Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches (23 page)

“Did you need anything from us?” she asked.

“Yes.” He hesitated. “The lieutenant has arrested Master Feodor, pending some…unsettling charges. I want you and Amelie to both do readings of Master Feodor with me inside the room, for her to see what else she can learn of the past, and for you to try and see his future. And I want to hear both your reports immediately afterward.”

Although Céline thought he should be in bed, she answered, “Of course.”

But Amelie spoke at the same time. “Again? So soon? I just read him.”

Anton frowned and Céline tensed. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned.

To his credit, he answered, “It would be a great service to me, Amelie.”

With her mouth set tightly, she nodded once. “All right.”

“My thanks.” He waved off his two servants holding the large portrait between them. “Take that up to my apartments.” Then he stepped back from the door, motioning to Céline and Amelie. “Come, then. It’s a bit of a walk down to the prisons.”

*   *   *

Jaromir strode through the old guard room of the castle prison to find Pavel waiting outside a locked cell door.

After conducting a full search of Master Feodor’s rooms and finding nothing he could use for proof, Jaromir decided he would have to rely on other methods. Taking off his sword, he handed it to Pavel, but he kept the dagger on his hip and a second one in his boot.

“Don’t let anyone inside,” he ordered Pavel. “Not anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unlock the door.”

The prison at Castle Sèone was rarely used except for the occasional petty thief or anyone else Jaromir thought worthy of a lockup. Last fall, an old woman had come to him complaining that her daughter’s husband had badly beaten the girl. When Jaromir went down into the village and saw the young wife, he’d ordered the husband locked up for six months.

He was the law here, and everyone knew it.

Master Feodor clearly knew it, and he backed up against the dank wall of the cell when Jaromir entered. Pavel remained outside, locking the door again.

“You cannot keep me in here without evidence,” Feodor said. “I demand that Prince Anton be informed.”

“He’s been informed.”

Feodor didn’t seem surprised. He must have known Jaromir wouldn’t keep someone of his status locked up without Anton’s consent.

“How are you doing it?” Jaromir dove in without hesitation. “Murdering the girls, using some woman who pretends to be a ghost? How is it done? Poison on the gloves?”

At that, Feodor’s face went completely white. “Murdering the…?” he sputtered. “You can’t possibly believe I have anything to do that.”

Jaromir walked closer, keeping Feodor backed up against the wall. “Who else has a reason to discredit Anton?”

Shaking his head wildly, Feodor insisted, “No! I’ve murdered no one. My only task was to…” He trailed off in horror, aware of what he’d almost said.

“To what?”

“To care for Prince Anton’s health.” Feodor collected some control of himself again. “And you have no proof otherwise. You’ve nothing but the word of a gypsy who dresses like a boy.”

Jaromir jerked the dagger from his belt and pressed the sharp edge below Feodor’s left eye. “How long have you been working for Damek? Since before Prince Lieven decided to send you here?”

Terror twisted the physician’s features. “You cannot do this! You have no right.”

In a quick movement, Jaromir sliced the man’s cheek open, watching blood run down his face. “My duty is to my prince,” Jaromir whispered. “I can do anything I want.”

Feodor’s eyes widened in fear and pain.

“How long have you been working for Damek?” Jaromir repeated.

“Two years,” Feodor blurted out.

“And Damek somehow convinced his father that Anton needed a court physician?”

“Yes, but not on his own word. He did it through the counsel of others. His father would never believe him to be concerned for Anton’s health.”

Jaromir put the blade back to Feodor’s face. “And he told you to poison Anton slowly, with hemlock?”

“I never intended harm! Only to weaken him, to make him appear unfit to rule.”

The rage inside Jaromir kept growing. He’d left Anton’s health in the hands of this piece of filth…and he’d not even suspected. He should have routed this out long ago.

“Have you sent word to Damek of the murders here?”

Feodor breaths were coming quickly. “Yes.”

“Have you informed him of Anton’s recent downturn in health?”

“No.”

Jaromir stepped back, thinking. If he left Feodor alive long enough for an official hearing, there was a chance Damek might find some way to interfere. Feodor was clever. In the process, the physician could even find a way, some way, to keep feeding Damek information about what was happening at Castle Sèone.

No, this needed to stop here. Jaromir had overlooked a spy and a traitor in their midst. Such an act could not be forgiven on his part, but it could be amended.

Reaching down with his left hand, he jerked the other dagger from his boot and held it out, hilt first.

“Take it.”

Realization dawned in Feodor’s eyes, and he tried backing further against the wall. “No! I’ll not give you an excuse to murder me.”

“Take it or I’ll kill you and put it into your hand after you’re dead. At least this way you have a chance.”

Nothing happened for the span of a few breaths, and then Feodor went for the dagger, grasping the hilt. Jaromir rammed forward with his right hand, driving the other dagger through the hollow of Feodor’s throat, grinding it in a half circle.

Moving back, he watched the body fall.

It was done.

*   *   *

Céline walked quietly beside Anton down a dank, wet stairwell and through what must once have been a guardroom. Now the entire prison gave off an eerie, lonely sensation, and she wondered what tragedies must have taken place down here over the past hundred years or so.

Amelie came just behind them, and as they passed from the guardroom into a larger area sporting six wooden doors with narrow slits at the
bottom, Céline saw Pavel standing at attention, and Jaromir was just coming out from one of the cell doors.

At the sight of Anton, he froze in the open doorway, and Céline’s gaze moved down to the dripping dagger in his hand. She went cold.

“I came to question the prisoner myself,” Anton said. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jaromir answered. “I obtained a full confession, but as I finished, he managed to pull a dagger from my belt and attack me. I had to defend myself.”

“Is he dead?”

“I fear so. I don’t believe he was involved in the deaths of the girls, but he confessed to his betrayal of you.”

At the calm, detached manner of this exchange, a roar began growing in Céline’s ears. As if Feodor would ever attack Jaromir. She was having trouble breathing.

“Unfortunate,” Anton said, “but if he gave a full confession, your word will not be questioned.”

The roar in Céline’s ears grew louder, and she rushed past Jaromir into the cell. He whirled to come after her, but she was already looking down.

Master Feodor lay there on the damp floor of the cell with a dagger gripped in his right hand. His eyes were still open, and his cheek had been sliced. Blood flowed from a hole at the base of his throat, forming a pool around his head.

“You murderer!” she cried, turning on Jaromir.

“Céline,” Anton said in alarm.

The roar in her ears was almost deafening now, and her lunch threatened to come back up.

“You just came in here and killed him,” she went on, unable to stop. “Judge and executioner. And your lord and master isn’t going to say a word.”

The cell was going dark around her.

“Corporal Pavel,” Anton said, his voice tight, “Mistress Fawe is not well. Please carry her back up to her room.”

When she saw Pavel coming toward her, she dodged deeper into the cell, nearly slipping on the pool of blood. “No,” she told him. “You just stood outside that door and listened. You didn’t even try to stop it.”

Then suddenly, Amelie pushed past Pavel and ran inside the cell, grasping Céline’s arms, holding her up, and glaring back at the men with an expression that gave even Jaromir pause.

“I’ve got her,” Amelie said. “We don’t need your help. We don’t need anyone but each other.”

Something in those words caused the roar to quiet.

“Céline, come on,” Amelie whispered in her ear. “Don’t make Anton order Pavel to carry you again.”

Still sick to her stomach, Céline let Amelie lead her toward the door. All three of the men got out of their way.

*   *   *

Amelie took Céline directly back to their room and forced her into the bed, beneath the covers, to rest.

Thankfully, Helga was still there, and she dampened a cloth, pressing it gently to Céline’s forehead. Céline stared blankly out into the room, her gaze fixed on nothing.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered.

“I know,” Amelie answered.

“Shhhhhhh,” Helga said to Céline. “Go to sleep, my girl. You’ll feel better when you wake.”

Amelie didn’t think so, but she kept quiet, sitting down on the end of the bed, wishing she knew how to stroke Céline’s forehead like that.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

Oh, what could anyone here possibly want from them now?

Annoyed, Amelie hopped off the bed and jerked the door open to find Pavel standing on the other side. He was the last person she wanted to see—well, second to the last. And he was sadly mistaken if he thought she’d let him in.

“What?” she asked, blocking the doorway.

“Is Céline all right?” As he’d made no move to enter and he looked genuinely concerned, she softened a bit. “No. She’s not.”

“If she hadn’t caught him off guard, the lieutenant would never have let her slip past him and see that. I’d never have let her see it.”

“Oh, and so her not seeing it means it didn’t happen?”

He winced and she sighed.

“What is it you want, Corporal?” she asked.

He held out a piece of paper. “Read this and don’t refuse. Please don’t refuse, Amelie.”

Then he was gone, walking down the passage for the stairway that led down. Amelie moved back into the room and unfolded the paper.

Inside was a message to her:

She tossed the note on the dressing table and shook her head.

“What is it?” Helga asked.

“His lord majesty lieutenant wants me to come up to the portrait hall and see him.”

“Then you should go.”

Amelie turned. “You’re not serious?”

For once, Helga wasn’t rambling or speaking halfway to herself. “Things were different here before he came. He’s kept this place safe for a good while now, but he keeps himself apart, alone. If he’s so wounded that he’s asked for help, you should give it.”

“I don’t owe him anything.”

“Don’t you?”

Unbidden, a memory erupted in Amelie’s mind of her home burning behind her, of her arms growing weary in a fight she couldn’t win…of Jaromir clubbing a soldier in a black tabard.

Helga turned back to Céline. “You go to him. I’ll care for her.”

Amelie stood watching the bed for a moment. Without completely knowing why, she turned and left the room, heading for the other end of the passage, with an odd, dark stairwell leading up. She’d not ventured there herself before, but Céline had described it.

After climbing the stairs, she walked out into a long hall with tall archers’ slits along its outer wall, serving as windows, and a line of enormous portraits down the inner wall. Even from here, she could see an empty space where a painting had been removed.

Jaromir was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. An unexpected wave of pity passed through her, but if he’d called her up here to offer comfort, he would be disappointed. She didn’t even know how to comfort Céline.

“I’m here,” she said weakly, walking toward him. “What do you want?”

He kept his eyes on the opposite wall. “To make you understand why I did what I did.”

“I already know why, to protect Anton. I’d probably have done the same for Céline.”

Then he looked up at her, with a hint of relief. Maybe she could give him some comfort. The thing was…she did understand why he’d killed Feodor, and she wasn’t even sure he’d been wrong.

“Sit down,” he said.

Cautiously, she crouched beside him. While she didn’t enjoy watching him play the bully, she found that she didn’t like seeing him like this either. He seemed diminished somehow.

“No, I mean that I want you to
understand
,” he went on. “I want to show you why I’d do anything for Anton.”

She frowned. What was he talking about?

“I want you to read my past,” he said.

She started to rise. “No.”

To go inside his head? To look at his past? That was too intimate.

In a flash, he had ahold of both her wrists and wouldn’t let her get up. “Don’t go.”

On instinct, she jerked hard once, but she knew the strength in his hands only too well by now, and she couldn’t even make his arms move. Instead of kicking him, she said, “This is why Céline is so tired of this place! You get us to trust you. You behave like our friend…until one of us doesn’t do exactly what you want, and then you act like one of Damek’s men.”

He let go as if her skin burned his hands. “Don’t leave. Please.”

That was the third time in about the last ten minutes that he or Pavel had used the word “please.”

“I’m no good with words,” he rushed on, “and you’re the only one who can see, who can know why I’d do anything to protect Anton.” He was silent for a moment. “I want somebody to know.”

She breathed out through her nose and sat down on the floor. Maybe Helga was right, and he had cut himself off from everyone. He needed some kind of connection after the horrors of the past few days. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch him and try to look at his memories. She feared it would create too much of a…connection.

“Couldn’t you just tell me?” she asked. She could give him that much. He deserved that much.