Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches

by Barb Hendee

  But…she’d met his mistress, and while playing cards, she’d heard casual talk from the guards about his previous mistresses. He liked wealthy, beautiful, shallow women who followed his orders, and he never kept one woman for very long.

  Since Amelie was a far cry from his usual type, she might hold his interest a little longer, but how much longer? She had no intention of becoming just another cast-off mistress on Jaromir’s list.

  Still, he was in pain, and for better or worse she did want to help him.

  “Talk to me,” she said. “If you want me to understand, you’ll have to tell me. I’m not going to try to read your past.” Settling more comfortably on the floor, she asked, “When did you and Anton meet?”

  Still staring at her, he answered, “Four years ago…at Castle Pählen.”

  She sat, just waiting, until he opened his mouth again, and he began to talk, weaving a story in which he’d given up his place as a lieutenant for the House of Hilaron, out of loyalty for a fallen prince, without having any idea what life as a mercenary on the open road would be like.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I did to survive,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want to tell you.”

  She just listened.

  “Then I heard that Prince Lieven was hiring guards for a family gathering and I went to beg for anything he’d give me,” he went on. “I had no pride left. I was filthy and starving…even once I was hired, I had to beg food and a razor, and I was facing being turned out as soon as the gathering had ended.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “But then Anton…he saved Lizzie from his brother, and so I saved him from a group of his brother’s assassins.”

  In spite of her determination to keep quiet and listen, she couldn’t help blurting out, “What?”

  He nodded and went on speaking quietly, telling her of a dirty deal Damek had made with the captain of Anton’s guard, of a bloody fight, of Anton’s tragic surprise that anyone would go as far out of his way to help as Jaromir had.

  “He was so alone,” Jaromir whispered. “I didn’t realize at the time, but I did later.”

  “And he asked you to come back with him? To head up the guard here?”

  Jaromir was breathing fast now, lost in the past, and his eyes were glassy.

  “Yes. By the time we reached Sèone, he and I had become friends. But I didn’t understand how high he’d placed me until we entered the castle and he assigned my apartments. I became the Lieutenant, like the title of a lord. Soon, almost no one used my name. I was either ‘sir’ or ‘the Lieutenant.’” He leaned back against the wall. “Can you imagine how that would feel? To be nothing one day…nothing, and then suddenly find you’d become more than you thought possible?”

  Amelie leaned back on her hands. “Yes, I can imagine how it feels.”

  * * *

  A few hours past sunset, Céline was still beneath of the covers of their bed, listening as Amelie told her Jaromir’s story, of all that he had told her. Helga was gone now, and the two sisters were alone.

  Without wanting to be, Céline was moved by Jaromir’s story, but it wasn’t enough.

  “It doesn’t excuse what he did to Feodor.”

  “He’s protective of Anton.”

  “To the point of judicial murder?”

  Amelie didn’t answer, and Céline wondered what her sister was thinking. But Céline was drained, tired. Everyone that she or Amelie had pointed out as a possible victim or villain was dead.

  Helga had been right, though, and after sleeping through the afternoon and early evening, she was calmer.

  “I’m still not sure I can do this anymore,” Céline whispered.

  “Do you want the shop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Before Amelie could answer, a pounding on the door made them both jump. The pounding continued, and Amelie hurried to the door, pulling it open.

  Jaromir leaned in over the top of her head. If he’d looked haggard earlier, he looked positively aged now. “Céline, you have to come. Anton’s worse.”

  She sat up. “How much worse?”

  “I think he’s dying.”

  * * *

  Up in Anton’s bedroom, Céline sponged the sweat off his face. He was unconscious, but his body was shaking. Amelie sat beside her, and Jaromir sat on the side of the bed, almost ill himself. If Céline hadn’t known him better, she would have said he was frightened.

  Pavel stood by the door with his arms crossed, little better off than Jaromir. The oversized portrait of the dark-haired woman by the campfire leaned against the wall beside him.

  “Was he vomiting before he fell unconscious?” Céline asked. All the broken ties between them didn’t matter in this moment.

  “Yes,” Jaromir answered. “I thought it was a good thing. I thought if Feodor had managed to give him some kind of poison before he was locked up…that Anton was purging himself. Is that possible? Could Feodor have fed him poison?”

  Céline chewed on the inside of her lip. She knew what was wrong with Anton. She’d known that afternoon. But men of his status—and the people around them—did not like to acknowledge a dependency upon elixirs or wine or anything but their own power. Even suggesting such a thing could be construed as insulting. That was why she hadn’t said anything earlier. She’d simply hoped he wouldn’t get worse.

  “Céline!” Jaromir insisted.

  The room was dim, with only a few candles glowing. Anton groaned in pain, sweating into his bedsheets.

  “No,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could. “He’s having the opposite problem. Master Feodor had been finding a way to feed him an opiate for a long while. His body has become dependent upon the opiate, and now the lack of it is making him ill. His organs can no longer function properly without it, and I’m afraid the dependency is so severe that he may continue to grow worse.”

  Pavel tensed in the doorway, and Jaromir sat up straight.

  But then, to her great relief, the lieutenant asked, “Can anything be done?”

  “Yes, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “Just tell me!”

  “He’ll need small, weakened doses of the opiate for a while, possibly weeks, decreasing in amount until he’s weaned away from it. Then he’ll need a tonic made from colewort to help his liver cleanse the toxins from his body.”

  She knew the thought of giving Anton more of the drug that had made him ill in the first place probably went against every instinct Jaromir possessed, but she could see the pain on his weathered face. Jaromir viewed Anton as far more than a means to position and power.

  “And you can make these potions?” he asked.

  While she hardly considered either the poppy syrup or the cleansing tonic to be a potion, she nodded. “Yes, but only if you give me full access to the apothecary shop and its herb garden, and if you want this done quickly, I’ll need some assistance.”

  Her words had an almost magical effect on him. He stood up, some of the haggard lines vanishing. He was a man who needed a plan, a mission. He was only truly miserable when he felt helpless.

  “What kind of assistance?” he asked.

  “I’ll need Amelie with me, and we’ll need several lanterns if we’re going to harvest poppies at night. Oh, and a good deal of firewood, as we’ll need to make a blaze in the hearth.”

  Looking down at Anton, Jaromir seemed torn for a second or two about something, and then he said, “I’m staying here with him. Pavel, you gather lanterns and firewood. Take Céline and Amelie down to the apothecary’s shop. Keep them safe, and give Céline any help she needs.”

  Pavel jerked the door open, as if equally glad for something to do, for some action to take. “Yes, sir.”

  As Céline hurried toward the door, she called over her shoulder to Jaromir, “Send someone to wake the Lady Karina.”

  * * *

  Making a vial of the weakened poppy syrup went much faster this time. Pavel proved useful, both in helping her and Amelie gather the
best poppies and in building the fire while they prepared the components.

  But somewhere during this process, Céline was struck by a startling thought: She had altered a vision. When she’d read Inna the day before, she had clearly seen Inna putting a double dose of the powder into Anton’s wine that same afternoon. By speaking up, Céline had caused Jaromir to trap Inna inside the small guest room, preventing her from drugging Anton’s wine.

  As a result, Anton was now suffering, but there was no denying that Céline had changed an event she had seen in a vision, changed the future. It could be done.

  This was a revelation.

  But she wiped the sweat from her forehead and worked faster on the poppy syrup.

  Sooner than she expected, she was back in the castle, nearly running back down the passage to Anton’s rooms carrying a spoon and a vial. Amelie and Pavel trotted behind. Upon reaching the door, Céline knocked, and Jaromir opened it.

  Lady Karina was inside the room now, her expression unreadable. “How bad is he?” she asked instantly.

  Céline had no idea how to answer, so she didn’t. Instead, she hurried to the bed. “Jaromir, come and lift him up. He should be sitting so he won’t choke.”

  The lieutenant moved in quickly, putting one arm beneath Anton’s back and lifting him into a sitting position. “Get his mouth open,” Céline instructed. She hoped Anton wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t help a little.

  “Anton,” she said, touching his face with two fingers. “You must swallow. Do you hear? You need to swallow this.”

  She poured a spoonful of the poppy syrup over his tongue and then closed his mouth with her hands. He sputtered and convulsed once, but he swallowed it.

  “Again,” she told Jaromir. “One more.”

  When they’d finished, she sat beside Anton, still holding the spoon.

  “How long till we know if it works?” Jaromir asked.

  “Not long, but it will work. I’ve seen this before…with ex-soldiers back in Shetâna. My mother taught me what to do.”

  Karina came over to sit on the bed, her lovely face a mask of calm, but her eyes gave her away; she was beyond worried. Both Amelie and Pavel hovered in the doorway. Jaromir began to pace back and forth across the room. But about a half hour later, Anton stopped moaning in pain, and he stopped sweating. Céline felt the temperature of his face and listened to his breathing.

  “All right, he’s just sleeping now, not unconscious. He’s not in pain, and he should keep his food down once he wakes.”

  Karina lowered her head and closed her eyes, as if finally allowing herself to express emotion.

  Jaromir let out a shaky breath and leaned over, putting his hands on his knees. “Céline, I didn’t know you could…I had no idea you were a physician. You should have told me.”

  “I’m not a physician. I’m an apothecary.”

  Amelie came closer to the bed. “He’ll really be all right?”

  “I think so.”

  Amelie, Jaromir, and Pavel all looked about done in, and Céline had no idea what time it was. “The three of you should all go get some rest. I slept this afternoon, so I can sit with him.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” Karina put in. “Céline’s right, Jaromir. You should all go and rest.” This last suggestion sounded more like an order.

  Relenting, Jaromir nodded. “Send for me if there’s any change.”

  Moments later, Céline and Lady Karina were alone with the sleeping Anton, and Céline had time to struggle with her own feelings, her own realization that the futures she saw could be changed. But also, to her partial shame, she’d loved working in the shop tonight, perhaps more than she had back home at the Lavender and Thyme. Even neglected, the herb garden promised a wealth of life, and the shop was so well equipped…and it seemed to need her. Silly thought.

  “Thank you,” Karina said, breaking the silence. “I’ve some knowledge of herb lore, and yesterday I was informed what Master Feodor had been giving him. But I’d no idea this could happen.” Her mouth tightened, and she stood up, pacing the room. “I should have routed Feodor out long ago. How could I not have seen?”

  “You cannot blame yourself, my lady. Jaromir is a virtual watchdog, and he didn’t catch Feodor either. The man was sent by Anton’s father. How could either of you have guessed?”

  Karina stopped pacing and studied Céline. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that you’ve come to us. In spite of Anton’s…illness, I’ve seen a change in him since your arrival, as if he wants to live now, to rule, to best his brother. I’ve hated to see Anton alone these years, but I knew another marriage would be a terrible mistake, and with you, there are no worries on that score.”

  Céline stiffened, caught off guard and offended on several levels. First, did Karina believe she was—or would be—Anton’s mistress? A plaything to provide him with entertainment and keep him from marrying again? Second, Céline had never thought this lady given to typical noble snobbery, but the words “with you, there are no worries on that score” made Céline want to flinch.

  For all Karina’s apparent kindness, it seemed she viewed Céline as one or two notches above a castle servant.

  “Jaromir and Pavel dragged us here,” Céline said, trying to keep the anger from her voice, “and I remained to help Anton solve the murders of these poor young women…and to keep Anton from appearing as a weakened leader to his father. I fear for this entire region should Damek be named heir.”

  Karina waved one hand in the air. “Damek will never be the heir. Though tragic, the unsolved deaths of a few girls would mean nothing to Prince Lieven. I’ve met him, and I can see how his mind works. I’ve understood the situation for years. No, Lieven is simply waiting until Anton is ready, but you need not worry. Anton will soon enough be head of the House of Pählen, and then he will be the grand prince of Droevinka.”

  Perhaps Karina was still shaken from her fears that Anton might have been on his deathbed. But the words coming from her mouth were startling. Céline had no idea she was so ambitious for Anton. Was she equally ambitious for herself? Seeking at least partial power to help rule through him? Pavel had clearly said she was given a voice here in matters of state.

  Karina ceased her pacing near the bed. “But the deaths of these girls will have no impact on Prince Lieven’s decision, and I fear the murders will not be solved, even with your good help.”

  “They must be,” came a whisper from the bed.

  Anton’s eyes were open, and he’d been listening. Though probably as weak as a puppy, he wasn’t sweating or shaking. He was looking at his aunt. “We must stop these murders. My lady, arrange another banquet, for tomorrow night. Céline must continue reading the young women. At present, we have nothing else to try.”

  The thought of even one more reading was almost more than Céline could face, but she had other worries.

  “You won’t be on your feet by tomorrow night,” she insisted.

  His quiet voice was firm. “I will.”

  * * *

  Although she was weary to the bone, Amelie couldn’t sleep. Finally, she climbed out of bed and stood on the cold floor, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t just go and sit with Céline and the Lady Karina. Here, alone in this room, she had too much time to think. Much too much.

  Her mind kept going over her experience that afternoon with Jaromir, how he’d told her of his past. It was difficult to admit, but she felt differently about him now. She understood him better.

  And she didn’t want to understand him.

  She certainly didn’t want to be standing by the firelight from the hearth, thinking about him.

  Sighing, she reached for her breeches and then noticed that the miniature of Lady Bethany was back on the dressing table, leaning against the mirror. How did that thing keep getting out of the drawer?

  Walking over, she picked it up. With everything that had happened in the past day and night, they’d completely forgotten to try to get it back to Anton. Pausing, she looked do
wn into the pretty face of Lady Bethany. Poor woman, to have died so young, leaving her sons without a mother.

  Bethany’s face was rounder than Karina’s, and so were her eyes. Their thick chestnut hair was the same, though, even the manner in which they wore it, piled high with a few loose curls hanging down.

  Then suddenly, even in the light of the fire, Amelie felt cold, and she looked up. The room appeared to be filling with white mist. Her eyes dropped back to the portrait just as the first jolt hit.

  “No!” Amelie said aloud, speaking to the portrait.

  But she was jerked backward, rushing down the corridor of swirling mists, almost unable to believe what was happening. The journey was long, and she grew light-headed, fighting to break free from the mists, to get back to her room.

  The mists cleared, and she was outside, in broad daylight, with a cluster of red apples hanging over her head.

  Half turning, she saw that she was standing only a few paces from a young woman, perhaps sixteen years old, who knelt on what appeared to be damp ground beneath an apple tree, inside an orchard. The day was clear and the sun shone bright in the sky, but beyond the orchard, Amelie could see pools of still water filled with more cattails than she could count.

  The Everfen?

  “Bethany?” a smooth voice called. “Are you out here?”

  The young woman raised her head. It was Anton’s mother…only younger than the image in the miniature. She was little more than a girl, wearing a muslin gown, soaked through the skirt where she knelt.

  At first she didn’t answer the call, and then finally said, “I’m here, Karina, over here.”

  The sound of sweeping skirts answered, and another woman came around a tree. Amelie gasped. It was the Lady Karina…but she appeared to be in her late twenties. She looked exactly the same as when Amelie had seen her in Anton’s rooms less than an hour before.

  “Whatever are you doing? Father is waiting to tell you good-bye,” Karina said as she stopped walking. “You’ve ruined that dress.”