by Barb Hendee
Abigail went red in the face. “Fine.”
Amelie reached out and grasped Abigail’s small, roughened hand and closed her eyes. She focused her thoughts first on the spark of Abigail’s spirit, and then she pictured Bernard’s hammer—which she had seen at the forge more than once—in her mind, holding the image firm. If Abigail had anything to show her, Amelie would soon be caught up in the mists and see a clear image of the past.
Nothing happened.
After a moment, she said, “Bernard, I’m not seeing anything.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” the blacksmith answered.
“Read him,” Abigail challenged. “See if he has anything to show you.”
With a shrug, Amelie walked over to Bernard and grasped one of his enormous fingers. He didn’t object, but he frowned. Amelie closed her eyes and focused on the spark of his spirit and then on an image of the hammer.
The first jolt hit her almost instantly, and she braced herself.
When the second jolt hit, she experienced a now familiar sensation, as if her body were being swept along a tunnel of mist. For a moment she forgot everything but speeding backward through the mists all around her as they swirled in tones of grays and whites.
The mists vanished and an image flashed before her. She found herself standing inside a small house. Bernard was there, along with young Hugh, one of Sèone’s thatchers. Amelie knew him slightly. Inside the memory, they would not see her. She was only an observer. Her body was still back in the shop.
“Oh, Bernard, those are quite fine,” Hugh said. “Thank you.”
Outside the window, the sun was setting as evening approached.
“Let me just make sure they’re the right size,” Bernard answered. He stood in front of an open doorway, lacking an actual door, and he held up a new hinged iron bracket where the back of a door would be hung. In his left hand . . . was his good hammer. “Yes, these will do nicely. Do you want me to attach them for you?”
“No, I can do that myself. But come have an ale for your trouble.”
Looking pleased, Bernard leaned his hammer against the wall and went to the table to join Hugh. A moment later, both men were chatting and enjoying large cups of ale.
The room vanished, and Amelie was once again sailing through the mists, this time moving forward.
Opening her eyes, she found herself back in the apothecary shop looking up at Bernard. “Um . . . did you visit Hugh the Thatcher yesterday before you went to play cards?”
Bernard stared at her for the span of a few breaths, and then he went pale.
“I think you’ll find your hammer is still at Hugh’s,” Amelie finished.
“Ha!” Abigail said. “I told you I didn’t take it. Don’t you ever go accusing me of sneaking into your smith and hiding your tools again.” Her hands were firmly on her hips. “And you owe me an apology.”
Bernard’s face was still pale, but he managed to draw himself up to his full height and resume some semblance of dignity. “Well . . . I was mistaken this time.”
“Mistaken indeed.” Abigail swept past him toward the front door, glancing back over her shoulder at Amelie. “Thank you, my dear. Money well spent.”
Bernard opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and followed his wife outside.
Once the sisters were alone, Céline leaned back against the counter. “That was awkward.”
“Really?” Amelie tossed the two coins in the air. “I rather enjoyed it.”
* * *
Lieutenant Kirell Jaromir sat at a table in his private office inside the barracks for the guards of Castle Sèone. Corporal Luka Pavel sat directly across from him, and the two men were busy discussing possible changes in the rotation of the watch. They both wore wool shirts, chain armor, and the tan tabards of Prince Anton of the house of Pählen.
“You’ve had Guardsman Rurik on night duty for too long,” Pavel said. “I’d change him out for Voulter.”
Jaromir nodded, glad that he and Pavel had reached a stage of easy camaraderie again. Over the summer, there had been some . . . unpleasantness between them, but they’d managed to put it in the past. While Jaromir believed in unwavering discipline, he didn’t care for tension on a personal level and much preferred what he thought of as “smooth sailing.” It was in his nature.
For most of his life, something about him had put other people at ease.
In his early thirties, he knew 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 skin to the scars on his hands, most elements of his appearance gave him away as a hardened soldier, but he could live with that. After all, he was a hardened soldier. He liked to view himself as tough but fair, and he was comfortable inside his own skin.
He also held almost absolute power over the law in Sèone, second only to Prince Anton himself.
“All right,” he answered Pavel. “Rotate Voulter with Rurik. And we should probably pull Sergeant Bazin off the front gate and give him another assignment. He’s been down there too long as well.”
Pavel had a long stick of charcoal in his right hand and a piece of paper on the table in front of him. He made a note. “Anyone else?”
“No, I think that’s it.” Jaromir studied the young corporal briefly.
Pavel was a younger man with cropped dark hair and a long, lanky build. He was good in a fight, able to take on two or three men at the same time, and he was steady and dependable . . . with one exception.
His behavior toward Céline Fawe.
For reasons Jaromir didn’t fully understand, Corporal Pavel had become obsessed with Céline to the point of using physical strength to keep her from walking away from him, and he’d once pinned her against a tree to try to force her to speak to him.
Jaromir had put a stop to that.
He was not only fond of Céline as a friend; he had great respect for her abilities as a healer and a seer, and it was his job to protect her. Pavel had resented his interference last summer, but he seemed to have gotten over it and had stayed away from Céline.
Hopefully, the problem was gone.
Jaromir stood. His sheathed long sword was leaning against the table. He picked it up and strapped it on. Then he reached out for a set of crutches, also leaning against the table, and passed them over to Pavel.
That was another unfortunate occurrence over the summer. Pavel’s horse had fallen while crossing a river. When the horse jumped back up, Pavel’s foot had been in the stirrup, and his shin had snapped. Thankfully, Céline had been able to set the bone and splint the leg quickly. It was nearly healed now. The splints were off, but he still needed crutches.
Céline had assured Jaromir that within another moon or so, Pavel would be running again.
Jaromir was grateful for this even though Pavel had been managing his duties in the castle and village quite well on crutches.
“I’m going to head for the main hall and see if supper is laid out yet,” Pavel said. “I’m starving.”
Jaromir hid a smile. “I’ll come with you.”
Pavel was always starving. Where did he put all the food he ate?
Just as Pavel had both crutches positioned under his arms, the sound of trotting footsteps echoed from the passage outside, followed by a quick knock on the door.
“Sir?” someone called.
“Come,” Jaromir called back.
The door opened, and Guardsman Rimoux peered in, panting and appearing somewhat unsettled.
“What’s wrong?” Jaromir asked.
After a short hesitation, Rimoux answered, “Sir, there’s a messenger down at the outer gate.”
Puzzled, possibly annoyed, Jaromir frowned. “Well, let him in and bring him up.”
Rimoux shifted his weight between his feet. “I . . . he’s wearing a black tabard.”
Jaromir stiffened
In this part of Droevinka, solid black tabards were worn only by soldiers who served Pr
ince Damek, who was Prince Anton’s older brother . . . and his enemy.
* * *
Not long past dusk, Céline and Amelie found themselves hurrying through the streets of the village, making their way up to the castle.
They had been summoned—via a delivered message at the shop.
“Anton’s never called us this late before,” Amelie said, sounding worried. “Maybe someone is ill, and he needs your skills?”
“Then why didn’t he say so in his message? If that was the case, he’d have asked me to bring my box of medicines.”
Amelie didn’t answer her.
Céline had a bad feeling their peaceful reprieve had come to an end and that Anton was about to make another . . . request.
The two sisters pressed onward and upward through the people and the shops and the dwellings of the village as the castle loomed large above them. Finally, they reached a short bridge leading across a gap to a huge doorway at the front of the castle. Céline glanced at the pulley system on the other side that would allow the bridge to be raised, thus cutting off access to the castle—if ever necessary.
They crossed the bridge and entered the great walled courtyard. Inside, soldiers and horses came into view, and a few men nodded a greeting at the sisters, who were well-known here, as they walked past.
After crossing the courtyard, Céline and Amelie passed through a large entryway inside the castle itself. They walked down a stone passage and emerged into the great common hall. An enormous, burning hearth had been built in the wall directly across from the arched entrance. Servants and more soldiers in tan tabards were milling around. The hall seemed alive with dogs as well, spaniels, bloodhounds, and wolfhounds.
Céline looked around for either Jaromir or Prince Anton, but saw neither.
As she scanned the hall, her gaze stopped and her stomach tightened when she spotted Corporal Pavel standing near a table, leaning on his crutches, staring at her.
Immediately, she looked away.
I am safe here, she told herself.
To the right of her was a closed door—which led to a small side chamber. Céline was familiar with the interior of that chamber, as Anton often used it for private discussions, so she wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Lieutenant Jaromir stepped out.
He paused in his tracks at the sight of Céline and Amelie and then motioned with his hand. They went to him.
“Good, you’re here,” he said, stating the obvious. His expression was tense, and Céline’s trepidation began to grow.
As the delivered message had sounded urgent, simply saying, “Come at once,” neither sister had bothered to change or even check her personal appearance before leaving the shop and hurrying up to the castle. Amelie’s hair was uncombed, her pants were dusty, and her face was smudged with goose grease, as she’d been helping to fill small jars with the burn ointment. Normally, had she appeared for a castle audience in such a state, Jaromir would have teased her without mercy.
Céline knew the relationship between Jaromir and Amelie was . . . complicated, and he often compensated by making jokes at her expense until she grew angry and shot back a retort. This seemed to relieve a little tension for them both.
But now he didn’t even notice the smears of goose grease.
“Come in,” he said, stepping back inside the room. Perhaps he had only come out to see if they’d arrived.
Again, Céline was not surprised to see Prince Anton waiting inside. His brown eyes moved to her face, and, as always, she felt unsettled but not uncomfortable in his presence.
Approaching his mid-twenties, Anton was of medium height with a slender build. When she first came to Sèone, he’d been ill, but he was now fully recovered and his frame had filled out with tight muscles that showed through the sleeves of his shirt. His face was pale with narrow, even features, and he kept his straight brown hair tucked behind his ears.
From behind, Céline heard Jaromir close the door.
The room was small, with a single table, two chairs, and no window. Several candles glowed from the table. No one sat down.
“Something has happened?” she asked Anton.
His gaze moved from her to Amelie and back to her again, lingering on her red velvet dress. She realized he hadn’t seen it in quite some time, as she always dressed carefully before coming up to the castle, normally in silk or dyed wool.
Anton was a difficult—almost impossible—person to know, but whenever he looked at her, his expression wavered between overly guarded and lonely.
“I disturbed you at work,” he said.
Goodness. She and Amelie both must look a sight for Anton to make such a comment.
“Yes, we came as soon as your message arrived.”
“What’s wrong?” Amelie asked him, sounding worried and impatient.
Jaromir stepped over beside Anton, but neither man spoke for a moment, and Céline’s trepidation turned to anxiety.
“My lord,” she said, looking at Anton, “please say something or I will imagine the worst. Has your father died without naming an heir? Is the village somehow at risk?”
Her words startled him, and a flash of guilt crossed his face. “No . . . forgive me. It’s nothing like that.” There was a sheet of paper on the table, and he picked it up. “I’ve had a letter . . . from my brother.”
“Damek?” Amelie asked in alarm. “Why would he be writing to you?”
Jaromir cast a look of warning her way—as he often felt that she didn’t show Anton proper respect.
However, Anton didn’t appear to notice Amelie’s lack of manners, and he walked closer, holding out the letter. “It seems our father has arranged a marriage for Damek to a young noblewoman from the line of Quillette on her father’s side, but whose mother is sister to Prince Rodêk’s mother.”
Céline went still at this news.
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. At present, Prince Rodêk of the house of Äntes was in rule.
“A marriage for Damek?” Céline repeated. “To a first cousin of Prince Rodêk.”
Her mind raced over the ramifications of this. 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 province in the western region. He’d given Damek, who was the elder brother, a 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. But Prince Lieven had been aging rapidly 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 he would have the right to place his name on the voting list for the position of grand prince.
Both brothers wanted this honor.
The ugly result was that it pitted them against each other—and Damek had proven himself not above attempted assassination.
“What does this mean?” Amelie broke in. “That your father is preferring Damek to you?”
“I don’t know,” Anton responded. “I think it’s more likely that my father is trying to shore up our family’s funds and connections. Though Prince Rodêk’s mother comes from a noble family, it’s not a royal one . . . but they are very wealthy. Via her marriage, she’s been part of the royal family for many years, and so this new bride, her niece, brings both royal connections and money.”
“And you’re worried?” Amelie asked, less alarmed now, but clearly puzzled.
“No, I have no interest in whomever Damek marries.” He held out the letter. “But something . . . unfortunate has happened, and Damek has asked for my help.”
“Your help?” Amelie asked, incredulous.
In
deed, Céline could hardly believe she’d heard correctly herself, and Jaromir’s expression darkened until her anxiety began to grow again.
“Yes,” Anton continued, with his eyes focused on the wall now. “The bride’s name is Rochelle Quillette. Damek invited her and her entire family to Castle Kimovesk for an extended visit . . . I’m still not certain why. It’s possible they requested it before approving the marriage. Several nights ago, at a small banquet in the dining hall, Rochelle’s elder sister, Carlotta, took a sip of wine at the table and then died, apparently murdered by something in her goblet.”
“Murdered?” Céline gasped.
“Of course Rochelle’s family immediately began packing to leave,” he continued. “Damek stopped them by promising he would root out whoever was responsible and see the killer executed. For now, he’s convinced them to stay, but the betrothal is in jeopardy.” Anton paused. “Damek knows something of you and Amelie, or at least that I have two seers at my court who have been solving such difficulties for me. He requests your assistance.”
“Us . . . go to Castle Kimovesk?” Céline tried to absorb this. “My lord, you can’t mean it.”
She and Amelie had grown up in the village of Shetâna under Damek’s rule. They both knew the extent of his savagery.
Anton’s eyes flew to her face. “I would never ask you to go to that place on your own. I will take you myself.”
“It’s a trap,” Amelie stated. “He’s just trying to lure you out of here.”
“Possibly,” Anton agreed, “but I can’t refuse.”
Moving even closer to Céline, he showed her the letter and pointed to the last line.
Our father is anxious that this marriage should take place.
Céline fought not to wince as she read those words. Once again, the wishes of Anton’s father would rule the outcome of a dilemma. Anton couldn’t refuse to assist in anything his father requested, even if it meant placing himself under the power of his brother.
She looked at Amelie. “We have to go.”
Amelie breathed out through her nose and paced across the room. “At least we know it could be a trap.” She glanced at Jaromir. “And there’s no one better at security than you. I assume you’ve already begun to choose a contingent from your men?”