Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches (15 page)

Céline tried not to wince. Anton had ordered Pavel on night watch at the outside gate? She hoped that hadn’t been due to his attentions to her.

But if so, it didn’t appear to daunt him. The gong for dinner sounded, and he lowered his arm for her to take. “Come and eat with me,” he said.

She took his arm.

*   *   *

Once dinner had ended, Jaromir wasted no time getting Céline set up in her chair near the hearth, and then he practically ordered Baron Medev to go fetch his youngest daughter. Jaromir no longer felt he had the luxury of pretending these readings were some sort of entertainment, and no one would believe such a sugarcoated illusion anyway. Not after Sybil’s death.

In part, this lack of pretense was a relief, as it allowed him to use his power and give the necessary orders, but it also drove him even harder to
find a way to make these murders stop. He wanted Céline to pinpoint the next victim, to get him the next name, and then he was going to try a different tactic to catch the killer.

Baron Medev’s daughter came over and sat across from Céline. The girl looked frightened, but Céline took her hand, murmuring reassurances.

Jaromir couldn’t help liking Céline. She was good at her job.

However, he also had a feeling this was going to be a long night, and he hoped it would not be fruitless. Many daughters of the minor nobles and local merchants were present tonight, but that was no guarantee the next victim was here among them. There were other pretty young women in the village outside.

And he badly wanted a name tonight. He needed to
do
something.

For now, all he could do was keep an eye on Céline and let her go to work.

Turning around, his gaze moved to Amelie, as it often did when she was in the vicinity. She’d made some friends among his men and earned a reputation as a good card player. Now she was sitting on a bench, waiting for a few soldiers to join her and get a game going. She wore the same faded shirt and jacket, but with clean breeches. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and he liked how it swung along her jaw when she moved her head.

Then…a flash of sapphire blue silk caught the corner of his eye, and he turned a little further to
find Bridgette watching him. He had not spoken to her or called her to his bed since the night Sybil was murdered. She’d sent him a few sympathetic notes, telling him to take heart and reassuring him that he’d have this solved soon. But he knew she was just playing a part, and he hadn’t answered the notes; she was probably beginning to suspect there was more to his cooling off than this murder investigation.

Now she’d just caught him staring at Amelie.

Bridgette’s expression was hard, but when she found him looking at her, she smiled and curtsied in playful humor. He nodded and turned around to watch Céline again. He didn’t wish to encourage Bridgette to approach him. Not tonight.

After a few moments, though, he glanced back to see if she’d engaged someone else in conversation, but she was no longer where she’d been standing. He continued his search…and to his shock, he saw that Bridgette had walked straight to Amelie and was talking to her.

Knowing he should stay in place and watch Céline, he still couldn’t help himself. Bridgette’s back was to him, and he moved slowly up behind her, just close enough to hear what she was saying. Bridgette’s finery and pretty face would be enough to daunt most women, but Amelie was turning ashen.

“I suppose you learned to play cards in that hovel from where you came?” Bridgette was asking. “Where was it?”

“Shetâna,” Amelie answered tightly.

“Oh, yes, one of Damek’s mud pits. Did you farm pigs there? I heard almost all the peasants under Damek’s rule farm pigs for a living.”

Her tone was regally polite but held such a cutting edge of cruelty that Jaromir almost couldn’t believe it. He knew she could be haughty. He even liked that side of her, as it reminded him how far he’d come. But he’d not known she could be cruel. She was intentionally trying to make Amelie feel small, and for all Amelie’s skill with that dagger on her hip, she had no idea how to fence with someone like Bridgette.

“No,” Amelie said. “We had a shop.”

Several of the soldiers around her were beginning to look uncomfortable.

“A shop?” Bridgette said brightly. “How charming. So then you must have kept the pigs out back? Else why would you dress in that manner?” She motioned toward Amelie’s clothes.

“Bridgette!” Jaromir said, and when Amelie looked up and saw him standing there, her ashen face went pink.

Bridgette, however, turned pale. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I didn’t hear your approach.”

“Apparently not,” he answered coldly. “Why don’t you go and attend the Lady Karina.”

She stiffened at his dismissal but attempted a smile. “Of course.”

Turning in her sapphire gown, she swept away. Jaromir knew better than to apologize for her, so
he simply said to Amelie, “I’ll go keep watch on your sister.”

She nodded, but for all her tough exterior, he could see she’d been cut—probably most by not knowing how to fight back in this polite verbal arena.

Walking toward Céline, he felt embarrassed by his mistress, and he wished he could somehow take back the words she’d spoken to Amelie.

*   *   *

After reading six young women in immediate succession, both Céline’s smile and her calming assurances were beginning to tire. Worse, Jaromir was pacing the stone floor like a restless wolf watching for any sign of unusual movement, but after each girl, when she shook her head at him, his expression grew darker.

He wasn’t helping.

Looking up, Céline saw a young woman of about eighteen standing near the opposite chair. She was tall, with a strong build. Blond braids hung forward over her shoulders. Though well made, her gown was of dyed cotton as opposed to silk, satin, or brushed wool. Her face was plain, but her blue eyes were bright, and she seemed almost eager to speak with Céline.

“I think I am next,” she said. “My name is Erin.”

“Come and sit,” Céline said, resummoning her smile.

To her surprise, the young woman grabbed the other chair and pulled it even closer, so that when
she sat down, their knees were touching. She leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t care about this matter you’re handling for the prince. I wish to know something else.”

In spite of her weariness, Céline’s interest was piqued.

“I’m engaged to be married,” Erin said quickly.

Céline’s interest faded. Weren’t they all by her age? Most were married already.

Her face must have given her thoughts away, because Erin waved a hand. “No, I don’t want you to paint pretty stories of a handsome knight. I’ve known my betrothed since we were ten. Cecil is a fine man.”

“Then what is it you wish to know?”

Erin lowered her voice. “I need to know if I will bear him a son. My mother could only give my father one child…me. Cecil is his family’s only son. They have no other male heir and are anxious to ensure a male grandchild. His parents have doubts about him marrying me if I prove to be like my mother, not a good breeder.” She straightened. “But I won’t spend my life accepting their blame, suffering their accusing looks and words. Can you look into my future and tell me if I will bear a son?”

Céline hesitated. This was a very specific question, nothing she could dance around with vague details, and in truth, she didn’t believe this young woman’s happiness should hinge upon pleasing her betrothed’s parents.

But Erin leaned even further forward, so close she was breathing on Céline’s cheek. “Please. I love Cecil. I would be his wife. But only if we will both be happy.”

Well, that was a better reason than the first she’d given.

“Here,” Erin said, holding out her hand. “I brought something personal of his and mine—locks of our hair.”

One chunk of hair was carrot red, and the other blond.

Céline pursed her mouth, wondering how to proceed. She could hardly refuse to read the girl. Taking both locks of hair, she grasped Erin’s hand with her free one and closed her eyes, wondering how she could handle this without making promises or creating disappointment. With her eyes shut tightly, she was about to pretend the first jolt…when a jolt actually hit her, and she found herself rushing down the corridor of mists.

Oh, no, not this young woman.

Fear and anguish flooded through her at the thought that Erin was the next victim, but the mists vanished and she found herself standing in a sun-drenched bedroom, near an open window, listening to the sound of harsh grunts, followed by a brief scream.

Erin lay atop a bed, soaked with sweat, and attended by a midwife. She was giving birth.

“Good,” the midwife said, sweating herself. “One more push. You’re almost there.”

Erin bore down, gritting her teeth and grunting hard, and the baby slipped out, landing in the midwife’s arms.

Céline looked on, wishing she could help. She had delivered babies in Shetâna and knew the many duties that must be attended to quickly, from cutting the cord, to cleaning the child, to seeing that all the afterbirth came out and massaging the mother’s abdomen.

“Is the baby all right?” Erin panted.

The child began to cry, and the midwife brought it up for Erin to hold. “A healthy boy,” she said.

The birthing room vanished.

Unfortunately, Céline instantly found herself back in the great hall with her eyes wide open, and Jaromir was standing behind Erin’s chair, ready to pounce. She waved him away. He frowned and didn’t move.

“What?” Erin asked anxiously. “What did you see?”

“I saw you lying in the childbed,” Céline answered without hesitation. “You have a healthy son.”

Erin leaned back and breathed in through her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered.

But Céline was still awash in the realization that she’d just witnessed a future that did not involve horror or death. This girl had asked her a question, and she’d focused on the answer…and she’d seen it.

Erin was rising. “If I can ever do anything for
you, please ask me. My father is the village blacksmith.” Then she was gone, hurrying back to a young man with red hair. Gripping his hand, she whispered in his ear, and he smiled broadly.

“What exactly was that?” Jaromir snapped, moving closer.

“I saw her future, and she is not the next victim.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Well, then, who is? I need something, Céline. Should I bring you another girl?”

But Céline’s gaze moved to Anton, and more specifically, to Inna hovering behind him.

“Lieutenant…,” she began, “how old is Inna?”

“Inna?” he repeated in surprise. “I don’t know; eighteen or so, I’d guess. Why do you—?”

“Some men might find her pretty, and I haven’t read her yet.”

He followed her gaze. Watching his face, she could almost see his mind working. “I don’t think she’s the next victim. In fact, I’ve even wondered…” He trailed off.

“Wondered what?”

“No, you’re right. You should read her.” He seemed determined now. “And tell me anything you see, even if you don’t think she’s in danger.”

Céline had no idea what he was after, but she had other concerns when it came to Inna. “You’ll have to go to Anton first and have him order her. I don’t think she’d submit to this otherwise.”

He glanced down at her and nodded. “I won’t be long.”

Although Céline was fully prepared for some opposition, the unfortunate scene that followed astonished her. Jaromir went straight to Anton and spoke in his ear. Anton’s brows rose briefly, and a short conversation ensued. Finally, Anton turned to Inna and said something to her that caused her features to twist.

“No!” she cried.

Nearly everyone in the hall turned toward the front. Anton appeared both stunned and discomfited as he leaned closer to her, speaking more forcefully. But she shook her head in refusal until he grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the hearth.

“No!” Inna shouted again. “My lord, let go of me.”

He didn’t even slow down, and Jaromir followed him like some man at arms.

Everyone was watching, and Céline sat in helpless horror, thinking there was no way Anton could have handled this in a worse fashion. Inna looked like an angry lamb being led to the slaughter. This would hardly ensure the trust of Anton’s people when it came to their daughters being read by the seer.

Then Anton was standing directly in front of her, still gripping Inna’s arm. “Sit,” he ordered.

“My
lord
,” Céline whispered, “this is hardly necessary. Nor is it helpful.”

He ignored her and stared hard at Inna. “Sit,” he repeated.

Then it occurred to Céline that for all his kindness and concern for his people, he was accustomed to being obeyed. When he was refused, he reacted like any other warlord.

That was a piece of information worth storing away.

Inna’s face was wild, torn between fear and anger and the pain of having refused him. Perhaps realizing he would not relent, she changed tactics and began begging, “Please, my lord, do not make me do this. I cannot sit in this audience and submit to such indignity. Please.”

He stood there like a stone.

“Inna,” Céline said, with genuine pity. “It’s all right. I promise this won’t take long.”

Inna flashed her a look of pure hated. “Do not speak to me.”

“
Sit
down,” Anton ordered, “and stop this foolish behavior.”

He watched while Inna sank into the chair.

Céline sighed. “Inna, I have to touch your hand.”

She was beginning to regret having suggested this. The hall was quiet, and Anton turned around. “Musicians,” he said, “play something cheerful.”

For Céline, this macabre order was the last cherry on the cake of her self-control, and she glared at him. “You’re the one who should stop playing the fool!” she whispered.

He might have flinched, but she couldn’t be sure. “Inna,” he said, “give her your hand.”

The hostility on Inna’s face was so affecting that Céline hesitated, but she had to do this. Reaching out, she grasped the fingers of Inna’s left hand and then closed her eyes. She let her mind go still, trying to forget Anton and Jaromir standing there like sentinels. She focused only on Inna…on what was to come.