by Barb Hendee
“Sir . . . ,” Keenan stammered. “You don’t understand. She—”
“She what?” Maddox snarled. “And you’d best be careful. If you slander this lady, you’ll have more to deal with than a dismissal.”
Keenan stared at Rochelle for a long moment, and then he closed his mouth.
Maddox turned to Heath. “I’ll take care of this matter. You take your sister to her room and then get your mother. Rochelle will need the comfort of other women.”
Heath nodded and felt a wave of gratitude for Maddox. The captain had stepped in and kept Heath from doing murder—which was probably a good thing now that he had time to think. Then Maddox had dismissed the offending Keenan from service, and now he had turned Rochelle over into Heath’s care.
Carefully, Heath reached up to guide his sister down the hall. Poor Rochelle. She had no idea how close she’d come to real shock and suffering.
But she had been saved.
* * *
In the days that followed Heath and Rochelle’s eighteenth birthday, much in the manor remained the same—only more pronounced.
Heath’s mother pressed Lord Hamish harder to accept an offer for Rochelle’s hand.
Carlotta grew more and more sour until the servants began to avoid her.
Lord Hamish began to drink more of the wine stores, and a few of the serving girls put in their notice with complaints about him.
Lizbeth grew lonelier, but Heath was too wrapped up in his own concerns to do much about that.
Winter and spring crawled by.
Finally, Jace and the Móndyalítko returned in the summer, and Jace told Heath, “You’re getting so good with that dagger, there’s little more I can teach you.” Still, Heath found some comfort in visiting the encampment.
Then . . . as that summer drew to a close, Heath noticed an oddity at home that began to bother him more and more.
Maddox was not acting like himself.
Since his arrival at the manor, he’d been the one man Heath could count on to view Rochelle with the respect she deserved. He never watched her walk across the courtyard to the stables, following her every move with his eyes—like one of the house guards. He protected her and treated her as one of his sacred charges.
In the past few weeks, that had changed. Now . . . whenever she entered a room, he, too, followed her with his eyes. He was distracted and on edge, and on a few occasions, he couldn’t be found when he was needed.
This disappointed Heath, and it made him feel even more alone.
One night, Maddox was late for dinner, and everyone had been seated before he arrived. He looked troubled as he took his seat.
“Pour some wine for Captain Maddox,” Lord Hamish called to a servant.
Then Heath was caught off guard when his uncle stood and raised his goblet to Rochelle. “My dear niece. Your mother and I have such news for you . . . news for the entire family. We’ve been in quiet talks with the house of Pählen. Your sister Carlotta received a letter this morning from Castle Kimovesk, and have now entered formal marriage negotiations between you and Prince Damek . . . who we all know will be the next grand prince of Droevinka. My dearest girl . . . you will be the grand princess of our nation.”
Heath sat still in his chair. Prince Damek of Kimovesk? He couldn’t have heard correctly.
Rochelle stared at her uncle and then looked down at her plate.
“Are you not happy, my sweet?” Lady Helena asked. “Is this not the best news?”
“Yes, Mother,” Rochelle answered. “I am overwhelmed.”
“You cannot be serious?” Heath asked, rising to his feet and looking at his mother. “Damek? Prince Damek? You know his reputation.”
Lady Helena was stunned speechless at first. Then she found her voice.
“Sit down,” she ordered, “and conduct yourself as is proper at this table. We have great cause for celebration, and you will drink to your sister’s impending marriage.”
Heath sat and took a sip from his goblet, but panic filled him until he wondered how long he could remain at the table.
How could Rochelle find a way out of this?
* * *
After dinner, Rochelle went to the stables with Captain Maddox so he could check her mare—as the mare had been limping. Heath didn’t care for this, as he no longer trusted Maddox, but he used the time to seek out Carlotta in her room.
He knocked on the door.
“Yes,” she called from inside.
He opened the door to see her sitting at a desk. She didn’t bother to hide her surprise. In the eighteen years of his life, he’d never once come to her room. As she looked at him, he tried to push down his revulsion. Her dry hair was coming loose from its tight bun, and her entire body seemed to exude the stench of bitterness. He knew she believed men spurned her because she lacked beauty, but Heath knew better. They spurned her because she lacked the ability to laugh or to love.
“What?” she asked him.
He went inside and closed the door. “You must find a way to stop these negotiations.”
Looking back down at the letter she was writing, she said, “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Rochelle will marry Prince Damek.”
“But surely even you have heard the rumors about him, about the harsh treatment of his people. I know you feel Rochelle has wronged you, but you cannot help tie her to such a man. She’s too delicate. Imagine the indignities she will suffer.”
She looked up. The conversation felt odd because the two of them had never actually spoken more than a few words to each other.
“Indignities?” Carlotta echoed, and she gave a short laugh. Apparently, she did know how to laugh, but the sound was ugly. “Why don’t you try slipping into the guest quarters in the early afternoon and listen at a few doors? You’ll hear some sounds that will show you how delicate she is. Trust me, Rochelle will do quite well for that perverse prince. Now get out. I have work to do. I’m negotiating her dowry.”
The hatred in her voice was clear when she spoke Rochelle’s name. Heath had known Carlotta was bitter, but he hadn’t known the depth of her hatred until now.
Leaning down, he put his hands on her desk. “If you wish to spend your time listening at keyholes and inventing poisonous fancies, that is up to you. But I will stop this marriage.”
“You can’t. You’re nothing here. You don’t have the power to order fish instead of beef for dinner. Father set you on that path, but you let him. You’re a child, Heath. Now I mean it. Get out.”
Stung, he turned and left the room.
She was wrong. He would stop this marriage.
* * *
However, as the days passed, he could think of nothing he could do that would cut off negotiations. Rochelle spent much of her time in fittings for gowns, and he barely saw her.
Then he overheard his mother mention an upcoming family journey, and he stopped her.
“I’m sorry, Mother, what did you say? We’re taking a journey?”
She was impatient. “Yes, all of us, to Kimovesk. Carlotta is not doing as well as your uncle and I hoped, and we thought it would be a good idea for everyone to . . . meet and spend some time with him.”
Heath breathed out through his nose. “You mean you want Damek to see Rochelle.” For the first time, he wanted to strike his own mother.
“Don’t take that tone with me! And don’t worry about packing. I’ll have it done for you.”
She swept down the passage away from him.
He stood there, trying to think. What if this wasn’t all bad? What if his mother, uncle, and Carlotta met Damek and realized they couldn’t sacrifice Rochelle to him like so much chattel? But . . . what if no matter how savage he was, they would not be deterred?
In that event, Heath needed a weapon. He needed something to use against them.
Later that night, he wasn’t sure quite when the answer came to him . . . but it was sometime in the night.
The Móndyalítko.
* * *
&n
bsp; The next morning, he prepared himself, saddled his horse, and rode south to the encampment. Jace was crouched by the fire and saw him coming.
“Is everything all right?” Jace asked as Heath dismounted.
Heath never visited at this time of day. “No,” he answered. “I need to speak to you alone.”
Jace walked beside him down toward the creek, and as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else, Heath said, “I need help.”
“With what?”
“Protecting Rochelle.”
Jace shook his head. “Your pretty sister? Go to Maddox.”
“No, he can’t help.” Heath paused, wondering how to say this. For some time, he had suspected that a number of the stories of spells and curses that Jace’s people told around the campfire might be true. “I need a spell. Something that will kill, that cannot be traced back to me . . . but will still look like murder. I need it to look like murder.”
Jace halted in his tracks. “No.”
“No, you don’t have such a spell or no, you won’t help me?”
“Just no.”
Heath braced himself. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but nothing was going to stop him. “My father has been gone nearly two years, and I don’t think my uncle Hamish knows of your existence. If you don’t help me, I will bring you to his attention, and I’ll tell him that you’ve been stealing wine from our stores.”
The sudden look of betrayal in Jace’s eyes was painful to see.
“You wouldn’t do that,” Jace said.
“I don’t want to! I don’t have a choice.” Over his last few visits, Heath had noticed the gypsies’ food supplies seemed low and the horses were a tad thin. He wondered if they’d had a difficult winter and spring, but he hadn’t asked. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he withdrew a large, jeweled cloak pin. “Jace, look at this. This was my father’s, passed down to me. See how large the jewels are? They can be removed and sold separately. If you help me, I will pay you with this.”
Jace’s eyes flickered when he looked down. The cloak pin was a family heirloom, covered in rubies and emeralds. It would feed his people for years. “And if I don’t help you, you’ll sell us out to your uncle and have us banished?”
Heath closed his eyes. “I don’t want to have to do that. Please don’t force me.”
“Who do you want to kill?”
“No one yet, but we’re leaving for Kimovesk soon, and I need a weapon.”
Jace glanced down at the cloak pin again, and then he looked away in defeat. “Come back tonight. Come to my wagon.”
* * *
When Heath returned that night, he expected to find an old crone of some kind waiting with Jace inside the wagon. Instead, Jace was alone.
Confused, even worried, Heath asked, “Who’s going to show me how to use the spell?”
“I am.” Jace sounded tense, even angry, but he motioned Heath inside and closed the door. “You’ll need a fire for when you actually cast. But we have to keep this to ourselves, so I’m just going to show you what to do.”
The inside of the wagon was fairly tidy, with a bunk built into one wall. Jace had cleared a space on the floor, and he’d assembled a small collection of objects. There was an iron hook, a small cauldron, a bottle, a sharp-looking dagger, and a piece of black chalk.
“The components aren’t complicated, but one of them can be difficult to obtain.”
Heath felt his excitement rising. When he first thought of this, it had seemed like one of the stories he made up and acted out in his mind every night. But Jace was in earnest. He wanted the jeweled cloak pin, and he wanted to keep a place on this land for his people.
“What do I do?” Heath asked.
“First, you build a fire and get it hot. Then you draw a triangle with this black chalk, large enough to sit in cross-legged.”
Without being asked, Heath drew the triangle and sat inside it.
“You’ll place the hook over the flames and the cauldron on the hook,” Jace instructed. He picked up the bottle. “Pour this in first. It’s purified water. You just need a little to help bind the other components.”
Acting out the part, even without the fire, Heath pulled the hook closer, hung the cauldron, and poured in a small amount of the water. “Is that enough?”
“Yes.” Jace hesitated. “The next component is your own blood. Don’t cut yourself now, but you’ll need to. The forearm is best. Then bandage it and wear a long-sleeved shirt until it heals.”
Fascinated, Heath looked at the dagger, imagining himself cutting into his own arm.
Jace crouched down beside him. There was just enough room on the floor for them both. “The words are simple, too, and you say them before adding the last component.”
“Which is what?”
“Hair from the head of your target . . . and that is not always easy to get.”
Heath wasn’t concerned. “What are the words?” Something about this still almost seemed like the games he had played with Rochelle and Lizbeth, as if he and Jace were acting out a play.
Again, Jace hesitated. “Before speaking you’ll need to choose a time . . . say one hour ahead for the spell to take effect. But the words mean nothing without intent . . . and intent is everything here. As you speak them, you need to focus all of your will, as deep as you can reach, upon the image of your target and the meaning of the words. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Turning to the cauldron, Jace sat cross-legged and closed his eyes. Heath sat in anticipation as Jace began to whisper.
“Breath that is breath will be no more. One hour’s time is all you have. Breath of life that is breath of life will be no more. In one hour’s time all breath is gone.”
Heath repeated the words softly to himself.
“Then you drop in the strands of hair,” Jace finished. “But, Heath . . . once you’ve done this, if your intent was strong and focused, there is no way to stop it. There is no going back.”
Heath nodded. He picked up the bottle of purified water. “May I take this? I can gather everything else myself.”
Glancing away, Jace nodded. Heath took out the jeweled pin and set it on the floor. Then he stood up and walked toward the door.
“Heath,” Jace said from behind. “Don’t come back here again.”
* * *
On the journey to Kimovesk, Heath began wearing a long-sleeved black wool shirt beneath his tunic. His mother didn’t care for it, but he complained of being cold. He wanted everyone to grow accustomed to seeing him in the shirt.
After a two-day journey, they rode into the courtyard of Castle Kimovesk, and their host was not even there to greet them. Instead, they were met by a repulsive captain with a long mustache and a strange, small man with a birthmark who introduced himself as Master Lionel.
The castle was dark and depressing and forbidding, and Heath couldn’t imagine Rochelle spending a single night here, much less being forced into slavery as its mistress.
They were taken to their guest rooms. Heath, his uncle, his mother, and Carlotta all had their own rooms. Rochelle and Lizbeth were to share, but this was a common practice for young, unmarried women. Perhaps Carlotta’s unmarried state didn’t count.
When the dinner gong rang, Heath braced himself for the worst as he entered the great hall, but nothing could have prepared him for meeting Damek . . . a cruel, corrupt, selfish man with the scent of violence running just beneath the surface of his pale skin.
Damek didn’t hide his disdain for Carlotta, nor did he hide his lust for Rochelle. His manners were no better than a peasant’s. Heath took in Damek’s long, dark hair and feral features and felt a good deal of relief. His mother would never give Rochelle to such a creature.
But then dinner began, and with the exception of Lizbeth, everyone behaved as if this were a pleasant dinner between nobles, speaking of taxes and the weather. By the time it was over, all his relief had vanished and his fear had doubled.
Could his mother and
uncle still be considering this travesty of a marriage?
That night, he realized the truth when Carlotta went to Damek’s private chambers to conduct dowry negotiations. Heath wanted to explode. He grabbed his cloak, put it on, and went out into the courtyard, walking alone, preparing himself, knowing what he had to do.
While Carlotta was still engaged with Damek, he went up to the east tower and slipped into her room. Her brush was on a small dressing table. Picking it up, he pulled out an entire handful of coarse, dark, streaked hair, and he put it in the pocket of his cloak.
Then he retired for the night to his own room.
The next day, Damek had planned nothing for his guests, and he never appeared. Rochelle tried to make the best of things, and she worked on some embroidery while talking to Mother, Uncle Hamish, Carlotta, and Lizbeth.
Heath announced he was going exploring, and no one questioned this. It was something he might do. Lizbeth asked to go along, but he kindly told her to stay. Then he began to search. It took him two hours to find a door leading down, and he emerged into the guardroom of an old prison.
There was a hearth.
A little over an hour before dinner, he quietly brought down a box he’d packed himself, with an iron hook, a small cauldron, the bottle of purified water, and the chalk. He also brought bandages.
After building a fire, he set up the cauldron and drew the black triangle. He took off his tunic and shirt so he wouldn’t get blood on his clothes. He poured the water and didn’t flinch at holding his bare forearm over the cauldron and cutting it with his own dagger, letting blood drip.
He’d brought down a few strands of Carlotta’s hair, and he laid those beside him.
Closing his eyes, he focused all his intent, all his will, onto Carlotta and whispered, “Breath that is breath will be no more. One hour’s time is all you have. Breath of life that is breath of life will be no more. In one hour’s time all breath is gone.”
Opening his eyes, he dropped the strands of her hair into the cauldron. It sizzled and meshed with the blood and water.
Then he bandaged his arm tightly and put on his black wool shirt in case any spots leaked through, so they wouldn’t show. He pulled his tunic over the top. He wiped away the triangle and hid the bottle, hook, and cauldron behind an old desk.