To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF THE MIST-TORN WITCHES

  “A highly enjoyable read. . . . I very much enjoyed the milieu and the murder mystery, and I look forward to more books in the series.”

  —Errant Dreams Reviews

  “Riveting. . . . With its recurring characters and deepening, endless future story possibilities, this excellent series will hopefully continue for a long time to come . . . satisfies on multiple levels.”

  —Bitten by Books

  “A thrilling suspense mystery in a race to the finish. . . . There are so many twists and turns. . . . This is a wonderful adventurous series in an interesting world with some great characters. In all three books, Céline and Amelie are the main characters and worthy heroines.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “A great page-turner.”

  —Open Book Society

  “[An] engaging fantasy novel. . . . Clues as to the sisters’ magical heritage, hints of romance, threats both supernatural and human, and courtly intrigue combine for a fun fantasy mystery.”

  —Locus

  “A well-constructed fantasy with two likable and interesting main characters . . . a fun read.”

  —A Book Obsession

  “The murder mystery at the core of this book . . . will hold readers spellbound.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Hendee knows how to hook her readers with beautiful detailed settings.”

  —Seeing Night Book Reviews

  “Incredibly vivid . . . a must read, full of suspense, drama, and magic.”

  —SciFiChick.com

  By Barb Hendee

  THE MIST-TORN WITCHES SERIES

  The Mist-Torn Witches

  Witches in Red

  Witches with the Enemy

  THE VAMPIRE MEMORIES SERIES

  Blood Memories

  Hunting Memories

  Memories of Envy

  In Memories We Fear

  Ghosts of Memories

  By Barb and J. C. Hendee

  THE NOBLE DEAD SAGA—SERIES ONE

  Dhampir

  Thief of Lives

  Sister of the Dead

  Traitor to the Blood

  Rebel Fay

  Child of a Dead God

  THE NOBLE DEAD SAGA—SERIES TWO

  In Shade and Shadow

  Through Stone and Sea

  Of Truth and Beasts

  THE NOBLE DEAD SAGA—SERIES THREE

  Between Their Worlds

  The Dog in the Dark

  A Wind in the Night

  First and Last Sorcerer

  The Night Voice

  ROC

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Barb Hendee, 2016

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Roc and the Roc colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN 9780698168596

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Again, for Jaclyn, who convinced me to make a pitch for the series

  Contents

  Praise for the Novels of The Mist-Torn Witches

  By Barb Hendee

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Prologue

  CASTLE SÈONE, SOUTHWEST DROEVINKA

  LATE SPRING

  I hadn’t used the sight in over five years, having given all that up when I left my old life behind. I’d almost forgotten the scratching feeling at the back of my head when something called to me, something that needed to be seen.

  With so much time having passed, I ignored it when it first began again, the scratching, scratching, scratching at the base of my neck, begging for my attention.

  “Go away,” I said aloud, over and over, until the other servants in the castle glanced at me with more trepidation than usual.

  It didn’t go away.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep at all. Finally, I heaved myself out of bed, my knees creaking, and I sighed in resignation over what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but once the nag, nag, nag started, it wouldn’t stop.

  Though I’d tried to deny it, that much I did remember.

  With some effort, I lowered myself to the cold floor and folded my aged legs beneath me. Then I reached up for the oil lantern beside my bed, set it on the floor, and turned up the light so that I could see the flickering orange light.

  I focused on the flame, shutting out the walls of my small bedroom, shutting out the world around me.

  Without speaking I repeated an old, trite litany in my thoughts over and over until everything but the single flame faded.

  Blessed fire in the night

  Show me what is in the sight

  Show me what brings fight or flight

  Blessed fire in the night

  The room vanished, and mists of white and gray surrounded me. When they cleared, I found myself standing in a meadow at dusk. I knew the meadow well, for I’d spent countless summers here earlier in my life. Horses, chickens, and the wagons of year-round travelers surrounded me, each wagon looking like a small home on wheels.

  I remembered this as a lovely place, with green grass and fields of apple trees and long rows of berry bushes stretching endlessly on the south and east sides.

  Right away, I knew something was wrong.

  The grass was brown, the apple blossoms were dead on the trees, the strawberry plants were shriveled in dried dirt, and the raspberry vines had withered.

  “You were seen!” a deep voice shouted. “What were you doing out there?”

  The vision sharpened, and I looked ahead past a few wagons to see a shirtless young man with his hands up over his head and tied around the branch of a tree. Blood flowed from his nose and his left eye. There were burn marks on his arms and chest.

  “I wasn’t there, my lord,” he whispered, exposing bloodstained teeth. “I neve
r went into the orchard.”

  Three guards in chain armor and orange tabards stood near him, but I focused on the angry man standing about six paces in front of him.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered with short silver hair, wearing a leather hauberk. Though he must be at least fifty, his face was handsome with few lines and high cheekbones. His expression twisted into dark, cold rage as he turned from the suffering young man and toward a crowd of people all watching helplessly.

  “Prince Malcolm,” an aging woman pleaded. “Gallius has done nothing. The apples were still blossoms, not yet ready for harvest, and so he was with the rest of us picking strawberries before . . . before.”

  “He was seen!” the prince shouted back. Then he pointed to the dying apple trees. “One of you has done this, and no one leaves this place until you tell me who it was and how to stop it. I don’t care if you all stay here and starve into next winter. There’s no drought this season, and no natural blight would kill every crop on the same day. Someone has cursed the land and the crops.”

  His hand moved from pointing at the trees to pointing at the bound young man. “He was seen in that field with his arms in the air.” His voice softened. “I hate this as much as any of you. But if Gallius has cursed the harvest, you only need tell me.”

  A middle-aged man with dark hair stepped forward from the crowd. “It wasn’t Gallius, my lord. It was none of us. You search for blame in the wrong place.”

  The prince’s expression shifted to anger again, and he motioned to a guard with a shaved head and a white scar running from the center of his forehead to his right temple.

  “Ayden,” the prince said.

  This guard wore a metal gauntlet on his right hand. He stepped to Gallius and swung hard, striking him across the face.

  Without hesitating, he swung back the other direction, and this time, the blow was accompanied by a popping sound.

  After Gallius’s head snapped to one side, it dropped forward at an odd angle. The guard stopped. Reaching out with his other hand, he touched the side of Gallius’s neck. “I’m sorry, my lord. He’s dead.”

  The tall prince drew in a long breath. Then he turned and began striding away.

  “No one leaves!” he called over his shoulder. “No one.”

  He mounted his horse.

  The faces of the onlookers were stricken, and more guards in orange tabards fanned out all around at the edges of the meadow.

  The people inside were prisoners.

  Chapter One

  CASTLE SÈONE, SOUTHWEST DROEVINKA

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT

  As a healer and an apothecary, Céline Fawe had sat through death vigils before, but none had affected her more than the one that she and her sister, Amelie, faced now.

  Céline, Amelie, and Lieutenant Kirell Jaromir all sat around the edges of the bed in Jaromir’s private apartments. A great wolfhound lay in the center of the bed taking shallow breaths.

  “It’s all right, Lizzie,” Jaromir whispered, stroking her head.

  The wolfhound’s muzzle was mottled with white. She’d lived fourteen years, which from what Céline understood was old for a dog of her breed. But Lizzie had been with Jaromir longer than anyone else in his life.

  Earlier this evening, he’d sent for the sisters down at their apothecary’s shop down in the village, and they had come quickly.

  Lizzie had fallen and could no longer rise.

  Jaromir carried her in here. Since then, Céline had been doing whatever she could to keep the dog comfortable and to ensure that Jaromir didn’t have to go through this alone.

  She looked across the bed at him. He was the military commander of Castle Sèone and personal bodyguard to Prince Anton of the house of Pählen.

  In his early thirties, Jaromir was more striking than handsome. He wore a small goatee around his mouth and kept his light brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck. From his weathered face to the scars on his hands, most elements of his appearance marked him as a professional soldier. He was tall and strong and comfortable inside his own skin. He wore the tan tabard of Sèone over chain armor. At times, he was too fond of being in control, and he would do anything—anything—he deemed necessary to protect Prince Anton.

  But right now he was just a man suffering at the prospect of losing a beloved companion.

  “Do you think she’s in pain?” he asked.

  “No,” Céline answered. “I’ve given her a little poppy syrup, only enough to help her rest.”

  Poor Amelie sat beside Jaromir with a sad expression. Her relationship to Jaromir was more complicated than Céline’s. Although Amelie would insist that she and Jaromir had no relationship at all, Céline knew better than to believe that.

  She knew Amelie cared for Jaromir and felt his pain now.

  “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly.

  “We’re not leaving,” Amelie answered.

  Céline felt a rush of love for her sister. The two of them were close but had little in common and shared few physical traits.

  At the age of nearly twenty-two, Céline was small and slender. Her overly abundant mass of dark blond hair hung in waves to the small of her back, and both she and her sister had inherited their mother’s lavender eyes. Tonight, Céline wore a wool gown of the same lavender shade.

  Amelie was three years younger and even shorter than Céline. But where Céline was slight, Amelie’s build showed a hint of strength and muscle. She despised dresses and always wore breeches, a man’s shirt, a canvas jacket, and boots. She’d inherited their father’s straight black hair, which she’d cropped into a bob that hung to her shoulders. She nearly always wore a sheathed dagger on her left hip—which she knew how to use.

  Until the previous spring, one year ago, Céline and Amelie had been living in a grubby little village, running a small apothecary shop, often taking skinny chickens and turnips as payment. But fate and mixed fortune had landed them in the prosperous village of Sèone, living in a fine shop, with the protection and patronage of Prince Anton.

  “How long does she have?” Jaromir asked.

  “I don’t know,” Céline answered. “Have you eaten? Should I send for some food?”

  He shook his head. “Not for me.”

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and before anyone could speak, it opened. Prince Anton himself stood in the doorway.

  “My lord,” Jaromir said, rising quickly.

  Anton put up one hand. “Sit. I just wanted to come and check. I know what Lizzie means to you.”

  Coming from Anton, this was quite an emotional speech. The two men were good friends, but they were both guarded in different ways. Jaromir often hid behind a joke, and Anton was a reserved person who held himself apart from everyone.

  It was good of him to come tonight.

  Céline met his eyes.

  Anton was a young leader, in his mid-twenties. He was of medium height with a slender build, but with a definition of tight muscles that showed through the sleeves of his shirt. His face was pale with narrow, even features, and he kept his straight brown hair tucked behind his ears.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “No, my lord,” Jaromir answered. “But I do thank you.”

  After a nod, Anton stepped out and quietly closed the door.

  Céline wished she could offer Jaromir some comfort. It would be a long night.

  * * *

  As the first light of dawn washed through the window, Amelie opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember where she was: Jaromir’s bedroom.

  Sitting up, she found herself lying across the foot of the bed. Céline was asleep in a chair. Jaromir knelt on the floor with his face down on the bed and his arms stretched out over Lizzie’s body.

  The dog was still.

  At Amelie’s movement, Jaromir raised hi
s head. “She’s gone.”

  “Oh.” Amelie was suddenly guilt-ridden for having fallen asleep, and she longed to say the right thing to comfort him. She was no good with words. She never had been. Instead, she crawled over and grasped the back of his hand.

  Instantly, he put his other hand over the top of hers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply, and she was.

  Lizzie had spent the past year living mainly in the dining hall by the hearth, where Jaromir had torn her meat into small bites, but the solider and dog had traveled and fought and hunted side by side from the time Jaromir was a young man.

  “I know you are,” he answered.

  Céline stirred and opened her eyes. Looking at the scene before her, she wouldn’t need to ask any questions.

  Again, Amelie wanted to do something to help.

  Still gripping Jaromir’s hand, she said, “Why don’t we take her down to the shop, to the herb garden? We can bury her between the rosebushes and the beech tree. I think she would like that, and we can look after her grave there.”

  Jaromir looked at her, and she imagined for a moment that his eyes were wet. Perhaps not.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Standing, he wrapped Lizzie’s body in a blanket so that she was fully covered and lifted her off the bed. Céline gathered her medicinal supplies, and they left the room, heading for the stairs and down to the main floor. As they emerged from the stairwell, a familiar face came toward them from the direction of the dining hall.

  Helga.

  Normally quick on her feet, she was at least seventy, with thick white hair up in a bun that was partially covered by an orange kerchief—nearly always askew. Her wrinkled face had a dusky tone, and she wore a faded homespun dress that might have once been purple.

  Though she was officially a servant here in the castle, Amelie had long suspected she was more. For one, everyone else treated Jaromir with deference and respect—even fear on occasion—but Helga often referred to him sarcastically as “His Lord Majesty lieutenant” and had a tendency to boss him around, and for some reason, he let her.

  Even more, Helga had been responsible for helping Céline and Amelie understand at least the roots of who they were and where their mother had come from: the Móndyalítko or “the world’s little children,” who traveled in wagons and viewed the world as their home.