Witches With the Enemy

by Barb Hendee

  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.

  Indeed, 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?”

  The open compliment surprised Céline. Amelie might think well of Jaromir—very well—but she never said it.

  The lieutenant nodded. “Yes, of course, and I was thinking I might take—”

  “Jaromir?” Anton said, shaking his head. “No, you’re not coming with us. You’re staying to guard the castle and the village.”

  Whirling on one foot, Jaromir stared at Anton.

  * * *

  Amelie froze at Jaromir’s expression as she tried to take in what Anton saying.

  “My lord!” Jaromir exploded. “You cannot walk into Castle Kimovesk alone!”

  Céline dropped her gaze. Jaromir never openly disagreed with Anton. Never.

  Amelie, however, did not drop her gaze, and instead, she watched Anton’s face tighten in anger. He was a good prince, a fair one, but he ruled here, and he was accustomed to being obeyed.

  Jaromir suddenly remembered himself and put one hand to his forehead in agitation. “Forg
ive me,” he breathed. “But you know I’m right. My place is at your side.”

  Anton’s face softened. “As we have all agreed that this could be a trap set for me, it could just as easily be a ploy to lure us both away from Sèone. I would put nothing past my brother.” He motioned to the sword strapped to Jaromir’s side. “And you often forget that I am nearly as skilled with a blade as you. I can protect Céline and Amelie.”

  “And who will protect you?” Céline asked. “If Jaromir is not to go, then who will lead your contingent and act as bodyguard?”

  Everyone fell silent for a moment, as if this was a difficult question—which it was. Most princes of the noble houses had captains and lieutenants to spare. Because of the odd history of the creation of Castle Sèone’s current forces, Jaromir, as a lieutenant, was the highest-ranking officer, and for reasons he would not explain to Amelie, he refused to let Anton promote him to captain. This did not mean he was viewed as weak. The princes of the other houses respected—even feared—Jaromir, but it did make the state of affairs unusual.

  “Who is your most trusted second?” Anton asked Jaromir.

  “Corporal Pavel.” Jaromir glanced at Céline, who had gone still, and he rushed to add, “But he’s recovering from a broken leg and cannot yet ride.”

  Amelie felt a rush of gratitude toward Jaromir. Injured leg or not, Pavel could not be chosen to lead their contingent.

  “What about Guardsman Rurik?” Céline suggested. “I found him most reliable on our last journey.”

  “Guardsman?” Jaromir echoed. “Guardsman Rurik?”

  “You object to the man’s low rank?” Anton asked.

  “Of course I do,” Jaromir sputtered.

  “He is both even-tempered and brave,” Céline went on. “Up in Ryazan, when we faced those wolf-beasts, he rushed one of them with nothing but a spear and impaled it.”

  “Truly?” Anton said, and then turned to Jaromir. “Promote him, and then you handpick the rest of our contingent. This is a family visit, so I don’t want a large show of force. Choose twenty men.” He turned back to Céline. “We leave tomorrow. I want you and Amelie to sleep in a room here at the castle tonight. We have preparations to make. If you need anything from home, give Jaromir a list, and he’ll have it brought up.”

  He did not bother to address Amelie, but she didn’t care. She cast a quick look at Jaromir, who almost appeared to be in pain. He met her gaze, and she’d never seen him so exposed, so helpless. He hated this.

  Still, Prince Anton had spoken.

  Jaromir would remain behind, while Céline and Amelie and the prince would ride into Kimovesk . . . to solve another murder.

  Chapter Two

  Not long after, Céline and Amelie followed a familiar route into the stairwell of the north tower of the castle. At the third landing, they stepped off and made their way down a passage to the room they always shared when staying here—which was not often.

  Upon opening the door, Céline looked in to see the room readied and pristine as if they’d been expected.

  The four-poster mahogany bed had been made up and covered in a sunflower yellow quilt. Interior shutters over the long window were open, letting misty light filter inside.

  A full-length mirror with a pewter frame stood in one corner and a mahogany wardrobe stood in the other. Dainty damask-covered chairs had been placed in front of a dressing table that sported a porcelain washbasin. A three-tiered dressing screen offered privacy for changing clothes. Best of all, the room contained its own small hearth.

  Céline went to the window and looked down. They were on the inner side of the tower and had a view of the courtyard below.

  She turned back to watch Amelie enter and close the door. The sisters were alone.

  Amelie’s face was as tense as Céline felt inside, but Céline had no idea what to say.

  “I know . . . ,” Amelie began slowly. “I know we owe Anton our lives and our livelihood. I know we agreed to use our abilities whenever he called us, but this is different.”

  Céline couldn’t argue.

  Last spring, Anton had saved their lives. The problem was that he’d saved them from Prince Damek. The sisters had never actually met Damek, but he ruled over Shetâna Village, and they had gone against his wishes once, and he ordered their shop to be burned and for them to be put to death.

  Anton had given them refuge.

  “I don’t see how we can refuse,” Céline said.

  “So no matter what he asks, we’re obligated to do it? I’m grateful for everything he’s done, but shouldn’t there be a limit on gratitude? I think him asking us to walk into Prince Damek’s castle crosses a line.” Amelie glanced away. “The price for safety and comfort here might be growing too high.”

  In part, Céline agreed, but this situation was not of Anton’s making. Kimovesk was the last place he’d wish to go as well. And more . . . Céline liked her life here. She had no desire to live anywhere else. For her, the price for remaining in Sèone might never be too high.

  She didn’t say this aloud.

  Instead, she sat down at the dressing table and opened a drawer that she knew contained paper, ink, and a quill. She wrote two notes, and just as she finished the second one, the bedroom door banged open and another familiar face came in, belonging to old Helga. She carried an armload of wool gowns, white cotton shifts, and fine cloaks.

  “Good gods,” she exclaimed, shifting the burdens in her arms. “His Lord Majesty Lieutenant is in a mood! Nearly chewed my ear off, he did.”

  Céline stood up. “Oh, I am sorry. I’d have sent you a warning if I could.”

  “Can’t blame him, I can’t,” Helga babbled on as if Céline hadn’t spoken. “Don’t know what that fool of a prince thinks he’s doing, hauling you girls off on his own.”

  Even Amelie appeared shocked at the old woman’s use of “fool” in reference to Anton, but Helga was . . . unusual.

  Though quick on her feet, she was at least in her seventies, with thick white hair up in a bun that was partially covered by an orange kerchief—nearly always askew. Her wrinkled face had a dusky tone, and she wore a faded homespun dress that might once have been purple.

  Though she was officially a servant here in the castle, Céline had long suspected she was more. For one, everyone else treated Jaromir with deference and respect—even fear on occasion—but Helga often referred to him sarcastically as “His Lord Majesty Lieutenant” and had a tendency to boss him around . . . and for some reason, he let her.

  Even more, Helga had been responsible for helping Céline and Amelie understand at least the roots of who they were and where their mother had come from: the Móndyalítko or “the world’s little children,” traveling gypsies.

  Before arriving in Sèone, Céline and Amelie had known little of their origins.

  Their father had been a village hunter for Shetâna, and one year, he’d been off on a long-distance hunt, traveling for days. He’d come back with their mother and married her. Then the couple had built an apothecary shop in Shetâna and started a small family. Once Céline and Amelie were old enough, their mother taught them to read. She taught Céline herb lore and the ways of healing—while saying nothing of her own past.

  Neither of the sisters had ever heard the term “Mist-Torn,” before Helga explained it to them, that they were not only born of a Móndyalítko mother, but were of a special line called the Mist-Torn, who each possessed a natural power. As sisters, Céline and Amelie were two sides of the same coin, one able to read the future and one able to read the past.

  The full comprehension of this knowledge had changed their lives.

  At the moment, however, Amelie was looking warily at the gowns in Helga’s arms.

  “What are those for?” she asked.

  “For you, girlie,” Helga grunted, dropping her entire armload on the bed. “Prince’s orde
rs . . . through His Lord Majesty Lieutenant. If you’re going to Prince Damek’s castle to meet some hoity-toity noble family, you’ve got to play at being women of court again. I’ve got brushed wool dresses here for the journey and at least eight dinner gowns packed.”

  Céline closed her eyes briefly, opened them again, and tried not to groan at what was coming. On their last mission for Anton, for their own safety, they’d had to pretend to be highborn ladies . . . which meant Amelie had to forgo her pants and wear dresses the entire time.

  Beforehand, she’d put up quite a fight.

  “Oh, I am not!” Amelie squared off with Helga. “Not again.”

  Céline was well aware that Amelie was fast approaching her breaking point, first being asked to put herself in close reach of Damek, and now being told she’d have to wear skirts again.

  “Amelie,” Céline began, “as before, I’m sure Anton is only doing this for our safety. Damek’s soldiers would never abuse women of Anton’s court, and . . . if we’re to investigate Rochelle’s family, we must be seen as near equals.”

  “I don’t care!” Amelie exploded. “And I can protect us better as myself. If I was dressed as myself, I could wear my sword and my dagger openly. Didn’t I always protect us in Shetâna?” She paused and drew a deep breath. “It won’t work anyway. Captain Kochè knows us too well. He’ll recognize us on sight and give us away.”

  This thought had occurred to Céline as well, but she hadn’t mentioned it. Captain Kochè was Prince Damek’s chief bullyboy and tax collector—and he was the one who had burned their old shop. He knew they’d both grown up as peasants scraping out a living via Céline’s herbal medicines and her ruse of playing the “seer” before her true powers manifested.

  “Don’t matter,” Helga said, straightening a blue wool dress on the bed. “Anton’s orders. He may be a fool for leaving Jaromir behind, but he’s always got a plan or two in his back pocket. If he wants you dressed as women of court, then that’s how you’re going.” She looked up and smiled. “Oh, and I’m going, too. I’m to be your maid.”