Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches (10 page)

Jaromir began to run.

*   *   *

After five years of practice, Céline was quite skilled at telling people exactly what they wanted to hear without providing too much detail. Her descriptions of future husbands or wives often
sounded
detailed but in truth could be applied to a broad number of people.

The real trick was gleaning proper bits of information from the one being read and then guessing correctly about hopes, dreams, or needs. Céline had a gift for this.

Most sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girls were easy targets and only too happy to answer her initial questions.

However, when she’d sat down tonight, she could not help feeling trepidation, almost dread. What would she see? Would the mists rush around her again as she witnessed the death of some innocent young woman?

But upon taking the hand of the plump girl in the pink gown, she’d felt nothing out of the ordinary, and within a few seconds, she’d gone into her usual act. It was second nature.

However, what she was doing tonight was different from when someone had a specific question—when they brought her a personal object or possession to “assist” in her reading. This was more general and therefore easier.

“What kind of man do your parents have in mind for you?” she asked.

“Someone of good family, with a dependable income.”

Typical.

“And what do you have in mind for yourself?”

The girl blushed. “Well, someone not too much older than me…tall, with a pleasing face.”

Also typical.

Céline closed her eyes, pretended to feel the jolt, and then began weaving stories of the girl’s future.

“He’ll come from a town inside the provinces ruled by the House of Pählen…ah, he does have
a pleasing face. He is the son of a prosperous merchant…but I cannot see his name.”

She went on with more general descriptions. What she told the girl would most likely be the truth. This girl didn’t seem to be one of the nobles here tonight, so her parents would probably choose a merchant’s son within this province of Droevinka.

But once Céline finished, the girl was positively glowing.

After that, the other young women in the hall seemed eager for Céline’s services, and she no longer had to encourage anyone to sit down. They were practically lining up.

She read two more girls, leaving them with hopeful visions of their lives to come, and then she looked up to see a pretty girl about sixteen years old watching with interest. Her chocolate brown hair was so long it hung down past her hips, and she wore a gown of forest green.

The girl smiled. “I’m Sybil,” she said. “It was kind of Anton to arrange this. I’m bored to death with dancing, and he never thinks of providing other entertainment.”

The fact that she’d just called her prince by his first name meant she was probably from a noble family—of high rank. But she also might be somewhat sheltered, as she seemed to have no knowledge of any other reason for why Céline might have been hired.

Céline nodded politely. “Come and sit.”

Sybil moved to join her, holding out her hand with complete trust. “I’m already betrothed, but I haven’t met him yet. My parents arranged it.” She didn’t look entirely happy about the situation. “You’re not married, are you?”

The question startled Céline. It was an unusual question. “No.”

Sybil sighed. “I wish I could be a seer like you. Earn my own living.”

Céline was moved by her words and suddenly wished she could tell the girl a different future from the one probably laid out for her.

She grasped Sybil’s hand. “Well, let me try to look ahead. I’ll tell you what I see.”

“Thank you.”

Something about Sybil pulled at Céline. She was so trusting and yet clearly wanted more out of her life than to marry the man her parents had arranged for her. Closing her eyes, Céline let her thoughts roll, searching for something else she could tell this girl, something that might give her hope.

And that’s when the first jolt hit.

As a second one hit, Céline felt herself being swept along a tunnel of mist again, and she lost all sensation of anything besides speeding along through the mists swirling all around her in tones of gray and white.

The mist vanished, and an image flashed before her.

She saw a room with gray stone walls. She was
standing beside a bed, but she could see only one side of it.

Sybil lay there sound asleep. Her chocolate brown hair was spread out like a curtain across the pillow, and she was covered in a yellow-and-red-checked quilt. She looked so peaceful, so deep in slumber.

Céline began to relax at the sight.

Then…two slender hands wearing long black gloves came in from the side of the image, reaching down toward Sybil.

On instinct, Céline cried, “No!” and she tried to knock the hands away. But she wasn’t really there. She was only an observer, and she could do nothing. The black gloves continued to move. One of them settled on the side of Sybil’s face and the other on her throat.

Céline wanted to scream, to fight, to stop this, but she was locked inside the vision, just watching.

The hands didn’t grip down or do anything besides touch Sybil’s face and throat, but the flesh on Sybil’s cheek began to move, rippling of its own accord. It began to shrivel.

“No,” Céline choked.

Beneath the black-gloved hands, Sybil’s face continued to shrivel, to wither, sinking in upon itself until her face was nothing more than a dried husk. Inside the vision, the black gloves pressed harder on her cheek and throat. It went on and on as Sybil’s body seemed to shrink beneath the quilt.

Céline could feel herself choking in horror.

“Stop it!” someone ordered. “Come out!”

Strong hands had ahold of her arms, shaking her once, and the small room vanished. She found herself back in the great hall, staring up into Lieutenant Jaromir’s alarmed eyes.

“Let go of her,” someone else said, someone familiar, and Céline saw Amelie standing behind Jaromir.

“Amelie,” Céline whispered.

Anton was striding toward them, and half the hall was staring. The music had stopped. Perhaps realizing how this must look, Jaromir let go of her.

“Pardon,” he said.

Reality was rushing back to Céline as she tried to recover from the nightmare she’d just witnessed. Sybil was on her feet, frightened. “What did you see?”

Céline fought for control. The poor girl. The event in the vision had to be changed. Sybil had to be protected.

“Oh, I do beg your forgiveness,” Céline heard herself saying, astonished at her own self-control. Somehow, she smiled reassuringly at Sybil. “Sometimes my sightline into the future becomes crossed, and I see my own.” She moved closer to Sybil. “I saw something unpleasant, but it had nothing to do with you. Please forgive me. I think I sought too many visions, too quickly, in a short span of time. Perhaps I might rest?”

Sybil’s fear vanished, replaced by concern. “You
saw something unpleasant for yourself? I’m sorry.”

She was kind.

“It’s all right,” Céline answered, still smiling but casting her gaze toward the small chamber at the bottom of the hall where she’d spoken to Anton that morning. She could feel his eyes upon her. “I just need to rest.”

With that, she began walking, head still high, toward the small chamber, hearing two sets of footsteps behind her.

“I will go and attend to the seer myself,” Anton announced. “I fear she has overtaxed herself. My Lady Karina, have the musicians play on.” A third set of footsteps sounded.

The walk felt long, but Céline finally reached the chamber, made her way inside, and collapsed in a chair. Jaromir, Amelie, and Anton followed her in. She didn’t see which one closed the door.

“What?” Jaromir demanded instantly. “You tell me what in the seven hells just happened out there.”

“She’s not your dog or one of your soldiers,” Amelie told him. “Don’t give her orders!”

They both sounded far away.

“Both of you stop!” Anton ordered. His voice softened, but the circles under his eyes looked black. “Céline, what did you see?”

“It’s her,” Céline whispered. “Sybil. She’s next.”

“What does that mean?” Jaromir asked.

“She was asleep, in a bed,” Céline went on, almost
feeling as if someone else spoke. “Gloved hands…like a woman’s or a slender man’s, came in from one side and touched her. She just shriveled away, like those girls on the table in the cellar. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I just had to watch.”

“Who?” Anton demanded, sounding far less soft now. “Who did this?”

“I don’t know. I only saw the gloved hands…black gloves.”

“You must have seen more than that!” Jaromir insisted.

“Leave her alone,” Amelie said, but she looked puzzled, as if wondering about Céline’s game here.

“No, I didn’t,” Céline said quietly. “I only saw the gloves, and I saw her die.”

Jaromir sighed and turned to Anton. “What do you want to do?”

Anton stared at the wall for a few moments and then said, “Tell her parents the truth and place her under guard.” His eyes locked with Jaromir’s. “I’ll talk to her father. You get a room set up.”

“Yes, my lord.”

L
ess than hour later, Amelie found herself inside a guest room, watching as Céline inspected the bed—which looked like a simple bed with a plain white comforter. The room sported no hearth or window, and it felt overly small with Anton, Jaromir, Sybil, and both Sybil’s parents also crowded inside.

Inna was hovering in the doorway, her mouth set tightly.

“All right,” Céline said, turning from the bed. “I think this will be safe.”

“Why do I have to stay in here?” Sybil asked, sounding frightened. “Why can’t I go back to our own apartments?”

“Because you are safer here,” Anton answered. “Lieutenant Jaromir will stand guard.”

Amelie had no idea what the game was, so she kept her mouth shut. Apparently, Sybil’s father was Anton’s second cousin, a middle-aged minor noble named Lord Cirren. The family had apartments inside the castle, and Cirren held a place on
Anton’s council. The man’s mouth was set tighter than Inna’s, suggesting he didn’t approve of this entire situation, and his wife, Lady Edith, wouldn’t stop wringing her hands.

Earlier, Anton’s words about notifying the girl’s parents and placing her under guard had sounded sensible: clean and simple.

Reality was proving a tad messier.

“You told me your vision was about yourself,” Sybil accused Céline, “not about me.”

“I know,” Céline answered, standing straight. “I didn’t wish to alarm you until I’d spoken with Prince Anton and heard his decision in the matter.”

Amelie held her tongue. What was Céline up to? Yes, she was making herself appear useful, but it seemed dangerous to actually pick out a girl and claim she would be the next victim. What would happen if someone else were killed? Céline would look a complete charlatan.

“This is absurd,” Lord Cirren sputtered. “Anton, I can keep my own daughter protected.”

Anton shook his head. “No. She’s safer with Jaromir.”

“But she can’t stay in here alone,” Lady Edith insisted, coughing twice as she spoke, “with soldiers at her door, on the word of some…forgive me, my prince, of some gypsy seer you hired.” She paused, looking at her daughter, and Amelie could see love in the woman’s eyes. “I will sleep in here with her.” She coughed again, but Sybil’s expression
melted in relief at the prospect of her mother remaining.

“No,” Anton said. “You need to be in your own rooms, where it’s warmer.”

Was Lady Edith not well?

Anton wasn’t finished. He looked to the doorway. “But I agree that Sybil shouldn’t be left alone. Inna, will you sleep here with her?”

Inna’s eyes flashed hatred at Céline, and she opened her mouth as if to spit out her opinion of these proceedings, but then she looked to Anton. “Of course, my lord.”

“Everyone else to bed, then,” Anton said. He was pale and exhausted. “Jaromir, you’re in charge.”

Céline was still standing by the bed, staring at its white cover, and Amelie moved to her. “Let’s go.”

Céline relented, allowing herself to be led out into the passage. Amelie was finally getting her bearings here and knew their own room was just down the corridor. As they left, Jaromir began giving orders as the room behind them was being secured.

However, once they’d stepped inside their room, Amelie closed the door and looked at the four-poster bed with its extra blankets and at the dressing table with its fancy damask covered chairs. A freshly lit fire burned in the hearth, and she took a moment to ponder how all this had come to be. So much had happened in such a short span of time.

Someone—probably Helga—had closed the
shutters over their single long window. The fire in the hearth provided yellow light. Helga had probably built the fire, too.

Céline walked to the bed and sank down, her expression bleak.

“What…,” Amelie began, not certain how to word this. “What exactly is the plan here? What are we going to do if another girl is murdered in the next few days? How are we going to find the killer before someone calls you a fake?”

Céline looked at the floor. “Amelie, I’m tired. Could we discuss this in the morning?”

Frustrated, Amelie took in her sister’s weary face. “All right, but I can’t help if I don’t know the plan. You need to tell me what you’re thinking.”

She took off her breeches and boots, leaving on her long, faded blue shirt—which reached halfway to her knees. Then she unlaced Céline’s borrowed gown, and Céline let the dress fall to the floor, so that she wore only her comfortable cotton shift. They both crawled under the piled covers, and soon the bed felt warm.

Neither spoke for a while, and then Céline said, “Lady Edith needs a rose petal syrup for her cough. If I had access to the herb garden and the apothecary’s equipment, I could make her a vial.”

“You really want that shop, don’t you?” Amelie whispered.

“Yes, I do.”

Céline said no more.

Still troubled, unaccustomed to feeling shut out
of her sister’s plans, Amelie burrowed deeper into the covers, listening to Céline’s soft breathing.