Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches

by Barb Hendee

  “The prince would have objected had you tried,” Céline said, thinking on her conversation with him that morning. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  Karina turned from the fire and left the topic behind as she looked across the hall at Amelie playing cards. “I do wish your sister would let me lace her into a proper gown and put up her hair.”

  Céline tried not to laugh. “That would be a feat indeed, my lady.”

  Jaromir was walking toward them.

  Upon reaching the hearth, he gave Karina a short bow. “May I have a word with the seer, my lady?”

  Karina looked him up and down. “To do with castle security?” Her tone was colder than Céline had ever heard it.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then I should be informed as well.”

  His jaw tightened ever so slightly, possibly in surprise. Perhaps Karina had never asked such a thing before.

  But he bowed slightly again and turned to Céline. “If I gain permission from Anton to detain Master Feodor, will you read him for me? I don’t know what you can tell me by looking at his future. But I need to know what he’s really doing here.”

  “Tonight?” she asked.

  “No, tomorrow. It’s already dark out, and tonight I don’t want to get far from Inna’s room. We’re going to run watches in three-hour shifts.”

  She bit the inside of her mouth, trying not to argue with him. She still felt they should get Inna out of the castle and away from the village.

  “Will you read him for me?” Jaromir asked.

  Céline studied the bruise on his jaw and his somewhat outgrown goatee. Helga’s words echoed in her mind. Two sides of the same coin. The future and the past.

  “I may have a better idea,” she said.

  Lady Karina watched her carefully but said nothing.

  * * *

  Jaromir and Pavel stood through the first, uneventful three-hour watch at Inna’s door that night. Though Jaromir had filled Pavel in on the story of Céline’s vision, he remained skeptical that the murderer was an illusory ghost woman who could step outside of a portrait or walk through walls.

  It wasn’t that he doubted Céline’s word. He believed she’d described exactly what she’d seen in the vision, but it just wasn’t in him to accept her descriptions at face value. What if someone had dressed up like the woman in the painting? Someone who knew how to use tricks of light for appearing and disappearing? He’d heard of such things. How the woman could get past him or his guards was something else, but he didn’t believe they were dealing with a spirit.

  However, he didn’t discount Céline’s belief that the woman was being controlled or driven onward by someone else, for he was still certain that someone here was determined to undermine Anton and make him appear weak.

  “Reporting for duty, sir,” a voice called up the passage.

  He turned to see Guardsmen Winshaw and Stiva coming toward him. Rurik was still recovering from the blow to his head—delivered by Amelie—and so Jaromir had enlisted Stiva, whom he knew to be a steady man.

  Pavel glanced through the open door at Inna, who had been lying on the bed with her face to the wall since she’d been delivered here earlier in the day.

  “All quiet, sir?” Stiva asked.

  “Yes, but stay sharp,” Jaromir answered. “One of you keep your eyes on her at all times.” That afternoon, he’d already filled them in on Céline’s vision. “Remember, you’re watching for a pale young woman dressed in black who may know tricks of light that can make her seem able to appear and disappear.”

  Both men nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Then Stiva asked Pavel, “Have you got the money you owe me? You lost that last hand on credit.”

  He grinned, and Pavel grinned back. The young corporal might have a hot temper beneath the surface, but he was always good-natured about paying his gambling debts. “Not on me, but I’ll go to my room and come back with it.”

  “Don’t get lost,” Stiva joked, moving to the open door with Winshaw.

  “You two stay sharp,” Jaromir said again. He normally didn’t mind an easy camaraderie among his men, but right now, he wanted Stiva and Winshaw at full attention, watching Inna. “Pavel and I will relieve you again in three hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pavel headed off, and Jaromir went down the passage to his own apartments. Although he’d never admit it, he was looking forward to lying down for a while. Both his stomach and his jaw still hurt from last night, but he’d been impressed with the speed at which Amelie had moved. If she’d landed that last blow, she would have put him down. There weren’t many men who could get the jump on him like that.

  Once inside his rooms, he took off his sword but left on his armor and lay down on the bed, not intending to go to sleep, just to rest for a while…so he wasn’t certain how much time had passed when he was awakened by the sound of Pavel pounding on his door and shouting.

  “Sir! Sir, wake up. Get up! They’re dead. Sir!”

  In a flash, he was off the bed and across the room, jerking the door open.

  “What are you saying? Who’s dead?”

  But Pavel was running back down the passage. Confused and still groggy, Jaromir ran after him and saw two forms lying prone outside Inna’s door. Shades of the previous night flashed by him, but he could tell this was different even before he skidded to a stop.

  “I wasn’t gone long,” Pavel babbled, “and I came back with the money I owed Stiva.” He dropped to his knees. “Look at him. Look at Winshaw.”

  Both Winshaw and Stiva were lying faceup, their flesh shriveled and dried against their bones, just like the dead girls in the cellar. Jaromir couldn’t let himself feel anything. He ignored Pavel and walked into the room.

  Inna lay on the bed, dead, dried to a husk.

  Strangely, the first thought in his mind was that Céline would blame him.

  The next thought was that he blamed himself.

  * * *

  By noon the next day, Amelie felt as if she’d lost all control of her own world. Jaromir was escorting her and Céline down to the great hall, and she still couldn’t believe what Céline was asking her to do.

  The tension between the three of them was so thick she could have cut it with her dagger.

  Céline had taken the death of Inna rather hard, and she refused to look at Jaromir or speak to him unless necessary. His face was haggard, and his eyes were hollow. While Amelie wasn’t prone to jumping to his defense, she knew he’d only been doing what he thought was right. He’d lost two of his men, who might have been his friends, and Céline was treating him as if their deaths were his fault.

  That was hardly fair.

  He led them both through the great hall to the small side chamber—where the door was closed and locked. He unlocked it with a key and ushered them both inside. A few servants who were milling about, laying out the midday meal, glanced in their direction, and Jaromir closed the door behind himself, shutting off any view from outside.

  Inside the chamber, Master Feodor was sitting in a chair with Corporal Pavel standing directly behind him, towering over him like hostile guard dog. Feodor had always given Amelie the shivers. She didn’t care for his long mustache or his politely veiled contempt. But Jaromir and Pavel were tall men, wearing swords, daggers, and chain armor. Feodor was a slender, almost fragile-looking man. He was unarmed, and it appeared Pavel had been keeping him in that chair.

  “Lieutenant!” Feodor said angrily. “I demand to know the meaning of this. Your…man has refused to let me leave this room. The prince will hear of this.”

  “The prince ordered it,” Jaromir answered.

  Feodor’s jaw twitched, and he was perspiring enough for Amelie to see a few beads of sweat on his face.

  He’s afraid, she thought.

  “Where is the prince?” Céline asked, not looking at Jaromir or Pavel.

  The tension felt just as thick in here, only now it held a hint of threat.

 
“He isn’t well,” Jaromir answered shortly. “Can you do this?”

  Céline refused to look at him and instead turned to Amelie. “Please try this for me. Helga seems to…know things. Just try.”

  Amelie was nearly trembling. She wanted this suspicion of Céline’s to be true more than she’d ever admit, but she was terrified of failing if she tried, of condemning herself to the mundane forever.

  “All you need do is touch his hand and focus on the past,” Céline said, “on what brought him here.”

  “What is this?” Feodor demanded. He began to stand up, but Pavel shoved him back down into the chair.

  “This girl is going to read you,” Jaromir said, gesturing to Amelie. “She’s going to read your past.”

  The whites of Feodor’s eyes showed bright around his irises. “I will not submit to such indignity!” He started to rise again, and this time Pavel held him down, with both hands on his shoulders.

  “That isn’t necessary,” Céline said raggedly.

  “Just do it!” Jaromir barked at her.

  Amelie got the feeling he was nearing the end of his tether and probably blaming himself for the deaths of Inna, Winshaw, and Stiva. Céline was not helping here, but she was also pale and stretched tightly herself.

  “How do I start?” Amelie asked, trying to move this forward, even if she failed.

  Céline closed her eyes briefly and opened them again. Without having to be told, Jaromir dragged a chair across the floor, directly in front of Feodor, who was perspiring more freely now. Amelie almost pitied him. But Jaromir and Pavel were both acting like bullies, and she’d never cared much for bullies.

  Sitting down, she looked to Céline, who crouched beside her.

  “Take his hand and close your eyes,” Céline said. “Then try to sense for the spark of his spirit and focus on what brought him here, on what he’s doing here.”

  “Prince Lieven will hear of this!” Feodor protested weakly.

  “Shut up,” Jaromir told him.

  If Feodor turned out to be guiltless, Jaromir had probably gone too far and there would be repercussions…but if he were guiltless, why would he have instructed Inna to secretly drug Anton?

  Suddenly, Amelie’s curiosity, her need to seek information and know what Feodor was doing here, overrode her discomfort with all the tension and edge of threat filling the room.

  Reaching out, she touched Feodor’s hand. He flinched but didn’t pull it away, as if realizing he had no choice.

  Amelie closed her eyes, trying not to tremble visibly, experiencing for the first time what it must feel like to be Céline, to have everyone watching expectantly, wondering what the “seer” might actually reveal.

  Pushing such self-absorbed thoughts away, she focused all her energy on Feodor, on seeking the spark of his spirit…and she felt something, a hint of his essence. Focusing harder, she pinpointed the questions in her mind on what he was doing here, on why he had come.

  Nothing happened.

  She saw nothing.

  This went on long enough that panic began to set in. What if Céline and Helga were wrong? What if she and Céline were not two sides of the same coin and Céline was the only one who’d inherited the powers of the “Mist-Torn,” as Helga called their mother’s line.

  With her eyes still closed, Amelie thought on the white powder Céline had described, laced with hemlock, being poured into Anton’s wine goblet.

  Then…a sharp jolt struck her, almost painful. A second one hit, and the small room around her vanished. A whooshing sound rushed in her ears, and she was being swept backward down a corridor of white mist. For all her courage, the sensation was terrifying. Amelie liked control, and she’d lost control of her own body.

  The white mists swept and swirled around her, and she couldn’t stop or escape them.

  Without warning, they vanished, and she found herself standing in a large room with polished pine walls and a burning hearth. How could this be?

  Looking around, she realized she was no longer in Castle Sèone. By the antlers and boar heads on the walls, it appeared to be some sort of hunting lodge, but soldiers in black tabards stood at attention all around.

  Frightened, she reached automatically for the sword on her hip, but none of the soldiers reacted. It was as if they couldn’t see her.

  There was a rough-edged table at the top of the room, along with a man sitting in an ornate chair. He looked to be about twenty-five, handsome and slender. His hair was long and dark. His skin was pale to the point of being white, and he wore a sleeveless blue embroidered tunic. He looked like Anton—only with darker, longer hair. But his eyes were cruel, and he was gazing downward at someone over the top of the table.

  Amelie followed his gaze to see Master Feodor kneeling on the floor.

  “My father has finally made arrangements to send you to my brother, as his personal physician,” said the man in the ornate chair. “This has taken no small effort on my part.”

  Amelie drew a sharp breath. She knew who he was: Sub-Prince Damek. In her time living under his rule in Shetâna, she’d never once seen him.

  “Yes, my prince,” Feodor said in oily voice. He didn’t appear remotely frightened, only expectant.

  “So you understand what I’m asking you to do?” Damek asked.

  “Fully, my prince. I will send regular reports of everything occurring at Sèone, and I will endeavor to…hinder his progress as the master of his fiefdoms.”

  “He must appear weak,” Damek said, “both in body and mind, in strength and his ability to lead. Can you manage this?”

  “Easily, my prince, and in return…?”

  “You’ll be well rewarded, do not fear, but do not disappoint me. He must appear weak.”

  Feodor bowed low. “I will not fail.”

  “See that you don’t.”

  Amelie was breathing hard, trying to take this in. She was here, but not here—present but unable to be seen or heard. Just the sight of Damek in his chair filled her with revulsion.

  And Feodor was a traitor.

  The hunting lodge vanished, and she found herself back inside the small chamber with her eyes open, staring at Master Feodor sitting in his chair across from hers. He was staring back, his terrified eyes fixed on hers.

  Céline crouched beside her. “Amelie, are you all right? What did you see?”

  But she was still breathing hard, overwhelmed by the reality of what had just happened, of her experience, the knowledge of her ability…and of what she’d just witnessed.

  “Jaromir!” she cried without thinking, and he grabbed the arm of her chair, pulling it around effortlessly to face him.

  “What?” he asked. “Amelie, what did you see?”

  “He’s in the pay of Sub-Prince Damek,” she choked. “He came here to hurt Anton.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A short while later, Céline and Amelie were hiding out in their room. The scene following Amelie’s revelations had not been pretty, culminating in Jaromir ordering Pavel to take Master Feodor down beneath the old barracks and lock him in a prison cell.

  Feodor had not taken this with bravery or good grace, subjecting the servants in the great hall to quite an unseemly display as he was dragged from the chamber.

  As soon as possible, Céline and Amelie had both fled for the stairs, hurrying to the solitude of their room.

  “What do you think will happen to him?” Amelie asked, sinking down onto the bed.

  Céline understood what she was going through—the latent responsibility for having spoken up about the events in a vision. “I suppose it depends on whether or not Jaromir can find any proof. I know he believes you, but right now, all he has is the word of a ‘gypsy seer,’ as Feodor will state in his own defense.”

  “Yes,” Amelie said, nodding. “There has to be some kind of hearing, right? Even if it’s just Anton and his council presiding? And Jaromir has to find proof, doesn’t he? It won’t all rest on what I saw.”

  “No, of cour
se it won’t.” With mild annoyance, Céline then noted that the miniature portrait of the chestnut-haired woman was back on the dressing table. She picked it up. “How does this keep getting back out here?” She didn’t know why the sight of the portrait bothered her, only that it did.

  The door opened and Helga hobbled in carrying a plate of bread, ham, and sliced carrots. “I know you’ve had no lunch,” she said, “either of you.”

  She left the door open, but Céline didn’t mind. Few people ever came down this passage, and the open door made their space feel bigger. But as Helga set the tray on the dressing table, Céline asked her.

  “Helga, are you taking this miniature from the drawer and setting it back out again?”

  Helga blinked. “Of Lady Bethany? No, I’ve not touched it. I thought the prince must have given it into your keeping for some reason.”

  That made no sense at all.

  “Who is Lady Bethany?”

  “Who is…why, she was the prince’s mother. He used to have that picture in his bedroom, and I would sometimes dust it when I helped the housemaids.”

  “What?” Amelie asked, hopping off the bed and coming closer.

  “You didn’t know?” Helga responded in genuine surprise.

  And then Céline realized why the face in the miniature seemed vaguely familiar. Her face was round, and she looked more cheerful than exotic, but her chestnut hair and skin tones were similar to Lady Karina’s.

  “This is Anton’s mother?” Céline asked, alarmed now as she remembered something else. “He told me he’d lost this. How could it have ended up in here?”

  “Should we try and give it back to him?” Amelie asked, sounding reluctant.

  Céline understood why, and she herself didn’t care for the idea of simply walking up to Anton, handing him a miniature of his mother, and saying, “Oh, by the way, we’ve had this in our room since we arrived.”

  How would that look?

  “No…,” she said. “Let me think of something else. I’ll try to put it someplace where he’ll find it.”

  Amelie nodded. “Good. I think that’s best.” She studied the tiny portrait. “She was pretty. Helga, do you know how she died?”