To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) Page 6

  If she closed her eyes, she would see Anton’s face looking back.

  So she lay by the smoldering fire in Marcus’s arms until his breathing grew even and she knew he’d fallen asleep. She waited awhile longer, to be sure. Then she slipped out from under his arm and covered him with the blanket.

  As quietly as possible she went back into the wagon and crawled up into the top bunk with Amelie. There, she slept restlessly for the remainder of the night beside her sister.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, Jaromir noticed that everyone was unusually quiet. After breakfast, Céline announced she would ride inside the larger wagon with Helga. Marcus glanced at her but said nothing.

  As had become the custom, Amelie climbed up beside Jaromir.

  To his shame, he was almost sorry their journey to Yegor was coming to an end. The past week of sitting on the bench in the open air, rolling through Droevinka with few decisions and few responsibilities, had almost felt like a holiday. His body was lighter without his chain armor and even though he felt somewhat exposed without a sword on his hip, he had thick daggers sheathed up both sleeves and another in his right boot.

  Amelie sat close beside him in her blue skirt and white blouse, tilting her pretty face up to ask him questions about the route or if he wanted her to drive for a while. He loved to watch her dark hair swing across her shoulders when she moved her head, and he loved to see her small but strong hands take the reins. Enveloped in her company, he didn’t feel alone.

  He knew they would reach their destination today, and then everything would change.

  “I’ve never been in the southeast,” she said. “I had no idea what we’d find.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I like it.”

  So did he, but he’d been here before. In his younger years as a mercenary, he’d traveled all over the country. Though he preferred the rugged lands of the west and the dark, dripping forests of the north, the east had its attractions, too. The weather was warmer here throughout the year, and there were countless open fields of grass or wheat interspersed with uncleared sections of trees.

  As Jaromir and Amelie took turns driving throughout the morning, they passed people and dogs herding sheep and cattle as well.

  Geese flew overhead and large hawks sailed over the wheat fields in search of mice.

  Then, just past midday, the world around them changed. It wasn’t gradual.

  Suddenly, all the crops around them were dead. The forested areas were still lush and green, but any orchard or vineyard or wheat field was dead and brown. The fruit trees were like dried husks and the wheat, barley, and berry plants were shriveled on the dried ground.

  “By the gods,” Amelie whispered. “What could cause that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jaromir held the reins, and he considered stopping but decided to press onward for several more hours. Nothing changed. The crops and fields were dead, but the forested areas were untouched.

  In the midafternoon, he stopped his horses, stood, and waved Marcus to drive up beside him.

  Marcus’s face was pale and drawn.

  “I assume you know where we’re going?” Jaromir asked.

  Marcus nodded but seemed unable to speak.

  “Then you lead.”

  Wordlessly, Marcus pulled ahead.

  A few leagues later, he turned east down a side road, and Jaromir felt a short respite of relief as they traveled through a forested area with wildflowers on the ground and birds in the trees.

  But in less than an hour, they rolled out of the trees and approached a large meadow covered in dead brown grass. At least thirty wagons—which was fewer than he’d expected—were parked in two separate rows down the meadow. Looking east, he saw a small castle on a hill. The undeveloped north and west sides of the meadow were still living and green. But the orchards and berry fields to the south and east were dried and shriveled.

  The next things Jaromir saw were guards in orange tabards.

  “Marcus!” he called. “Stop.”

  He pulled the larger wagon around in front. He wanted to handle any “greeting” they received here himself.

  A guard walked toward them in long strides, but his sword remained in its sheath, and his expression was not threatening.

  “Sorry,” he said, standing below, near the bench of the wagon. “There’s no work for you this season.” He motioned toward the orchards. “As you see.”

  “We haven’t come to work the harvest,” Jaromir answered. “We have kin here, and we heard they aren’t allowed to leave.”

  “That’s the case. Prince Malcolm’s orders. He thinks one of your people has done this to the crops. I can let you in, but I’d advise against it. Once you’re in, you can’t leave.”

  “That makes no sense,” Amelie said. “If we’re just arriving now, we couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with what’s happened here.”

  “Prince’s orders,” the man repeated, looking her up and down. “I suggest you turn around now and find somewhere else to spend the summer. That’s what most of your kind have decided to do.”

  So other Móndyalítko groups had been arriving and were then turned away on the threat of imprisonment.

  “We’ll stay,” Jaromir said. “We have people expecting us.”

  The guard shrugged and stepped aside.

  Jaromir clucked to the horses, and they started forward. He could hear Marcus coming behind him.

  Dried grass crunched beneath the wheels, and people began emerging from around the sides of wagons to watch the newcomers arriving. Small burned patches encircled by stones showed where campfires had been built. Chickens pecked at the dried earth. Empty cook pots hung on iron hooks with wide stands. Most of the horses were tethered on the west side of the meadow, and some were beginning to look thin.

  Jaromir studied the people themselves as his wagon continued through the center of the other wagons. Most had dark hair. Some were pale, and some were dusky. They wore brightly colored clothing, and many wore silver rings in their ears. Their expressions were serious. Most of the faces he saw were pinched, but no one appeared to be starving.

  Just over halfway through the meadow, he saw a clear spot, large enough to park both of their wagons in, and he pulled over with the back door of the white wagon facing the inside of the meadow itself.

  Marcus pulled in beside him, leaving about a wagon’s width of empty space between them, and set the brake.

  It was time to climb down.

  Amelie’s eyes were wide, almost anxious as she looked up at him. This surprised him, as she was rarely afraid of anything.

  “These are my mother’s people,” she said quietly, “and I don’t know anything about them.”

  “It’ll be all right,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t make such a promise.

  * * *

  From the back of the white wagon, Céline had watched what she could of their arrival.

  Helga pressed up beside her and began reciting the names of families as they passed.

  Some of the wagons were fine with new wheels and fresh paint; some were rickety and decayed.

  As they rolled past a set of especially lavish-looking wagons with shingled rooftops, Helga said, “The line of Renéive.” At the sight of three shabby wagons, she said, “The line of Klempá.” Then she just began providing some of the family names. “Taragoš . . . Kaleja . . . Džugi . . . Ayres . . . Fawe.”

  “Fawe?” Céline echoed, noting two fine wagons painted deep red with white shutters. She tried not to tremble with anxiety at the prospect of meeting her mother’s family. Then she glanced down at Helga. “Ayres? Your own family?”

  Helga nodded tightly. Céline longed to ask her what had happened, what had driven her to Castle Sèone, but the older woman still forbade any questions.

&
nbsp; The wagon stopped and a moment later, the door opened and Marcus stood outside, setting up the steps.

  “It’s time,” Helga said.

  Taking a deep breath, Céline walked to the open door. Marcus reached up for her hand, and instinctively, she took it and allowed him to help her down the steps. She walked slowly, as if his assistance was her due. Helga came out behind her. Jaromir and Amelie joined them only seconds before the first of the Móndyalítko came to greet them.

  “Marcus,” said a middle-aged man with dark hair.

  Letting go of Céline’s hand, Marcus offered the man a slight bow. “Rupert, am I welcome?”

  Céline remembered his family had been banished from the meadow, but Helga had implied that those rules might not apply to him.

  The man called Rupert frowned as if confused. “Of course you’re welcome, but you shouldn’t have come. You won’t be allowed to leave now.”

  Marcus motioned to Céline and Amelie. “I brought two Mist-Torn seers. They offer assistance.”

  A small crowd had gathered by now, too many to study at once, but Céline couldn’t help taking note of someone standing behind Rupert. She was a stunning girl of about eighteen, small with perfect pale skin and black hair that flowed like silk down her back.

  Then many voices began saying “Marcus” or “Helga” in tones of surprise or welcome.

  Amelie pulled up close beside Céline as people stared at them in a kind of wonder.

  Again, instinctively, Céline knew she had to play a part, a part she had played many times before . . . somewhere. Pitching her voice to a regal tone, she spoke directly to Rupert. “We learned of your plight here and have come to see if we might help.”

  “To help?” Rupert bowed low as if she were nobility. “You are from the line of Fawe? How . . . how have you . . . ?”

  He trailed off as the crowd parted and a woman walked through. She was at least forty, but still lovely with wheat gold hair and light brown eyes. There was something stately about the way she walked with her head high. A large man with a mustache walked close behind her. His hair was dark but peppered with silver.

  The woman stopped and stared at Céline in shock. Her breathing seemed to quicken.

  Helga stepped forward instantly. “Girls,” she said, “this is your aunt, Sinead, your mother’s sister.” She turned to the woman. “Sinead, these are Eleanor’s daughters, Céline and Amelie.”

  Céline stood frozen. Their mother’s sister.

  “Eleanor’s daughters?” Sinead stumbled back a step, and the large man behind her caught her arm to support her. He looked down upon the top of her head in devotion and protection. Sinead’s eyes flew to Céline’s face. “Where is Eleanor? Is she with you?”

  Céline’s stomach tightened. She should have known to expect how difficult this would be.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Our mother has . . . passed from us, some years ago.”

  Sinead closed her eyes, and the man used both hands to hold her up. Regret and sorrow filled Céline that this exchange had been forced between them in public. She stepped forward, hoping to offer some comfort, but a loud cry rang out.

  “Helga!”

  A stout woman in a thin faded blue dress came toward them. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, with her gray hair tied back. Her eyes were wild as she came to a stop, taking in the sight of Helga.

  Helga put one hand to her mouth. “Alondra.”

  The woman called Alondra rushed forward, grabbing Helga in her arms and sobbing loudly. The pain in her voice was raw, and her entire body racked with each sob.

  Helga clutched the woman back, holding her tightly. “Oh, Alondra, don’t. Not here.”

  Marcus was at their side instantly. “Over here.” Using his arms, he ushered them back near the wagon wheel so they could sit on the ground together and lean against it. Alondra continued to clutch Helga.

  This arrival in the camp was a good deal more emotional on all levels than Céline could have anticipated.

  When she looked back to the crowd, Sinead and her escort were gone, but another man approached the crowd, and something about him put her on guard. In his early thirties, he was tall and muscular and moved with a swift grace. His hair was dark and cut short. His feet were bare, and he wore loose pants and a loose shirt like Marcus’s.

  At the sight of her, he stopped cold and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she was nervous. His gaze flicked to Marcus and then back to her again.

  There were far too many people here for Céline to meet at once, and poor Amelie was watching Helga and Alondra in some alarm. Jaromir hadn’t said a word but remained within arm’s length of Amelie, keeping his eyes on the crowd as if making sure no one got too close.

  For the most part, the gathered crowd had fallen silent, watching Céline and Amelie expectantly, as if waiting for something. Céline didn’t think this was the right time to tell everyone why they’d come: to catch whoever had cursed the fields.

  Instead, she moved back to the steps of the wagon and walked to the top. There, she let her voice carry.

  “I do not know if you have another healer among you now, but my mother taught me her skills, and I have brought a large supply of fresh medicines. If you will bring any sick or wounded, it would be my honor to tend them.”

  Relief washed over the faces of those watching her, and the small crowd dispersed quickly. She heard some voices calling to each other, such as, “I’ll get Tildy. You get Ryen.”

  Céline looked down at Marcus, standing below her on the ground. He nodded once and silently mouthed, Good.

  * * *

  Jaromir was at a loss.

  For the first time, he regretted this ruse. He badly wanted to don his armor, sword, and tabard of Sèone. He wanted to be seen as Prince Anton’s lieutenant. Though the Móndyalítko appeared to revere Céline and Amelie, he had no power here and no control.

  He had become accustomed to control.

  The Yegor guards would view him as just another Móndyalítko, and the people of this meadow would view him as an outsider who’d married in.

  He could see that Amelie was visibly shaken by everything that had just transpired, but he was thankful to Céline for having broken up the crowd and redirected their attention.

  “You all right?” he asked Amelie.

  “That was our aunt,” she said quietly. “And Céline had to tell her that our mother is dead.” She looked over to Helga, still holding Alondra. “I didn’t expect so much so fast.”

  “Neither did I,” he answered truthfully.

  Helga caught his eye, and he walked over, motioning Amelie to follow.

  Gently pushing Alondra up, Helga said, “Amelie, this is my sister.”

  Amelie’s troubled expression shifted to a mix of interest and sympathy. “Oh, I am glad to meet you.” She turned as if to introduce Jaromir, but Helga cut her off.

  “Alondra, this is Amelie’s husband, Jaromir Fawe.”

  For a moment, he was taken aback. His given name was Kirell, even though few people knew it and those who did never used it. Everyone called him by his surname. Then he remembered that some Móndyalítko often took the name of the woman’s family when they married. Helga had simply combined his more commonly used name with Amelie’s surname.

  This made him feel even more out of control, but he understood it.

  “So good to see you both,” Alondra said, sniffing and wiping her face with one arm. “I never thought to meet young seers from the line of Fawe again.”

  “We’re here to find out who did that,” Amelie said, pointing to the dead apple orchard. “And to get you out of here.”

  Alondra nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, I thought as much. I wondered if Helga would see what was happening, but I never expected her to bring help.”

  Jaromir glanced at Amelie, who shrugged. Not all
of this discussion was making sense.

  Helga grasped her sister’s hand. “How far into those dead fields can we go?”

  Alondra shook her head in alarm. “Not at all. We can’t leave the meadow.”

  Helga thought for a moment and then said, “Jaromir, take me to the edge. I want to see what I can.”

  Glad for some action, Jaromir looked over to see Céline and Marcus on the steps, waiting for her first patient. He trusted Marcus to stay with her.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching down for Helga.

  She let him haul her to feet and said to her sister, “You, too.”

  Just as they were about to head for the edge of the meadow, Helga stopped and her body went rigid. In alarm, Jaromir followed her gaze.

  She watched a man who had moved away from the white wagon, but not dispersed with the others. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair cut short. His feet were bare. His eyes were on Céline.

  “Not now, Helga,” Alondra said, her tone desperate. “Don’t do anything. Griffin is dead now, and Gerard leads our family, so things are different, but you stay away from Jago.”

  Jaromir had no idea what any of this meant, but Helga continued glaring at the man.

  “Your seer has Marcus right there with her,” Alondra pressed. “Nothing will happen.”

  Amelie’s expression shifted to alarm. “What’s wrong? Who’s that man?”

  “Jago Taragoš,” Helga answered, as if that explained everything. The hatred in her voice was thick. “Lieutenant, you watch him. He’s a killer.”

  Jaromir stepped closer. “What?”

  “He’s a killer, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Helga,” he insisted, “what do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer, and the man called Jago turned and walked away.

  “See, he’s gone,” Alondra said, grasping Helga’s arm. “Now come to the edge of the meadow, like you wanted.”

  After a moment, Helga nodded to her sister. Jaromir wanted to press her but knew it would be pointless. Until she was ready to speak, he’d get nothing from her. The term “killer” was ambiguous. He himself had killed when necessary, and so had Amelie. For that matter, so had Céline once. This man named Jago didn’t appear to concern anyone besides Helga, so Jaromir wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.