Mist-Torn Witches 02:Witches in Red (3 page)

Céline had always been uncommonly pretty and could make most people do anything she wanted. Amelie was, well . . . different.

To begin, the sisters looked nothing alike. Céline was small and slender, with a mass of dark blond hair that hung down her back. She often wore a red velvet dress that fit her snuggly—in order to look the part of the seer—and her eyes were lavender.

Amelie had inherited their mother’s lavender eyes, but that was all.

Having recently observed her eighteenth birthday, Amelie was even shorter than Céline. But where Céline was slight, Amelie’s build showed a hint of strength and muscle. She despised dresses and always wore breeches, a man’s shirt, a canvas jacket, and boots. She’d inherited their father’s straight black hair, which she’d cropped into a bob. For years, she’d kept it at jaw-length, but of late, she’d let it grow, and now it hung to her shoulders.

Most people found her a bit peculiar, but she didn’t care.

Then . . . she’d made this discovery that she too had been born with a power—like her mother—only she could read pasts and not futures. She longed to put this ability to use, perhaps even to earn her and Céline some extra money. People often came to Céline to hear their futures, but there might be many reasons why someone would wish for a past to be read . . .

To find a lost object that had been put away and then the hiding place forgotten.

To solve a disagreement in which two people remembered a situation differently.

The possibilities were endless. But Céline was still so fragile after their experiences up at the castle—in which
they’d been engaged to catch a murderer—that so far, she’d not been up to presenting the sisters as a pair of seers.

Amelie didn’t wish to press her and had decided not to use her own new power until Céline was ready as well.

But this all left Amelie with nothing to protect and nothing to do.

In addition to feeling useless, she was beginning to feel restless—and that only made her angry with herself for not appreciating their good fortune enough.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” a voice called out from behind her.

“Morning, Simon,” a familiar voice called back.

Amelie froze in front of the market stall where she stood.

Slowly, she turned her head to see Lieutenant Jaromir walking into the market, wearing his chain armor and tan tabard. He hadn’t spotted her yet. Other villagers began calling greetings to him now. Jaromir was well liked by the people he protected.

What was he doing out here, just walking in the streets? The summer had been awfully quiet. Perhaps he was bored, as she was.

Ducking down slightly, Amelie couldn’t help looking at him for a few moments.

Perhaps thirty years old, he wasn’t exactly handsome, but he wore a small goatee around his mouth and kept his light brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck. From his weathered face to the scars on his hands, most elements of his appearance marked him as
a professional soldier. He was tall and strong and seemed comfortable inside his own skin. However, he was also arrogant and too fond of being in control, and he would do anything—
anything
—he deemed necessary to protect Prince Anton.

Both Amelie’s opinion of Jaromir and her relationship to him were . . . complicated. In truth, there was no relationship, but he’d made hints that he’d prefer to alter that state of affairs.

So, at the prospect of him walking into the market, she did the only thing she possibly could do and dashed around the back of a stall to hide before he spotted her. Yes, it was cowardly, and she knew it, but facing him in the street would have been much worse.

She’d had to politely greet him the few times that Anton had insisted the sisters come up to the castle for a banquet, but once formalities were over, she’d been able to avoid talking with Jaromir due to the various activities that took place in a crowd, such as everyone eating too much food or the inevitable card games that followed.

Out here, in the market by herself, she’d have no excuse not to speak with him if he approached her.

So—though partially ashamed of herself—she crouched behind the stall of a wool seller and peered around the edge toward the street.

“What are you doing, girl?” asked the aging wool seller.

“Quiet,” Amelie told him. “I don’t want someone to see me.”

He glanced down the street. “The lieutenant? Did you break the law?”

All the people here referred to Jaromir as “the lieutenant,” as if it were some kind of title. He had authority over everyone except Prince Anton. He liked it that way.

“No,” Amelie answered. “I just don’t want to have to talk to him.”

The old man raised an eyebrow.

But he had no chance to respond, as a loud commotion broke out from the direction of the outer village gates. Amelie moved up from her crouched position to see what was happening.

A rider came pounding up the narrow cobbled street, straight toward the market, pushing his horse at a pace much too fast to be considered safe inside the wall surrounding the village and the castle. The population here was large and condensed. People were not allowed to gallop their horses through the streets.

But the rider didn’t slow down. Villagers screamed and dodged out of the way. A few fruit carts were overturned, and he just kept coming.

Amelie stood, wondering what was about to happen, when she saw Jaromir position himself directly in the rider’s path.

“Stop!” he ordered.

What a show-off,
Amelie thought.

The rider fought wildly to pull up his horse and nearly smashed into Jaromir before he managed to get the creature stopped. Jaromir didn’t even flinch.

It was then that Amelie finally noticed the rider wore chain armor and a dark brown tabard: the color worn by the guards of Prince Lieven, who was father
to both Anton and Damek, as well as the current head of the House of Pählen.

Though the rider was panting hard, upon getting a better look at Jaromir, he leaned down and said something while wearing an urgent expression. Amelie couldn’t hear what was said, but Jaromir’s eyes widened, and he seemed to forget all about the public disturbance. Turning around, he ushered the rider to follow, and they both headed toward the castle.

Finally, something had happened.

Amelie was dying to know what.

* * *

Once inside the castle, Lieutenant Jaromir sent a guard upstairs to find Anton, and then he led the messenger into the vast main hall—whereupon he immediately began second-guessing himself. Due to the banquet planned for that night, the hall was in a state of uproar, with far too many servants bustling about moving tables and dragging benches into place.

The messenger in the brown tabard looked around at all the activity. He was still puffing, and Jaromir couldn’t help noting his grizzled face, gray hair, and wide chest. The man was too old to be riding at top speed all the way from Castle Pählen.

A serving girl in an apron stood just inside the hall, and Jaromir motioned to her. “Could you fetch this man a mug of ale?” he asked. It sounded like a request, but of course she dropped what she was doing and ran for the kitchens.

“Can you not tell me something of your message?” he asked the burly man beside him.

“No,” the man answered bluntly. “This comes straight from Prince Lieven to his son.”

Even though the man was possessed of a strong voice, Jaromir could barely hear him over the din in the hall. Still, Jaromir balked at the idea of bringing a stranger up to Anton’s private rooms. Such a prospect went against all his instincts.

No, it was better to wait here.

Suddenly, the hall fell silent as Prince Anton walked through the large open archway. Of medium height, he was slender, with dark hair tucked behind his ears. He wore black breeches and a midnight blue tunic. At twenty-three, he looked young to be in charge of so many people, but his bearing was noble, and Jaromir was proud of the man he served. Anton was more than his lord. The two had become good friends.

All the servants bowed their heads, but Anton didn’t seem to notice them.

“Leonides?” he asked, looking at the messenger.

The grizzled man offered a tired smile. “Yes, lad, it’s me.”

Jaromir couldn’t help bristling at this lack of respect. Everyone here addressed Anton as “my prince” or “my lord.” But when Anton did not insist on a proper correction, Jaromir suddenly felt at odds, uncertain of the situation.

“Look at the state of you,” Anton said, walking closer.

“I’ve been riding all night and half the day. I’ve a message from your father.”

The girl came trotting back in with the ale, and the
aging messenger took it from her, downing it in a few gulps and handing back the mug.

There was a small side chamber in the hall with a door that closed, and Jaromir motioned toward it with his head. “Perhaps in there?”

Anton nodded and led the way. As soon as all three men were inside, Jaromir closed the door. The room was small indeed, with a single table, two chairs, and no window. Several candles glowed from the table.

“Jaromir,” Anton said, “this is Leonides, my sword master when I was a boy. He has served my father for years.”

The affection in his voice was undisguised and unusual, as Anton almost always guarded his emotions. Again, Jaromir felt uncertain. So, he simply offered a polite nod.

“Sit and rest,” Anton said.

With a grateful expression, Leonides dropped into a chair.

“Is my father well?” Anton asked.

“He’s well,” Leonides grunted. “But he’s got a problem, a tricky one, and he needs you to see to it right away.”

“Me?”

Leonides leaned back, and his brow furrowed as if he was gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember about five years ago when your father bought the Ryazan silver mines up in the Northwest Territories?”

Anton didn’t answer, but Leonides didn’t seem to notice.

“Those mines proved a good purchase,” the sword
master continued. “Your father sent a contingent of his own guards to set up an encampment and hire workers to mine the silver. Over the years, he’s rotated the men posted there . . . as it’s foolish to leave anyone in that wild country for too long. But the miners are still digging and silver is still coming out.”

Anton shook his head in confusion. “And now there is a problem?”

Leonides didn’t look at him. “A few months ago, your father got a report he almost couldn’t believe, didn’t believe at first. The present contingent has been out there for only about four months, but even in a short time, those forests can do things to a man’s mind. A Captain Keegan is in charge, along with a Lieutenant Sullian. Keegan wrote to your father that several of the young soldiers under him had . . .” He paused. “Well, they had turned into beasts and gone mad and had to be killed.”

“What?” Anton asked.

Leonides nodded. “Your father sent a small number of reinforcements, but when more reports arrived at Castle Pählen, he started to think these stories were more than a bit of forest madness. By that point, eight of our guards out there were dead, and then . . . two weeks ago, Lieutenant Sullian changed into one of these beasts and had to be killed.”

“This is nonsense,” Jaromir said, unable to keep silent. “Prince Lieven’s initial instincts were right.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Leonides stated flatly, his voice carrying across the room. He looked back to Anton. “And these men who become beasts are too often killing the mine workers before they can be killed
themselves. Some of the workers, with signed contracts, have been caught trying to slip away in the night. Production has come to a near halt, and your father wants this solved. He wants the silver flowing again.”

If anything, Anton appeared more puzzled than before. “Why would he engage me for this?”

As if in agreement with the confusion, Leonides shrugged and answered, “Honestly, lad, I don’t know. He said you were clever—which I don’t dispute—and he sent me here as fast as I could ride.” Reaching beneath his armor, he pulled out a piece of paper. “Oh, and he sent a letter.”

Quickly, Anton scanned the contents of the letter and then held it out for Jaromir.

Jaromir took it and read an account of everything Leonides had just related, but his eyes stopped on two carefully worded sentences:

I’ve learned that you were recently troubled by a similar, seemingly unsolvable problem, and yet you managed it. I engage you to solve this one for me, as quickly as possible, but if it proves too much for you, I can turn the matter over to your brother.

His gaze flew up to Anton’s face. First, how did Prince Lieven know about their “problem” this past spring? They hadn’t told him. Second, this was a test, plain and simple. Anton’s father wanted this solved and had given the task to Anton . . . along with a veiled threat to engage Damek instead if necessary.

Jaromir couldn’t help feeling angry. Anton and Damek were always being pitted against each other, and if Jaromir had any say in the matter, Anton would not only survive but also come out on top.

Droevinka had no hereditary king. Instead, it was a land of many princes, each one heading his own noble house and overseeing multiple fiefdoms. But . . . they all served a single grand prince, and a new grand prince was elected every nine years by the gathered heads of the noble houses. This system had served the country well for more than a hundred years. At present, Prince Rodêk of the House of Äntes was in rule.

But within two years, a new grand prince would be voted in.

Anton and Damek were sons of the House of Pählen. Their father, Prince Lieven, controlled a large portion of the western region. He’d given Damek, who was the elder brother, an aging castle and seven large fiefs to oversee. He’d given Anton a better castle but six smaller fiefs. These “assignments” were a chance for each young man to prove himself. However, Prince Lieven had been aging in recent days, and it was rumored he would soon be naming a successor as leader of the House of Pählen. It was his right to choose between his sons, and should a victor be chosen within the next two years, then that son would have the right to place his name on the voting list for the position of grand prince.