Read Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches Online
Authors: Barb Hendee
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Contemporary, #Fantasy
For my beautiful daughter, Jaclyn, who was my first reader
here…and who gave me hope.
S
HETÂNA
V
ILLAGE IN THE
W
ESTERN
R
EGION OF
D
ROEVINKA
M
y name is Céline Fawe, and I am a Mist-Torn witch.
By the age of fifteen, I had no idea what this meant, as none of my powers had manifested yet. I only knew that my mother had just died, that the apothecary shop she’d owned was now mine, and that I had to provide for my twelve-year-old sister, Amelie. My father had been killed long ago, and with my mother’s passing, the two of us were alone.
What would you have done?
I did what anyone would do—I fell back upon my only strengths: the abilities to listen and to lie.
Of course, I didn’t even know about those two skills until the week after Amelie and I had buried our mother and a young man came through the front door of our shop. His eyes were wild, shifting back and forth, reminding me of a colt locked in a stall for the first time.
But I was still so numb that I could barely draw
breath, and I didn’t care what he wanted or why he’d come.
“I have an appointment,” he said hesitantly, “with Eleanor.”
Eleanor was my mother.
“She’s dead,” I answered.
To my surprise, the flash of disappointment on his face moved me, and for the first time, I really looked at him. He was medium height, with brown hair tucked behind his ears, wearing a burgundy tunic and a sword. I guessed him to be about eighteen.
“Dead?” he repeated. “No…She was going to tell me…”
He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. My mother had been a seer, and he wanted to know something about his future. I was just about to tell him to go away when I spotted the small pouch of coins in his hand.
I tensed. I was no seer, not like my mother. I could grow healing herbs and cast small spells to stop bad dreams or ease the pain of unrequited love, but I was no seer.
Still, the cupboard was nearly bare, and that pouch beckoned. Curing bad dreams didn’t exactly pay well.
A risky idea struck me, and at that point, I had little left to lose.
“I’m Eleanor’s daughter,” I said. “I have her gift. Sit down, and I can help you.”
The relief washing over his face shamed me—but not enough to make me stop. I let him sit.
“What is it you wish to know?” I asked.
He sank down into the chair, facing me across my mother’s faded table. “I…I want to marry, but my father doesn’t approve.”
“Why not?”
“Because Joselyn has no dowry. Her father has a title, but her family has no money, and my own father has been making arrangements with the Baron Driesè. Father expects me to marry the baron’s daughter, Rhiannon.”
“And you don’t want to marry Rhiannon?”
He began to shake his head and then stopped himself. “I don’t know! The baron controls half the silver mines in the northeastern province, and Rhiannon’s dowry would bring my family great wealth. Joselyn would bring us nothing.”
I cocked my head. This seemed a simple decision to me. Marry the rich girl. But I knew my mother would not see it so simply.
“Then what troubles you?” I asked. “Is Rhiannon ugly? Has her hair fallen out? Is she covered in pockmarks?”
He blinked, possibly finding my questions somewhat childish, which they were, but keep in mind that I was only fifteen. “No, if anything, most people would find her prettier than Joselyn,” he said. “But when I’m with Joselyn, I don’t feel alone.”
I stared at him, and that was my first real glimpse into the adult world.
“If you don’t marry Rhiannon, can your father
disinherit you?” I asked. Even at fifteen, I was pragmatic.
“No.”
That was all he had to tell me. I’d seen my mother do this a hundred times. “Did you bring something of Joselyn’s?” I asked, knowing my mother would have given him instructions.
“Yes, a lock of her hair.”
I took it from him, holding the soft, light brown strands in my fingers. With my other hand, I reached out to grasp one of his. He almost pulled away, as if he didn’t like being touched, but then let me grip his palm.
I closed my eyes. Although of course I saw nothing, I forced my body to jolt once, and then I swayed several times, breathing through my mouth. I opened my eyes again.
“Did you see it?” he asked, leaning forward. “Did you see my future?”
“Yes,” I answered without wavering. “You marry Joselyn, and you are happy. I saw the two of you after your wedding, and everything was as it should be.”
He sucked in a loud breath like a man saved from drowning and shoved the pouch across the table. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
That was how it started.
F
IVE
Y
EARS
L
ATER
“I
didn’t call you a liar,” Amelie Fawe said flatly. “I said you were trying to cheat me. There’s a difference.”
Jareth, the village butcher, frowned at her while still holding two lamb chops in the air. They stood outside amidst the tables and booths of the morning market, with just a drizzle of rain coming down on their heads. But he was trying to overcharge her, and they both knew it.
Amelie sighed. It wasn’t that she blamed him—or that she was even given to haggling over a few cuts of meat. But she and her sister, Céline, were among the dwindling number of people in Shetâna who had coins to spend. Most of the other villagers had been offering Jareth turnips in exchange for soup bones. Amelie had a feeling he was full up on turnips.
She had no intention of threatening him, but out of habit, her hand settled on the hilt of the
short sword at her left hip. In truth, she was much better with the dagger sheathed on her right, but the sword made a stronger impression—and occasionally, she needed one.
Her sister, Céline, was slender and pretty, and Céline brought in most of the household’s money. They were a fiercely independent team, and Amelie had long ago taken on the task of protecting them both. They needed no one but each other.
“All right,” Jareth said, not appearing the least bit intimidated by her hand dropping to the sword. “A halfpenny, then, but you’re robbing me blind.”
She smiled at him and handed him a coin. “Céline asked after that rheumatism in your shoulder. Should I bring more of the bay leaf oil?”
His expression softened, and he was about to answer when the sound of hoofbeats stopped him. Amelie followed his gaze to the main path leading into the village, and she saw four riders coming from the tree line.
Three of them wore black tabards over chain armor, soldiers of Sub-Prince Damek. With distaste, Amelie recognized the man in the lead, Captain Kochè, the prince’s chief bullyboy and tax collector.
“What do you suppose he wants?” Jareth said softly, putting the chops down and wiping his hands on his already bloody apron. “Taxes aren’t due for two months.”
All around them, villagers in threadbare clothing
began slinking away as quickly as possible, but Amelie kept her eyes on the soldiers.
“Who’s that with them?” she asked, squinting.
A fourth person—much smaller—in a full cloak rode just behind Captain Kochè.
“I can’t tell,” Jareth answered.
Amelie waited for the riders to come all the way into the village; then her stomach tightened when they began to pull their horses up just outside the village perimeter at a small two-story building with a painted sign that read,
LAVENDER AND THYME
.
It was the apothecary shop that she owned with her sister.
It was also their home.
All four riders stopped directly in front of the shop, and Captain Kochè swung off onto the ground.
“Oh, seven hells,” Amelie gasped, forgetting about the lamb chops. “He’s going after Céline!”
The smaller cloaked figure dismounted as well.
Jareth grabbed a meat cleaver off the table. “You want me to come?”
But Amelie was already running down the muddy path. “No,” she called, “I’ve got it.”
She and Céline didn’t need anyone but each other.
* * *
Céline Fawe unfortunately had no appointments that day, so she’d planned to boil down some marshmallow leaves to make an astringent for insect
bites and bee stings, as midspring had arrived, and there would soon be an abundance of insects. Humming, just a little off-key, she started the fire, hoping Amelie wouldn’t give Jareth too much trouble over the price of a few lamb chops. However, the two sisters didn’t have many extra pennies either…which was why she tended to send Amelie to the village market. It was cowardly and she knew it, but Amelie was much better at holding firm.
Céline also knew that even while just scraping by, she and Amelie lived better than almost anyone in Shetâna. But they also lived slightly apart from everyone else as well. Their little shop, with the bedroom upstairs, had been built just outside the village as if it didn’t quite belong with the other shops and dwellings. She and Amelie had always felt that way about themselves, too. Though their father had grown up in Shetâna, their mother, Eleanor, had come from someplace else, which she never spoke of. He’d been one of the village hunters, and apparently, after an extended hunt one year, he’d come back with a bride—and he’d promptly built her an apothecary’s shop and home for them to share. Eleanor could read and write, and she arrived with her own texts and scrolls on herb lore. She made certain both her girls were literate, although Céline had taken more willingly to scholarly pursuits.
As a result, both Céline and Amelie spoke differently
than the villagers of Shetâna, saw the world a little differently, and sometimes used words no one else could understand. This set them apart.
Still, people came from nearby townships and villages just to see Céline, the seer, and have their futures read. Her reputation had spread as far north as the Vudrask River.
To count further blessings, their shop was warm, with a decent hearth, and although they had no front counter, the main room did boast several sturdy tables, and the walls were lined with shelves containing countless numbers of pots and jars.
Their little establishment looked the part.
The Lavender and Thyme apothecary shop was quite respectable—and Céline was proud of it.
Still humming, she was just about to head into the storage room for the marshmallow leaves when the sound of hoofbeats outside made her pause and half turn. The hoofbeats stopped, and then she heard booted feet landing with a squishing sound in the mud just in front of her shop. Who could that be?
Before she could wonder a moment longer, the door slammed open, and she froze in her tracks. Captain Kochè filled the open doorway with his wet tabard dripping water onto the floor. He looked at her, and his eyes moved up and down, just as they always did when he got within ten
paces of her. He was revolting: tall but with a protruding belly, greasy hair, and a stringy mustache that stretched all the way down past his chin.
Céline, on the other hand, had learned from her mother that it was necessary for a successful seer to also look the part. She wore her mother’s red velvet gown a good deal of the time, and it fit her slight body snugly. Her mass of dark blond curls hung to the small of her back, and both she and Amelie had inherited their mother’s lavender eyes. Céline was well aware that in almost any circle, she’d be considered at least moderately pretty, but here in Shetâna, any girl with a halfway clean face and all of her teeth was viewed as a beauty.
It was rather tiresome.
The captain licked his lower lip, and Céline drew herself up to full height—which was still slightly shorter than the average woman.
“Can I help you?” she asked, pitching her tone to suggest she’d rather do anything than help him. She had no idea what he wanted. The shop’s taxes were paid in full, and Sub-Prince Damek never paid an ounce of attention to Shetâna unless someone owed him money or he’d decided to have someone punished for insolence. The state of the roads was criminal, but no one here complained to him anymore.
“No, my dear,” said a voice from behind the captain, “but you can assist me.”
Kochè stepped aside, and a bent figure hobbled inside past him. One gnarled hand came up to push back the hood of a cloak, revealing the wrinkled face of an ancient woman who smiled, exposing yellow teeth. She closed the door behind herself. “I am Madam Zelinka. You might know of me?”
Céline did. She’d heard the name from several of her more prominent patrons, but no one who paid for Céline’s services would ever be closely connected to Madam Zelinka. She was a marriage broker to the great noble houses, spinning a web of connections to increase wealth or bloodlines or to shore up weakening titles.
What could she possibly want here?
But Céline wasn’t about to insult her and bowed politely. “Yes, ma’am. I’m honored by your visit. May I bring you some hot tea?”
The old woman’s smile widened, chilling Céline to the bone. “What a dear girl you are,” Madam Zelinka said, moving to a chair and sitting down. “Tea would be most welcome.” She wore her white hair up in a simple bun on her head, and even through her wet cloak, she smelled like a dusty attic.
Captain Kochè remained standing to one side of the doorway, still dripping on the floor, with his gaze locked on Céline’s waist. She tried to ignore him as she moved toward the teapot.
But before anyone else could say a word, the
door burst open again, and Amelie came running inside, panting, with one hand on the hilt of her dagger.