Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red Page 4

  “I’d never ask this of you, Céline,” Anton answered raggedly. “I don’t want to send you to . . .” He trailed off. “But this is the first time my father has asked me for a personal favor. I cannot refuse. I cannot fail, and this cannot be solved through force.” He stepped closer to Céline. “Jaromir and I have been planning all afternoon, and we’ve come up with several provisions. I will send you and Amelie as ladies of my court, as my personal healers and seers, to ensure you are given due respect from the soldiers stationed at Ryazan. For the journey itself, Jaromir will take a small contingent of our own guards, and as added protection we will dress you both in red cloaks.”

  Amelie wanted to shake her head at his “provisions.” Droevinka was often in a state of civil war, even small wars between the houses. In years past, traveling healers who attempted to help wounded soldiers had often been killed along the road as spies or enemy combatants. Somehow—and no one quite knew where this started—they began wearing red cloaks to try to distinguish themselves. Still, too many of them were being lost, and the country was facing a shortage of skilled healers. As a result, all the princes had gathered and agreed that no factions would harm those in red cloaks.

  “And you think those cloaks will protect us from madmen turning into beasts?” Amelie asked angrily.

  “No,” Jaromir stated. “I will do that.”

  To Amelie’s further discomfort, so far, Céline had not refused, but the tremble in her left hand was growing worse.

  “You’ll need to dress as traveling ladies of my court,” Anton added, glancing at Amelie’s breeches.

  Oh, this just got better and better.

  “We haven’t agreed to go anywhere,” she told him.

  His expression darkened, and she fought to hold her tongue. Anton was normally well-mannered, but like all princes of this nation, he was a warlord vying to hold on to power, and he expected to be obeyed.

  “I am asking you to do this for me,” he said tightly.

  Without thinking, Amelie exploded in the only way she could, by making her own demands. “What’s in it for us?”

  Céline gasped, and Jaromir’s face tightened in shock. He stared at her as if she were a stranger.

  Instantly, Amelie regretted her words and wished she could take them back. They might have done a service for Anton last spring, but he had not only given her and Céline a safe refuge and his protection; he’d given them an apothecary shop with an herb garden and a built-in livelihood. They owed him more than they could ever repay.

  Only Anton did not appear affected by her demand. Instead, he looked her up and down as if she were a simpleton. “As reward, you might receive me as grand prince of your nation. Unless you would prefer Damek?”

  Amelie glanced away, embarrassed.

  “We cannot refuse,” Céline whispered.

  Everyone fell silent, and as Anton again took in the sight of Céline’s silk gown and loose hair, it was his turn to appear embarrassed. But the expression passed quickly, and he drew himself to full height.

  “Go home and rest tonight,” he said. “Come back up to the castle and see Helga tomorrow. Don’t bother about packing anything other than medicinal supplies you might wish to bring. Helga will get you both packed and prepared for the journey. You’ll ride out at midday.” He paused. “I swear Jaromir will keep you from harm.”

  Céline didn’t meet his eyes, but she nodded.

  * * *

  After a nearly sleepless night in her own bed, the following morning Céline found herself back up at the castle, inside a guest room, trapped between two very strong-willed women.

  “I am not wearing those,” Amelie insisted.

  “Oh, yes, you are, girlie,” Helga countered, shoving both a green wool gown—which laced up the front—and a white cotton shift at Amelie. “His lord majesty lieutenant says you’re going in disguise for your own safety, so go in disguise you will! Now, get those breeches off or I’ll pin you to that bed and pull ’em off myself.”

  Amelie’s eyes narrowed. “You can try.”

  Helga squared off with the gown and shift over one arm, and her hands clenched into fists. She appeared to be at least in her seventies, with thick white hair up in a bun that was partially covered by an orange kerchief. Her wrinkled face had a dusky tone, and she wore a faded homespun dress that might have once been purple.

  “And what of your sister?” she accused. “His lord majesty lieutenant says you’ll be safe if you arrive as ladies of the court who’ve also taken up the red cloak. Mistress Céline’s safety depends on this as well. If you show up dressed like a hooligan boy, Jaromir’s story won’t hold water for a minute, and if those soldiers don’t believe it of you, they won’t believe it of her either. Then what happens?”

  Amelie stood shaking with rage, but with gritted teeth, she finally held her out hand. “Oh, give them to me.”

  Céline breathed softly in relief, but it was the first and only hint of relief she’d felt since last night. No matter how important this task might be, a part of her couldn’t believe what Anton was asking. She had begun to think he cared for her, that he’d been giving her all the time she needed to heal. But . . . it seemed he’d simply not required her abilities until now, and the moment he did, he’d not hesitated to ask. Worse, in spite of Jaromir’s skill with a sword, Céline and Amelie were being sent into danger—and Anton knew it.

  Céline couldn’t help feeling numb. Nothing was as she’d thought.

  As Amelie angrily pulled off her faded blue shirt, Helga stepped back and examined the lavender wool gown Céline had arrived wearing. “Good. That will do nicely. Ladies wear wool when traveling. Now, come and look at what I’ve packed for you.”

  With little choice, Céline moved to obey, but she couldn’t help viewing Helga with affection. Though the old woman was officially a servant here in the castle, Céline 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,” traveling gypsies.

  Before arriving in Sèone, Céline and Amelie had known little of their origins.

  Their father had been a village hunter for Shetâna, and one year, he’d been on a long-distance hunt, lasting several weeks, and he’d come back with their mother and married her. Then the couple had built an apothecary shop in Shetâna and started a small family. Once Céline and Amelie were old enough, their mother taught them to read. She taught Céline herb lore and the ways of healing—while saying nothing of her own past.

  Neither of the sisters had ever heard the term “Mist-Torn” before Helga explained it to them, that not only were they born of a Móndyalítko mother, but they were of a special line called the Mist-Torn, each of whom possessed a natural power. As sisters, Céline and Amelie were two sides of the same coin, one able to read the future and one able to read the past.

  This knowledge had changed their lives.

  “I’ve packed a second wool dress for each of you,” Helga was saying, “and a formal gown for both of you as well, should Captain Keegan be one of those officers who likes to entertain.”

  Amelie looked over with her face turning red. “I thought we going to be in the middle of a forest.”

  Helga nodded sagely, causing her kerchief to fall further askew. “Yes, and some of those captains posted to the middle of nowhere insist on bringing their own wine and goblets and putting on airs to try to pretend they ain’t in the middle of nowhere. His lord majesty lieutenant has no idea what you’re walking into, and he told me to make sure you were prepared.”

>   “Thank you, Helga,” Céline said. “We know you’re trying to help.”

  Helga grunted and turned back to the large travel bags. “I’ve got stockings and clean shifts and brushes for your hair. Do you have any potions you need to need to pack?”

  Céline bit the inside of her mouth at the word “potions” and went to the door to retrieve a large box of supplies she’d brought up from the shop. Like Jaromir, she had no idea what they were walking into and wanted to be prepared for any contingency.

  “Will there be room in the provisions wagon?” she asked.

  “The lieutenant will make room,” Helga answered, hefting the box.

  “I can barely move in this thing,” Amelie complained.

  Glancing over at her sister, Céline saw that she was trying to swing her arms while wearing the green gown.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Céline said, almost crossly. Really . . . they had bigger worries than Amelie being forced to abandon her breeches and put on a dress.

  “The color suits you,” Helga said.

  Indeed, the shade of forest green did suit Amelie’s pale skin. The gown was simple, long sleeved, with a straight neckline. The skirt was not too full, though it did seem rather long. Hopefully, she wouldn’t trip over it.

  Crouching, Amelie tucked her dagger into a sheath inside her boot.

  Helga picked up a set of bright red cloaks lying on the bed. “You’d best put these on.” She held one out. “Prince Anton had them purchased down in the village this morning. I heard he paid a fortune.”

  Céline didn’t doubt it. Both cloaks were of fine quality, dyed a rich shade of scarlet. Only a prince could afford to buy two such ready-made garments at a moment’s notice.

  Amelie reached out and touched one. “Won’t these make us look more like ladies of court just playing at being healers?”

  Céline took a cloak and put it on, leaving the hood down so that it rested on her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that this Captain Keegan believes we’re seers and healers from Anton’s court sent to help him.”

  Ironically, they both were seers from Anton’s court, and Céline was a skilled healer, but no one at Ryazan could know they were peasants who, until a few months ago, had been scraping out an existence in a tiny, muddy village under the harsh thumb of Damek’s rule. They would need to command respect if they intended to conduct a proper investigation.

  By way of answer, Amelie donned her cloak as well.

  Turning, Céline looked into a tall mirror on the stand in the corner. Amelie stood beside her, and they appeared as two respectable young healers preparing for a journey.

  “What about my hair?” Amelie asked.

  “If anyone asks, we’ll tell them you had a fever and I had to cut it off, and it’s just now growing back out.”

  “Right, then. Are we ready?”

  Céline didn’t answer. This was all happening much too fast, and she didn’t feel remotely ready.

  * * *

  Near midday, Céline found herself in the courtyard of the castle, standing just outside a bustling collection of soldiers and horses as Jaromir called out orders in preparation for departure. He was dressed in chain armor and a tan tabard of Castle Sèone, with a sheathed long sword on his left hip.

  Amelie was overseeing their travel bags being packed into a wagon, but Céline didn’t seem able to speak or move. A part her still couldn’t believe that only last evening, she’d walked up to the castle looking forward to attending a banquet.

  Now she felt lost and out of control, as if she was being swept along on a current instead of guiding her own path.

  “All right,” Jaromir called. “Get the provisions tied down and covered.”

  Céline glanced over the men he’d chosen. Though not surprised, she was slightly unsettled to see Corporal Pavel at Jaromir’s side. Pavel was tall with a lanky build and dark close-cropped hair. He was considered quite good in a fight, and so Jaromir often brought him on journeys. But Céline was cautious around Pavel. He had a well-hidden temper, and although he’d never actually hurt Céline, he had come close once, and she avoided him when possible.

  She was surprised, however, to see Guardsman Rurik in the mix. He was a smaller man with a wiry build and curly light brown hair he wore to the top of his shoulders. He was known as the swiftest rider of anyone under Jaromir’s command, and so he’d been offered the position of messenger between Anton and his father.

  It seemed unlikely that Anton would wish to part with him for any length of time.

  Still, Jaromir appeared to have great trust in Rurik, and when Céline and Amelie had first arrived in the courtyard that morning, Jaromir had explained his preparations a bit more carefully. He’d chosen fifteen men—whom he knew well—from the Sèone ranks as escort, and he’d had a wagon loaded with provisions. Once they neared Ryazan, he would keep Corporal Pavel with him and send the rest back to Sèone, as Anton did not want him riding into the encampment with a contingent. Jaromir would later send Pavel to arrange for an escort to come and see them safely home again, once the . . . difficulty had been solved. Anton and Jaromir had considered having the contingent camp somewhere in the woods and wait. But there was no telling how long it would take Amelie and Céline to solve the situation—possibly weeks—and so in the end, they’d decided it was a better option to have the men simply return to Sèone and go back when necessary.

  However, the gist of all this suggested the trip would not be brief. That much was clear. So Céline had asked Erin, the blacksmith’s daughter, to come check on Oliver at the shop each day, to bring him milk and make certain he had fresh water. Céline had left a back shutter open, so he could get in and out easily, and he was perfectly capable of hunting for himself, but she wanted him to know that he’d not been abandoned, that the shop was still his home.

  And now she was simply waiting to ride out on a journey she could not refuse.

  “I chose your horse myself,” said a soft voice behind her.

  Turning, she found Anton standing there, taking in the sight of her red cloak.

  “Would you like to meet her?” he asked.

  His face was unreadable, but his voice was strained and his eyes shone with misery. Suddenly, all her numbness faded away. He didn’t want to send her on this task. He looked as lost as she by all the activity taking place in this courtyard.

  Trying to smile, she answered, “Yes, please introduce us.”

  She followed him over to a dappled gray mare with a cloth bridle and a blanket over her sidesaddle.

  “Her name is Sable,” Anton said. “She’s gentle but swift.”

  Céline didn’t know how to ride, so she simply nodded, petting Sable’s soft nose. “Thank you.”

  The misery in his eyes increased, and he leaned closer. “Céline, I didn’t want to ask this of you . . . any of this. But I cannot fail my father, and I cannot see any other way. You and Amelie have a chance of finding out what is happening at those mines, and then Jaromir can stop it. There is no one else.” He paused. “You understand? This isn’t about me. It’s about the future of Droevinka.”

  His normally haughty voice sounded so pained, she wasn’t certain how to respond. She did understand, and she could not fathom even the prospect of Damek as grand prince, with the power of life and death over the nation.

  “Mount up!” Jaromir called.

  Céline glanced over at Amelie, who was scrambling up into the sidesaddle of a small black gelding. Amelie didn’t know how to ride either, and sitting with her legs on the same side of the horse would hardly make it easier. The very concept of a sidesaddle struck Céline as ridiculous, but she and Amelie were supposed to be ladies of court.

  Anton took hold of Sable’s bridle and helped guide Céline’s foot into the stirrup. Thankfully, Céline managed to lift herself and settle into her own sa
ddle with a modicum of grace.

  Then she looked down. Before leaving, she needed to tell Anton something. She felt different from only moments ago. His coming out here to see her off, to express his regret and reluctance, had made her understand the importance of what he was asking.

  “We won’t fail,” she said. “I swear that your father will not be disappointed, that he will see you as a leader who can step up to any task, any problem, and find a way to solve it.”

  He stared up. “Céline—”

  “I swear,” she repeated.

  Then she managed to steer the mare around and follow Amelie and Jaromir toward the castle gates, with a contingent of fifteen soldiers and a wagon coming behind her.

  Chapter Three

  Two days later, Amelie’s backside had never been so sore. Perhaps riding on a horse saved wear on one’s feet, but she didn’t find the trade-off worthwhile. Every step sent a new jarring pain up her spine. As the contingent traveled up a heavily forested dirt road, she seriously considered asking Jaromir if she and Céline might tie their mounts to the back of the wagon and ride on top of the provisions for a while.

  Only two things stopped her.

  First, “ladies of court” should probably not be seen sitting on top of the provisions like so much extra baggage.

  Second . . . Jaromir hadn’t looked at her once since the journey began. In fact, he hadn’t looked at her since the night up in Anton’s apartments. She’d both expected him to tease her about the green dress and make jokes about someone finally getting her into a skirt—and dreaded that he would do so.

  But he hadn’t.

  He hadn’t said a word.

  With a sinking feeling, she thought she knew why. His face had been so shocked when she’d demanded of Anton, “What’s in it for us?” and he hadn’t looked at her since. In truth, she should be thrilled, dancing with joy that she’d finally done something to make him stop teasing her, flirting with her, attempting to make her like him. She knew his reputation for going through women, and she had no intention of being just another girl on his long list.