Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red (16 page)

“And she told you that she had some mushrooms?”

“Not at first. First she asked me if you or your sister would be dining with the captain. He’d already told me to have your supper served in your tents, so I told her no. That alone should have gained my attention. But then she showed me the mushrooms and reminded me how much he loves them cooked with butter. Her sister . . . well, her sister knows the captain.”

Indeed,
Amelie thought dryly.

“He’s been complaining about a lack of variety,” Volkian went on. “But I don’t have much to work with! I thanked her and fried up the mushrooms. Fool.” He looked up. “Do you understand how it will look to your lieutenant, to Corporal Quinn, if they find out I accepted mushrooms from some gypsy girl? I’ll be lucky if I’m only dismissed.”

Yes, Amelie could see his dilemma, but at present, she had no intention of giving away Mercedes, not until she knew more. And that meant protecting the cook.

“Listen,” she said. “You keep up your courage, and I’ll keep your secret.”

He studied her cautiously. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I like those gypsies a lot better than I like your captain.”

Turning, she walked out of the tent.

* * *

Although Jaromir had never been one for just sitting, at the moment, he was glad for having taken on the task of sitting at Keegan’s bedside. Hopefully, Céline, Amelie, Rurik, and Quinn would get some sleep while he sat here alone.

It gave him time to think.

Keegan had not yet awoken, but his breathing was still even. His complexion was a sickly shade of gray-green, and Jaromir did not doubt Céline’s assessment that the man’s recovery time would be long.

However, this left Jaromir with some decisions to make, and he considered what paths were open to him. In the end, though, he could think of only one way forward if he was to solve whatever was happening here, stop it, and get the silver flowing again.

The rear tent flap opened, and Quinn stuck his head inside.

“How is he?”

“I thought you were getting some sleep.”

“I couldn’t.”

Quinn’s genuine concern caught Jaromir off guard,
as he’d not seen much of a connection or loyalty between the two men.

“I think he’ll live,” Jaromir said, “but Céline is right, and he’ll not be fit to command for some time.”

The anxiety on Quinn’s face grew more pronounced as he came inside to stand near the bed. “Does that mean we’ll be recalled and replaced?”

“Not yet.” Jaromir paused. “As the only available officer, I’m taking command of the camp.”

He waited to see how Quinn would accept this news. Officer or not, Jaromir didn’t serve Prince Lieven. However, he did serve Prince Lieven’s son—and thereby the House of Pählen. If Quinn accepted him, the others would follow suit.

His concerns proved to be groundless. Quinn leaned against the bed in open relief. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Amelie left the provisions tent and walked straight to the miners’ encampment. Upon breaking through the tree line, she turned left and headed toward the largest of the covered wagons. An old man sitting outside with a smokeless pipe in his mouth nodded a greeting. She nodded back.

When she reached Mercedes and Mariah’s wagon, she paused out front at the sight of the clothesline; both her green wool dress and Céline’s lavender one were hanging there and appeared to be nearly dry. Every last speck of mud and blood had been removed, and the dresses looked new.

Mercedes was a skilled laundress.

Unable to put the reason for her visit here off any
longer, Amelie climbed the few steps up to the back door of the wagon. In spite of what the cook had told her, she needed to know for certain whether Mercedes was the one who’d poisoned Keegan . . . and she needed to know why. There were a number of possible reasons for Mercedes to want him dead, but those reasons had existed well before now. Why had she finally acted? And did her reason have anything to do with the Pählen soldiers being turned into mad wolves? Could Mercedes be the one behind that as well? Had Keegan learned something, so she’d decided to get rid of him? But if that were the case, why wouldn’t she simply infect him next? Why switch to poison?

Amelie had many questions, and if Mercedes wouldn’t talk to her, she had her own methods for learning the truth.

Raising a hand, she knocked lightly. “Mercedes?”

The door opened almost right away, and Mercedes looked out. Her posture was tight but not overly anxious.

“Are you alone?” Amelie asked.

“Yes, Mariah is off searching for berries. I was just about to go and join her.”

Amelie pushed her way inside and closed the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mercedes demanded, backing up.

“Céline was up all night trying to save Captain Keegan, but you probably already know that.”

Mercedes watched her carefully, and Amelie wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating this woman. She might be slender, but she didn’t look weak.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Amelie said. “Not Céline or the lieutenant. I just want to know why you did it.”

“Did your sister succeed in saving the captain?”

“Yes.”

Of course Amelie didn’t know that for certain yet, but if Keegan were already dead, she’d most likely have heard about it.

Mercedes turned away, closing her eyes.

“Why now?” Amelie pressed on. “If you were going to kill him over what he’s been doing to Mariah, you’d have acted before this.”

Opening her eyes, Mercedes spun back. “What do you know of our lives? Of what brought us here? Of how years of suffering can deaden a soul? You . . . with your fine wool gowns and your lieutenant and your meals at the officers’ table. Get out! At heart, you’re nothing like your sister, and I don’t owe you anything.”

Without warning, Amelie closed the distance between them and grabbed Mercedes’s hand, gripping hard. She expected fierce resistance and was caught off guard when Mercedes gripped back, leaning forward.

“Do you want to see?” Mercedes whispered angrily.

Fearing this was a trick and that Mercedes might try to break away, Amelie reached out with her thoughts for the spark of Mercedes’s soul. She felt it right away and focused on the events of last night, on what led up to the mushrooms finding their way to the cook’s table.

“No,” Mercedes breathed in her ear. “If you want to see, you’ll see it all.”

The first jolt hit and Amelie gasped, bracing for another, but she didn’t let go. As the second jolt hit, she
found herself rushing through the gray-and-white mists, flying backward in time with Mercedes. Effortlessly, almost without choice, she felt her spirit meshing with Mercedes’s, intertwining with Mercedes’s, until she saw through Mercedes’s eyes. But unlike ever before, her consciousness remained separate and aware.

The mists cleared, and she found herself kneeling on a riverbank, looking down into the dead face of a beautiful woman.

Listen
 . . . , a voice whispered inside her mind.

Mercedes: Five Years in the Past

The Death

T
he first time I experienced fear and sorrow in the exact same moment was the day I found myself looking down into the face of my dead mother.

I couldn’t believe it. It happened so fast.

She’d been standing beside me, my father, and Mariah, on the bank of the Vudrask River, just outside the city of Kéonsk. She was smiling and looking forward to all the pleasures of the Autumn Fair. Even in her late forties, my mother was lovely, small and lithe, with black eyes and a mass of black hair. She wore white peasant blouses and brightly colored skirts and silver bangles on her wrists. Everywhere she walked, the heads of men would turn to follow.

That morning, we’d just arrived outside Kéonsk, to set up for the fair, and we’d walked over to see the rushing river. There were barges coming and going, loading
and unloading, and it was always enjoyable to watch the activity.

A merchant was trying to get a team of young horses to pull his wagon closer to the bank, and two dogs beside them broke out into a snarling fight. The horses bolted, coming straight at us. My father pushed me and grabbed Mariah, and my mother was struck full force by one of the horses as it tried to stop itself at the top of the bank.

She was knocked into the water, and my father cried out.

Men began to hurry over, but she was in the current facedown and did not appear to be moving. My father jumped into the river. Mariah and I ran along the embankment, calling to her, but it was a good distance until Father was able to reach her and pull her out.

She was dead, her face white, her hair soaked, her eyes closed.

Standing beside me, Mariah stared down, and in my shock and sorrow, I was hit by a sense of fear. My mother’s name had been Moira, and she was the leader of our small group of Móndyalítko. We depended on her for many things.

And in a blink, she was gone.

Kneeling on the ground, my father, who was called Jude, let out a shameless sob. Mariah continued staring down in silence.

I asked, “Father . . . what are we going to do now?”

He didn’t appear to understand my question, as I do not think he fully understood that it was my mother
who had managed everything . . . everything for our family community for my entire life. His tears were all shed for the loss of a beloved wife, but I saw the larger scheme of things.

And I was afraid.

The Family

Our traveling group consisted of four wagons—one for each family—eight horses, one good-natured milk cow, and a varying number of chickens.

My mother was from the line of Marentõr.

And as an eldest surviving daughter, she was the undisputed leader of our small branch. Since my father, Jude, had married into our kin and joined with us, he took her family name, as was the custom. For some reason no one could remember, her grandmother had believed all children born into the line should be given first names starting with the letter
M
.

Mother believed in following such traditions.

Although our immediate family consisted of only four people, we had the largest wagon, and we always led the way.

The second wagon housed my mother’s younger sister, Miriam, her husband, Landrien (who had also married in), and their two sons, Mikolai and Marcus.

The third wagon belonged to my mother’s elderly uncle Marten and his wife, Leticia, along with their son, Micah, and his wife, Katlyn, and their three young
children, meaning seven people were packed into one wagon, but they seemed to manage.

The fourth and last wagon had once belonged to a second cousin of my mother’s, who, for reasons never revealed to me, had been shunned by her closer kin and joined up with our group before I was born. Her husband’s name was Shawn, and between them, they’d brought five sons into the world, and she’d died giving birth to the last one. My mother, of course, could not turn Shawn and the boys away, so they’d remained with us. However, this family did not follow the traditions of naming children with the letter
M
, and the two oldest boys, Payton and Orlando, had proven to be a great trial to their father—and thereby my mother—as they neared manhood. Both young men had a tendency to be light-fingered. This, coupled with their mutual lack of wits, had been occasionally troublesome in our travels.

My own father was not above theft in a pinch, but he never got caught.

At the time of my mother’s death, I was nineteen and Mariah was eleven. Without Mother, our group numbered twenty people.

Everyone stood in shocked silence when my father told them what had happened on the riverbank . . . that my mother was gone. But I was the only one who truly appeared to grasp the full implications of her sudden absence.

My mother was known as “the Great Moira.”

She was not Mist-Torn and possessed no inborn
abilities. In our family community, Marcus had been the only one born with a Móndyalítko gift. He was a shifter, and a fine hunter as a result. We were proud of him, but his gift was a secret, known only to us and other Móndyalítko. He could not be used to earn money or gain fame. But even without a Mist-Torn among us, we managed quite well.

Mother was a palm reader, the best I’d ever seen.

She knew how to make someone else feel like the only person in the world. She knew how to shine her light and give someone else hope and joy and peace. She knew how to make other people feel good about themselves and to do it in a way that was natural and believable.

This might not seem like such an unusual gift—but it was.

Every autumn, large numbers of farmers, merchants, and Móndyalítko converged upon the city of Kéonsk for the fair, far too many to be allowed inside the already crowded city.

Wagons, tents, and market stalls were set up outside, overseen by a city administrator called Master Deandre. He was lord of the fair, and like everyone else, he adored my mother. Not only that, but he was a shrewd businessman also, and he was well aware just how many people would line up outside our wagon to be read by the Great Moira.

Because of her, our small group from the line of Marentõr was considered important and quite a draw for the fair, as some people came just to see her and then would spend money at the merchant stalls. Master Deandre always kept a prime spot for our four wagons,
just outside the west entrance of the city. Nobody could miss us there.

Of course other members of our group had skills and talents, and we put on shows as well. Aunt Miriam and I could sing. Even at eleven, Mariah could dance beautifully. Something about the way she moved was mesmerizing. Mikolai and Micah could both play the violin, sometimes staging dueling duets, and my father was astonishing at card and magic tricks—which he mainly used as entertainment as opposed to fleecing people out of their money. We’d put out hats and people would toss in coins.

But my mother was the one people came to see, and she earned the lion’s share of our income.

In addition, she was wise and careful with money, and she kept the family accounts. We would all work the fair for the last month of autumn, and then she’d take the earnings and find good bargains on supplies: food, bolts of cloth, thread, paint for the wagons, herbal medicines, grain for the horses, new tools . . . anything we might need. Even after, she always ended up with a surplus of coins.

Once the fair was over, and we were well supplied, we’d head east to our winter destination: Belfleur Keep.

When I was just a girl, a lord named Camden had fallen under my mother’s spell, and he’d invited us to spend the winter in the courtyard of his keep. He was unmarried, but he loved to entertain friends and family in the winter months, so he often had numerous guests.

We went to serve as entertainment, and this became a tradition.

Every winter, we’d roll into the courtyard, and Lord Camden would welcome my mother like a lost jewel, kissing her hands with moisture in his eyes. He stabled our horses and let us all eat from his kitchens. We lived in our wagons, but if the weather grew too cold, we were allowed to come into the keep and sleep in the great hall by the fire.

As payment, my mother would spend many evenings doing readings for his guests after dinner. Her mere presence always meant he had people coming and going, and he was never lonely in those long, cold months. The rest of us worked, too, singing and dancing and playing music and performing magic. Mariah had never known what it was like to be cold or hungry in the winter, and I had only a few vague memories from childhood.

But again, I’d always understood that our welcome and our comfortable, safe winters at Belfleur Keep were all due to my mother. It never occurred to me that this realization had not dawned on my father or Aunt Miriam.

Not until after my mother was already dead.

The Descent

The first sign of trouble came swiftly. Aunt Miriam went to speak with Master Deandre, to tell him of our tragedy and to gain permission to begin setting up in our usual spot outside the west gate.

He expressed sorrow over the death of my mother,
and he offered Aunt Miriam sincere condolences, which she accepted. But then . . . he told her that we could not set up just yet, as there had been a few delays with preparations for the fair.

He came to us that night and related, with deep regret, that he’d already allotted our spot to another group of Móndyalítko from the line of Renéive, who were traveling with a Mist-Torn seer. He said the city had already made this decision before our arrival in order to alternate the entertainment nearest the front gate—to keep it fresh.

I knew he was lying.

Father and Aunt Miriam were dumbfounded when we were shown our new location at the outskirts of the fair among the wagons of shabbier Móndyalítko and farmers selling old apples to those who could not afford better.

“What are we going to do?” I asked my father again.

He shook his head in confusion. “Do? We’ll do what we do every year. We’ll stage shows and put our hats out for coins.”

I wanted to clench my fists. He still didn’t understand.

Aunt Miriam took over as head of the family—as was her place—but she was not my mother. The elders in our group had long since grown complacent without realizing it. In fairness, my father, Aunt Miriam, and Uncle Landrien did attempt to organize some shows for us to perform, but on the outskirts of the fair, almost no one saw us, and no one had any money to toss into our hats.

Then . . . Aunt Miriam announced that we would walk farther inside the fair and perform where there were more people.

So we did.

Unfortunately, the arrangement of the Móndyalítko families and wagons had been carefully orchestrated, and after receiving a few complaints, Master Deandre visited to politely ask us to perform only in the area where we’d been placed.

Several of Shawn’s boys were put in charge of the horses and our cow. When we ran out of grain, they began leading the animals out anywhere grass might be found. Eight horses and a cow required a good deal of grass.

By midmonth, we were spending the few coins we earned on food for immediate use, and I had a terrible feeling that very little was being saved. By the end of the month, we were living on boiled oats for breakfast, nothing for lunch, and eggs from our own chickens for dinner . . . and we had little to feed the chickens. Our cow did provide us with some milk, but she was growing older.

Poor Mariah was so confused and lost. She’d never suffered hardship, and she missed our mother so much. I tried to give her what comfort I could.

There was no one to give me comfort.

As the fair ended, it was finally time to head east for the winter, to Belfleur Keep. Mariah was so happy, she clung to me.

“I can’t wait to eat warm bread and sausages in the keep’s kitchen again,” she said. “And to sit by the fire in the hall and to play with Lord Camden’s dogs.”

I smiled and nodded and held her close. My beautiful
little sister. I did not want to voice my fears and spoil her happiness. Though I had a bad feeling about what was coming, I convinced myself that I could be wrong.

We left Kéonsk with few supplies and no grain for the horses.

The journey east took us just over a week. Out on the road, it was safe to send Marcus hunting at night, and he kept us supplied with rabbits and pheasants, but feeding twenty people was no easy task for him, and we all grew accustomed to small portions.

When we finally rolled up to Belfleur Keep, I could see the stark relief in both my father and Aunt Miriam. I knew they were both shaken by our change in circumstances at the Autumn Fair, and they were desperate for Lord Camden’s hospitality.

Aunt Miriam now drove in the lead of our group, and she led the way to the south side of the courtyard, where we had wintered for the past thirteen years. We all climbed down to stretch our legs and begin setting up. Shawn’s boys had not even begun unharnessing the horses when Lord Camden emerged from the keep, coming out to greet us. A collection of small spaniels ran around his feet, and Mariah’s face broke into a smile at the sight of them, but I held her back.

“Wait,” I said. “Aunt Miriam needs to speak to him first.”

My aunt glanced at me, and then she headed across the courtyard to intercept Lord Camden. I could see his face from where I stood, and he frowned slightly at the sight of her coming toward him. He began casting his gaze around, and I knew whom he sought: my mother.

Aunt Miriam went to him and began speaking softly. I could see only her back, but she was using her hands as she spoke. Lord Camden’s face froze, and he staggered backward. I thought he might fall. Aunt Miriam reached out for him, speaking faster. I couldn’t hear her exact words, but I could hear her rushed voice.

Lord Camden looked ill and appeared to be trying to get control of himself. He breathed deeply a few times. Then he shook his head and said something that made her entire body stiffen. Aunt Miriam’s voice rose, and I knew that was a mistake. My mother would never have raised her voice. She would have charmed him. I did not inherit her ability to charm, but I had seen it in action many times.