To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) (6 page)

Helga only grunted again, dropping back to her cutting board. “Come here, girls. Let me show you how to skin a rabbit.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Amelie exclaimed. “We know how to dress down a rabbit.”

“Not like a Móndyalítko. Now, you start here at the neck.”

*   *   *

The following day, a change in travel arrangements proved a relief for Amelie.

After breakfast, as they were breaking camp, Céline lifted Oliver to carry him to the wagon. Amelie moved to follow, dreading the prospect of being trapped inside while suffering from the rolling motion.

But Jaromir stopped her. “There’s plenty of room on the bench if you want to ride up top with me. I should have thought of this yesterday. I didn’t think on what it might be like inside one of these wagons.”

Amelie wanted to jump at the chance of sitting in the open air beside Jaromir, taking a turn driving the horses or helping him navigate. But still, she hesitated.

She’d stopped trying to deny the connection, the attraction, between herself and him, but anything beyond their current friendship was impossible. Jaromir would not allow himself to love any woman. He was married to his job.

He also had a long series of women in his past, and he was well-known for having a “type.” That type was certainly not Amelie.

His last mistress had been a lovely, haughty, wealthy young woman named Bridgette. Amelie had learned through the other soldiers that Bridgette was never
allowed to visit Jaromir’s apartments until she was sent for—which was always the arrangement with Jaromir’s mistresses. For about six months, Bridgette had slept in his bed whenever he sent for her, and when he got tired of her, he’d cast her aside like baggage and never once looked back.

Amelie was not about to become another one of his obedient mistresses until he got bored with her, and she feared letting down her guard.

As if he could read her face, he turned to walk away. “Suit yourself.” Then he stopped. “Oh, just climb up with me. I don’t want you losing your breakfast.”

Realizing he was right, she followed him.

Marcus had been listening to this as he harnessed the horses to the smaller blue wagon. Upon finishing, he headed for Céline and spoke to her quietly. She smiled at him and nodded.

Moments later, they pulled out of camp with Helga and Oliver in the back of the larger wagon and with Jaromir and Amelie sitting up on the front bench. Marcus and Céline sat together on the front bench of the smaller wagon.

Tilting her head back, Amelie looked up at the sky. It was a fine late-spring day, and she breathed in the morning air.

“This is better,” she said.

“I told you so. I thought as much.”

Why did he always have to sound so smug? Did he do it on purpose?

After that, though, she forgot to worry about getting too close to Jaromir and began to enjoy the day. The
weather was almost warm, and the road was dry. They passed forests and fields and villages along the way.

He did let her drive after a while, and he had a map that he brought out and showed to her.

She liked the idea of learning more about the geography of the nation in which she lived, and Jaromir had a fondness of maps. He had always had a few in his possession when they traveled.

“We’ll head straight east for six days,” he said, running his tan finger down a line representing a road. “Then we’ll turn south here.”

She nodded. She also liked knowing the travel plan.

And in this fashion the days began to pass. Sleeping arrangements had been simple to decide. The bunks in the larger wagon were wide enough for two people, so Amelie and Céline slept in the top bunk and Helga took the bottom.

Jaromir and Marcus were allotted the other wagon, but they often slept outside, one on each side of the smoldering campfire. Amelie never asked why, but she assumed Jaromir felt he would be alerted to any trouble more easily that way, and Marcus probably just preferred sleeping outdoors.

With each day, the routine grew more comfortable and familiar, and Amelie found herself filled with a strange contentment she’d never before known.

One evening, as she was dicing up some tomatoes for the soup, she found Helga watching her.

“You’re happy out here?” the older woman asked.

Amelie thought on the question for a moment. “I am. I don’t know why.”

“’Cause it’s in your blood. This life is in your blood,” Helga said this wistfully, as if she, too, was happy living in a wagon and rolling down a road every day.

To Amelie’s relief, Helga appeared to have given up all suspicion of Marcus and did treat him more kindly. But by the time the wagons turned south, those two seemed to huddle in private conferences too often, and Amelie often wondered what they were saying.

When Marcus wasn’t hunting or conferring with Helga, he spent every waking moment with Céline. For some reason, this bothered Amelie, but again, she had no idea why.

The weather grew warmer and the forests less dense the farther south they traveled. One evening, when they were about a day from their destination, Jaromir spotted a small open field ahead. Amelie was driving the wagon, and he pointed.

“There,” he said. “That’s a good spot to camp.”

“You think?” she asked. “Won’t we be too exposed?”

“No, I was worried up north about camping on private land. There’s a lot of mistrust of Móndyalítko up there. That’s why we camped so often just off the public road. But your mother’s people are more accepted down here. No one will bother us.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “It’s an easier life down here. A harder life makes for more mistrust of things we don’t know or don’t understand.”

She had no idea what he meant but didn’t press further.

By now, the routine for making camp had become second nature, and everyone went about their normal
tasks: the campfire, fetching water, caring for the horses, making dinner. Marcus hunted almost every night, but he was quick about it and normally brought back small game like rabbits or pheasants. Once he brought back a large salmon.

Helga did have some things to teach the sisters about Móndyalítko cooking, especially herbs and spices and how to cut any game into very small pieces before cooking it. She said that when cooking for large groups, this would ensure that everyone ended up with at least some meat in their bowl.

Even though their current group wasn’t large, this made sense to Amelie, and she stopped questioning Helga’s lessons.

After dinner, they normally sat around the campfire and either Céline or Helga would tell stories to entertain the others. Céline told comedies, adventures, or romances. Helga’s tales were darker, normally ghost or revenge stories.

Marcus didn’t speak much and he was hard to read, but he seemed to enjoy this part of the evening most of all.

Tonight, once the pots and dishes were washed and set aside for breakfast, Helga sat down by the fire and announced, “No stories tonight. We need to make a plan.”

“A plan?” Céline asked.

“Yup. We don’t have far to go, and as yet, we’ve no idea what we’ll say when we get there.”

“To say about what?”

“Who we are, where we’ve been, how we came together.”

Amelie still didn’t understand, and Jaromir looked equally puzzled.

Marcus crouched by the fire. “Móndyalítko families are complex. A small group like ours will be viewed as unusual, especially with two Mist-Torn seers. Even having one in the family is considered a blessing, and she will be surrounded by a large extended family.” He paused. “And . . . as you know, my family was banished from the Yegor meadow.”

Yes, Amelie knew all about this. Two younger members of Marcus’s extended family had been caught stealing from other Móndyalítko, and the result was banishment for all the Marentõrs. That was part of the reason they ended up in Ryazan.

“So, what do we say?” Jaromir asked.

Helga poked the fire, and said, “Marcus would be welcome into any family, banishment or no. He’s a shifter.” She sounded bitter as she said this. “And it’s well-known that Eleanor Fawe, the girls’ mother, ran off with some outsider and left her own people. No one knows where they went or what happened to them. We can make up a story about Céline and Amelie losing their parents, and afterward, I joined with them. Then Marcus offered us himself as protection.”

“What about Jaromir?” Amelie asked.

“He’s not Móndyalítko, so he’ll need to have married in,” Helga answered. “We can say he’s your husband.”

Amelie was sitting in a crouched position, and she rocked back on her heels. “Say he’s my . . . ?” she sputtered.

“Now, don’t get all huffy,” Helga warned. “Nobody
would believe he’s Céline’s husband once they’ve seen him with you.”

Amelie stared in near disbelief, and to make matters worse, Jaromir appeared just as uncomfortable at the suggestion.

“You think they’ll believe Amelie and I are married?” he asked.

Helga snorted. “I think anyone would believe you’re married.”

They all fell silent for a while.

Finally, Céline said, “All right, so to be clear, Amelie and I lost our parents, and then Helga joined with us. Marcus was looking to rejoin a Móndyalítko group, came across us and offered himself and his skills as a shifter, and we accepted.” She looked over at Helga. “And Amelie and Jaromir are married? That’s what we’ll say?”

“That’s about the size of it. We’ll need to fill in a few details, but that should suffice.”

Amelie tried to absorb all this while avoiding looking at Jaromir. This was going to be a much more difficult venture than she’d planned for.

*   *   *

In the night, Céline lay in the top bunk bed listening to the sound of Amelie’s even breathing.

Helga slept below them, snoring like a badger.

But it was not the snores that kept Céline awake. She’d not slept well since leaving Sèone. In the night, something continued to pull at her, something ancient and familiar. She’d managed to push it away, but sleep remained elusive.

Tonight, the pull was worse.

Finally, she gave in, crawled out of the bed, and landed on the floor as lightly as possible. There she waited, but neither Amelie nor Helga awoke, so she crept to the door and slipped from the wagon.

Outside, Marcus sat by the remnants of the campfire, as she knew he would be. There was a blanket on the ground, and a blanket around his shoulders, and his face was up toward the stars in the sky.

“Where’s Jaromir?” she asked quietly.

Marcus lowered his head and looked at her. “In the other wagon. He said that we need not sleep out here tonight, that no one would bother us here.”

“What’s wrong?”

She could see he was troubled about something.

Opening the right side of the blanket with his arm, he silently invited her to join him. Without thinking, she went to him and settled down, letting him draw her inside the blanket and up against his chest. She wasn’t worried or embarrassed. Somewhere, somehow, she’d done this many times before.

He gripped her with both arms. His body was solid and warm.

“I’ve been happy this week,” he whispered. “Happier than I’ve been in years. I’d forgotten the joy of the open road like this. But by evening tomorrow, we’ll be in the Yegor meadow.”

“That worries you?”

“I don’t want to answer questions. I understand the story Helga wants us to tell, but it sounds as if I’ve abandoned my own family.”

“Do you have to answer? In truth, I don’t plan to say anything more than necessary. We’ve come here to help
some of your people. Hopefully, they’ll simply accept our help.”

He fell silent, and then he lay down, pulling her down onto the blanket on the ground. Again, she wasn’t worried. He drew her against himself with her back to his chest and the top of her head nestled in the crook of his neck. He liked to sleep like this. She knew it as clearly as she knew his tastes in food.

“Stay with me,” he said.

“What if someone sees us?”

“I don’t care, and neither will they.”

His warmth and strength enveloped her, and if she’d let herself, she would have drifted off and slept the night away in the comfort of his body. But someone else would care. Someone would care a great deal.

If she closed her eyes, she would see Anton’s face looking back.

So she lay by the smoldering fire in Marcus’s arms until his breathing grew even and she knew he’d fallen asleep. She waited awhile longer, to be sure. Then she slipped out from under his arm and covered him with the blanket.

As quietly as possible she went back into the wagon and crawled up into the top bunk with Amelie. There, she slept restlessly for the remainder of the night beside her
sister.

The following morning, Jaromir noticed that everyone was unusually quiet. After breakfast, Céline announced she would ride inside the larger wagon with Helga. Marcus glanced at her but said nothing.

As had become the custom, Amelie climbed up beside Jaromir.

To his shame, he was almost sorry their journey to Yegor was coming to an end. The past week of sitting on the bench in the open air, rolling through Droevinka with few decisions and few responsibilities, had almost felt like a holiday. His body was lighter without his chain armor and even though he felt somewhat exposed without a sword on his hip, he had thick daggers sheathed up both sleeves and another in his right boot.

Amelie sat close beside him in her blue skirt and white blouse, tilting her pretty face up to ask him questions about the route or if he wanted her to drive for a while. He loved to watch her dark hair swing across her shoulders when she moved her head, and he loved to see her small but strong hands take the reins. Enveloped in her company, he didn’t feel alone.

He knew they would reach their destination today, and then everything would change.

“I’ve never been in the southeast,” she said. “I had no idea what we’d find.”

“What do you think?”

“I like it.”

So did he, but he’d been here before. In his younger years as a mercenary, he’d traveled all over the country. Though he preferred the rugged lands of the west and the dark, dripping forests of the north, the east had its attractions, too. The weather was warmer here throughout the year, and there were countless open fields of grass or wheat interspersed with uncleared sections of trees.

As Jaromir and Amelie took turns driving throughout the morning, they passed people and dogs herding sheep and cattle as well.

Geese flew overhead and large hawks sailed over the wheat fields in search of mice.

Then, just past midday, the world around them changed. It wasn’t gradual.

Suddenly, all the crops around them were dead. The forested areas were still lush and green, but any orchard or vineyard or wheat field was dead and brown. The fruit trees were like dried husks and the wheat, barley, and berry plants were shriveled on the dried ground.

“By the gods,” Amelie whispered. “What could cause that?”

“I don’t know.”

Jaromir held the reins, and he considered stopping but decided to press onward for several more hours.
Nothing changed. The crops and fields were dead, but the forested areas were untouched.

In the midafternoon, he stopped his horses, stood, and waved Marcus to drive up beside him.

Marcus’s face was pale and drawn.

“I assume you know where we’re going?” Jaromir asked.

Marcus nodded but seemed unable to speak.

“Then you lead.”

Wordlessly, Marcus pulled ahead.

A few leagues later, he turned east down a side road, and Jaromir felt a short respite of relief as they traveled through a forested area with wildflowers on the ground and birds in the trees.

But in less than an hour, they rolled out of the trees and approached a large meadow covered in dead brown grass. At least thirty wagons—which was fewer than he’d expected—were parked in two separate rows down the meadow. Looking east, he saw a small castle on a hill. The undeveloped north and west sides of the meadow were still living and green. But the orchards and berry fields to the south and east were dried and shriveled.

The next things Jaromir saw were guards in orange tabards.

“Marcus!” he called. “Stop.”

He pulled the larger wagon around in front. He wanted to handle any “greeting” they received here himself.

A guard walked toward them in long strides, but his sword remained in its sheath, and his expression was not threatening.

“Sorry,” he said, standing below, near the bench of the wagon. “There’s no work for you this season.” He motioned toward the orchards. “As you see.”

“We haven’t come to work the harvest,” Jaromir answered. “We have kin here, and we heard they aren’t allowed to leave.”

“That’s the case. Prince Malcolm’s orders. He thinks one of your people has done this to the crops. I can let you in, but I’d advise against it. Once you’re in, you can’t leave.”

“That makes no sense,” Amelie said. “If we’re just arriving now, we couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with what’s happened here.”

“Prince’s orders,” the man repeated, looking her up and down. “I suggest you turn around now and find somewhere else to spend the summer. That’s what most of your kind have decided to do.”

So other Móndyalítko groups had been arriving and were then turned away on the threat of imprisonment.

“We’ll stay,” Jaromir said. “We have people expecting us.”

The guard shrugged and stepped aside.

Jaromir clucked to the horses, and they started forward. He could hear Marcus coming behind him.

Dried grass crunched beneath the wheels, and people began emerging from around the sides of wagons to watch the newcomers arriving. Small burned patches encircled by stones showed where campfires had been built. Chickens pecked at the dried earth. Empty cook pots hung on iron hooks with wide stands. Most of the horses were tethered on the west side of the meadow, and some were beginning to look thin.

Jaromir studied the people themselves as his wagon continued through the center of the other wagons. Most had dark hair. Some were pale, and some were dusky. They wore brightly colored clothing, and many wore silver rings in their ears. Their expressions were serious. Most of the faces he saw were pinched, but no one appeared to be starving.

Just over halfway through the meadow, he saw a clear spot, large enough to park both of their wagons in, and he pulled over with the back door of the white wagon facing the inside of the meadow itself.

Marcus pulled in beside him, leaving about a wagon’s width of empty space between them, and set the brake.

It was time to climb down.

Amelie’s eyes were wide, almost anxious as she looked up at him. This surprised him, as she was rarely afraid of anything.

“These are my mother’s people,” she said quietly, “and I don’t know anything about them.”

“It’ll be all right,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t make such a promise.

*   *   *

From the back of the white wagon, Céline had watched what she could of their arrival.

Helga pressed up beside her and began reciting the names of families as they passed.

Some of the wagons were fine with new wheels and fresh paint; some were rickety and decayed.

As they rolled past a set of especially lavish-looking wagons with shingled rooftops, Helga said, “The line of Renéive.” At the sight of three shabby wagons, she
said, “The line of Klempá.” Then she just began providing some of the family names. “Taragoš . . . Kaleja . . . Džugi . . . Ayres . . . Fawe.”

“Fawe?” Céline echoed, noting two fine wagons painted deep red with white shutters. She tried not to tremble with anxiety at the prospect of meeting her mother’s family. Then she glanced down at Helga. “Ayres? Your own family?”

Helga nodded tightly. Céline longed to ask her what had happened, what had driven her to Castle Sèone, but the older woman still forbade any questions.

The wagon stopped and a moment later, the door opened and Marcus stood outside, setting up the steps.

“It’s time,” Helga said.

Taking a deep breath, Céline walked to the open door. Marcus reached up for her hand, and instinctively, she took it and allowed him to help her down the steps. She walked slowly, as if his assistance was her due. Helga came out behind her. Jaromir and Amelie joined them only seconds before the first of the Móndyalítko came to greet them.

“Marcus,” said a middle-aged man with dark hair.

Letting go of Céline’s hand, Marcus offered the man a slight bow. “Rupert, am I welcome?”

Céline remembered his family had been banished from the meadow, but Helga had implied that those rules might not apply to him.

The man called Rupert frowned as if confused. “Of course you’re welcome, but you shouldn’t have come. You won’t be allowed to leave now.”

Marcus motioned to Céline and Amelie. “I brought two Mist-Torn seers. They offer assistance.”

A small crowd had gathered by now, too many to study at once, but Céline couldn’t help taking note of someone standing behind Rupert. She was a stunning girl of about eighteen, small with perfect pale skin and black hair that flowed like silk down her back.

Then many voices began saying “Marcus” or “Helga” in tones of surprise or welcome.

Amelie pulled up close beside Céline as people stared at them in a kind of wonder.

Again, instinctively, Céline knew she had to play a part, a part she had played many times before . . . somewhere. Pitching her voice to a regal tone, she spoke directly to Rupert. “We learned of your plight here and have come to see if we might help.”

“To help?” Rupert bowed low as if she were nobility. “You are from the line of Fawe? How . . . how have you . . . ?”

He trailed off as the crowd parted and a woman walked through. She was at least forty, but still lovely with wheat gold hair and light brown eyes. There was something stately about the way she walked with her head high. A large man with a mustache walked close behind her. His hair was dark but peppered with silver.

The woman stopped and stared at Céline in shock. Her breathing seemed to quicken.

Helga stepped forward instantly. “Girls,” she said, “this is your aunt, Sinead, your mother’s sister.” She turned to the woman. “Sinead, these are Eleanor’s daughters, Céline and Amelie.”

Céline stood frozen. Their mother’s sister.

“Eleanor’s daughters?” Sinead stumbled back a step, and the large man behind her caught her arm to support
her. He looked down upon the top of her head in devotion and protection. Sinead’s eyes flew to Céline’s face. “Where is Eleanor? Is she with you?”

Céline’s stomach tightened. She should have known to expect how difficult this would be.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Our mother has . . . passed from us, some years ago.”

Sinead closed her eyes, and the man used both hands to hold her up. Regret and sorrow filled Céline that this exchange had been forced between them in public. She stepped forward, hoping to offer some comfort, but a loud cry rang out.

“Helga!”

A stout woman in a thin faded blue dress came toward them. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, with her gray hair tied back. Her eyes were wild as she came to a stop, taking in the sight of Helga.

Helga put one hand to her mouth. “Alondra.”

The woman called Alondra rushed forward, grabbing Helga in her arms and sobbing loudly. The pain in her voice was raw, and her entire body racked with each sob.

Helga clutched the woman back, holding her tightly. “Oh, Alondra, don’t. Not here.”

Marcus was at their side instantly. “Over here.” Using his arms, he ushered them back near the wagon wheel so they could sit on the ground together and lean against it. Alondra continued to clutch Helga.

This arrival in the camp was a good deal more emotional on all levels than Céline could have anticipated.

When she looked back to the crowd, Sinead and her
escort were gone, but another man approached the crowd, and something about him put her on guard. In his early thirties, he was tall and muscular and moved with a swift grace. His hair was dark and cut short. His feet were bare, and he wore loose pants and a loose shirt like Marcus’s.

At the sight of her, he stopped cold and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she was nervous. His gaze flicked to Marcus and then back to her again.

There were far too many people here for Céline to meet at once, and poor Amelie was watching Helga and Alondra in some alarm. Jaromir hadn’t said a word but remained within arm’s length of Amelie, keeping his eyes on the crowd as if making sure no one got too close.

For the most part, the gathered crowd had fallen silent, watching Céline and Amelie expectantly, as if waiting for something. Céline didn’t think this was the right time to tell everyone why they’d come: to catch whoever had cursed the fields.

Instead, she moved back to the steps of the wagon and walked to the top. There, she let her voice carry.

“I do not know if you have another healer among you now, but my mother taught me her skills, and I have brought a large supply of fresh medicines. If you will bring any sick or wounded, it would be my honor to tend them.”

Relief washed over the faces of those watching her, and the small crowd dispersed quickly. She heard some voices calling to each other, such as, “I’ll get Tildy. You get Ryen.”

Céline looked down at Marcus, standing below her
on the ground. He nodded once and silently mouthed,
Good.

*   *   *

Jaromir was at a loss.

For the first time, he regretted this ruse. He badly wanted to don his armor, sword, and tabard of Sèone. He wanted to be seen as Prince Anton’s lieutenant. Though the Móndyalítko appeared to revere Céline and Amelie, he had no power here and no control.

He had become accustomed to control.

The Yegor guards would view him as just another Móndyalítko, and the people of this meadow would view him as an outsider who’d married in.

He could see that Amelie was visibly shaken by everything that had just transpired, but he was thankful to Céline for having broken up the crowd and redirected their attention.

“You all right?” he asked Amelie.

“That was our aunt,” she said quietly. “And Céline had to tell her that our mother is dead.” She looked over to Helga, still holding Alondra. “I didn’t expect so much so fast.”

“Neither did I,” he answered truthfully.

Helga caught his eye, and he walked over, motioning Amelie to follow.

Gently pushing Alondra up, Helga said, “Amelie, this is my sister.”

Amelie’s troubled expression shifted to a mix of interest and sympathy. “Oh, I am glad to meet you.” She turned as if to introduce Jaromir, but Helga cut her off.

“Alondra, this is Amelie’s husband, Jaromir Fawe.”

For a moment, he was taken aback. His given name
was Kirell, even though few people knew it and those who did never used it. Everyone called him by his surname. Then he remembered that some Móndyalítko often took the name of the woman’s family when they married. Helga had simply combined his more commonly used name with Amelie’s surname.