Page 60 of A Weave of Lies
Semras nodded. “It’s a common one. It covers a lot of specialties, and woodlands are plentiful on the Vandalesian Peninsula. Us witches believe in preserving the balance of the world by giving back as much as we take from it, so my Path means taking care of a forest and using its resources in return.”
Themas watched her with bright eyes, and she continued, “I specialize in herbal potions and cures, but other woodwitches can do woodwork, or hunt game to balance forest population, or shelter endangered animals. It’s just a matter of personal interest. You can always leave a Path and begin another one whenever you feel like it.”
A sword-bearer passed by, and she waited for him to leave as he retrieved the metal pot from the fire. His task done, the man nodded respectfully at Themas, ignored her, and then moved on.
“Sounds quite peaceful,” the knight said. “The Wood Path, I mean.”
Semras stared at the guard’s back and snorted. Typical. “It is a quiet life. I had lived on coven grounds being watched by my Elders all my life, so it’s quite a nice change of pace. Oh, it’s not always easy, mind you,” she said, finishing her tasteless porridge. “Try explaining to the Deprived what we’re doing during years of controlled burns. People donottake well to witches setting their neighbourly woods on fire, but it’s necessary for the forest’s health.”
“I can imagine,” Themas replied, smiling at her.
“Most of the time, the Path of Woods is thankless, though not as much as the War Path or the Weir. That one deals with the Fey. I tried it once.” Semras frowned at the recollection of sharp, tiny teeth in the dark, still hunting her in her nightmares years later. “I didn’t pursue it further when I … when I learned what fear was. True fear. I could deal with the Unseelie, but the Seelie …” Her breath shuddered out of her.
Seelie were the worst. Ethereal, dogmatic beings who obsessed over people belonging to specific places. They ruthlessly sought to shape the world to fit their eldritch, archaic vision, regardless of if someone fit the hole they wanted them in or not.
It had taken the concerted efforts of weirwitches over centuries to seal most of them away into tumuli across the peninsula and the surprisingly efficient Inquisition Nighthunts to chase the rest of them back into the Night. Now, only the small, domestic fey critters—with the odd kelpie here and there, apparently—remained on this side of the Unseen Arras, with their numbers dwindling every year.
From the corner of her eye, Semras caught Themas looking at her with fascination. “It must get lonely, walking a Path alone …” he drawled. A strand of her hair threatened to fall into her bowl, and he reached for it.
“I …” Semras suddenly frowned, then mindlessly tucked the strand back behind her ear. “What is Estevan doing?”
Themas’ hand froze mid-air.
For some reason, she had been expecting the inquisitor to interrupt them at any moment. He always seemed to when she was alone with Themas. And yet, despite the advancing hour, he still remained in his tent.
A mighty hangover must have held the inquisitor back, she mused. Sighing, Semras searched for her bag. She spotted it nearby, leaning against the log where she’d left it the prior night.If she recalled correctly, it should contain some ginger in a bottle.
The inquisitor was a menace on his best days, and the witch didnotwant to find out how he handled nursing a headache.
“I should probably prepare him something,” she said, standing with a sigh. “You know, to spare us all from his moods.”
The knight’s smile twitched. “That would be most noble of you.”
Shedidhaveginger—butnot in sufficient quantity to make a cure out of it.
Thankfully, dandelions grew along the forest path, and Semras had spotted what looked like thyme further down too. The roots of one and the leaves of the other could help with hangovers. The mix wouldn’t taste good, and she had no aromatics at hand to fix that, but it would help restore the inquisitor’s inner balance.
Mind focused on the brew, Semras retrieved what she needed, then returned to the campfire. After procuring a small, clean pot to boil water in, she infused the dandelion roots, the thyme leaves, and the ginger slices. Themas watched her preparations with curious eyes.
The herbal tea had cooled down by the time Estevan came out of the tent dressed to the nines. Not a single trace of a drunken night remained on his face.
He surveyed the camp’s dismantlement, then beckoned a few guards to come closer. The sword-bearers began taking down his tent with excessive zeal, as if the radiance of their souls depended on the efficiency of their service to him.
Mug in hand, Semras stood to greet the inquisitor.
He walked past her with a dry, curt nod, completely missing her offered cup. Bemused, the witch silently watched him stride toward his horse.
Standing uncannily still by the main path, Pagan was bullying a few sword-bearers attempting to groom it despite its placid disdain. After a curt order to stand aside, Velten retrieved the brush from the guards’ hands, then shooed them away and spoke a few words to his stallion. The half-fey bent its neck, and the inquisitor began brushing its coat.
Semras watched him work, feeling a little foolish with her useless mug in hand in the middle of the woods.
A cough from Themas directed her attention toward Sir Ulrech a few steps away. The knight hadn’t had the surprising recovering ability of the inquisitor, and his face betrayed a dire need for more water and more sleep.
She approached him with a smile. “Sir Ulrech! A soothing tea for your hangover?” she asked, offering the mug.
The knight blinked a few times, sniffed its contents, then stumbled away, nose wrinkling. “No. Um, thank you,” he grunted. Then, with stiff, tottering steps, he walked away.
And accidentally bumped into her. The mug tipped over her velvet dress, splashing its contents over her bosom. Semras gasped.
