Page 51 of A Weave of Lies
“Hm. Like her?”
The mood soured at once. Eyes tethered to the fire, Themas curled his hands into fists until his knuckles whitened. Semras discreetly put her hand on his to soothe him, and his grip relaxed.
Inquisitor Velten stared at his second-in-command. All traces of levity had left his face, replaced with a passive, blank mask. Beneath it, venom dripped. “You have something you wish to tell me?”
She had to acknowledge it: Ulrech could stand his ground when facing the inquisitor at his foulest mood. He neither flinched nor lowered his gaze.
“You would not heed my warnings, my lord Inquisitor,” the knight said. “I will not waste my breath. Do with her whatever you want.” Looking into the flames, he added, “When it goes awry, I will have your back. As always.”
Velten’s eyes flickered to her hand resting on Themas’ fist.
He sneered. “What about you? The new boy knight: young, gentle, polite Maldoza …” He stood and circled around the fire to approach them. “What doyousay? Will you follow me without question?”
“My lord,” he replied. “I serve the Inquisition. If you need anything, I await your orders.”
Velten grabbed the edge of his brigandine and lifted him to his feet. “You have big boots to fill, boy. Make sure you are up to the task.” His eyes darted toward Semras. “With no ‘distractions.’”
“Let him go, Velten,” Ulrech called behind them. He had dropped the honorifics, Semras noted. “He is not to blame for Sir Jaqh’s death.”
Velten’s face fell. “… I know.” He let go of the knight, then returned to his seat. His shoulders dropped as he sat down. “I am,” Estevan murmured.
Silence settled around the campfire. Consumed by the flames, a log hissed as heat released a steamy strip of foam from its burst-out vein of sap.
Themas busied his hands by filling a bowl with soup from the hanging pot. Semras had forgotten it, too preoccupied with confused thoughts of murder and schemes—and of who Jaqh was, now.
Themas gave her the bowl, and she accepted it with a short, grateful nod. Mood sullen by the heavy atmosphere, she swirled the spoon into the watery soup. “What happened?” she asked.
Sir Ulrech spat on the ground. “A bleakwitch happened.”
“He died because of me,” Estevan replied softly, eyes fixed on the flames. He stayed still for a long time. The logs cracked; embers sparked into the air. Then, he continued. “We were hunting a suspected bleakwitch two months ago in the Anderas.”
Semras envisioned the mountains to the north of the peninsula that had watched her grow up; the inquisitor had travelled weeks away from Castereina.
“My Venator knight, Sir Jaqh de Bauron, found her first. He wanted to be bait … Promised me his ‘Freran charms would work wonders’ to lower her guard. And I was foolish enough to believe it had worked when she returned his attention. I realized too late what she meant to use him for.” Estevan lifted his gaze to the night sky. “I found what remained of him in the morning. We found his … his skin much later, when we finally caught her. Sir Jaqh was … he was buried twice.”
“Never seen a prettier pyre than hers. The flames burned hot that day.” Sir Ulrech retrieved another flask from his bag, took a swig, then passed it to Estevan. “I never want to see that again. Or hear those screams again.”
“May the Radiant Lord light our way through the Void.” Estevan clutched the bottle a moment, then drank deeply.
Semras remained silent, caught between their grief and her shame for her Bleak kin. “I am so sorry for your friend,” she said at last. “Skinwalking is—it’s no worthy art of the Arras. I had heard the fleshwitches of Talion had all turned Bleak during the last witch purge, but this … They bring shame upon their Path.”
Themas stared at the flames. “Fleshwitches of Talion, you say? What does that mean?”
“Flesh is the Path they walk,” she replied. “Fleshwitches are healers, but … when you know the threads of the human body as well as they do, you become capable of very dark things once you walk the Bleak.” Semras shivered with revulsion. “Talion is their Coven. It’s a sort of … large family, if you want to call it that, but Coven members seldom share blood between each other.”
Themas cocked his head. “How come?”
The inquisitor answered him, surprising them both. “They send their children away to be raised by someone else when they become old enough. To an allied Coven’s sister, or other trusted individuals, who then become the mentors that guide them on their first Path.” Estevan regained some of his composure. The technical talk visibly grounded him. “Sometimes, mothers keep their girls to teach them themselves, but it is not commonly done. Boys are always sent to their fathers. At three, five, or seven years old at the latest.”
“That’s … right.” Semras nodded slowly, worried at the Inquisition’s trove of knowledge about her people. “It helps exchange knowledge and foster sisterhood between the Covens. We travel a lot during our sacred rites, so we don’t stay separated from our mothers for too long.”
Themas’ eyes lit up. “What kind of rites?”
The witch paused. His constant questions were beginning to feel intrusive.
“Do not answer,” Estevan said, saving her. “You should already know all that, Maldoza.”
“Youngsters these days …” Ulrech grumbled lowly.
