Witches With the Enemy

by Barb Hendee

  Amelie froze. “What?”

  “Yup. Can’t have two ladies dressing for dinner at Damek’s table without a lady’s maid.”

  “Oh, this is just . . .” Amelie ran a hand over her face. She glanced toward the door. “Céline, I need some air.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she strode out, leaving Céline staring after her.

  Then Céline took a few steps to follow.

  “Leave her be,” Helga said, and when Céline turned back, she could see genuine pity on the old woman’s face. “Poor mite. This isn’t going to be easy on any of you. Let her have a few minutes tonight.”

  Céline sighed. Perhaps that was best. “I’m glad you’re coming with us,” she said, and she was.

  Helga nodded. “Jaromir said you might need some things from home?”

  “I do.” Céline walked to the dressing table and picked up both notes, handing one over for Helga to read. “The main thing is this first item, my box of medicinal supplies. Make sure that gets packed. I’d also like my own lavender wool gown brought up tonight, if possible.” The second note was folded in half. “Then have this message run down to Erin, the blacksmith’s daughter. She’s always kind enough to look after Oliver when I’m called away, and she knows how to care for him.”

  For the most part, Oliver could take care of himself. Céline always left one window open at the back of the shop so that he could go out to hunt as he pleased. But it was important to her that he know he’d not been abandoned, and Erin was good about going to the shop every day to leave him bowls of fresh water and milk—and pet him if he wished for attention.

  “Easy enough,” Helga said, and looked toward the door. “You’re handling this a lot better than your sister, the prospect of walking into Damek’s territory, I mean.”

  Was she handling it better? Perhaps she was, but she didn’t like to admit why. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t stop thinking that this time . . . this time Anton wasn’t sending them off to do a service for him.

  This time, he would be riding at their side.

  * * *

  After leaving the bedroom, Amelie stood out in the passage, trying to breathe evenly for a few moments, wondering where she should even go. She needed time to herself.

  Everyone else, including Céline, seemed to be simply accepting whatever Anton ordered here. Amelie felt as if she’d been dropped into a river and was now being carried along on a current she couldn’t fight.

  Of course she couldn’t refuse to go to Kimovesk. That wouldn’t keep Céline from going, and Amelie had no intention of letting Céline go with no one but Anton, Rurik, and a few guards for protection. Yet the prospect of putting herself and her sister in the hands of Damek seemed too much.

  Too much.

  She looked down the passage toward the stairs and considered going for a walk in the courtyard. But that would mean greeting some of Sèone’s soldiers and probably being invited to join card games. Tonight, she had no wish for company.

  Instead, she turned, walked to the other end of the passage, and entered a stairwell leading up.

  The stairwell wound in a few circles, and it was darker than she remembered, as she’d never gone up here at night. But soon enough, she saw dim light at the top and she stepped out into a much wider passage, almost a hall. There were tall, narrow windows to her left—possibly slots for archers—and some light from the great braziers out in the courtyard came through.

  Amelie now occupied an almost-forgotten portrait hall. She and Céline had learned of its existence during their first stay at the castle.

  The wall to her right was covered in enormous portraits, some larger than herself, in ornate frames wider than her hand.

  Even in the dim light, she could see that dusty spiderwebs covered the ceiling and some of the paintings. A few corners of the frames had teeth marks, as if rats had chewed on them.

  None of the servants ever visited this hall.

  Walking slowly, she looked up at the first portrait. The background was dark, but it depicted a proud-looking middle-aged man with a close-trimmed silver beard. He wore a sword on his hip and had a cream-colored dog standing at his side.

  Amelie did not continue to view the paintings. She was in no mood tonight. This place offered her some much-needed solitude and that was all. Walking a short ways in, she sat down and leaned up against the wall with her knees to her chest.

  Tomorrow, she would have to put on a dress and climb into a sidesaddle and leave Sèone on another dangerous task for Anton.

  “Amelie,” a deep voice said.

  Jumping slightly, she whipped her head back toward the stairs to see a tall, familiar outline: Jaromir. He stepped into full view. Though she’d wanted to be alone, his was probably the only company she could stand right now. He looked as miserable as she felt.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.

  After walking over, he crouched down. He had a small, wrapped bundle in his hands. “Céline said you’d gone out for air. I went to the courtyard first, and this was the only other place I could think to look.” He glanced around. “You and I . . . we’ve both come here before.”

  Yes, they had.

  “Anton’s wrong,” she said bluntly. “Leaving you here.”

  “It’s his decision.”

  He said no more on that subject.

  Amelie should have known that was the closest he would ever get to criticizing Anton. Jaromir was fiercely loyal to his prince. He would kill for Anton . . . had killed for Anton. Amelie had once seen a body lying at her own feet.

  This situation must be torture for him.

  But when she met his eyes, she saw a different kind of fear. He stared at her in open worry. He feared for her.

  She’d stopped trying to deny the connection, the fire, 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 yet right now he seemed almost ill with worry.

  “I can’t stand the thought of you in Damek’s castle without me,” he said, lowering the cloth bundle to the floor and opening it. “All I can do is try to protect you from a distance.”

  Inside the cloth lay two sheaths with protruding hilts. Both were small, with leather ties. One sheath was slightly wider than the other.

  “Even in a dress, I keep my own dagger in my boot,” she said.

  “I know you do, but these can be hidden inside the sleeves of a gown and can be drawn much faster.” He picked up the slightly wider sheath and drew the blade. Silver metal glinted in the light from the braziers coming through the windows. “This is razor-sharp. Strap it to your left wrist so you can pull it with your right hand.”

  Wordlessly, she took it from him, and he picked up the other sheath, but he didn’t draw the blade.

  “Strap this to your other wrist, but don’t pull it unless you intend to kill,” he said, “and don’t tell anyone you have it, not even Céline. It’s a stiletto . . . and the blade is poisoned, so whatever you do, don’t scratch yourself. If you even nick someone with this, he’ll be dead in moments.”

  “Poisoned?”

  That wasn�
��t like Jaromir.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “No one inside Castle Kimovesk cares about honor or anything besides themselves. You have to think like them. Now strap those on and don’t hesitate to use either.”

  Her eyes lifted to his face. On their last journey, she’d bristled against his arrogance and his penchant for giving orders, but now . . . and it hit her that tomorrow, he wasn’t going with them.

  “Oh, Jaromir,” she whispered.

  He looked away. “I know.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Anton stood in the courtyard. He was dressed simply, in dark pants, a wool shirt, and riding boots, but he also wore a heavy cloak over his shoulders and a sword on his hip. The gray sky above him drizzled with a slow rain, as was typical in autumn, but he left his hood down and allowed the drops to soak into his hair.

  Activity buzzed all around him.

  Twenty-four horses had been saddled and two more were harnessed to a wagon of luggage and supplies. Twenty guards, along with the newly promoted Corporal Rurik, were almost ready to leave. Jaromir walked around giving orders and making certain the wagon bed was properly covered.

  Corporal Rurik still appeared somewhat stunned at having been given this assignment, but he was busy checking saddles and talking to the men. Anton watched him for a moment. Rurik had a wiry build and curly light brown hair he wore to the tops of his shoulders. He was known as the swiftest rider in Sèone, and until recently, he had served in the position of messenger between Anton and his father.

  Last summer, it was discovered he’d been providing Prince Lieven with more information than simple dispatches, and under normal circumstances, this would have resulted in his dismissal from the guards, or worse. But apparently, Rurik had been attempting to bolster Prince Lieven’s opinion of Anton by sharing news of his successes as a leader—which Anton had not authorized him to share. Still . . . Jaromir was convinced of Rurik’s innocence of anything other than overzealous loyalty. Jaromir had assigned a new messenger, but kept Rurik in the guards.

  For Anton, this was good enough. Jaromir was the most suspicious man he knew, and if he trusted Rurik, then so did Anton. In addition, Céline had suggested that Rurik head up the guards for this journey, and Anton had come to rely on her judgment when it came to people.

  Once the wagon was tied down, Jaromir strode toward Anton but wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “All is ready, my lord,” he said, his face drawn. “Céline and Amelie should be down directly.”

  “Good,” Anton answered.

  He longed to tell Jaromir that he hated this arrangement as well, and that a part of him knew it was foolish to go to Kimovesk without his lieutenant. Jaromir was much more than a bodyguard and the leader of Sèone’s soldiers. He was Anton’s best friend . . . his only friend really.

  No matter how quick-witted Jaromir might be, he did not understand Damek. How could he? Only someone who had grown up with Damek could possibly comprehend how his twisted mind worked. The letter he’d sent had been almost brotherly, with a hint of warmth, pleading for Anton’s help.

  When Damek showed a hint of warmth, he was at his most dangerous.

  One of Anton’s most vivid memories came from a boyhood experience when their father had bought each brother a fine spaniel puppy so they might train the dogs to hunt birds. As a lonely child, Anton had loved his dog excessively and named him Arrow because he ran so straight. He slept with Arrow and spent many hours training him. As a result, his dog became a much better hunter than the dog given to Damek, and one day, their father commented on this.

  That night, Damek came to Anton’s room to praise Arrow and give the dog a treat of raw chunks of beef. Damek’s rare display of brotherly warmth made Anton happy. A few hours later, Arrow began to whine in pain. He died before morning, poisoned.

  This wasn’t the first or last time Damek managed to leave Anton rocking in sorrow, but it was one of the most painful experiences in Anton’s memory.

  Jaromir had to remain here to protect Sèone.

  Right now Damek could be plotting anything. He could be setting a trap for Anton. He could be attempting to lure both Anton and Jaromir away at the same time. He could truly need help catching a murderer. He could be up to something completely different. There was no way to know.

  But Anton’s father wanted this impending marriage to take place, and even Damek wouldn’t lie about that—for fear such a ploy might get back to Prince Lieven. So Anton couldn’t refuse to help. That meant he had to anticipate as many outcomes as possible and plan accordingly.

  Still, a prince of Droevinka did not explain his decisions, not even to someone as close as Jaromir. He needed to maintain absolute authority at all times. Anton’s father had taught him that, and in his heart, he knew it to be right.

  “Here come the sisters and Helga,” Jaromir said, looking toward the doors of the castle.

  Anton turned. Céline was walking toward him across the courtyard. With her hood up, he couldn’t see her hair, only her pretty face. Even in a thick cloak, she looked so small to him, so fragile. Yet she was one of the bravest women he’d ever known. She seemed brave to him because she always faced the things she feared. He admired this.

  He admired her.

  Amelie and Helga came behind her, both covered in cloaks as well. Those two left him more ill at ease. Amelie struck him as more fierce than brave, and she had no understanding of how her coarse behavior affected other people. She would have to be watched closely on this trip.

  Helga . . . well, Anton had no idea why Jaromir put such stock in the old woman. She struck Anton as half-mad, but Jaromir had nearly insisted that she accompany the sisters, and this was at least something to which Anton could agree.

  Céline came up to him and then looked over to the readied wagon and horses. “Are we late, my lord?” When she turned back, her eyes moved to his wet hair, but she did not suggest he draw up his hood.

  “Not at all,” he answered.

  Jaromir studied Amelie for a moment, and then he strode over to Corporal Rurik, leaned down, and began speaking in a voice so low it could not be heard. Rurik flinched and his eyes widened.

  “Poor Rurik,” Amelie said. “Jaromir must be threatening with everything from beheading to being burned alive if anything should happen to us.”

  She was probably right.

  Anton turned his attention to other matters. “I’ve arranged for the same horses you rode on your last journey,” he said to Céline and Amelie. “I trust they proved satisfactory?”

  He’d handpicked both horses before, a quick-footed black gelding for Amelie, and a gentle gray mare named Sable for Céline.

  “Oh yes,” Céline answered quickly. “I grew fond of Sable.”

  “And what will I be riding, my lord?” Helga asked, both hands on her hips.

  “I thought you might prefer to ride up on the wagon bench with Sergeant Bazin,” he answered stiffly. It felt awkward to be conversing like this with an aging servant. “If that is acceptable.”

  Helga snorted and started toward the wagon. “Of course it’s acceptable,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t you take that tone with me. I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

  Watching her walk away, Anton wondered if there was still time to change his mind about her inclusion.

  Jaromir came back leading the small black gelding. “Hop up,” he said to Amelie. “I’ll hold him.” He sounded miserable.

  For once, Amelie didn’t fire back some retort at being ordered about, and she climbed up into the sidesaddle. Anton reached out for Sable, who had been standing close by, and he helped Céline settle into her saddle as well.

  All around them, men were mounting their horses, and Sergeant Bazin was up on the wagon bench, reins in his hand, with Helga beside him.

  Feeling even more awkward, Anton turned to Jaro
mir. “I hope not to be away long. Perhaps the sisters will solve this quickly.” He paused, not certain what else to say. “I’ll send messages and keep you informed.”

  Jaromir nodded but didn’t speak.

  With nothing left to say or do, Anton grasped the reins of his own horse—a tall bay stallion named Whisper because of his low, almost inaudible whinny. Anton swung up. “Lead us out, Corporal Rurik.”

  With a nod, the young corporal urged his own mount toward the exit from the courtyard. The entire contingent followed. Anton rode directly behind Céline and Amelie, and he could feel Jaromir’s eyes watching.

  Even so, he didn’t look back.

  Chapter Three

  Droevinka was a land of dense, wet forests. Moss hung down from the trees, fungus grew outward from their trunks, and the damp air was often laden with the scent of loam. The dirt roads grew muddy when it rained.

  Céline kept her hood up for most of the morning as she rode beside Amelie, traveling north on a road barely wide enough for two horses. The supply wagon rolled ahead of them, and Anton rode directly behind. But this small group was rather boxed in by soldiers, as Rurik led the contingent with ten men at the front, and he’d ordered the other ten to bring up the rear.

  The house of Pählen controlled a good deal of the southwest provinces. Sèone was in the southernmost sector of their lands. Kimovesk was to the north and slightly west, almost to the border between Droevinka and Belaski.

  The morning passed quietly, as no one seemed inclined to speak much . . . with the possible exception of Helga, who sometimes barked criticisms at poor Sergeant Bazin regarding her opinions of his driving skills. He accepted this with a hard-set jaw and fairly good grace.

  Near midday, the drizzling rain stopped, and Céline pushed her hood back, looking up at the gray skies above. She was cold and damp and her back hurt from having ridden for several hours straight now, but she’d known this was coming and didn’t complain.

  The narrow road they traveled emptied into a much wider one, and Rurik turned west. He appeared to know where he was going, so Céline asked no questions. Though she’d grown up in this country, she’d never traveled until last spring and was embarrassed by her lack of knowledge of Droevinkan geography.