Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches Read online

  Nazar cried out, and a few seconds later, blood flowed from his mouth.

  Jaromir whirled again to find that Anton had sliced through the throat of his own opponent. The assassin fell backward.

  Then Jaromir and Anton stood alone, panting, surrounded by dead or dying men.

  Visibly shaken, Anton stared at Jaromir’s tabard, perhaps trying to figure out what had just happened. “You’re one of my father’s guards?”

  “No, I’m a hired sword…for this gathering.”

  “Why did you save me?”

  “Because you saved my dog.”

  Anton was silent for a moment, and then he glanced down at his dead captain and back. “So you’re a man of no rank, then?”

  “I was a lieutenant under Prince Phillipos of House Hilaron, but I would not serve his son.”

  Anton nodded. “Phillipos. I see.”

  Jaromir wondered what it was that he saw.

  * * *

  Five days later, the “family gathering” was officially over, and the castle was alive with activity as Damek’s and Anton’s entourages were preparing to leave. Jaromir waited to see if there would be repercussions from the attack at the river, but it seemed that Anton never told his father, and Damek was quite skilled at cleaning up behind himself.

  However, as a result, Jaromir had done nothing to distinguish himself to Prince Lieven and would be out of work again tomorrow.

  He’d been asked to help load some of Lady Karina’s baggage. As he could hardly refuse, he was in the guest quarters waiting outside her rooms with a few other men when he looked up to see Anton coming down the passage toward him.

  “Walk with me,” Anton said.

  Jaromir had no idea what to think, but he fell into step beside Anton, and they went all the way to the end of the passage, where they stopped and looked down through tall archers’ slits in the wall, observing the activity in the courtyard below.

  Anton’s eyes were still haunted.

  “I seem to be short a captain,” he said.

  “I’m not a captain.”

  “You could be.”

  Jaromir shook his head. “I’d not be named to a rank I hadn’t earned.”

  Anton kept gazing through the slit in the wall. “You are a strange man. Would you come back with me and head my guard at Castle Sèone?”

  Jaromir didn’t need to be asked twice.

  CHAPTER 7

  Still leaning against the wall in the passage outside his room, Jaromir ran a hand over his face, remembering the journey “home” with Anton.

  By the time they’d reached Castle Sèone, he and Anton had become friends, but Jaromir had no idea how highly he’d been placed until they entered the castle and he began his duties—with full authority over everyone in Sèone except for Anton and the Lady Karina. After that, he became the Lieutenant, like the title of a lord.

  He owed Anton more than he could ever repay, and now he had to stop these bizarre murders.

  He didn’t blame Céline for his failure last night. She’d done exactly as he’d asked. She’d read the girls at the banquet, and she’d given him the name of the next victim.

  After that, it had been his job to save Sybil.

  And he’d failed.

  Opening his eyes, he began walking again, not really knowing where he was heading, only knowing that he wanted to know something more, anything, before he spoke to Anton. A few moments later, he found himself moving downward through the castle’s passages until he reached the larder…and then the cellars.

  The bodies of four girls lay on the tables now that Sybil’s had been added. They looked so fragile, almost like a mix of paper and straw, like macabre dolls being sold at a village fair. He stared down at them, one by one, desperate for one of them to tell him something, to give him one piece of information he might use to stop this from ever happening again.

  His mind slipped backward through the night before. How could the killer have entered the room? He’d chosen it specifically for security. There was no window, no hearth, and he’d been standing guard at a locked door.

  Moving to Sybil’s body, he reached down and touched her silky brown hair. This loss hurt him more than the others—because he should have stopped it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  But as he spoke, a sharp intake of breath sounded from behind a stack of barrels, and his hand moved instinctively for the hilt of his absent sword. Casting about, he spotted a rusty kitchen knife left behind on a table and he grabbed it. “Who’s there?”

  When no one answered, he strode over, gripping the knife, and looked behind the barrels. Then he halted in surprise.

  “Inna?”

  She stood there with her arms crossed, and he realized she must have been viewing the bodies herself and then hidden when she heard him coming.

  “What are you doing down here?” he asked.

  Her eyes shifted back and forth, and she didn’t answer.

  “Come out of there,” he ordered.

  Something about her had always left him unsettled. In her own way, she was not without attractions, still young and slender, with clear skin and an efficient manner. He’d seen more than one of his men casting looks after her when she walked past them. But her ceaseless sycophantic manner with Anton gave Jaromir the shivers.

  Had he been able to find a diplomatic method of sending her away, he would have done it a long time ago. Unfortunately, although Anton did not appear to welcome her attentions as his personal servant, he would not hear a word spoken against her either, so Jaromir’s hands were tied.

  At his order, she moved from behind the barrels out into the cellar, her gaze turning instantly to the bodies.

  “You were looking, too?” he asked. “Do you see anything that I don’t?”

  At this point, he was willing to take assistance from any corner. But she only drew her arms more tightly around herself. She wore her usual gray dress but had no shawl. He’d have offered her his cloak had he been wearing it, but he was dressed in only the breeches and tunic from last night.

  Her silence frustrated him. “Inna, you must have seen something more in the room last night. Think hard. Can you tell me anything else? Anything to help me keep this from happening again?”

  Her eyes flashed up to his face. “Why?” she asked sharply. “Why would you waste your time? Waste Anton’s strength with this?” She motioned to the dead bodies, and the venom in her voice grew. “If you had an ounce of honor, you’d bury this baggage and do your job, protecting Prince Anton! If it happened again, you wouldn’t bother him with it.” She leaned forward, breathing harder. “These girls’ deaths are nothing compared to Lady Joselyn’s, and he is still in pain, still recovering. He should be left in peace to mourn, and what do you do? You counsel him to hire some whore of a gypsy seer, tiring him out, wearing him out.” She stepped back, motioning to the bodies again. “These are nothing compared to Anton’s health. Get rid of them and do your job.”

  He stared at her, at a loss for words. Although he’d always suspected a hint of madness ran just below her skin, he’d never heard her speak like this.

  Before he could recover himself, she whirled and ran for the archway, fleeing toward the stairs leading up to the kitchens. He let her go, but his mind was reeling.

  Was she overwrought by having woken in bed with a dead girl, or was she truly as unhinged as she sounded? A cold feeling washed over him as he suddenly wondered if the killer had not figured out a way to enter a locked, windowless room after all.

  Maybe the killer had been in there all along.

  * * *

  Céline and Amelie slept late that morning, but upon waking, Céline rose almost instantly and dressed in her old red gown, leaving Amelie awake but still huddled beneath the blankets. The fire had long since gone out.

  They hadn’t spoken about what occurred last night, and Céline was desperate not to be faced with questions—at least not yet.

  Glancing at the dressing table, she noti
ced that the miniature portrait of the chestnut-haired woman was leaning against the mirror again. Helga must have found it and put it back.

  “You in a hurry?” Amelie asked, sitting up.

  The moment was awkward. They’d survived their orphan years together by never keeping anything from each other. Amelie deserved answers. But Céline felt stretched thin, too shaken, too guilty, too confused to start making confessions about her recently surfaced ability.

  “I’m going to go check in with Jaromir,” Céline said. “See if anything else has happened.”

  Amelie leaned back with hurt in her eyes.

  Céline fled toward the door. “I promise we’ll talk later.” She jerked it open, desperate for a few moments to herself. “I promise.”

  Stepping out, she closed the door behind herself and took a long breath. She had no intention of going anywhere near Jaromir. He was the last person she wanted to face—well, second to last. Facing Amelie right now would be worse.

  The castle was huge. So she decided to just walk for a little while and gather herself, gather her strength.

  But she’d taken only a few steps when the sound of muttering and stumping echoed up the passage, and she saw Helga coming toward her, carrying a tray of tea. The old woman stopped at the sight of her.

  “Up and about?” Helga asked. “Fire’s gone out, and you’ve had no breakfast.” This morning, her head scarf was a shade of dirty orange, and it was more than slightly askew, having slipped down over one side of her head, causing her to look lopsided. She squinted, taking in Céline’s face.

  “Ahhhh,” she said, nodding, setting the tea tray down on the floor, pouring a mug, and holding it out. “The night was too much, I see. But you can’t get around that. Comes with the gift.”

  Céline stiffened. The things this woman said disturbed her, as if she somehow knew more than she should. But Helga continued to hold the mug out, and Céline could see it steaming and smell the sweet spice. She hadn’t eaten or drunk since dinner last night, and finally she reached out for the tea.

  “Good girl,” Helga said. “You’ll get your bearings soon enough. So will your sister, but she’s farther to go. Two sides of the same coin. The future and the past.”

  What did that mean?

  For some reason, Céline always felt tongue-tied in the midst of Helga’s babbling, and she suddenly wanted to say something, anything, but didn’t know what. The old woman pointed beyond her, in the other direction down the passage. “Go that way, my girl, till you reached a stairwell leading up. A pretense for dawdling covers the walls up there. You’ll have an excuse.”

  Céline blinked. She had no idea how to converse with Helga, but she longed to be away from this passage, on her own. “Thank you,” she managed to say, and then she turned and fled, still carrying the steaming mug of tea.

  She didn’t want to think about last night, about her own failure to alter a future that’d she clearly seen…that she should have been able to change.

  Just as promised, she found a stairwell down the passage and stepped inside, heading up, sipping her tea along the way. The stairwell wound in a few circles, and it was darker than she expected, with no braziers on the walls at all, but soon enough, she saw dim light at the top and then stepped out into a much wider passage, almost a hall. There were tall, narrow windows to her left—possibly slots for archers—and the wall to her right was covered in enormous portraits, some larger than herself, in ornate frames wider than her hand. Taking a last swallow, she set the mug down and moved forward to explore.

  Dusty spiderwebs covered the ceiling and even some of the paintings, but the late morning light filtering in allowed her to see far too many details of the neglect of this hall. A few corners of the frames had teeth marks, as if rats had chewed upon them.

  Did none of the servants care for this hall?

  Walking slowly, she looked up at the first portrait. The background was dark, but it depicted a proud-looking middle-aged man with a close-trimmed silver beard. He wore a sword on his hip and had a cream-colored dog standing at his side. Was he one of Anton’s ancestors?

  Moving farther down the wall, she took in each one of the portraits, ladies and noblemen and finely dressed soldiers, all larger than life, all so serious of expression—no one was smiling. While the sight of all of them in their state of sad decay might have been cloying to some people, Céline rather welcomed their presence.

  As if she were alone and yet not alone.

  Then she stopped, looking up at portrait that struck her as different from the others. It depicted a young woman dressed all in black, even to her boots. Her hair was black and hung in loose waves, and she’d been painted out of doors, beside a burning campfire, on a dark night. The outline of evergreen trees graced the background. What an odd choice of scene for a noblewoman of the House of Pählen. Her skin was ivory and seemed to glow by the light of the fire. Céline could not stop studying this one painting. It seemed so much more alive than the others.

  A footstep sounded behind her, and she whirled, perhaps jumpy after all from being in the presence of so many imposing life-sized portraits.

  Anton emerged from the stairwell. He walked halfway to her and stopped. Although finely dressed in a quilted tunic and polished boots, he looked even paler than he had last night, and his eyes were bleak.

  “Helga told me you’d come up here,” he said raggedly.

  Although she’d wanted to be alone, for some reason, his was the only company she thought she might be able to stand. But the sight of his face brought all her guilt rushing back.

  “You know about Sybil,” she said.

  He nodded, and if it were possible, his expression grew bleaker. “She was kind.”

  Céline wanted to choke, and she turned away. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  When she turned back, he seemed genuinely puzzled. She knew it was a mistake to speak openly with him. He was her patron, and she needed to maintain the aura of mystique, but again, for some reason, he was the only one to whom she felt able to show any pain, any doubts.

  All the horror of the night before came bubbling to the surface.

  “Because I should have been able to change it! To stop it! I made sure that the bed Jaromir put her in was not covered by a yellow-and-red-checked quilt. I should have searched the room. I should have stayed with her.” She paused, and then her true fear came pouring out. “What if my vision is what placed her in that room? What if just by speaking up, I’m the one who caused her death?”

  Anton was staring at her from where he stood, and in the light of his full attention, more bottled fears poured from her mouth. “And what about Rhiannon?” she said. “What if her father threatens to cast her out if she won’t marry Damek, and so she marries him after all, and part of the reason he has her killed is from spite at her initial refusal?” She drew a harsh breath. “A refusal that I counseled! What if all my prophesies of death only serve to ensure those deaths? If so, I should just keep silent.”

  Unable to go on, she put a hand over her eyes, not wishing to see anything, real or envisioned.

  But his footsteps sounded as he closed the distance between them and grasped her wrist lightly. His hand was cold as he slowly pulled her fingers away from her eyes. “Listen to me. Because of you, Jaromir and I know more than we did yesterday. We don’t know precisely how this is being done, but we know that someone with slender hands wearing black gloves is murdering the girls by nothing more than touch. Maybe it’s some kind of unknown poison on the gloves. Maybe it’s something more…arcane. But you cannot stop telling us what you see.”

  His face was close enough that she could see every swirl in the dark circles beneath his eyes. His thick hair had been carefully brushed and tucked behind his ears. His features were narrow, and she thought he would be handsome without the circles. But he looked so tired, so exhausted, and again she wondered what was wrong with him, what Master Feodor was supposedly doing to help him.<
br />
  That last thought made her realize she had ahold of herself again. He seemed to realize it, too. Letting go of her wrist, he stepped back. “Don’t worry about Rhiannon. I’ll write to her today. I’ll tell her she has a place here if her father disowns her. I’ll make sure she’s not forced to marry Damek.”

  As his words sank in, the rush of gratitude that hit Céline was almost too much to take in amidst everything she was going through. He seemed so different this morning. Gone was the haughty arrogance. He seemed just like…a man honestly trying to comfort her.

  She wasn’t used to anyone besides Amelie trying to help her.

  “You will?” she asked.

  “This morning,” he promised. “But you can’t stop reading our young women and telling me and Jaromir what you see.” He took another step back. “All right?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. If she didn’t help him solve this, what would become of her and Amelie? After the release of her outburst, she seemed able to begin shoving the ragged emotions back into a corner of her mind.

  She wanted that apothecary’s shop as much as she’d wanted anything in her life.

  “This hall has been badly neglected,” she said to change the subject.

  His breeding prevailed, and he fell into step beside her, looking up at a painting of a tall, hawkish man in chain armor. “I don’t think I’ve ever been up here. I rarely enter the guest wing. I’m not sure who these people are.”

  “Truly?” Céline asked in surprise. “These aren’t your ancestors?”

  “Not that I know. My grandfather took this castle from a rival in a siege. Most of the portraits of my ancestors are with my father, at Castle Pählen.” He paused. “But the only ones I recognize there are my grandfather and my mother.”

  His tone had altered slightly, becoming thinner at the mention of his mother.

  “When did she die?” Céline asked.

  “I was only eight, but I remember her. I’m glad Father had her portrait done, though. Sometimes I forget what she looked like, and when I visit him, I can be reminded.” He continued looking up. “I once had a miniature of just her face, but it was lost some time ago. Sad really. It was one of the few possessions I valued.”