Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches (14 page)

“Truly?” Céline asked in surprise. “These aren’t your ancestors?”

“Not that I know. My grandfather took this castle from a rival in a siege. Most of the portraits of my ancestors are with my father, at Castle Pählen.” He paused. “But the only ones I recognize there are my grandfather and my mother.”

His tone had altered slightly, becoming thinner at the mention of his mother.

“When did she die?” Céline asked.

“I was only eight, but I remember her. I’m glad Father had her portrait done, though. Sometimes I forget what she looked like, and when I visit him, I can be reminded.” He continued looking
up. “I once had a miniature of just her face, but it was lost some time ago. Sad really. It was one of the few possessions I valued.”

Later, Céline had no idea what possessed her to ask the next question. It just came from her mouth as if of its own accord. “Did you have a portrait done of Joselyn?”

He stopped walking and turned white.

“Oh, forgive me…,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to…” What would ever possess her to remind him of
that
? Here she was, trying to prove herself indispensable, and she’d just called attention to the fact that she’d counseled him to wed a woman who’d died—apparently less than a year into their marriage.

“No, I didn’t,” he answered quietly. “I meant to, but she was gone too soon.” He wasn’t angry, and to both her alarm and relief, he almost seemed eager to broach the subject of Joselyn. “Why did you tell me that I’d be happy?”

She felt cornered and regretted that they’d managed to go from discussing the portraits into this verbal quicksand. If he didn’t believe in her ability to read the future, he might set her and Amelie outside the gates by noon.

Her mind raced. “Because I only saw one image,” she answered. “It was shortly after you and she were wed. You were in the great hall below, and I could see your faces clearly. You were happy.”

This seemed safe enough.

But he looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach, and she knew that if she possessed an ounce of sanity, she’d switch topics immediately. To her shock, she found herself asking, “How did she die?”

“I killed her,” he answered quietly, almost inaudibly, and she froze, very aware that she was alone with him up here.

As if in response to her earlier outburst, words began pouring from his mouth, words she felt must have been bottled up for a long time.

“You were right,” he said, “and we were happy. I’d never been so happy. I could talk to her. I wasn’t alone.” The words were clipped and quiet. “Only two months after we were married, she told me she was carrying our child. After that, even my father seemed to accept her. We planned a nursery, and I thought on all the years to come, spending them with her, watching our children grow.”

Warning bells began sounding in Céline’s mind. She knew exactly what was coming, and his voice was so raw, so full of pain, she didn’t think he could stop himself if he wanted to. But she understood human nature too well. He had no one he could talk to of these things, not Jaromir, not Lady Karina. For them, he had to play the capable prince. Right now, he was caught up in the moment, sharing pain with someone who had shared her pain with him.

But what of later in the day? Would he suffer a bout of horror and embarrassment that he’d let
down his guard and bared his soul? Would he be so regretful that he’d not even be able to face her? Then what would happen?

“My lord—,” she tried to cut in.

He didn’t seem to hear and rushed on in his quiet voice. “When her time arrived, the castle rejoiced and the midwife came…but the hours passed, and more hours. They wouldn’t let me see her, but I stood outside the door, and I could hear her screaming.”

Céline wanted to close her eyes. He might never forgive her for having heard this.

“Then she stopped screaming. I ordered the door opened, and I went in. She was dead. The child was dead, and the bed was covered in blood. I’d killed her.”

In spite of her fears, Céline whispered, “Oh, Anton.”

She knew she should have called him “my lord” or “prince,” but neither felt appropriate.

“Afterward, I thought I’d die, too.” He looked into her face. “I blamed you at first, thinking you’d lied to me, but that passed, and I knew well enough to blame myself.”

How surreal. She’d not given him a moment’s thought once he’d walked out of her shop five years ago.

“I wanted to die,” he said. “But then Karina came, and then I found Jaromir…and I just went on, living each day as her killer.”

“You didn’t kill Joselyn,” Céline said, throwing
caution to the wind. “Men die in war and women die in the childbed, and that is the way of things. All of life is a risk, and she wanted that baby just as much as you did.”

His eyes fixed on her face, and this time, a different warning bell sounded. She’d seen lust on the faces of enough men to know it, but he looked at her with longing, loneliness, and hunger. His hand began to rise toward her. It was pale and slender, and she was astonished by the thought that his touch would be soft, that she might even welcome it. She was also almost certain he hadn’t reached for a woman like this since Lady Joselyn had died…and yet he reached for her.

But the bells turned into a scream. Tragic or not, men like Anton burned hot for a mistress and could cool just as quickly. Once they were finished, they normally got rid of her as fast as possible, even unto sending her off so they wouldn’t have to be reminded every day.

Céline wanted to be his seer, his village apothecary, not his mistress. Although a part of her longed to feel his hand on her cheek…moving down her throat, she was not about to trade her future for what would probably be a few weeks of pleasure at best.

Taking a step back, she said, “I should go and check on Amelie. She didn’t get much sleep last night. You and Jaromir should plan how you want to proceed. It’s possible we might just tell some of the parents and girls what I’m really doing here.”

He blinked and his hand dropped. All traces of longing vanished from his eyes, but so did his open demeanor. The haughty prince returned.

“Very good,” he said. “I will speak to Jaromir.”

Turning, she walked swiftly toward the stairwell, glancing up once at the portrait of the black-haired woman by the campfire.

T
he next few days passed in a blur.

Céline suffered through several regrets, such as her continued inability to tell Amelie the truth. She’d managed to put her sister off by claiming that she’d made a guess while attempting to make herself appear useful in the investigation and then had been overwrought when Sybil had actually been killed.

Amelie had appeared to accept this on the surface, but she also told Céline they’d better come up with a much better plan than simply guessing and trying to look useful.

Céline couldn’t fault that logic, but she was also mildly alarmed by how quickly she was adapting to castle life. Lady Karina continued her kindness and had sent up more clothing: gowns, clean shifts, stockings, and even a pair of dark breeches for Amelie.

Helga brought breakfast to their room every day, and she built the morning fire. She also made their bed and laundered their clothing. Lunch was
served in the dining hall in a buffet fashion, and there were sit-down suppers with meat, root vegetables, white bread, early spring strawberries, and wine every night—not as lavish as the banquet, but still fine meals.

Céline had no duties other than reading any young women Jaromir brought to her, and Amelie spent much of her time playing cards with off-duty soldiers. The sisters were both living like ladies of leisure.

But Céline couldn’t help feeling these quiet days were like a lull before a violent storm. That something was about to happen. Jaromir had apparently made her true purpose here more widely known, and he’d asked for volunteers among families with daughters. But so far only a few parents had brought their daughters to be read, and Céline had been relieved not to have found herself pulled along in the mists, forced to witness an ugly death.

At the same time, she felt she was making no progress.

Anton had kept his distance after their rather raw exchange in the upstairs portrait hall.

On the fourth day, however, he sent out announcements for another banquet at the castle set for the following night, and he made it clear a refusal would be perceived as an insult.

The following day, castle cooks and servants bustled with the preparations.

As Céline dressed for this banquet, she knew
she would be on display again and that Jaromir and Anton both expected results. Jaromir had been growing more and more restless, and he wanted something he could fight.

The wardrobe in her room now contained a number of gowns, and she chose one of soft lavender wool with a scoop neck and a fairly straight skirt. It matched her eyes and accentuated her slim hips.

As she stood before the mirror, her mind flashed back to the way Anton had looked at her in the portrait hall, and she wondered if she should change into her own threadbare red dress. At least she felt like herself in that dress…and could keep her sights on the end goal.

“Céline, who do you really think is doing this?” Amelie asked, pulling on her boots. “Killing the girls, I mean. It has to be someone who wants to discredit Anton, but I’ve been talking to the soldiers for days, and everyone here seems loyal.”

Céline turned from the mirror. “You’ve been talking to the soldiers? Trying to gain information?”

“What did you think I’d been doing? Amusing myself with cards?”

Actually, that was exactly what Céline thought she’d been doing.

After seeing the black gloves and the sight of Sybil’s life draining away, Céline had been wallowing in fear that the killer was indeed, as Anton so politely put it, “more arcane” in nature.

But he’d also mentioned the possibility of an unknown poison. She knew of nothing to make flesh shrivel so quickly, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

“And none of the maids claim to know anything of secret passages in the guest quarters,” Amelie went on. “Not even Helga, and I think she’d tell me if she knew.”

“Secret passages?”

“How else could the killer get inside that room? There’s no window, and Jaromir was standing on the other side of a locked door. But I haven’t been able to do a search of the room.”

Céline stared at her. “Why don’t you just ask Jaromir for permission?”

“What? And let him find it? Let him solve this? No, we have to solve it ourselves and make you look like the ‘seer’ in the process.”

Céline turned away. “We’re late,” she said, realizing dusk had fallen.

They stepped out into the passage, walking side by side, but Céline’s thoughts were churning. What if Amelie was right? What if the killer was simply someone trying to discredit Anton? A perfect way to discredit a respected leader would be through a series of deaths of pretty, unmarried girls—which he was unable to stop.

“Do you remember Pavel saying something odd at the table at the last banquet?” Céline asked, murmuring in case they passed someone unexpectedly.

“No…just him telling you about the people closest to Anton. What else did he say?”

“That he’d never serve Prince Damek, but he thought Damek would make a better grand prince, that Anton was too kind…or rather that Damek was a harder man and therefore better qualified to protect the country.”

“Oh, I do remember. So even someone loyal to Anton might be working against him, just because the person thinks Damek could better protect Droevinka?” Amelie shook her head. “That could leave a lot of people here to choose from.”

A flush of shame passed through Céline. Amelie had been actively looking for suspects, questioning soldiers and castle maids, while she had wallowed in self-pity and guilt, certain she was chasing a shadow and at the same time worrying that she might even be accelerating the murders.

That would stop right now.

“We need to make a list,” she whispered as they walked down the stairs, “of everyone who thinks Anton is too soft to rule the country.”

“Good.” Amelie nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Their discussion stopped as they entered the great hall.

It was crowded with milling guests as before, but now few people bothered with any pretense of attending an enjoyable dinner offered by their prince. More than half the guests in the hall
glanced at Céline as she entered, and the rest preferred to pretend she was not a reality.

But she could hardly blame them.

At the last banquet, she’d read a lovely young woman who’d wound up lying dead on a table in the cellars only a few hours later.

Anton stood at the top of the hall near the dais with his usual entourage, and Lady Karina smiled at Céline from her place beside him. Céline smiled back. But then she shifted her gaze back to Anton as he took in the sight of her lavender gown. After only a second or two, he looked away.

Master Feodor had donned his usual black silk tunic, but he drank down a large goblet of wine rather quickly and signaled to a servant to pour him more. Was something bothering him? Or did he always drink that much?

Inna was hovering behind Anton, and Jaromir was dressed in his chain armor again, along with his tabard and sword, wearing an expression dark enough to make Céline wish she could avoid him for the remainder of the evening. Even his loyal wolfhound, Lizzie, kept her place by the fire instead of at his side. He looked as if he could kick a small kitten across the hall.

“I like that dress,” someone said from beside her, and she turned to find Corporal Pavel towering over her and Amelie. His familiar face and cropped dark hair were a welcome sight. He might be slightly besotted, but at least he was a
simple man with simple needs. She knew how to handle him.

“Thank you,” Céline said. “Lady Karina has nearly packed our wardrobe, and she has good taste.”

“I haven’t seen you in a few days,” Amelie told him. “Where have you been?”

He hesitated. “My lord saw fit to have the lieutenant place me on night watch at the lower gates. But I’m off duty tonight.”