by Barb Hendee
It happened so fast.
Inna cried out in pain, and Céline called, “Jaromir, don’t!”
But his other hand was already digging inside the pocket of Inna’s dress, and he pulled out a large piece of folded paper, passing it to Céline.
“What is it?” he demanded, keeping Inna in his grip.
Anton stood watching all this without a word.
Céline laid the paper in her lap and unfolded it, taking out one of the packets. Licking her finger, she touched the powder and tasted it.
Her mother had spent years teaching her the various tastes of the proper strengths of components used in powders or elixirs so that if there were ever a question, she would know if she had a correct mix.
“It’s an opiate,” she said, moving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I can taste the poppies…but something else, too.” Still uncertain, she touched the powder and tasted it again. Then her eyes flew up to Jaromir’s face. “There’s hemlock in this.”
With a roar, he threw Inna back into her chair and leaned over it, placing both his hands on the arms. “Where did you get that? Who gave it to you?”
Inna stared at him, terrified, and shook her head. “It’s medicine to help him sleep! He needs it to rest!”
In one swift movement, Jaromir pulled a dagger from his belt and held it to her throat. “Where did you get it?”
Still, Anton did nothing. He just watched in silence.
But Céline was on her feet. She hadn’t meant to incite this. “Lieutenant, stop!” She grasped his right arm, trying to pull the blade away. He shoved her backward with his elbow and then put the point of the blade to Inna’s cheek. “Where?”
Once again, Céline cursed herself for having become lost in the illusion that justice functioned differently here. She’d never seen Jaromir like this, but she had no doubt he’d start cutting Inna if she didn’t give him what he wanted. Céline feared there were few lines he wouldn’t cross when it came to protecting Anton.
Inna must have realized this, too, because she said, “Master Feodor.”
“Feodor?” Jaromir asked in confusion.
“My lord stopped taking his draughts!” she cried. “He would not drink what Master Feodor gave him. I had to do it! I had to help him rest. Master Feodor said he must have rest.”
Jaromir pulled the blade away.
“It’s true,” Anton said quietly. “I felt Feodor’s draughts were not helping me, and I told him I’d take no more.”
Céline absorbed the repercussions of this. For some reason, Master Feodor had been feeding Anton a mix of opiates and hemlock. Hemlock could be used in small doses for someone with severe insomnia, but it was certainly not meant for long-term use, and it was also a poison that could kill in larger doses. When Anton stopped taking the draught, Feodor had used Inna to put the powder in Anton’s wine.
The expression on Jaromir’s face frightened Céline—or at least frightened her for Master Feodor. “You don’t know why he did this,” she said. “He might have believed he was helping his prince.”
Jaromir looked to Anton. “What do you want me to do?”
Anton didn’t hesitate. He pointed to Inna. “Take her back to that room you prepared and keep her under guard. Then go have a talk with Master Feodor.”
“Yes, my lord,” Jaromir answered, grabbing Inna’s arm again.
“No!” Inna wailed, trying to pull away. “You promised! You promised I could serve him during the day.”
Jaromir dragged her from the room and closed the door behind himself, leaving Céline and Anton in an awkward silence. How could he have allowed someone as sick in her mind as Inna to serve him in such a personal capacity?
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, “You don’t understand.”
No, she didn’t.
“Inna came with Joselyn,” he said simply.
“I know. Pavel told me. He told me that Joselyn helped to keep her from an unfortunate situation.”
“Unfortunate? You could say that. Her father sold her to a brothel when she was thirteen years old. Joselyn knew the family, and she saved Inna. When they came here, I could see that Inna was not…right. But she loved Joselyn, and I couldn’t fault her for that. When Joselyn died, Inna nearly went mad from grief, and I nearly went mad from grief, and she began to do small things for me, as she had for Joselyn. I should have stopped it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I made sure to keep a distance between us, but the only thing keeping her from falling back into grief was being able to care for me.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “Do you think me so wrong?”
“No,” Céline said, and she meant it. How could empathy be wrong? “Of course not.”
He took his hand away from his face and looked at her.
* * *
Amelie had been pacing the floor of their room, and she nearly melted in relief when Céline came back through the door, announcing that their guard had been dismissed and the bargain for the apothecary’s shop was still in place.
But her relief was short-lived as Céline began telling her everything else that had happened in the last hour.
“A woman from a painting?” Amelie asked, sinking down on the bed. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I only know what I saw.”
The door opened, and Helga hobbled in, carrying a tray of food. But Amelie was too caught up in their current dilemma to stop talking.
“What do you mean that you think someone else is controlling her? Who could control an image from a portrait?”
Helga set her tray on the dressing table. “Probably a kettle witch,” she said.
Both sisters fell quiet for a moment as they turned toward the dressing table.
“What’s a kettle witch?” Amelie asked.
“You know,” Helga rattled on, pouring tea. “Not one of the Mist-Torn. A witch who learns from books, who casts by throwing bits of this and bits of that into a kettle.”
“You mean a cauldron?” Céline asked.
“Cauldron, kettle.” Helga waved her hand. “It’s all the same. They’re not of the Mist-Torn.” She paused. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I’ve known a kettle witch or two with some power. Hate the Mist-Torn, they do.”
Amelie and Céline looked at each other helplessly. Helga seemed to know a good deal more than they did, but she seldom made any sense.
“Helga,” Céline began, “who are the Mist-Torn?”
“Who are the…? Did your mother teach you nothing?” Helga set down the pot. “You.”
“Us?” Amelie asked.
Helga peered at her closely. “You truly know nothing?” She sighed. “Your mother must have broken with her people.”
“I don’t think she had any people,” Céline said.
“Course she did. The Móndyalítko. Your mother was Mist-Torn, from the line of Fawe.”
Amelie’s discomfort and frustration grew. She didn’t like the idea of their mother having had some secret life among a pack of gypsies. Their mother had been an apothecary and a respected seer. Their father had been a village hunter in Shetâna, and a good man, maybe too good. Amelie didn’t remember him well, but she remembered the day he died. Three soldiers had ordered a Shetâna farmer to turn over his entire herd of goats. The farmer objected and a fight broke out. Amelie’s father tried to stop it and ended up with a dagger through his stomach. Six years later, their mother had gone to take medicine to a family with the fever. She’d caught it herself and died a week after.
After that, both Amelie and Céline had made a pact to protect themselves first, to put themselves first. Over the past few days, that pact had been put to the test, but Amelie still believed in it.
Helga tilted her head to one side, as if considering how to proceed. “The Móndyalítko command no wealth and no power in the sense of the princes and lords, but they have their own bloodlines of power, the shape-shifters, the Mist-Torn, and the like. A Mist-Torn witch is born with her po
wer. She’s a treasure to her people. She will take a lover when she pleases, but few of the Mist-Torn ever marry. Your mother must have wanted your father very much.”
“She did,” Céline said quietly.
“But the kettle witches,” Helga rambled on, “they have to study, to learn from books or other kettle witches. That’s why they hate the Mist-Torn. Jealousy.”
“So…if we’re looking for a kettle witch here,” Céline said, “we should seek someone who’s educated, someone capable of learning from books, and who understands spell components?”
“That sounds about right,” Helga answered, nodding.
“Can it be either a man or a woman?”
“Course. They’re not Mist-Torn.”
“How do you know all this?” Amelie challenged. For she herself was no Mist-Torn witch. She’d been born with no power, and this entire discussion made her feel ordinary…mundane.
Helga straightened. “How? I am Móndyalítko; that’s how.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why did you leave your ‘people,’ as you say?”
“That is my business,” Helga snapped, surprising her. “And you’d best look to your own. Two sides of the same coin, you are. The future and the past.”
Amelie huffed. Not that nonsense again.
But Céline was studying Helga closely, thoughtfully. “The future and the past,” Céline whispered.
* * *
After depositing Inna in the small room near his own apartments and posting two guards at her open door, Jaromir debated on the best place to blindside Master Feodor before he sent a request for the meeting.
He considered going down to the prison beneath the old barracks—just for psychological effect. But then he had a better idea. He was well aware that he could not physically threaten Feodor as he had Inna. Master Feodor was still Anton’s court physician, appointed by Prince Lieven. Jaromir would have to tread carefully here and yet still get some answers.
So now he was back in the cellars beneath the castle larder, looking down at the bodies of the four dead girls again.
He didn’t have to wait long before hearing the sound of light, clicking footsteps. Master Feodor walked in with an annoyed expression. “You sent for me, Lieutenant? I do assure you that I cannot tell you anything more about how these girls died, and I’m a busy man this morning. The prince is not well.”
“I’m aware the prince is not well.”
Something in his voice caught Feodor’s attention—as the man stopped walking. Jaromir looked him up and down, noting how Feodor clearly appreciated the finer things in life: silk tunics, heeled boots, jeweled rings. Jaromir had never paid much attention to this before, but he did now.
“The prince has just had Inna placed under house arrest,” he said.
“Arrest? Don’t you mean protection?” Feodor’s lower lip twitched, and he glanced around, as if looking for anyone down here besides Jaromir and the four dead bodies.
“No. She was caught with a powder that contained opiates and hemlock. She’s been putting it into his wine every night, and she said you gave it to her.” Jaromir said this calmly but did not bother keeping the hostility from his voice. “Conspiring to poison the prince is a capital offense.”
Feodor stiffened and looked back the way he’d come, seeking an escape. Jaromir had succeeded in blindsiding him. He’d been caught completely off guard.
But to Feodor’s credit, his expression shifted to one of righteous indignation. “Poison? How dare you. I gave the powder to Inna because she’s the one who sees to him at night. I also gave her instructions to only use it on the nights when he had trouble sleeping. If she abused the privilege, then your quarrel is with her, not me, but the prince does need his rest.”
“From hemlock?”
“It is commonly used in sleeping powders, as you would know had you spent time studying anything other than how to use that sword on your belt.”
Jaromir tensed, but the taunt didn’t rattle him. He’d known men like Feodor before. They always tried to turn the tables with insults. This man standing before him was frightened.
“Anton said he’d stopped taking any of the draughts you assigned him,” Jaromir went on, “that they weren’t helping. Is that you why you had Inna feeding him the powder? Because he wouldn’t take it from you anymore?” He dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. “What exactly did you tell her to make her start putting it into his wine?”
Feodor sputtered and took a step back. “Touch me and I’ll report you to Prince Lieven! You have no authority to tell me how to best care for the prince’s health. I gave Inna instructions which she did not follow.” He half turned toward the doorway. “Am I under arrest, Lieutenant?”
The question was mocking.
To Jaromir’s anger and worry, he’d not managed to learn anything by which to justify Feodor’s arrest. But he didn’t believe the physician’s story about having told Inna to use the powder sparingly and only on nights when Anton truly couldn’t sleep. There was something more going on here.
Master Feodor had been slowly weakening Anton on purpose. Jaromir was convinced of it. “No,” he admitted. “You aren’t under arrest.”
Feodor turned on heel to stride toward the stairs.
Jaromir couldn’t help adding, “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 11
As Céline and Amelie walked into the great hall that evening, Céline quickly noted that an unusually small crowd of castle residents had turned out for dinner.
Lady Karina was in attendance, but Anton was conspicuously absent—as were Inna and Master Feodor.
Jaromir and Corporal Pavel were standing near a table chatting with a few soldiers who were just beginning a game of cards.
Amelie walked over, and Jaromir moved easily to give her room to take a place at the bench. His great wolfhound shoved her nose under Amelie’s hand, seeking attention.
“Hello, Lizzie,” Amelie said, scratching the dog’s ear.
Although Amelie and Jaromir could hardly be considered friends, Céline marveled at how nothing had changed in their treatment of each other. His jaw looked worse than it had that morning, and Amelie had bruises up and down both arms—hidden under her shirt—from the fierce way he’d had to pin her the night before. But she’d given him little choice, and he’d simply fought back. They both seemed to accept this, and a bit of mutual violence did not appear to have affected them much.
However…Pavel was staring at Céline with an almost wistful expression. There had been no military repercussions for him from the events of last night. He’d not been punished or demoted.
In fact, Jaromir seemed to have forgotten about the whole event—though Céline knew he hadn’t. Jaromir was smart enough to know Pavel’s lesson had been learned and any further words were useless. The relationship between the two of them remained unchanged as well.
Not so for Pavel and Céline.
Last night, in his anger, he’d used fear as a weapon, and he’d shown her a side of himself that he normally kept hidden. She had seen it.
Nothing was the same between them.
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. His expression changed to open regret, but he couldn’t change the past. That was the tragedy of the past. It couldn’t be changed.
“Céline,” a smooth voice said.
She looked to the left to see Lady Karina coming toward her. Karina was especially lovely tonight, with her chestnut hair piled high, a few loose curls hanging around her face, wearing a silk gown of seafoam green.
“Will you walk with me to the fire?” Karina asked.
“Of course, my lady.” Céline welcomed the interruption and fell into step, heading toward the hearth and the typical crowd of wriggling dogs that always seemed to gather there.
“Anton has informed me of what occurred this morning,” Karina said, “about Inna, I mean.”
Céline kept silent. She didn’t know if Anton had informed his aunt about the other discovery�
�the woman in the painting that Céline had seen in her vision.
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve never been comfortable with Inna as his personal attendant,” Karina went on. She sounded slightly defensive, as if perhaps Céline might blame her for not having taken action herself. “This business of her putting hemlock into his wine has left me most distressed.”
“There is no way you could have known, my lady,” Céline said diplomatically.
Karina stopped walking when they reached the hearth, and she looked into the crackling logs. “Anton has given me great license in the decision making here at court, but I’ve never interfered with his personal choices. I came here…a great distance from the south, when his wife died and he was unable to manage things.”
Listening to her, Céline realized that life could not have been easy for Karina when she’d first arrived four years ago—functioning neither as Anton’s wife nor as his mother—and yet she’d launched into managing a vast household for a grief-stricken nephew. The fact that she was beautiful and only five or six years older than him probably hadn’t helped.
“It must have been difficult,” Céline said, “you being…well, so young and filling the role of his aunt.”
Karina nodded. “Yes, I was still a child myself when he was born. I was what you might call a ‘late surprise’ to my parents, when my siblings were reaching adulthood and my mother thought herself past conceiving.”
Céline couldn’t help wondering why Karina herself had not married. Could she be content to go on living with her nephew, basically filling in for his dead mother? But that question was far too personal.
“I simply didn’t want you to think that I’ve been neglectful of Anton’s welfare,” Karina said. “I should have found a way to send Inna off years ago.” Something in her green eyes changed as she spoke these last words. There was an anger, a hardness that Céline had not seen before. Karina always appeared so composed, so serene that she seemed above real anger.