get it with him in her line of sight; Velten made it impossible to ignore him.
Semras relaxed her shoulders, closed her eyes, and then opened them again, her senses now attuned to the world’s true shape.
At once, everything became different. Luminous filaments, twisting and bending and innumerable, now made up the surrounding landscape. Everything looked more vibrant, more clear, more pure. Even the air hummed with thousands of overlapping threads, weaving sounds into a harmonious melody.
One unnatural, eldritch thing marred the beautiful sight—the unnerving warp shape of the half-fey Semras rode. It appeared as a solid void-black amalgam, like a block of threads pressed into a shape rather than woven like her own. Through it, the Night bled into the surrounding Arras.
It disturbed her, and Semras turned her gaze away to scrutinize the path ahead. Most likely, whatever haunted the woods so violently had perturbed its core threads. She focused on them, expecting to see a few unravelling or sticking out of line.
Messing with the warps of the woven world was risky. A careless witch snipping the wrong threads could destroy life-sustaining parts, causing irreparable damage, and most steered clear of touching them, favouring instead the wefts—more forgiving and versatile.
And yet, it was among them that she found the source of the disturbance.
“I can hear it …” Semras whispered, entranced. The sound of her voice twirled out of her mouth in filaments floating toward the sky. “It’s like a … a mournful cry. It hangs in the air, beckoning …”
Behind Semras, the sword-bearers muttered anxiously between themselves, asking if anyone else heard the melody too. It was in vain—the Deprived couldn’t.
The cry was embedded in the Unseen Arras, sticking out of its woven surface like reaching hands. Something was calling out. Softly, almost plaintively, it echoed through all things, affecting the plants, the bugs, the trees. Its mournful quality seeded discomfort in the hearts of living creatures, explaining the nervous horses and insistent flies.
Noticing her, the cry flew toward her. It tugged at her warp shape like a child begging for attention.
Semras closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the world had returned to solid matter. Part of her mourned leaving the Arras’ beauty behind, but she couldn’t peer into it for too long, lest she attract unwanted attention. Fey could be lurking between the threads, and beyond them lay the Night from which none could return unscathed—the Old Gods didn’t take too kindly to curious souls watching their slumber.
“We need to go further,” Semras declared. “We’re too far from the source. It’s too weak to hear properly here.”
Sir Ulrech grunted, then pulled the reins and turned his horse around to face them. “Should we investigate at once, my lord?”
At the corner of her vision, Themas brought his white steed closer. His attention jumped from her to the inquisitor while the Venators gathered around them too, awaiting Velten’s decision. The air buzzed with the flying of insects. Even Semras held her breath. Deep within her, something yearned to answer the call of the woods. It wasn’t hostile; it was restless. She wanted to soothe its pain.
“We will seek it out,” Inquisitor Velten said at last. “Control your horses carefully; I do not want any bolting away. And you, witch, let me know when we get close to the source. If we can end this hex today, we shall do it.”
A low grumble of discontentment ran through the sword-bearers. Clearly, they disagreed with the inquisitor’s decision, but none wanted to bring upon themselves his ire.
“It’s too risky,” Themas piped up. “Wouldn’t it be more prudent to turn back and take the mountain path instead?”
Heads turned to look at the young knight.
Under the sudden scrutiny, he sat in his saddle, back held straight and unwavering. “We don’t know what awaits us,” he continued. “When we passed through here two days ago, the woods didn’t feel so dark, nor did it affect us so soon. The curse is growing in strength. It’s a warning we shouldn’t ignore.”
A murmur of agreement from the sword-bearers welcomed his opinion. Semras watched Velten’s reaction, uncertain of which side she’d rather see win.
“Indeed,” the inquisitor replied. A sharp edge in his tone turned his words into a blade. “We cannot ignore such warning signs … precisely because it isourduty to heed them. If you want to call yourself a Venator knight-brother, Maldoza, I suggest you start acting like one.”
The company fell silent. Horses flicked their ears back and forth.
Themas’ throat bobbed under the inquisitor’s gaze. “Respectfully, my lord, I believe that for the safety of Semras—”
Inquisitor Velten turned his attention to her. “Is it your words I hear in his voice?” His tone felt unduly harsh; she had nothing to do with this.
“I didn’t ask him to speak on my behalf, if that’s what you mean,” she snapped back. Turning to the young knight, she added more softly, “I appreciate the concern, Themas, but there’s no need for it. What I hear doesn’t sound hostile. We should follow it.”
Themas bowed his head slightly. Whether it was at her or the inquisitor, Semras couldn’t tell.
