Mist-Torn Witches 03:Witches With the Enemy Page 3

  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. “Forgive 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 apot
hecary 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 orders . . . 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.”

  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.”