Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches Page 9

  Looking around the great hall, he thought on how most he’d seen before were rectangular, but this one was an enormous square. Heavy chairs, tables, and benches were haphazardly strewn around, but a fire burned in the hearth, and he reveled in the comfort of being warm. He wished he’d been able to borrow a razor from someone to shave his face. Beneath his armor and clothing he was filthy from having slept outdoors for too long, and he knew that his appearance was not working in his favor.

  Prince Lieven sat in a chair on a dais at the top of the hall. A stocky man with a graying beard, he was in his midfifties but as yet showed no signs of slowing down. Jaromir was desperate to impress him, to find some way to gain a permanent place among the Castle Pählen guards, even if it meant standing night watch for the rest of his life.

  Lizzie whined, and he reached down to stroke her back. There were at least twenty other soldiers in brown tabards placed around the hall, but still, no one glanced Jaromir’s way. They didn’t believe he’d be here long.

  He hoped they were wrong.

  Once he’d thought himself far too proud to grovel for a humble position as a night watchman, but pride was a tenuous thing that could be worn down bit by bit over a period of years.

  Looking back at the dais again, Jaromir thought on everything that had brought him to his current state.

  Five years before, at the age of twenty-two, he’d already achieved the rank of lieutenant by serving among the military forces for the House of Hilaron in the eastern provinces. His lord was an older prince named Phillipos, and Jaromir was loyal. Something about the aging prince stirred his sense of protection.

  But tired of waiting to be the head of the house, Phillipos’s son raised a contingent of men and waged war on his own father. Prince Phillipos himself was killed and his soldiers were nearly decimated. Jaromir survived…his horse did not.

  In his mercy, the victorious son offered any surviving soldiers a place in the new military for the House of Hilaron. Most of them gratefully accepted.

  Lieutenant Jaromir refused to swear fealty.

  He decided he would rather live by his sword as a hired mercenary than serve his dead lord’s traitorous son. This seemed the only path of honor. So he headed west, on foot, with his wolfhound, Lizzie, for company.

  To his shame, within a year, he began to regret his decision. Life as a hired sword in a nation like Droevinka turned out to be worse than he could have imagined—with him taking on jobs that once would have sickened him. He was often forced to keep company among men who were little better than animals, who understood only hunger and strength. He lived well sometimes and nearly starved at others. He and Lizzie often slept outside.

  It rained a good deal of the time.

  Upon deciding to better his situation, he found that because he’d relinquished his place with the House of Hilaron, it was nearly impossible to find a proper post with another lord or prince. They wanted only men they knew, men who had come highly recommended, or men they had reason to trust. No one had a reason to trust him.

  The years passed.

  Then, by sheer luck, one night he was drinking ale in a tavern, and he overheard that Prince Lieven of the House of Pählen was hiring extra men for a family gathering that involved his two sons. Jaromir didn’t need to ask a reason for the extra security—as both sons would be bringing their own men. The elder princes in Droevinka tended to foster competition and hostility between themselves and their sons. They viewed it as healthy for the future survival of the house—if not always for themselves.

  Castle Pählen had been a two-day walk from the tavern, but Jaromir started off immediately.

  Upon arriving, he’d been hired, and now…he counted his good fortune to have gained even short-term employment with the prince of a house, and a powerful one at that.

  He was determined not to waste this chance.

  He had no pride left.

  So he stood at attention in the great hall of Castle Pählen while his mind mulled over how he might distinguish himself.

  Conversation in the hall had been soft, but the entire chamber fell silent as Sub-Prince Damek walked through the archway. He and his men had arrived at the castle the day before and had been taking their leisure.

  “You called for me, Father?” he asked.

  “Yes, your brother has arrived in the courtyard and will be joining us directly.”

  “Good news indeed.”

  Where his father was stocky, Damek was slender. He was pale and handsome and rarely said a word without meaning to land a verbal cut. But Jaromir no longer held illusions about the nobility. Damek was exactly what he’d come to expect from a typical sub-prince: cruel, greedy, brutal, and self-serving. His brother, Anton, would be just like him.

  A servant entered the hall, and Jaromir expected Sub-Prince Anton to be announced. Instead, the servant called, “The Lady Karina, of the House of Yegor.”

  A lovely woman with chestnut hair floated into the hall, walked to the dais, and bowed. “My lord. Anton will be in directly. I traveled with his entourage, and he is seeing to the horses.”

  Lieven studied her for a moment, taken aback. “Ah, yes, Lady Karina. One of my late wife’s sisters? It is good to meet you. I’d been informed you had arrived at Sèone.” He continued his visual appraisal in a manner that bordered on impolite. “You bear little resemblance to my Bethany…just your hair.”

  If Karina was offended, she didn’t show it and smiled. “No, I believe she took after our mother, but I was only a child when she was sent west to marry you. I look more like our father.”

  Jaromir couldn’t help noting that this was the first time Prince Lieven had met his dead wife’s sister.

  “It was kind of you to come all the way from the southeast provinces,” Lieven responded. “How fares my son?”

  She hesitated. “He is bearing up. I will continue to be of assistance to him.”

  “Perhaps you should come and be of assistance to me,” Damek said, sinking lazily down into a chair. “I’d no idea we had such an aunt in the family.”

  She turned cold eyes upon him. “Your brother is in mourning.”

  Jaromir had heard through conversations taking place around him that Anton had recently lost his wife, but Jaromir scoffed at the idea of a sub-prince in mourning. The poor young wife had probably come with too small a dowry, or she’d otherwise displeased him, and he’d had her poisoned or strangled.

  “Sub-Prince Anton, of the House of Pählen,” a servant announced loudly.

  At first, Jaromir barely glanced at Anton, but then something about the sub-prince pulled his attention back. Anton was young, maybe nineteen. Although pale like his brother, as opposed to merely slender of build, Anton looked as if he hadn’t been eating. His eyes were haunted, and Jaromir was struck by the impression that he’d been ordered here by his father—and that it was the last place he wished to be.

  It seemed foolish for Jaromir to form these impressions in the matter of a few seconds, but he couldn’t help it.

  A tall man in a tan tabard walked beside Anton. They both wore long swords.

  “My son,” Lieven said, “and Captain Nazar. Welcome. Come and sit.”

  Anton seemed to sleepwalk toward the top of the hall, and Damek watched his every move as if gauging him somehow. Still sitting in his chair, Damek casually pulled his own sword from its sheath and began wiping it with a cloth.

  Jaromir tensed.

  But then he realized that he no longer felt Lizzie against his leg. Looking around, he spotted her sniffing the floor near the arched entrance to the hall. He couldn’t call her back or make a sound. The hall guards were to remain silent.

  “How was your journey, my son?” Lieven asked Anton, but his voice was strained, as if he had no idea what else to ask.

  “Fine, Father. Thank you.”

  Anton’s response sounded obligatory, polite but without thought, and it occurred to Jaromir that the young man might truly be in mourning. He looked fragile…wound
ed, and Jaromir was astonished at the compulsion to protect someone else surging through him. He hadn’t felt this in a long time.

  Damek stood up and yawned.

  With his sword in his hand, he walked casually toward the dais. “Well, now that we’re all here, perhaps we might finally settle some matters of importance.”

  Lieven raised an eyebrow. “What matters would those be?”

  “Naming me official heir, of course. I assumed that was why we’d all been called to home and hearth.”

  Prince Lieven’s face began to redden. Damek must be the greatest of fools to blindside his father like this—and in front of witnesses.

  “I’m sure Anton is in agreement,” Damek went on, “aren’t you, my brother? You think it’s time Father officially names me heir?”

  Anton was staring toward the burning logs in the hearth. “What?” he asked, seeming to speak through a fog. “Oh, of course. Whatever you both decide. Father, could I please be excused to my rooms? I’m weary from the journey.”

  Without waiting for permission, he got to his feet and headed for the archway. His guard captain, Nazar, followed him.

  “You see?” Damek said to his father. “He’s tired. He’s always tired. He’s not fit to rule. Let us stop this charade of you ‘choosing’ between us and give our people some assurances that I will follow you.”

  Lieven was on his feet. “Anton! You stop right there.”

  The Lady Karina hadn’t said a word, but neither did she seem the least intimidated, and she was watching this play out with close attention.

  Anton stopped near the left side of the archway.

  Lieven turned on Damek. “I am head of this house, and I will decide who follows me.”

  Damek lost all his seemingly bored composure. “I am the eldest! The title is mine by right.” He pointed at Anton. “Look at him. Can he hold our lands together?”

  Anton indeed looked to be the shadow of a ghost standing there by the arch. He didn’t say a word to defend himself.

  “Get out of this hall until dinner,” Lieven ordered Damek. “And do not broach this subject in my presence again. I will name my heir when I so choose.”

  Damek’s expression flattened in open hatred, and he whirled on one foot to stride from the hall. Just then, Jaromir saw Lizzie in the center of the archway. Damek saw her in the same instant, and his eyes narrowed. His sword was still in his hand, and he gripped the hilt tighter. He was enraged, and he wanted to hurt something, to kill something.

  Jaromir fought from crying out. If he made a sound, if he challenged a sub-prince in this setting, he’d be dismissed immediately. Panic flooded through him that he was about to lose the only friend he had.

  Finally, unable to just stand there and watch, he took a step forward, ready to shout.

  But Sub-Prince Anton appeared to awaken from his fog. He saw Lizzie and he saw his brother’s face—and the sword in his brother’s hand. In a graceful movement, Anton crossed the archway and used his knee to nudge Lizzie to the other side. She obeyed and followed him.

  By the time Damek reached the archway, Lizzie was out of his path. He kept on walking, ignoring both his brother and the dog.

  * * *

  That evening, Jaromir was granted a few hours off duty—as he’d been appointed to help with the night watch later. As he wouldn’t be paid until the end of the week and he wasn’t allowed in the great hall during the dinner hour, he made his way to the kitchen to try to charm a meal from the women there.

  Thankfully, he looked better. He’d been able to borrow a razor an hour ago. Using a bucket of well water, he’d shaved and washed and tied his hair back at the nape of his neck. When he walked into the kitchen, he found it abuzz with activity, but a few scullery girls glanced his way. Lizzie sniffed the air and drooled.

  “You get that dog out of here,” said a squat middle-aged woman in an apron, “or I’ll cook it.”

  Jaromir flashed her a grin. “You’ll get us both out of here fast if you can spare some chicken.”

  “Food’s up in the great hall,” she said, leaning over to examine the crust on a pie.

  “Yes, but there’s no invitation up there for the likes of me, and I’m starving. I’ll trade a kiss for your trouble.”

  She looked up from the pie, taking in his face. Most women liked his face when it was clean and properly shaved. “You can keep your kiss.” However, she grabbed a wooden plate and piled on a few pieces of roasted chicken and potatoes. “Now, out back with you. And take that dog!”

  He thanked her and headed through the back door, sitting down on some crates outside, tearing some chicken off the bone for Lizzie. “Here, girl.”

  It was a cool night with a clear sky. The potatoes were excellent, and he knew that if he could land himself a permanent place here, he’d never go hungry again.

  Lizzie had finished her first bites of chicken and began whining for more. “Hold on,” he said, tearing more off the bones.

  When he looked up, he saw someone walking toward the stables. A moment later, he realized it was Sub-Prince Damek. What was he doing out there? All the nobles should be up in the great hall stuffing their faces, gulping wine, and dancing.

  Damek vanished inside the stable and didn’t come out.

  Jaromir waited, keeping to the shadows of the back door and the piles of crates. Not long after, another figure came into sight, heading for the stable as well…a tall man wearing a tan tabard.

  Captain Nazar.

  He too vanished inside the stable.

  “Stay here,” Jaromir told Lizzie.

  Looking for an open window in the stable, he spotted nothing that might help him, but then he noticed a slight crack in the wall with a large knothole in the adjoining board. Slipping up silently, he crouched to see if he could hear what was going on inside.

  Two low but clear voices could be heard through the hole.

  “I’ll give you the Westlake fiefdom and a quarter of the rents,” Damek was saying.

  “Half the rents,” Captain Nazar countered. “What’s one fiefdom to you when you’ll be named heir to your father’s lands?”

  A pause followed. “All right, half, but only if this succeeds.

  Jaromir took a sharp breath.

  “There’s an old gazebo down by the river,” Damek went on. “My father liked to have us meet him there when we were boys, for talks with him or sometimes for training. I have a scribe in my employ who can imitate my father’s handwriting perfectly. Tonight after Anton retires to his rooms, I’ll have a note delivered to him, asking him to meet my father at the gazebo tomorrow at dawn. He’ll not find that strange. Father often asked us to meet him quite early or late, probably as a test of obedience.”

  “And when he arrives, your own men will kill him?”

  “Yes, you need not take part in the act. Just make certain he’s unprotected. But his body must be dumped into the river afterward. The current is fast this time of year, and he’ll be swept downstream. I will still be abed, with witnesses to speak for me, and Anton will simply not appear for breakfast. It may be weeks before he’s found. If ever.”

  Jaromir pulled away from the outer wall, thinking over everything he’d just heard, wondering how he could use it to promote himself, and in the end decided that protecting Anton took precedence. It was the only path of honor.

  * * *

  The next morning, before dawn, Jaromir was crouched behind an oak tree growing near the gazebo. As a hired guard he had access to the castle amory, and in the night, he’d borrowed a few extra weapons. Now he had a loaded crossbow in his hand, a second loaded crossbow on the ground, and his sword and dagger in their sheaths.

  Anton and Captain Nazar arrived first. It was a misty morning and the sun was just cresting into view.

  “Father?” Anton called. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept.

  “You’re sure he told you to meet him here?” Nazar asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Four soldi
ers in black tabards came out of the mist, walking toward the gazebo. Anton wasn’t alarmed. He probably assumed they’d been sent with a message. Then all four drew their swords.

  “Nazar, look out,” Anton called, drawing his own blade and taking a defensive stance.

  But Captain Nazar simply stepped away, and the leader of the black-clad soldiers charged.

  “Nazar!” Anton called, confused now.

  Jaromir didn’t rush himself. Carefully, he aimed the first crossbow, and when he was sure, he fired. The quarrel struck the lead assassin in the back with a sucking sound. The man fell forward. Jaromir dropped the empty crossbow and snatched up the second one. The next soldier in line turned in panic to see where the quarrel had come from, and Jaromir shot him square in the chest.

  Dropping the second crossbow, he drew his dagger and charged. He thought it was possible that the last two of Damek’s men would turn and run, but apparently they feared Damek more than a fight against unknown odds, and they kept coming.

  By that point, Anton had recovered from his initial shock, and he was running forward into the fight, engaging one of the assassins.

  Jaromir caught the other one—a middle-aged man with a scarred face. His opponent swung hard, missed, and drew his arm back, overconfident at the prospect of fighting a man who’d chosen a smaller weapon. But Jaromir dashed inside his guard, grabbed his sword arm, and drove the dagger up into his torso, between his ribs. The man’s eyes widened briefly, but it happened so fast it might not even have caused much pain.

  Jaromir jerked out his dagger, knowing that if the man were still alive, that act would cause pain. He whirled to see Anton fighting the last soldier in a black tabard, but Captain Nazar was closing on Anton fast. He must have realized the consequences of failure at this point.

  Jaromir ran to intercept Nazar, dropping the dagger and pulling his sword.

  The captain swung at him in desperation. Jaromir dodged and faked a strike from the right, and when Nazar moved to block, Jaromir swept with his leg, knocking Nazar off his feet. The instant Nazar’s back hit the ground, Jaromir struck downward with the point of his sword, driving it through the man’s stomach with both hands on the hilt.