Mist-Torn Witches 03:Witches With the Enemy

by Barb Hendee

  “What you are doing in here?”

  Amelie whirled to see Lizbeth standing in the door.

  “Why are you holding Heath’s cloak?” the girl asked.

  “This is Heath’s?”

  Then she remembered. Last night, before the search party had ridden out, Lizbeth had been shivering, and Heath had covered her with his cloak.

  “Yes . . . ,” Lizbeth answered. “Why are you in here, and where is Heath? I noticed him gone from the hall, and I came up to check on him. I think he’s sad. But he’s not in his room.”

  Amelie dropped the cloak, strode over, and held out her hand. “Lizbeth, do you recognize this hair?”

  The girl tensed. “That’s Carlotta’s. Where did you—?”

  “Did you say Heath wasn’t in his room?” Amelie interrupted.

  Lizbeth seemed to understand that something was terribly wrong, and she nodded wordlessly.

  Where would he have gone?

  And then . . . Amelie knew.

  “Lizbeth, stay here and lock the door behind me when I leave. Don’t open it for anyone but Céline, Prince Anton, or me. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t! Tell me what is—”

  “Just do it!” Amelie ran out the door and pulled it closed. “Lock the door,” she called.

  Then she bolted for the stairs.

  * * *

  Johanna took Céline down the back passage of the castle. At the base of the east tower, she turned and led the way up the shorter passage into the kitchen. The place was alive with activity.

  “Get those pots scrubbed!” shouted an exhausted-looking woman in an apron. “I need them for tomorrow.”

  Several young girls ran for the pots, and only a few people glanced over as Johanna led Céline down the backside. Once they exited the kitchen, they descended three steps and turned into another short passage. Johanna stopped in front of a heavy door, and she held up the ring of keys.

  “I’ll open it, but I’m not going down there,” she said.

  “You needn’t. I owe you a good deal for getting me this far.”

  “And you’ll keep your promise?”

  “I will. You’ll like Sèone. It’s a good place.”

  “Be careful,” Johanna warned. “Lady Saorise frightens me.” With that, she unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Leave it unlocked,” Céline instructed, and then she passed through the door into a dim stairwell. She descended the distance of a single floor and emerged from a narrow archway into a large windowless room with walls of stone. Small braziers lined three of the walls, providing a good deal of light. Spears and crossbows lined the fourth wall.

  She had seen this place before . . . in the vision of Saorise casting the protection spell over Damek.

  As Céline entered the long chamber, she noticed differences from her earlier vision. The table was nearly empty now, with only a few stacked books on one end.

  There were similarities, too.

  She turned to see the hearth at the other end of the vast room. The fire was lit. The iron hook had been set over the flames, and the same small metal cauldron with symbols etched around the outside hung from the hook.

  Saorise stood before the cauldron with her eyes closed and her mouth moving. She appeared in a trance again and seemed to have no awareness of Céline’s presence in the chamber. She held a small dagger in her right hand.

  Unlike the vision from Saorise’s more distant future, her appearance was pristine, as if what she did tonight took little planning and little effort.

  This thought brought Céline no comfort.

  Could Saorise be the killer after all? If so, why had Céline not seen this when she’d done her reading? And what possible motive could there be?

  “Breath . . . ,” Saorise whispered. “The breath of life cut off . . . prosterno . . . eroado.” Without opening her eyes, she pricked the point of the dagger into her wrist and several drops of blood trickled into the cauldron.

  This was all Céline needed to see and hear. Whatever Saorise was casting in this moment, it was no protection spell.

  The spears on the walls were taller than Céline’s head, and she doubted she could lift one. The crossbows weren’t loaded. But there was a short, stout javelin on the wall. Walking over, she took it down and gripped it.

  Then she strode toward Saorise.

  * * *

  Amelie ran down to the storage room that Heath had shown her near the base of the east tower. Crossing the room swiftly, she passed through the doorway at the back and descended the stairs. She could hear the crackling of logs and see a glowing light before she even emerged into the guardroom of the old prisons.

  Although she had no idea what she would find, at the bottom of the stairs, it took her a moment to absorb the sight before her.

  A fire crackled in the small hearth. Heath sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of a triangle that had been drawn in black chalk. His tunic and wool shirt lay a few paces behind him, and his chest and arms were bare.

  He was perspiring, and his skin glistened.

  There was a dagger strapped to his left forearm. Directly above the sheath, she saw several deep cuts that had just begun to heal. There wasn’t a single hair on his smooth torso, but the muscles in his arms were more defined than she would have expected. A short hook had been placed over the fire, and a small iron cauldron hung from the hook.

  About six strands of red-gold hair, the same color as his own, lay on the floor beside him, but these were longer, much longer.

  He was in the middle of pouring something from a white bottle into the cauldron.

  “Heath?” Amelie said.

  His head whipped toward her. His expression was still, but his light brown eyes held a glint of madness.

  “Amelie?” he said in turn.

  “Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it,” she said.

  He dropped the bottle and jumped to his feet.

  She’d wanted to find him as quickly as possible, but for the first time, she wondered about her wisdom in coming down here alone.

  “I have to finish,” he said. “I have to save her. I tried everything else . . . everything, and if I don’t save her now, she’ll be in his bed tomorrow. She doesn’t understand what he’ll do . . . and I have to save her.”

  Though she’d never suspected Heath, looking down at the long red-blond strands on the floor, Amelie realized that somehow he had killed his older sister and his uncle, and he was about to kill Rochelle.

  She held up her hand, still gripping the dark, gray-streaked hair. “Like you saved Carlotta.”

  Heath’s eyes widened at the sight. “No! I was trying to save Rochelle. Carlotta was behind all this. We wouldn’t be here if not for her poisoned heart. I don’t want to do this, Amelie. I never wanted it. But there’s no other choice now, and you must let me finish. You must see I’m right.”

  “No.”

  His expression went still. Drawing the dagger from its sheath on his wrist, he took a step closer. “Move away from the stairwell.”

  She had two choices: fight or flee.

  If she fought and lost, he’d finish whatever he was doing here and kill Rochelle. If she fled, she might make it up the stairs before he caught her . . . at least she’d get far enough to call for help.

  Whirling, she jumped back up the stairs. But she was laced into a floor-length evening gown, and she made it only four steps when a hand grabbed her arm from behind, jerking her backward.

  He pinned her against the wall near the bottom of the stairwell and held the dagger a few inches from her throat. He was stronger than she’d imagined.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would never have hurt you.”

  The madness in his eyes and the resignation in his voice filled her with fear. He had one of her arms pinned, but her other hand was free. Falling back on the only defense she had in the moment, she grabbed his jaw.

  In a flash, she reached for the spark of his spirit, trying to rip hi
s awareness from this moment, to trap and disorient him in the mists of time. She found his spirit instantly, and she latched on.

  The first jolt hit, and she focused as hard as she could on why he had done these terrible things. The second jolt hit, and they were both swept into the gray and white mists, moving backward. She fought to mesh her spirit with his, as she’d done with Maddox. She needed to see through Heath’s eyes, to feel what he felt, to understand his tortured mind.

  He fought back, trying to break his spirit free, but she held on. In here, she was the stronger one.

  The mists cleared.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Quillette Manor

  Three years in the past

  Heath’s fifteenth year was the happiest of his life.

  His father, Baron Alexis Quillette, was not only titled, but also one of the most prosperous wine merchants in Droevinka, and he worked hard. But Alexis had been forced into “learning the business” at the age of twelve by his own father, and as a result, he’d missed a good part of his childhood.

  He wanted more for his son.

  “Enjoy these years,” he told Heath. “Learn what you must from your tutors, but otherwise let yourself be young. Do as you wish.”

  And so Heath did.

  However, the only thing he wished to do was spend time with two of his sisters. He learned writing and mathematics and music from his tutors, but every other spare moment was spent with Rochelle and Lizbeth. When the weather was foul, they would hide in the attic and put on plays for one another, acting out the characters with great flair and drama.

  When the weather was fine, they rode their horses all over their family’s lands, sometimes—when they had no lessons—disappearing from breakfast to dinner. Out in the forest around the manor, they played make-believe games in which Rochelle was a princess and Lizbeth was a cruel villain who abducted her. Heath was the hero who rescued Rochelle.

  They took delight in stealing clothes or other items from the manor to use in their games. Rochelle seldom required any sort of costume. She looked the part of the princess all on her own.

  Heath loved his younger sister, Lizbeth, who had just turned twelve that year, but he adored Rochelle.

  She was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. Sometimes he thought this sentiment might seem vain, as she was his twin, younger than him by ten minutes, and they looked so much alike, but he made most other people uncomfortable. He put them off. Rochelle dazzled them. No one could see her, listen to her voice, and not fall in love.

  So Heath’s life was filled with imaginary games and putting on plays in the attic and riding his horse . . . all in the company of his two favorite sisters.

  His father paid little attention to how he chose to spend his days so long as he was happy.

  His mother said little but made it clear she did not approve of the arrangement. Nor did his elder sister, Carlotta.

  Heath had a difficult time speaking to anyone besides his father or his younger sisters. With everyone else, he could rarely think of a proper response or anything to say, and attempting to speak to his mother was most difficult. For one, she rarely spoke to him unless it was to criticize or offer a correction, and for the first fifteen years of his life, he didn’t remember saying anything to her other than “Yes, Mother.”

  Carlotta almost never spoke to him at all.

  It didn’t matter. He had Rochelle and Lizbeth, and the three of them would hide and talk and play for hours.

  But as midsummer approached that year, one day, their mother was out, and they took advantage of playing on the main floor of the manor. Lizbeth was the villain, as always, and Rochelle was the princess.

  “You won’t escape me!” Lizbeth shouted. She wore an old pair of their father’s pants, rolled up, and she’d drawn a mustache on her upper lip with charcoal.

  Rochelle pretended to struggle, and then Heath ran into the dining room with a wooden sword.

  He was about to call to Rochelle to take heart when he saw one of the hired house guards standing on the far side of the dining room. The man stared at Heath with a look of measured disgust.

  Heath stopped. “Let’s go up to the attic.”

  Rochelle and Lizbeth followed him out.

  Later, he was still troubled, with a knot in his stomach, and he asked Rochelle, “Did you see that guard’s face when he looked at me?”

  She shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “Was I doing something wrong?”

  “Of course not. He’s a grown-up. He probably thinks it’s strange for a young man your age to spend all his time playing with his sisters. Ignore him.”

  Young man? Was he a young man now? He didn’t want to be. His father had spoken to him of the adult world, and it sounded awful, filled with accounts and ledgers and worry and toil and duty.

  Heath wanted nothing in his current life to change.

  Yet, that year, he did learn that not all change was a bad thing, and two new men entered his life. The first was Captain Maddox.

  Heath’s mother, Lady Helena, had suddenly seemed to think the family would be doing more traveling in the near future—Heath had no idea why—and she wanted a bodyguard who was a tad more impressive than their hired men at the manor. Captain Maddox was apparently some sort of “gift” arranged by Aunt Clarisse, who was mother to Prince Rodêk. Maddox arrived in shining boots, wearing a long sword and the pale yellow tabard of the Äntes.

  Lady Helena was pleased, as she loved all things Äntes, and she informed the family that Maddox was not to be considered a servant, and that he would live in the manor and dine with them. At first, Heath had great trepidation over this news. Captain Maddox was tall, muscular, and ruggedly handsome. He was the type of man other men wanted to be. Heath had never been at ease with men like that—or rather, they’d never been at ease with him.

  But the captain was unfailingly polite to Heath and quickly proved himself interested in little else than protecting the family. He oversaw the hired guards and kept most of them out of the house. Soon, Heath was glad for his solid presence.

  There was only one drawback to his arrival.

  Heath wasn’t aware of it until he noticed his parents arguing more than usual. Lady Helena and Baron Alexis had never liked each other, or at least not in Heath’s memory, and they learned to arrange their days so that they only need be in the same company at dinner. Even then, they barely spoke.

  But of late, Heath had heard them shouting behind closed doors, and one day, he came into the house to see if he could sneak some bread and cheese to bring back outside to Lizbeth and Rochelle for lunch, and he heard raised voices on the main floor, coming from the drawing room.

  “You do him no service and no favors!” his mother shouted. “Do you see how our own guards look at him? Do you see how our friends look at him when they dine with us?”

  “I’ll not force him into manhood too fast!” Heath’s father returned. “I’ve told you that.”

  “How long will you wait? Until he’s shaving every morning, and all the young men of the other families have years of training behind them?”

  Heath froze. They were arguing about him.

  Slowly, he crept back outside, worried. It sounded as though Mother was pressing Father into forcing Heath to take his place in the adult world.

  A few days later, Captain Maddox approached him. Heath watched him cautiously, sensing something was up.

  “Your father sent me,” Maddox said without preamble. “I’m to teach you how to use a sword.”

  Oh . . . , Heath thought. That didn’t sound too bad.

  Unfortunately, it was. At fifteen, Heath was still small and slight of build. Earlier that year, Rochelle had grown taller than him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t swing a sword more than three or four times before he nearly dropped it in exhaustion.

  Embarrassed, he expected harsh criticism from the captain, but Maddox sat him down and said, “I was worried about this. Don’t fret. Most boys from
families like yours start at least basic training and learning how to use a dagger much earlier, and they’ve built up some strength by now. But boys . . . men can keep growing until they’re twenty. You’ll grow into yourself. I promise. I’ll teach you the sword later, maybe next year.”

  “Yes, but I think Mother wants me to learn how to fight now.”

  “I know, and I have an idea about that. Be ready to go out riding with me tomorrow after lunch.”

  Although Heath had planned to spend tomorrow playing among the trees with Rochelle and Lizbeth, acting out a new story he’d thought up, he was curious to see where Maddox would take him. So the following afternoon, he had his horse saddled, and he was ready.

  Maddox joined him, and they rode out the manor gates, heading south.

  They took a forest path and went all the way to the edge of Quillette land. Up ahead, Heath heard a rushing creek, and he saw an unusual encampment, a collection of wagons with small houses built on top—like rolling homes. There were horses grazing at the outskirts of the camp and chickens pecking the ground around the wagons. Perhaps twenty people milled about the camp. Some of the women were putting vegetables in a large pot hanging on a hook over a fire pit built in the center of camp. Everyone was dressed in bright colors of scarlet or royal blue or purple, and most wore bracelets or rings in their ears, even some of the men.

  Heads turned as Heath and Maddox approached, but then smiles broke out and some people called, “Captain, come and have lunch.”

  In his studies with his tutors, Heath had learned a little about the history of the Móndyalítko, but what he’d read had not prepared him for this sight. He felt as if he were riding into a larger-scale version of one of the plays that he and his sisters performed together.

  Before entering the camp, though, he pulled up his horse. He didn’t quite follow the situation. “These people are on my father’s land.”

  Maddox stopped beside him. “I know. They come every summer and stay through autumn. They have your father’s permission to camp and to fish in the creek. I rode out here the first week I arrived . . . just to make certain these people presented no danger, but I’ve no concerns. I’ve made friends with a few of them, and there’s one I wish you to meet.”