Page 89 of A Weave of Lies
And then.
Then she’d go home and never see him again.
Chapter 19
Halfanhourlater,a carriage brought them to another residence, this one with a facade of white stones and yellow bricks, squeezed between other similar buildings covered with ivy.
Tall Doric columns lined its white porch like the bars of a cage. Beyond them, a red door was drenched in the soulless orange glow of the sconces hanging by its side. A paper had been glued over it; the Inquisition’s emblem printed on it notified passersby of the restricted area beyond.
Semras doubted it was as efficient as the two Venator sword-bearers standing at the top of the stairs. They kept guard there, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Her heart lurched at their unexpected presence.
Estevan helped her down from the carriage. She squeezed his hand tightly, but neither its warmth nor the cool breeze of the night could stop the distressing memories of her assault from surfacing in her mind.
Her neck ached with phantom pain.
Semras hesitantly trailed behind the inquisitor as he briskly climbed the stairs. He stopped before the sword-bearers to present his insignia, and they opened the door to let him through. When she tried to follow, they barred her passage. With faces of stone and steel, they slid their swords off their scabbards by an inch.
A flare of anxiety hit her, and she stumbled back. She knew they weren’t the same men that almost killed her, but her mind still reeled with fear.
“She is with me,” Estevan said, standing at the threshold of the house.
Shuffling on their feet, the guards exchanged a glance. One of them cleared his throat. “My lord Inquisitor,” he said, “with all due respect, this is against protocol. Our orders are clear: no one but the authorized personnel of the Inquisition may come inside.”
“I know,” the inquisitor replied, sneering. “I signed that order. Should I sign another paper to give myself permission to bring someone inside?”
The sword-bearer glanced at the witch. “My lord Inquisitor, it’s … it’s protocol. The tribunals would have our heads if we let her inside. She may tamper with the crime scene, since she’s a …” His tongue darted out to moisten his dry lips. “… a witch.”
Semras wouldn’t cower in front of the sword-bearers. She wouldnot. She’d make a mockery of their distrust—and prove to herself she wasn’t afraid of them.
“I have no interest in meddling in this affair more than I have to,” she said, extending her wrists toward the inquisitor. Her hands shook slightly, but the contemptuous glare she threw at the Venators kept their attention away from them. “If that will soothe their petty concerns, then please restrain me, Inquisitor Velten.”
Eyes gleaming, Estevan grinned. “If you insist. Just remember: I did not demand it. Youvolunteered.” After retrieving the witch-shackles hanging from his belt, he stepped toward her.
A shiver shook her to the bones.
The gauntlets of rings had been forged out of cold iron—a metal folded into fire so often it had entirely consumed its link to the Unseen Arras. Interconnected with thin chains and beads to restrict movement, the witch-shackles would severely impede her ability to weave.
Semras had seen such impediments once on an Elder of the Adastra Coven. One of her hands had been trapped in it since the last witch purge, and the cold iron had branded her wrist with bloated, discoloured veins coursing down her forearm.
The cold metal touched Semras’ hands, and she suppressed a flinch. The memory of the Elder’s wrist flashed through her mind.
One by one, Estevan slid the metallic bands onto each of her fingers. Anyone else would have called him contrite by how gently he secured the shackles on her. The witch scoffed. He probably thought it was hilarious.
“Is this uncomfortable?” he whispered.
Of course it was, but she still shook her head.
Her skin itched beneath the cold iron. She could use her hands with careful, slow consideration, but there would be no weaving for as long as the shackles trapped them.
Emboldened by the presence of Estevan next to her, Semras glared at the Venator guards. “Well? Still worried about little me?”
They squirmed under her fierce gaze. That the witch could boil the blood in their veins where they stood—had she been on the Path of War and not wearing witch-shackles—was irrelevant. They were craven.
“Figured,” Semras said, sneering. Then she stepped into the home of Tribunal Torqedan, soon followed by Inquisitor Velten.
The main hall only looked modest at first glance thanks to its lack of furniture and decor—yet it was anything but such. Walnut wood panels covered the lower parts of the walls, their dark reddish stain complementing the red wallpaper of tiny yellow birds flying around plant stems. A light layer of dust dimmed the varnish of the floor tiles arranged in colourful geometric shapes beneath Semras’ feet. Above her head, trims of Andakkadian plasterwork framed the coffered ceiling.
Apparently, it paid well to burn witches.
