Witches With the Enemy Page 2

  They both had their mother’s lavender eyes, but that was all.

  Having recently observed her eighteenth birthday, Amelie was even shorter than Céline. But where Céline was slight, Amelie’s build showed a hint of strength and muscle. She despised dresses and always wore breeches, a man’s shirt, a canvas jacket, and boots. She’d inherited their father’s straight black hair, which she’d cropped into a bob that hung almost to her shoulders. She wore a sheathed dagger on her left hip—which she knew how to use—and she kept a short sword back at the shop, but she normally didn’t wear it out in the village, as there was no need.

  Most people found her a bit peculiar, but she didn’t care.

  Last spring, she and Céline had come to live here when they proved themselves useful to Prince Anton—who ruled Castle Sèone and its six surrounding fifes. Both sisters possessed a unique “gift.” Céline could read a person’s future—just by touching him—and Amelie could read a person’s past.

  More than once, Prince Anton had leaned upon these abilities in order to search out murderers or anyone who might be a threat to his people.

  However . . . late summer and early autumn had been rather quiet, offering the sisters a reprieve, and after their last adventure for Prince Anton, Amelie was glad for Céline to have a little peace. Most of the things they were asked to solve involved blood and death and madness.

  Céline often needed time to recover afterward.

  Swinging the bag of pears, Amelie came back around the corner and peered down the street toward the shop.

  To her relief, Céline opened the front door and held it as Master Colby shuffled out.

  He didn’t look happy.

  Still, Amelie waited until he was well out of sight before walking to the shop and heading through the front door herself. Inside, Céline was back behind her work counter with her hands in goose grease and purple opine. Oliver watched the pail of goose grease with great interest. He would do better to go and catch mice. Wasn’t that his job here?

  “Bought some pears,” Amelie said, lifting the sack.

  “Mmm?” Céline answered absently. She seemed troubled.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing . . . I . . . Master Colby was just here again, and I had to . . .” She trailed off and shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Amelie frowned slightly, wondering what had happened. Maybe Céline had taken a firmer hand with the old boy after all. It was about time.

  “I’ll make tea. Do we still have butter?” Amelie asked. “I forgot to check before I left.”

  She didn’t care for bread without butter.

  Céline looked up from her work, but before she could answer, the front door burst open so hard that it slammed against the wall.

  “And I’m telling you!” a female voice bellowed. “I never touched your hammer!”

  “Then who did?” a deep voice bellowed back. “It didn’t just walk off by itself!”

  Amelie whirled, her mouth falling partway open at the sight of Bernard, Sèone’s massive blacksmith, and his diminutive wife, Abigail, both striding into the shop. Amelie had never seen either of them so angry, and both were well-known for their tempers.

  To make matters worse, their daughter, Erin, was a good friend of Céline’s—and had even given her Oliver as a gift—so Amelie felt she could not comment on what she considered Bernard and Abigail’s very poor manners.

  Céline, however, came around the side of the counter, wiping her hands on cloth. “What in the world is wrong?” she asked. “Abigail, if that door just damaged the wall, you’re paying to have it fixed.”

  Amelie was surprised by her tone. Céline was indeed in a strange mood today.

  “What?” Abigail nearly shouted at Céline, and then she seemed to come back to herself and glanced at the still-open door. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” she apologized, “but I’m in such a state.” She motioned toward Bernard with one hand. “This . . . this madman is accusing me of taking his good hammer and hiding it! As if I have nothing better to do than sneak into his smithy and hide his tools just to vex him.”

  “She did!” Bernard cut in. His long, dark hair and beard swung as he turned to Céline. “I was out playing cards last night, and I lost a bit . . . just a bit, mind you, of coin, and she didn’t want me to go in the first place. She hid my good hammer so I’d be forced to use my old one and take twice as much time for the same work. She’s punishing me.”

  Abigail threw both hands in the air. “Do you hear him? As if I’d be so petty.”

  Actually . . . from what Amelie had seen of Abigail, it seemed more than possible that she could be so petty, but Amelie didn’t say this.

  Céline stepped closer. “Why exactly did you come to us?”

  “So you can tell him I didn’t take it,” Abigail said, crossing her arms. “Do a reading and tell him where it is.”

  Céline shook her head. “Abigail . . . my gift doesn’t work that way. I cannot see Bernard’s hammer by looking into his future and—”

  “No, not you,” Bernard interrupted. “Amelie. She can read this she-devil’s past and tell me where my hammer’s been hidden!”

  Céline’s expression was growing more flummoxed by the moment—and Amelie could certainly see why. Indeed, there had never been such a scene inside the shop.

  “Two silver pennies,” Amelie said from where she stood near the hearth.

  The room fell silent, and all three other occupants turned to look at her.

  “Oh, Amelie,” Céline said in some embarrassment. “I don’t think we should charge Abigail and Bernard for our services,”

  This was another of Céline’s weakness: hesitance at taking money from those she considered friends. But Amelie didn’t do readings for free—or at least not for anyone but Prince Anton, who’d given them this shop.

  “Of course you should be paid,” Abigail said, reaching into the pocket of her apron. “I’d pay double to see this great oaf proven wrong.”

  “And I’d pay triple to see this harpy admit her guilt!” Bernard shouted.

  “Please,” Céline said, her expression shifting from flummoxed to flustered. “Lower your voices. People can hear you in the street.”

  Amelie had no objections to a good dispute and had been known on occasion to raise her own voice, so she stood with her left hand out as Abigail dropped the two silver pennies into her palm.

  “Who should I read?” Amelie asked.

  “Her,” Bernard answered instantly, “and tell me where my hammer is.”

  Abigail went red in the face. “Fine.”

  Amelie reached out and grasped Abigail’s small, roughened hand and closed her eyes. She focused her thoughts first on the spark of Abigail’s spirit, and then she pictured Bernard’s hammer—which she had seen at the forge more than once—in her mind, holding the image firm. If Abigail had anything to show her, Amelie would soon be caught up in the mists and see a clear image of the past.

  Nothing happened.

  After a moment, she said, “Bernard, I’m not seeing anything.”

  “Then you’re not looking hard enough,” the blacksmith answered.

  “Read him,” Abigail challenged. “See if he has anything to show you.”

  With a shrug, Amelie walked over to Bernard and grasped one of his enormous fingers. He didn’t object, but he frowned. Amelie closed her eyes and focused on the spark of his spirit and then on an image of the hammer.

  The first jolt hit her almost instantly, and she braced herself.

  When the second jolt hit, she experienced a now familiar sensation, as if her body were being swept along a tunnel of mist. For a moment she forgot everything but speeding backward through the mists all around her as they swirled in tones of grays and whites.

  The mists vanished and an image flashed before her. She found herself sta
nding inside a small house. Bernard was there, along with young Hugh, one of Sèone’s thatchers. Amelie knew him slightly. Inside the memory, they would not see her. She was only an observer. Her body was still back in the shop.

  “Oh, Bernard, those are quite fine,” Hugh said. “Thank you.”

  Outside the window, the sun was setting as evening approached.

  “Let me just make sure they’re the right size,” Bernard answered. He stood in front of an open doorway, lacking an actual door, and he held up a new hinged iron bracket where the back of a door would be hung. In his left hand . . . was his good hammer. “Yes, these will do nicely. Do you want me to attach them for you?”

  “No, I can do that myself. But come have an ale for your trouble.”

  Looking pleased, Bernard leaned his hammer against the wall and went to the table to join Hugh. A moment later, both men were chatting and enjoying large cups of ale.

  The room vanished, and Amelie was once again sailing through the mists, this time moving forward.

  Opening her eyes, she found herself back in the apothecary shop looking up at Bernard. “Um . . . did you visit Hugh the Thatcher yesterday before you went to play cards?”

  Bernard stared at her for the span of a few breaths, and then he went pale.

  “I think you’ll find your hammer is still at Hugh’s,” Amelie finished.

  “Ha!” Abigail said. “I told you I didn’t take it. Don’t you ever go accusing me of sneaking into your smith and hiding your tools again.” Her hands were firmly on her hips. “And you owe me an apology.”

  Bernard’s face was still pale, but he managed to draw himself up to his full height and resume some semblance of dignity. “Well . . . I was mistaken this time.”

  “Mistaken indeed.” Abigail swept past him toward the front door, glancing back over her shoulder at Amelie. “Thank you, my dear. Money well spent.”

  Bernard opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and followed his wife outside.

  Once the sisters were alone, Céline leaned back against the counter. “That was awkward.”

  “Really?” Amelie tossed the two coins in the air. “I rather enjoyed it.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Kirell Jaromir sat at a table in his private office inside the barracks for the guards of Castle Sèone. Corporal Luka Pavel sat directly across from him, and the two men were busy discussing possible changes in the rotation of the watch. They both wore wool shirts, chain armor, and the tan tabards of Prince Anton of the house of Pählen.

  “You’ve had Guardsman Rurik on night duty for too long,” Pavel said. “I’d change him out for Voulter.”

  Jaromir nodded, glad that he and Pavel had reached a stage of easy camaraderie again. Over the summer, there had been some . . . unpleasantness between them, but they’d managed to put it in the past. While Jaromir believed in unwavering discipline, he didn’t care for tension on a personal level and much preferred what he thought of as “smooth sailing.” It was in his nature.

  For most of his life, something about him had put other people at ease.

  In his early thirties, he knew he wasn’t exactly handsome, but he wore a small goatee around his mouth and kept his light brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck. From his weathered skin to the scars on his hands, most elements of his appearance gave him away as a hardened soldier, but he could live with that. After all, he was a hardened soldier. He liked to view himself as tough but fair, and he was comfortable inside his own skin.

  He also held almost absolute power over the law in Sèone, second only to Prince Anton himself.

  “All right,” he answered Pavel. “Rotate Voulter with Rurik. And we should probably pull Sergeant Bazin off the front gate and give him another assignment. He’s been down there too long as well.”

  Pavel had a long stick of charcoal in his right hand and a piece of paper on the table in front of him. He made a note. “Anyone else?”

  “No, I think that’s it.” Jaromir studied the young corporal briefly.

  Pavel was a younger man with cropped dark hair and a long, lanky build. He was good in a fight, able to take on two or three men at the same time, and he was steady and dependable . . . with one exception.

  His behavior toward Céline Fawe.

  For reasons Jaromir didn’t fully understand, Corporal Pavel had become obsessed with Céline to the point of using physical strength to keep her from walking away from him, and he’d once pinned her against a tree to try to force her to speak to him.

  Jaromir had put a stop to that.

  He was not only fond of Céline as a friend; he had great respect for her abilities as a healer and a seer, and it was his job to protect her. Pavel had resented his interference last summer, but he seemed to have gotten over it and had stayed away from Céline.

  Hopefully, the problem was gone.

  Jaromir stood. His sheathed long sword was leaning against the table. He picked it up and strapped it on. Then he reached out for a set of crutches, also leaning against the table, and passed them over to Pavel.

  That was another unfortunate occurrence over the summer. Pavel’s horse had fallen while crossing a river. When the horse jumped back up, Pavel’s foot had been in the stirrup, and his shin had snapped. Thankfully, Céline had been able to set the bone and splint the leg quickly. It was nearly healed now. The splints were off, but he still needed crutches.

  Céline had assured Jaromir that within another moon or so, Pavel would be running again.

  Jaromir was grateful for this even though Pavel had been managing his duties in the castle and village quite well on crutches.

  “I’m going to head for the main hall and see if supper is laid out yet,” Pavel said. “I’m starving.”

  Jaromir hid a smile. “I’ll come with you.”

  Pavel was always starving. Where did he put all the food he ate?

  Just as Pavel had both crutches positioned under his arms, the sound of trotting footsteps echoed from the passage outside, followed by a quick knock on the door.

  “Sir?” someone called.

  “Come,” Jaromir called back.

  The door opened, and Guardsman Rimoux peered in, panting and appearing somewhat unsettled.

  “What’s wrong?” Jaromir asked.

  After a short hesitation, Rimoux answered, “Sir, there’s a messenger down at the outer gate.”

  Puzzled, possibly annoyed, Jaromir frowned. “Well, let him in and bring him up.”

  Rimoux shifted his weight between his feet. “I . . . he’s wearing a black tabard.”

  Jaromir stiffened

  In this part of Droevinka, solid black tabards were worn only by soldiers who served Prince Damek, who was Prince Anton’s older brother . . . and his enemy.

  * * *

  Not long past dusk, Céline and Amelie found themselves hurrying through the streets of the village, making their way up to the castle.

  They had been summoned—via a delivered message at the shop.

  “Anton’s never called us this late before,” Amelie said, sounding worried. “Maybe someone is ill, and he needs your skills?”

  “Then why didn’t he say so in his message? If that was the case, he’d have asked me to bring my box of medicines.”

  Amelie didn’t answer her.

  Céline had a bad feeling their peaceful reprieve had come to an end and that Anton was about to make another . . . request.

  The two sisters pressed onward and upward through the people and the shops and the dwellings of the village as the castle loomed large above them. Finally, they reached a short bridge leading across a gap to a huge doorway at the front of the castle. Céline glanced at the pulley system on the other side that would allow the bridge to be raised, thus cutting off access to the castle—if ever necessary.

  They crossed the bridge and ente
red the great walled courtyard. Inside, soldiers and horses came into view, and a few men nodded a greeting at the sisters, who were well-known here, as they walked past.

  After crossing the courtyard, Céline and Amelie passed through a large entryway inside the castle itself. They walked down a stone passage and emerged into the great common hall. An enormous, burning hearth had been built in the wall directly across from the arched entrance. Servants and more soldiers in tan tabards were milling around. The hall seemed alive with dogs as well, spaniels, bloodhounds, and wolfhounds.

  Céline looked around for either Jaromir or Prince Anton, but saw neither.

  As she scanned the hall, her gaze stopped and her stomach tightened when she spotted Corporal Pavel standing near a table, leaning on his crutches, staring at her.

  Immediately, she looked away.

  I am safe here, she told herself.

  To the right of her was a closed door—which led to a small side chamber. Céline was familiar with the interior of that chamber, as Anton often used it for private discussions, so she wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Lieutenant Jaromir stepped out.

  He paused in his tracks at the sight of Céline and Amelie and then motioned with his hand. They went to him.

  “Good, you’re here,” he said, stating the obvious. His expression was tense, and Céline’s trepidation began to grow.

  As the delivered message had sounded urgent, simply saying, “Come at once,” neither sister had bothered to change or even check her personal appearance before leaving the shop and hurrying up to the castle. Amelie’s hair was uncombed, her pants were dusty, and her face was smudged with goose grease, as she’d been helping to fill small jars with the burn ointment. Normally, had she appeared for a castle audience in such a state, Jaromir would have teased her without mercy.

  Céline knew the relationship between Jaromir and Amelie was . . . complicated, and he often compensated by making jokes at her expense until she grew angry and shot back a retort. This seemed to relieve a little tension for them both.

  But now he didn’t even notice the smears of goose grease.

  “Come in,” he said, stepping back inside the room. Perhaps he had only come out to see if they’d arrived.