Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches (20 page)

The future had not been changed.

Inna was sleeping with her face toward the wall, and Céline trembled, knowing what was to come, but she was determined to remain here, to focus upon seeing as much as possible. Almost instantly, the slender black-gloved hands moved in from the side of the image, reaching down toward Inna.

Summoning all her strength, Céline fought to look up, to half turn inside the vision and see who was standing beside the bed. Her gaze moved up the slender black-clad arms, up and up to the sight of a pale face…and when she recognized the face, she thought perhaps she was going mad herself.

It was the young woman from the painting in the upper portrait hall, the pale, dark-haired one beside the campfire, dressed all in black.

The woman continued reaching for Inna.

“No!” Céline cried, trying to push her away. “Don’t touch her!”

But Céline wasn’t there and could do nothing.

The woman placed one hand on Inna’s face and the other on her throat, and Inna’s flesh began to shrivel inward on itself.

“No,” Céline whispered.

As Inna turned to a dried husk, the woman’s face began to take on color, as if she was draining Inna’s life away and absorbing it.

Céline forced herself to watch, to glean anything she could from this nightmare scene…and the woman began to speak.

“Forgive me,” she whispered to Inna’s dead body. “Forgive me. I cannot stop. I must obey. I have no choice.”

She turned and walked across the small room, vanishing right through the wall like a ghost. She was gone, and Inna was nothing more than a dried husk lying on the bed.

Céline began to weep.

The room vanished.

Still crying softly, she found herself back in Anton’s apartments, looking into Inna’s suspicious face. But now Anton was out of his chair and kneeling beside Céline.

“Shhhhhh,” he said, handing her a handkerchief. “What did you see?”

His voice was urgent.

Céline tried to speak and failed. After wiping her face with the cloth, she tried again. “I saw her. It’s the woman in the painting in the upper portrait hall. The one dressed in black, standing by the campfire. She murders Inna…drains Inna’s life as if taking it into herself.”

Anton jumped to his feet. “What?”

“Liar!” Inna spat. “Your lies go too far this time.”

“It’s her.” Céline spoke directly to Anton. “Do you remember that portrait? We were looking right at it.”

Anton was staring at her, and Jaromir rushed up beside him, so close their shoulders touched.

“What is this?” Jaromir demanded. “What is she talking about?”

“A portrait,” Anton said, “of a young woman…wearing long black gloves.”

His eyes hadn’t moved from Céline’s face.

“It’s her,” Céline insisted. “I saw her drain Inna and then walk right through the wall like a ghost.”

Jaromir turned on his heels and began striding toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Anton asked.

“To the upper portrait hall, to burn that painting. To finish this.”

“No!” Céline called after him, and he stopped. How could she explain what she’d heard, what she’d felt. “You can’t do that. I think…I think she is somehow enslaved. I could be wrong, but after killing Inna, she said something about being forced to obey. You can’t burn the portrait until we know what’s happening here. If the portrait is possessed by a spirit and someone else is controlling it, we must find out who.”

Jaromir was looking to Anton for instructions now, and Anton raised a hand. “Hold off. I need to think.”

Inna leaned forward in her chair. “Do not listen, my lord. She weaves lies as others weave cloth.”

And then Céline turned her attention fully upon Inna, remembering the first vision. “Anton,” she said slowly, not caring if anyone was offended by her use of his given name, “this woman has been drugging the wine on your nightstand. I think she’s been doing so for some time.”

Inna’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened.

Anton took four steps away, as if to put distance between them.

But Jaromir came striding back. “What?”

“It’s a white powder stored in paper packets,” Céline went on calmly, “that she keeps in the pocket of her dress. I think my vision was of the late afternoon today, before dusk. I saw her stirring it into his wine. I think normally she would do this at a different hour, before he goes to bed, but tonight she’ll be under guard again.”

Later, she wondered if she shouldn’t have broken this news differently, as she should have foreseen the effect such a statement would have on Jaromir. The lieutenant’s face hardened, and he grabbed Inna’s arm, jerking her out of her chair.

It happened so fast.

Inna cried out in pain, and Céline called, “Jaromir, don’t!”

But his other hand was already digging inside the pocket of Inna’s dress, and he pulled out a large piece of folded paper, passing it to Céline.

“What is it?” he demanded, keeping Inna in his grip.

Anton stood watching all this without a word.

Céline laid the paper in her lap and unfolded it, taking out one of the packets. Licking her finger, she touched the powder and tasted it.

Her mother had spent years teaching her the various tastes of the proper strengths of components used in powders or elixirs so that if there
were ever a question, she would know if she had a correct mix.

“It’s an opiate,” she said, moving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I can taste the poppies…but something else, too.” Still uncertain, she touched the powder and tasted it again. Then her eyes flew up to Jaromir’s face. “There’s hemlock in this.”

With a roar, he threw Inna back into her chair and leaned over it, placing both his hands on the arms. “Where did you get that? Who gave it to you?”

Inna stared at him, terrified, and shook her head. “It’s medicine to help him sleep! He needs it to rest!”

In one swift movement, Jaromir pulled a dagger from his belt and held it to her throat. “Where did you get it?”

Still, Anton did nothing. He just watched in silence.

But Céline was on her feet. She hadn’t meant to incite this. “Lieutenant, stop!” She grasped his right arm, trying to pull the blade away. He shoved her backward with his elbow and then put the point of the blade to Inna’s cheek. “Where?”

Once again, Céline cursed herself for having become lost in the illusion that justice functioned differently here. She’d never seen Jaromir like this, but she had no doubt he’d start cutting Inna if she didn’t give him what he wanted. Céline feared there were few lines he wouldn’t cross when it came to protecting Anton.

Inna must have realized this, too, because she said, “Master Feodor.”

“Feodor?” Jaromir asked in confusion.

“My lord stopped taking his draughts!” she cried. “He would not drink what Master Feodor gave him. I had to do it! I had to help him rest. Master Feodor said he must have rest.”

Jaromir pulled the blade away.

“It’s true,” Anton said quietly. “I felt Feodor’s draughts were not helping me, and I told him I’d take no more.”

Céline absorbed the repercussions of this. For some reason, Master Feodor had been feeding Anton a mix of opiates and hemlock. Hemlock could be used in small doses for someone with severe insomnia, but it was certainly not meant for long-term use, and it was also a poison that could kill in larger doses. When Anton stopped taking the draught, Feodor had used Inna to put the powder in Anton’s wine.

The expression on Jaromir’s face frightened Céline—or at least frightened her for Master Feodor. “You don’t know why he did this,” she said. “He might have believed he was helping his prince.”

Jaromir looked to Anton. “What do you want me to do?”

Anton didn’t hesitate. He pointed to Inna. “Take her back to that room you prepared and keep her under guard. Then go have a talk with Master Feodor.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jaromir answered, grabbing Inna’s arm again.

“No!” Inna wailed, trying to pull away. “You promised! You promised I could serve him during the day.”

Jaromir dragged her from the room and closed the door behind himself, leaving Céline and Anton in an awkward silence. How could he have allowed someone as sick in her mind as Inna to serve him in such a personal capacity?

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, “You don’t understand.”

No, she didn’t.

“Inna came with Joselyn,” he said simply.

“I know. Pavel told me. He told me that Joselyn helped to keep her from an unfortunate situation.”

“Unfortunate? You could say that. Her father sold her to a brothel when she was thirteen years old. Joselyn knew the family, and she saved Inna. When they came here, I could see that Inna was not…right. But she loved Joselyn, and I couldn’t fault her for that. When Joselyn died, Inna nearly went mad from grief, and I nearly went mad from grief, and she began to do small things for me, as she had for Joselyn. I should have stopped it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I made sure to keep a distance between us, but the only thing keeping her from falling back into grief was being able to care for me.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “Do you think me so wrong?”

“No,” Céline said, and she meant it. How could empathy be wrong? “Of course not.”

He took his hand away from his face and looked at her.

*   *   *

Amelie had been pacing the floor of their room, and she nearly melted in relief when Céline came back through the door, announcing that their guard had been dismissed and the bargain for the apothecary’s shop was still in place.

But her relief was short-lived as Céline began telling her everything else that had happened in the last hour.

“A woman from a painting?” Amelie asked, sinking down on the bed. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I only know what I saw.”

The door opened, and Helga hobbled in, carrying a tray of food. But Amelie was too caught up in their current dilemma to stop talking.

“What do you mean that you think someone else is controlling her? Who could control an image from a portrait?”

Helga set her tray on the dressing table. “Probably a kettle witch,” she said.

Both sisters fell quiet for a moment as they turned toward the dressing table.

“What’s a kettle witch?” Amelie asked.

“You know,” Helga rattled on, pouring tea. “Not one of the Mist-Torn. A witch who learns from books, who casts by throwing bits of this and bits of that into a kettle.”

“You mean a cauldron?” Céline asked.

“Cauldron, kettle.” Helga waved her hand. “It’s all the same. They’re not of the Mist-Torn.” She paused. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I’ve known a kettle witch or two with some power. Hate the Mist-Torn, they do.”

Amelie and Céline looked at each other helplessly. Helga seemed to know a good deal more than they did, but she seldom made any sense.

“Helga,” Céline began, “who are the Mist-Torn?”

“Who are the…? Did your mother teach you nothing?” Helga set down the pot. “You.”

“Us?” Amelie asked.

Helga peered at her closely. “You truly know nothing?” She sighed. “Your mother must have broken with her people.”

“I don’t think she had any people,” Céline said.

“Course she did. The Móndyalítko. Your mother was Mist-Torn, from the line of Fawe.”

Amelie’s discomfort and frustration grew. She didn’t like the idea of their mother having had some secret life among a pack of gypsies. Their mother had been an apothecary and a respected seer. Their father had been a village hunter in Shetâna, and a good man, maybe too good. Amelie didn’t remember him well, but she remembered the day he died. Three soldiers had ordered a Shetâna farmer to turn over his entire herd of goats. The farmer objected and a fight broke out. Amelie’s father tried to stop it and ended up with
a dagger through his stomach. Six years later, their mother had gone to take medicine to a family with the fever. She’d caught it herself and died a week after.

After that, both Amelie and Céline had made a pact to protect themselves first, to put themselves first. Over the past few days, that pact had been put to the test, but Amelie still believed in it.

Helga tilted her head to one side, as if considering how to proceed. “The Móndyalítko command no wealth and no power in the sense of the princes and lords, but they have their own bloodlines of power, the shape-shifters, the Mist-Torn, and the like. A Mist-Torn witch is born with her power. She’s a treasure to her people. She will take a lover when she pleases, but few of the Mist-Torn ever marry. Your mother must have wanted your father very much.”

“She did,” Céline said quietly.

“But the kettle witches,” Helga rambled on, “they have to study, to learn from books or other kettle witches. That’s why they hate the Mist-Torn. Jealousy.”

“So…if we’re looking for a kettle witch here,” Céline said, “we should seek someone who’s educated, someone capable of learning from books, and who understands spell components?”

“That sounds about right,” Helga answered, nodding.

“Can it be either a man or a woman?”

“Course. They’re not Mist-Torn.”

“How do you know all this?” Amelie challenged. For she herself was no Mist-Torn witch. She’d been born with no power, and this entire discussion made her feel ordinary…mundane.

Helga straightened. “How? I am Móndyalítko; that’s how.”

“Then what are you doing here? Why did you leave your ‘people,’ as you say?”

“That is
my
business,” Helga snapped, surprising her. “And you’d best look to your own. Two sides of the same coin, you are. The future and the past.”

Amelie huffed. Not that nonsense again.

But Céline was studying Helga closely, thoughtfully. “The future and the past,” Céline whispered.

*   *   *

After depositing Inna in the small room near his own apartments and posting two guards at her open door, Jaromir debated on the best place to blindside Master Feodor before he sent a request for the meeting.

He considered going down to the prison beneath the old barracks—just for psychological effect. But then he had a better idea. He was well aware that he could not physically threaten Feodor as he had Inna. Master Feodor was still Anton’s court physician, appointed by Prince Lieven. Jaromir would have to tread carefully here and yet still get some answers.