Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red (24 page)

Turning his head slowly, he looked back at her, and even in the darkness he was close enough for her to see the depths of his light blue eyes. She didn’t answer his question, but she was suddenly very aware that he had not intended to give her any kind of clue that he’d ever served under Prince Damek.

Was she alone out here with a man willing to destroy the soldiers who served under him?

Her mind rebelled against the prospect. It
couldn’t
be Quinn. He was the only one here who’d even tried to assist Jaromir, the only one in whom Jaromir had placed any trust.

But then . . . he was also the only Pählen soldier who’d known that Jaromir had been hiding in the barn
watching Graham. Rurik had told her that much earlier. And . . . the beast tonight had somehow appeared inside Amelie and Céline’s tent when Jaromir had been across the camp and unable to protect them.

Had Céline’s announcement regarding Graham proven they weren’t charlatans? Had Graham indeed been the next intended victim? If Quinn was the one responsible for these horrors, had he then decided to get rid of the two seers from Sèone?

But if so, then why was he so determined in this hunt? He clearly wanted to track down the beast.

Unless . . . he’d known full well that if he ran into the forest after the wolf, she’d follow him. He’d seen enough of her over the past few days and nights to realize that much. What if he’d intended for her to follow him, to help him track down the beast, so he could let it kill her and be rid of at least one sister—the one who could see the past—without calling any suspicion to himself?

No, again, she couldn’t accept any of these far-fetched notions.

What possible motive could Quinn, a mere corporal, have for closing down a mining operation?

Unless . . . for some reason, Damek had wanted it closed down, and Quinn was still working for Damek.

“You have a very expressive face,” he whispered.

She started to back up. He’d been holding his spear flat against the ground, and he let go of it, freeing both his hands, but Amelie still gripped the cudgel. She’d always depended on the element of surprise, on letting others underestimate her until it was too late, and she
had a sick feeling in her stomach that her life was about to depend on this tried-and-true tactic.

So she kept still, waiting for him to make the first move—which would be to try to take her cudgel.

Instead, he swung with his left fist, moving so fast that she had only a second to pull back, and he clipped her across the chin. Even then, the strength in his fist was staggering, and she was knocked aside, hitting the damp ground and rolling.

He was on top of her in seconds, tearing the cudgel from her grip and throwing it to one side.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pinning her with his weight and grabbing her by the jaw with one hand. “You shouldn’t have come here. I’ll make it quick.”

Was he going to snap her neck? A mix of fear and rage took hold of Amelie. How could it be Quinn? How could none of them—not she, not Céline, not Jaromir—have gotten a single hint? Falling back on the only defense she had left, she grabbed his wrist with both hands.

Instead of pointlessly trying to pull his hand off her jaw, she demanded, “Why?”

And in a flash, she reached out for the spark of his spirit, trying to rip his awareness from this moment, to trap him in the mists of time. His spirit was strong, and she latched onto it.

Why?

The first jolt hit, and she focused as hard as she could on whatever had brought him here. The second jolt hit, and they were both swept into the gray and white mists, moving backward. Again, she fought to
keep pulling him along with her but to remain separate. She didn’t want to see through his eyes. She would remain an observer and allow her gift to show her what she needed to see.

He was fighting back, trying to break free, but she held on. In here, she was the stronger one.

Why?

The mists cleared.

Kimovesk: One Year in the Past

A
melie found herself in a vast windowless room with walls of stone. Small braziers lined three of the walls, providing a good deal of light. Spears and crossbows lined the fourth wall.

It took her a moment to take in the scene before her. Only three people occupied the open space, and all of them stood near a long wooden table. She noted Quinn first . . . but he was wearing a black tabard over his armor. Next, she saw a middle-aged woman with long silver-blond hair. Her face showed signs of fading beauty. She wore rings on all her fingers and was dressed in a robe of purple silk.

At the sight of the third person, Amelie tensed inside the memory. He looked to be about twenty-five or twenty-six, handsome and slender. His hair was long and dark. His skin was pale to the point of being white, and he wore a sleeveless embroidered tunic. He looked like Anton—only with darker, longer hair. But his eyes were cruel as he gazed downward at the table.

Prince Damek.

Strangely, Amelie had never seen him in person, but she’d seen him in another memory and knew his face.

Then . . . her own gaze moved down to the tabletop, and the scene took on an unreal quality. A dead, naked man lay there. He had a mass of black hair, dusky skin, and a silver ring in one ear. His head lay at an odd angle, and his right arm hung down off the side of the table. His wrist had been cut open, and his blood was draining into a bowl.

At his feet, also on the table, lay the body of a dead wolf with a crossbow quarrel still protruding from its rib cage. The wolf was brown with a white chest and one white paw.

Amelie couldn’t imagine what any of this meant.

Damek paced, appearing almost anxious. “Lieutenant,” he said, “you swear he was in wolf form when you killed him?”

“Yes,” Quinn answered impassively. “I broke his neck, and he changed back.”

Damek touched the side of the table. “No one else has been able to do this for me,” he whispered. “No one.”

“I told you I could.”

Amelie wanted to gasp as several facts hit her at once. First, Quinn was not a corporal. He was an officer in Damek’s forces. Second, Quinn had hunted down and murdered a Móndyalítko shape-shifter.

To what possible end?

Amelie lowered her gaze back to the bowl on the floor, as it was now half-filled with the shape-shifter’s blood. The woman picked up the bowl.

“Now I’ll need blood from the wolf,” she said, “and its fangs, its eyes, and two of its claws.”

Damek nodded at Quinn, who pulled a dagger from his belt and started toward the dead wolf.

Fighting nausea, Amelie looked away and saw a burning hearth—large enough to stand in—at the other end of the vast room. An iron hook had been set over the flames, and a small metal cauldron with symbols etched around the outside hung from the hook.

Damek reached out one hand toward the woman. “Lady Saorise, let me carry that for you.”

She handed him the bowl with an imperious nod. Amelie had no idea who this woman was, but she focused harder on trying not to look at Quinn as he obtained the requested parts from the body of the dead wolf.

A few moments later, all three of them walked toward the blazing hearth.

Upon reaching it, Lady Saorise stood in front of the cauldron. Damek stood on one side of her and Quinn on the other. Amelie saw a cup with a lip and handle and a metal flask on the floor.

Without hesitation, Lady Saorise took the bowl of blood from Damek and poured it into the cauldron. The liquid hissed as it hit the bottom.

“Now the wolf’s blood,” she said, “and its teeth, eyes, and claws.”

Amelie allowed herself to look at Quinn now. His face was utterly emotionless, but he was holding a bowl of his own. Carefully, he reached out and poured the contents into the cauldron. These additions made less sound.

Lady Saorise pulled at a chain around her neck and lifted a small bottle from the neckline of her robe. She opened the stopper and poured the contents of the bottle into the cauldron.

“Thrice-purified water,” she told Damek, “to help the elixir to be absorbed.”

He said nothing, but his eyes glittered as he watched in fascination.

Lady Saorise began to chant softly. She placed her hands in the air on each side of the cauldron as her voice gradually grew louder. Amelie couldn’t understand a word.

Then Lady Saorise cried out one final, loud, unintelligible phrase, and she swept inward with her hands, holding the sides of the cauldron. Amelie could only imagine how hot the metal must be and the damage it was doing to her palms.

“Rage,” Saorise whispered softly. “Madness.”

She slumped in exhaustion, and her hands fell away from the cauldron.

“My lady,” Damek cried in what sounded like genuine alarm, and he caught her, holding her up. Was it possible he cared for this woman?

A moment later, she stood on her own power. “I am well. The spell is powerful . . . and draining.”

“Is it done?” Damek breathed.

Reaching down, she picked up the cup and the flask, and as she did, Amelie saw that her hands weren’t burned. They weren’t even reddened. Dipping the cup into the cauldron, she poured a now black fluid into the metal flask—without spilling a drop.

“We must test it,” she said. “You have a subject?”

Nodding, Damek turned and strode across the room to a side door. Quinn and Lady Saorise followed him. Amelie was drawn after them, but she was flooded with a terrible feeling that the worst of this was not over.

Opening the door, Damek turned to Quinn. “You brought the leather gloves, as I asked?”

“Yes.”

Quinn drew a pair of thick gloves from the pocket of his pants, and he put them on.

Upon hearing a rattling sound, Amelie peered around him into a narrow room. A filthy man in rags was manacled by one wrist to the back wall. He looked out in terror at the open doorway.

Lady Saorise handed Quinn the flask. “You only need to place a small amount on his bare skin,” she said. “Just wet your gloved finger and touch his skin. The elixir will absorb instantly. But do
not
get the smallest amount on your own skin. You must never be careless. It will affect you as it would affect him.”

Taking the flask from her, Quinn wet his gloved right pointer finger with a few drops of the black liquid. Then he entered the narrow room, going straight to the panicked man and smearing the substance on his cheek.

“No!” the man cried, trying to pull back against the wall. “What are you doing?”

Quinn stepped away and looked back toward the door. “How long?”

Amelie almost didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded so cold.

“Unknown,” Lady Saorise answered. “We will have to wait.”

All three of them fell silent, and the only sound Amelie heard was the manacled man whimpering in fear. Inside the memory, it was difficult to judge how much time had passed, but she thought it was less than an hour when the man in the narrow room began gagging.

Though it was difficult to watch, Amelie knew that she was being shown only what was most important, so she looked through a space between Damek’s and Quinn’s shoulders as they stood in the doorway.

The poor man inside began retching . . . and then his hands began turning into claws and his body began to expand. His jaw elongated and fur sprouted from his skin. Amelie watched, numb, as he transformed into a massive wolf with red eyes, and he lunged, roaring, against the chain on his front leg.

The manacle was tight against his fur, but it held.

“By the gods,” Damek whispered in wonder, staring at the mad creature snarling and snapping at the end of its chain. Saliva spattered the floor from its fangs. “Saorise, you’ve done it.” His expression altered to one of someone who suddenly wished to get down to business, and he turned to Quinn. “Kill that thing. We know the elixir works.”

Without a word, Quinn walked to the weapons wall, took down a crossbow, and loaded it.

Amelie did not feel she needed to watch this part, and she turned around as he went back to the doorway and fired. The beast inside the room cried out, but she
could still hear it snarling. Quinn loaded a second quarrel and fired again. This time, she could hear only panting afterward, and she looked back to see Quinn frowning slightly.

“I shot it through the eye,” he said. “They are hard to kill.”

Returning to the wall, he took down a heavy spear, and this time he entered the room. Amelie heard a loud sucking sound, and then the room went silent. Quinn reemerged.

“It’s dead.”

Damek seemed to be growing impatient now, and he turned to Saorise. “My lady, you must be exhausted. Would you like to go and rest?”

“Yes, perhaps. You are pleased?”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “More than pleased. I will be up to visit you shortly.”

Again, Amelie wondered what these two were to each other—but she received no answers.

As Lady Saorise swept from the room in a rustling of her purple robe, Damek squared off with Quinn, assessing his tall form.

“You do realize this is only the beginning?” Damek asked.

“Yes. What do you want done next?”

“A field test.” Glancing over at the table, Damek’s lip curled up in distaste at the dead Móndyalítko and the partially mutilated body of the wolf. With one hand, he motioned Quinn back toward the hearth, and both men walked over to stand nearer to the fire.

Amelie followed.

“I’m going to have you placed inside my father’s forces as a corporal,” Damek said.

“A corporal?”

“Yes, I need someone who will be trusted but not garner much attention.”

“So you are offering me to your father?”

Damek smiled, and Amelie found the sight chilling. “Oh, no,” he said. “My father would never accept any connection with anyone who’d ever served me. He would doubt my motives. No, I’ve forged a letter from an acquaintance of my father, a Baron Driesè. Apparently, according to the letter, the baron has a high opinion of you and would like for you to be given a chance in the guard of a royal household.”

Quinn frowned. “And you think your father will believe this unselfish act?”

“I do. You see, the baron has done this once before. It is in his nature. My father will accept you. But he and Driesè see each other only every few years at best, and I’ll make certain any letters between my father and him are intercepted in the first weeks after your arrival. The ruse will not be discovered.”

“So I serve as a corporal. Then what?”

“Your first task is to become trusted by your commanding officer. That’s all you need do for now. Later . . . though I’ve not chosen a time or a place, when I give the word, I will need you to find a way to get your contingent assigned somewhere isolated. You’ll then begin to experiment with the elixir. Start slowly, turning a man every few weeks perhaps. Your purpose is to create and incite a complete breakdown of the
command structure, to foster such an atmosphere of terror and mistrust that although most of the men will remain healthy and
appear
capable of battle, it would be child’s play to ride in and destroy them.”

“You’re going to attack your own father’s men?” Quinn asked, but he didn’t sound remotely daunted by the task Damek had just placed before him.

“No, of course not. You are simply carrying out the initial test, but you need to take it to the point where order has broken down, fear has taken over, the contingent could be wiped out with little effort, and yet from the outside, the attackers will appear as the far stronger force. That is the key. I need to create situations where my men always appear as the stronger force. When you’ve reached that point, you may stop and send me word. I trust your judgment. I only wish to know if this will work to the degree that I imagine.”

“And if it does, you will then use it against your real enemies on a larger scale?”

“Oh, yes. I plan to show my father that I maintain the finest fighters in Droevinka, easily able to smash any opposition.”

“But why have me try this on your father’s men?”

“So that once you’ve finished your field test, I should be able to swoop in, look the hero as I stop it from happening again, and save the day. We can easily blame someone in the camp.” He smiled again. “Not you, of course. I find you far too useful, but I do need to impress my father on every possible front. Later, if he discovers what I’m doing to our enemies, I can say that I tortured the original traitor and gained knowledge of
his weapon to use myself—in defense of our family’s interests. That will make me look even more resourceful.”

“And if I am successful in my . . . field test, you will agree to my reward?”

“To make you vassal of O’Kruge Keep and its fiefs?”

“With me keeping half the rents. And you’ll arrange a marriage for me to a noblewoman?”

“That was the agreement. Others have made promises to me, but you’re the only man to come this far. If you succeed in the next part of this task, the vassalage and rents are yours, and I will marry you to Lord Chaudoir’s youngest daughter. Will that be acceptable?”

“Lord Chaudior?” For the first time, Quinn’s icy blue eyes showed a hint of emotion—possibly greed or perhaps just hunger. “Yes, that is acceptable.”

As those words left his mouth, the room vanished and the mists rushed in. Amelie felt herself being swept forward . . . and forward until she knew some time had passed. When the mists cleared, she was inside the great hall of a castle, surrounded by a din. More than a hundred people had gathered at long tables for a feast.

Prince Lieven, Prince Damek, and six other well-dressed nobles were seated at a table at the top of the hall, upon a dais. Most of the soldiers in the hall wore dark brown tabards, so Amelie reasoned the scene was taking place at Castle Pählen, and Prince Damek was here on a visit to his father.

Looking down, Amelie saw three men seated directly in front of where she stood: Captain Keegan, Quinn, and the handsome Lieutenant Sullian. Quinn
wore the brown tabard of Lieven’s forces now. All three men were drinking and laughing, and after only a few moments of watching them, Amelie could not help but note the easy camaraderie among them. Quinn must either be a master actor or so mentally deranged that he could convince himself of the role he was playing.