Mist-Torn Witches 03:Witches With the Enemy

by Barb Hendee

  Some realization dawned on Damek’s face, but before he could speak, Anton stepped in front of Céline, speaking directly to his brother. “None of that matters. She lives in Sèone now, and she serves me, and you’ve asked for my help.”

  From behind, Céline heard Rurik move close enough to her that she could have reached back and touched him. He might not be Jaromir, but his presence was comforting.

  No one spoke for a moment, and Damek appeared to be absorbing and considering things. He walked farther into the sitting room and moved to where he could see Céline standing behind Anton.

  “You’re the seer from Shetâna who scared off Rhiannon?” Damek asked, but he might as well have been speaking to himself. “Yes, I was put out about that. I remember now.” He paused and looked to Anton. “How did she end up with you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Anton answered. “I’m assuming Father told you about her and her sister now working for me? Whatever he told you about their abilities is the truth. If you want their help, we’ll stay. If you don’t, say so now, and we’ll be back on the road.”

  With a sigh, Damek put one hand in the air. “Calm down, little brother. I’ve no quarrel with your seer. In fact, she might have done me a favor, as I’ve a much bigger prize on the hook now.”

  Anton’s body relaxed slightly. “All right. Then if the sisters are going to seek out whoever killed Carlotta, they’ll need to mingle at length with your bride’s family. I’m going to introduce them as Miss Céline and Miss Amelie, the daughters of a rich wool merchant who often dines at the court of Sèone. The Lady Helena has to accept them socially before anything can be uncovered. Do you see?”

  Suddenly, Céline began to understand the reason for this quick meeting upon their arrival.

  “Yes, of course, I see,” Damek answered, sounding annoyed again.

  “Then you’ll need to order Captain Kochè to keep quiet,” Anton went on, “as well as any guards who ever visited Shetâna to collect taxes . . . or amuse themselves by preying on the people there. All your guards must treat Miss Céline and Miss Amelie as honored guests.”

  “My lord!” Kochè began to object.

  Damek turned on him, and he fell silent.

  “Captain,” Damek said, “you will do as my brother asks. Be clear with your men. Anyone who even hints of the identity of these women will be . . . reprimanded.”

  Céline could only imagine what that meant.

  Kochè’s face darkened. “Yes, my lord.”

  And so, Anton had effectively solved the problem of Captain Kochè—at least to a point—and all the guards would be ordered to show Céline and Amelie proper respect. She could not help being somewhat impressed by how quickly Anton had headed off several of their initial problems.

  But now the hard part began.

  Damek studied her, glanced at Amelie, and then back to her. “And how did you plan to catch this murderer?”

  Céline instinctively knew that showing him an ounce of uncertainty would be a mistake.

  “Do you still have Carlotta’s body, my lord?” she asked.

  He smiled. The sight made Céline feel chilled, even in the warm room. “Yes,” he answered. “It’s in the cellars. I thought her family would wish to bring it home for burial.”

  “May we examine it?” she asked.

  If he found the request macabre, he didn’t show it, and instead looked to Anton, who nodded.

  “By all means,” Damek said. “Allow me to get dressed.”

  * * *

  At some point along the walk down into the cellars—Céline didn’t notice exactly when—the small man with the birthmark rejoined them, carrying a lantern. When they all emerged into a dark room below the main floor of the castle, the party felt rather large, but Céline supposed there was no help for it. She and Amelie were necessary. Both princes wanted to witness the examination, and both princes also had their own personal bodyguards present, so Rurik and Kochè brought up the rear.

  And Céline was grateful for the small attendant carrying the lantern.

  All such thoughts vanished from her mind, though, when she saw the body laid out on a long wooden table. Stores of wine casks and wheels of cheese and barrels of oats filled the back half of the room. It unsettled Céline that Carlotta’s body had the appearance of being “stored” here with the food.

  Amelie stepped up to the table first, and Céline moved to join her. Since arriving, Amelie hadn’t said a word, but that wasn’t unusual. She normally let Céline take the lead at the beginning of an investigation.

  “What exactly do you wish to see?” Prince Damek asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  “Signs of poison, my lord,” Céline answered. “Some are easy to obtain, and others are more difficult. If we know what was used, it could help in our search.” She looked over at the small man with the lantern. “Could you . . . would you mind bringing the light closer?”

  Instantly, he was at her side, holding the light over Carlotta’s face. “I am Lionel,” he said politely. His voice was almost musical when he spoke. “Please inform me of anything you require.”

  “Thank you,” she answered. “I am Miss Céline. Just continue holding the light there for now.”

  First, Céline took a visual impression. The body was several days old, and stiffening had set in. Carlotta had been a large-boned woman in life, and her age was difficult to determine. Her dark hair was coarse with strands of gray, but her face seemed younger. Her mouth was downturned, and her hands were large and sinewy. Her dress was black with white trim, and it covered her entire form with a high neckline and long sleeves. Even in death, something about her gave Céline the impression that she’d been an unhappy woman.

  Anton stepped up to the table. “Anything?” he asked quietly.

  Céline moved around him and pushed up one of Carlotta’s sleeves, examining her skin. Then she continued to the end of the table and did a check of the legs. “No red rash, so it wasn’t Belladonna.” Circling back to Anton, she whispered, “Could you ask your brother to describe exactly when Carlotta . . . when she died?”

  “You can ask me such things yourself,” Damek interrupted. “I don’t bite.”

  Céline wasn’t sure she believed that, but she looked over at him.

  He shrugged. “She took a drink from her goblet and then she couldn’t breathe. She died.”

  “Was she choking?” Céline asked, and then remembered to add, “My lord.”

  “None of us had eaten anything, so it had to be the wine,” Damek answered. “She made choking sounds, but it was more like someone attempting to draw air and failing.”

  Céline leaned down over Carlotta’s head.

  “What do you think?” Amelie whispered to her.

  “I don’t know.”

  Reaching down, Céline put her fingers in Carlotta’s mouth and pried her teeth apart.

  “What are you doing?” Anton asked in what sounded like revulsion.

  Without answering, Céline leaned close to examine Carlotta’s tongue and throat. She looked up to Damek. “My lord . . . her tongue isn’t swollen, and her throat isn’t red. Her windpipe is clear. I’m not . . . I’m not certain that she was poisoned. Did the family mention any history of illness? Perhaps a weak heart?”

  A mix of pleasure and hope washed over Damek’s face. “They mentioned nothing to me, but are you saying she might simply have died on her own? That would be welcome news were it true. It would certainly ease the way for my betrothal to Rochelle.”

  Although Céline was mildly sickened by his callous attitude toward Carlotta’s death, she understood what he was saying.

  “When will Céline have a chance to speak to the family?” Anton asked. He sounded hopeful as well. If this were to turn out to be a tragic but natural death, it would leave him free to take his people here and go home.

  “You’ll meet them at dinner tonight in the great hall,” Damek answered. “I know everyone is supposed to be in mourning, but we all must eat.”
He tilted his head. “If Céline is so sure this wasn’t murder, is there any need for you to continue?”

  “I am not sure,” Céline put in quickly. “I am just telling you what I see here. In order to be sure, we must press onward.”

  “I agree,” Anton said reluctantly. “I hope you’re right, but we can’t leave until we’re certain. Father would not be pleased otherwise.”

  Damek stretched his arms. “As you wish. I will see you at dinner.” He yawned again. “Lionel will see to you from here.” Without another word, he turned and walked out of the cellar room. Captain Kochè followed him.

  Anton glanced at Céline and then down to Carlotta. “You really think she may have died from an illness or a weak heart?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t see any evidence that she was poisoned.”

  Lionel bowed his head once and asked, “May I see you up to your rooms? I can have hot water for washing and tea brought in for you.”

  Suddenly, a mug of hot tea sounded very good.

  Anton nodded to the small man. “Yes.”

  “I have rooms prepared for all of you on the second floor of the east tower,” Lionel continued. “Miss Céline and Miss Amelie’s maid has already begun unpacking in their rooms.”

  “Rooms?” Rurik broke in. “You have the women in separate rooms?”

  Lionel’s expression turned offended. “Of course.”

  Rurik shook his head. “No.” He looked to Anton. “My lord, Céline and Amelie should stay in the same room, with Helga on a palette on the floor. You should have a room nearby, with me sleeping on a palette. I’m in charge of your safety, and Lieutenant Jaromir would have my head if I agreed to anything less.”

  The offense on Lionel’s face increased—as this was a clear insult—but Céline understood Rurik’s insistence. Céline had no wish to sleep alone in this castle. Nor did she want Amelie alone . . . or Helga. More, she was relieved by the idea of Anton and Rurik sleeping in a nearby room.

  Anton must have understood as well, because he turned to Lionel. “See to it.”

  Lionel’s mouth tightened. “Yes, my lord.”

  * * *

  Not long after, Anton was finally in his assigned room, with some privacy. He’d sent Corporal Rurik down to check on their men and horses.

  Anton leaned against the wall, feeling sick.

  A servant had delivered hot water in a pitcher and a steaming cup of tea. He’d ignored both.

  He barely noticed the room’s furnishings, which were sparse: a bed, a wardrobe, a small table with a basin and pitcher. He didn’t care. He would have given almost anything to go back in time to the moment he’d introduced Amelie and Céline to Damek.

  Closing his eyes, he relived the horrible moment in his mind again, cursing himself.

  He’d given himself away, given his feelings for Céline away.

  Damek knew. He’d heard the slight shift in Anton’s voice. And Damek would now focus upon her as a target. Since childhood, Damek could always manage to learn what Anton loved, what he cared about . . . in order that it might be made to suffer.

  Damek couldn’t love anything or anyone, so he needed to torture whatever Anton loved.

  Before coming here, Anton had promised himself he’d give nothing away, that Damek would read nothing on his face, nor hear anything in his voice. Fool that he’d been, Anton believed he could keep this up for the duration of the visit.

  He hadn’t lasted through the first hour.

  He realized he’d spent too long away from his family. For nearly six years, he’d been prince of Castle Sèone, and he’d begun to view the world as a sane place populated by sane people. He had even begun to respect himself, no longer the terrified favorite victim of a mad older brother.

  He’d pictured himself arriving at Kimovesk as the man he had become: an authority figure with pride in his province and his own rule. Now . . . he was wavering. He was reverting into what Damek had once made him.

  Biting down on the inside of his mouth, he pictured Céline in his mind. She saw him as he had always wanted to be seen. He had to hold on to that. He could not revert.

  Walking over to the bed, he sank down. He still had time before he’d have to dress for dinner, and he planned to spend every minute of it inside himself, shoring himself up, preparing himself for what was to come. For the remainder of this visit, he would not give away a single emotion for Damek to use against him.

  Not one.

  * * *

  “You get out of that mud-spattered dress and get over to the wardrobe and pick out a gown for this evening,” Helga said with a hint of threat in her voice. “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

  Amelie stood near the bed with her arms at her sides, glaring back at Helga. After choosing this room, out of the three that had been prepared for them, all three women had had time for tea and to rest in the late afternoon. Though Céline had taken off her travel dress and napped in her white shift, Amelie had insisted on remaining fully clothed.

  She had two sheathed blades strapped to her forearms, and she’d promised Jaromir she’d keep them a secret. Normally, she never kept secrets from Céline, but . . . Céline was the type to worry most about maintaining the ruse, and she might try to talk Amelie into leaving the blades behind at dinner, in case someone saw them up her sleeves and began to wonder why the wealthy daughter of a wool merchant chose to wear weapons at the dinner table.

  “Helga’s right,” Céline said. “You must pick a gown. I suggest that dark burgundy silk. It will complement your dark hair.”

  “I couldn’t care less what complements my hair,” Amelie retorted.

  The doors to the wardrobe were open, exposing a ridiculous number of velvet, silk, and satin gowns. How had Helga managed to pack so many? And why?

  Céline walked over and took out a silk burgundy gown with a voluminous skirt. “Please put it on?”

  At least it was long-sleeved.

  Helga strode over, took the gown from Céline, and turned back around, waving one hand at Amelie. “You heard her! Now get that muddy thing off.”

  Thankfully, Céline turned her attention back to the wardrobe, probably deciding on a gown for herself, and Amelie used the moment to unlace the front of her sky blue travel dress—which was indeed mud-spattered—and pulled it off quickly.

  She held it over her forearms and said, “Helga, just lay the gown on the bed. I’ll put it on myself.”

  Helga caught her off guard by grabbing the travel dress, jerking it away, and dropping it. “Don’t you start that. I’ll need to hold that gown while you step in or it will wrinkle, and then I’ll need to . . .” She stopped speaking upon seeing the sheathed blades.

  Céline’s back was still to them, and Amelie shook her head, just once, at Helga.

  A flicker of something unreadable passed through Helga’s eyes, and then, instantly, she went on as if nothing had happened. Picking up the silk gown, she lowered it almost to the floor. “Now you step into this, and get your arms in so I can pull it up.”

  Moving as fast as she could, Amelie nearly jumped into the gown and shoved her hands into the long sleeves. With one swift movement, Helga had the garment up and over Amelie’s shoulders—while still barking orders.

  “Now, you turn around and I’ll lace you in.”

  The idea of wearing anything that required a second person to “lace her in” struck Amelie as beyond absurd. She disliked the wool travel dress, but at least it laced up the front. In the end, though, she only cared that her weapons were now covered and that Helga hadn’t given her away.

  As the cranky old woman pulled and prodded at the back of the gown, Amelie glanced about herself. Their room here was not as nice as the one back at Castle Sèone. The furnishings were adequate: a large bed with several comforters, a wardrobe, and a vanity table with a chair and mirror. But there was no fireplace and no window.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t cold. Perhaps heat from the lower hearths was coming up, and the lack of a window hel
ped keep it in.

  Helga handed Amelie a pair of flat silk shoes. Normally, the idea of leaving her boots behind would have panicked her—as it meant leaving her dagger behind. But tonight, she was well armed, so she put the shoes on without comment.

  “Helga, what gown would you choose for me?” Céline asked. “I want Lady Helena to think us quite privileged.”

  Her comment brought Amelie a pang of guilt. Céline didn’t enjoy playing at “dress up,” either. For her, these gowns were costumes they needed in order to fulfill a part. Amelie realized she herself would do well to remember that.

  “The amber velvet,” Helga answered. “That should take anyone’s nose out of the air.”

  “All right.” Céline drew out a fine gown with a V neckline, and she held it up to herself while turning toward the mirror. “My hair up or down?”

  “Depends on what you’re after. You look more fetching with it down, but you look more the proper young lady with it up.”

  “Up, then,” Céline said.

  She stepped into the gown herself. Perhaps velvet didn’t wrinkle? Helga went over to lace her in. Amelie had to admit Céline looked quite prosperous. The rich-toned amber velvet seemed to almost magically draw Amelie’s eyes.

  Sitting at the vanity table, Céline kept still while Helga twisted the majority of her hair, piled it on top of her head, and pinned it. Several strands were left to curl down past her cheekbones.

  “Perfect,” Céline said as if assessing a properly baked pie. “And we’ll have to put Amelie’s up as well. It’s long enough to pin now.”

  “Oh for the gods’ sake!” Amelie exclaimed, forgetting her resolution from a moment ago. “Nobody is pinning up my hair.”

  “Yes, we are, dear,” Céline answered sweetly.

  Amelie drew in a long breath and was about to protest with greater ferocity when an almost inaudible knock sounded on the door.

  All three women froze, and a soft, female voice called, “May I enter? I am alone.”

  Raising one eyebrow, Céline answered, “Come in.”

  The door opened hesitantly, and a face peered inside. Amelie was startled when she saw the face.