Witches With the Enemy

by Barb Hendee

  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.

  * * *

  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.

  Then he went upstairs to dinner, and he watched Carlotta die. It looked as if she’d been poisoned. He even accused Damek of poisoning her to plant the idea.

  After that, he waited for his mother to tell him they were leaving, that they would not stay in this castle of murder.

  The announcement never came. To his disbelief, the next day passed very much like the previous one. Several nights later, he saw his uncle Hamish go up into one of the west towers to resume negotiations with Damek.

  Heath went cold.

  It seemed his mother needed more incentive. Then this madness would stop, and they would take Rochelle home.

  Late in the night, after Hamish had returned to his own room, Heath walked quietly to his uncle’s room, slipped inside the door, and found Hamish asleep . . . or rather passed out with a half-empty pitcher of wine on the floor beside him.

  Pulling his dagger, Heath leaned down and cut a lock of his uncle’s hair.

  The mists closed in. . . .

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Amelie came out of the memories, she found herself looking into Heath’s face, but h
is expression was far away, and at some point he’d taken his left hand from her arm and now had it pressed against the wall beside her head. He still gripped the dagger in his right.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Pushing as hard as she could against his chest, she shoved him down the few stairs and back into the guardroom, hoping he was so disoriented he might fall. As he stumbled backward, she drew the razor-sharp dagger from her right wrist and readied herself.

  She wasn’t going to be able to outrun him up these stairs, and she knew it.

  As his feet hit the floor of the guardroom, he managed to catch himself and keep from falling. His eyes cleared, and he looked up.

  “Did you . . . you see all that?” he asked.

  She knew she should act quickly, that she would only survive if she relied on the element of surprise, but there were still pieces missing from his story.

  “What about Maddox?” she nearly cried. “Did you kill him?”

  Heath’s entire body was still. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to.” His light brown eyes drifted. “I found him searching my room, and I knew he’d begun to wonder about me . . . or perhaps about Rochelle, and he’d gone up to search our rooms. He started in mine, but he found nothing. I keep the things that I . . . require down here. But I could see he’d begun to wonder. When I found him, I was kind, and I told him that I understood why he’d taken Rochelle. I told him that if he’d come with me, I’d hide him in Mother’s room and then I’d go to get her and let her listen to his side of the story.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “He seemed grateful . . . beyond grateful. By that point, he must have been lost for anything else to do. I motioned him toward the door. When his back was turned, I drew my dagger, and as soon as we stepped outside together, I struck . . . just as Jace taught me, through the hollow of Maddox’s throat. I don’t think he felt much.” A flicker of regret crossed his features. “I went downstairs without knowing Lizbeth was asleep in her room. I never meant for her to find him like that.”

  From her position a few steps up the stairwell, Amelie looked toward the cauldron and the long strands of red-gold hair. “But why didn’t you kill Damek in the onset? That would have stopped the marriage.”