Witches With the Enemy Page 6

  Céline moved away from the hearth, slipping easily through the tables and chairs as she spoke. Everyone watched her.

  “There was a handsome and prosperous young farmer who lived not far from them. They didn’t know him well, but one day, he came to visit, and after that, he came more often. In this province, it would be considered poor manners for him to pay attention to a younger sister if the elder were not yet married. So the young man did his due by speaking mainly to the father and to the elder sister.”

  Céline’s voice dropped lower.

  “But . . . at every chance, his eyes strayed to the younger sister.”

  She stopped on the other side of the room and slowly began walking back toward the hearth. “The father organized horseback rides and dances for entertainment, and soon, the young man could be seen riding at the younger sister’s side and dancing with her in the village common hall, laughing and enjoying her company. The elder sister watched all this without a word, waiting and biding her time.”

  Anton still remained frozen where he stood, staring at Céline.

  “Then one afternoon, the sisters went walking by the great river that flowed through their father’s land, and the elder sister called the younger closer to the edge. When the younger sister willingly came, perhaps thinking to see something in the water, the elder sister pushed her into the deep river. The poor young woman struggled in the cold water, crying, ‘Help! Help me, sister. Grab my hands!’ But the elder sister stepped back and watched. The younger sister’s head went down beneath the surface, came up, and went down again as water flowed into her mouth and nose . . . and then she came up no more. The current carried her dead body downstream.”

  A serving girl by the bar gasped.

  “The elder sister ran home, telling a tale of how the younger had fallen into the river and could not be saved. Their father and the handsome farmer both wept. The young farmer was bereft, and somehow the elder sister managed to overcome her cold nature and offer him comfort. Before long, the two were betrothed, with him in ignorance that he would soon wed a murderess.”

  She paused. The common room was silent but for a soft crackling from the hearth.

  “Then . . . ,” Céline began again, “a band of traveling minstrels were walking along the river, and one of them saw something on the shore. They went to investigate and found the body of the younger sister. Even in death, her beauty moved them. Their singer, who was a woman, knelt by the younger sister’s side and touched her dead face and said, ‘I wish with all my heart that I could tell your kin what happened to you and where you were laid to rest.’ But as they had no idea who the dead girl was or who her family might be, the best they could do was to bury her.”

  Amelie couldn’t help looking in Anton’s direction. He stood rooted to the same spot with his eyes locked on Céline.

  “Several nights later, the father, the young farmer, and the elder daughter went into town to the large common hall to hear the minstrels play. Entertainment of this sort was rare in their part of the land, and the father thought that perhaps some fine music might ease their sorrow. They took their place among a small crowd as the minstrels made ready. The singer stepped out to begin her first song, and to everyone’s astonishment, her face began to alter, growing rounder and lovelier, and her hair turned thick and copper gold . . . until she had taken the form of the younger sister, and she began to sing in sorrow-laden strains. ‘I weep. I weep for my lost father. I weep for my lost love, and I weep for my sister, who pushed me into the river and watched me drown.’”

  Several of the soldiers drew in sharp breaths.

  “Then the singer looked exactly as she had before. But the handsome farmer turned and looked in horror at the elder sister, who had guilt all over her face.” Céline was nearly whispering now, but her voice carried across the room. “She would soon be punished for her crime of jealousy . . . exposed by a singing ghost.”

  Céline dropped her head. The story was done.

  The room remained silent for a long moment, and then applause burst out, filling the large space.

  Amelie took a final glance toward the front window.

  Anton was gone.

  * * *

  The following morning, they got a late start. Though somewhat frustrated, Anton realized he should have expected this. It was the first time Corporal Rurik had ever been charged with packing up twenty-five people, their horses, their wagon, and then getting everyone back on the road.

  Finally, though, the large party pulled out of Rékausi and crossed over into Damek’s territory. The road they traveled was once again lined with thick, dark trees while a drizzle of rain fell from the sky. Anton rode behind Céline and Amelie, keeping himself as isolated as possible.

  For the most part, his mind had been so occupied he’d barely noticed the delay.

  Every step closer to Kimovesk filled him with further dread.

  Worse, he could not stop picturing the sight of Céline from the night before . . . and the sound of her voice as she’d told that story. He wanted to push the image from his thoughts, and he couldn’t.

  In all his life, he had only fallen in love with one woman. After the lonely, pain-filled years of his childhood and youth, at the age of eighteen, he’d met Jocelyn Chevrier. She was sweet, sheltered, and shy, with a gift for small kindnesses. With her, for the first time, he didn’t feel alone.

  Though from a noble family, she was not royal and she was not rich. Prince Lieven had forbidden a marriage. This was the only time Anton defied his father, and he didn’t care about the repercussions. As Anton was already ruling over Sèone, his father couldn’t afford to disinherit him. Anton dealt with the initial anger without flinching—though it troubled him more than he cared to admit, as he had no wish to hurt his father. But almost immediately following the marriage, Jocelyn became pregnant, and then all was forgiven.

  Prince Lieven wanted a grandson.

  Jocelyn died in childbirth, along with the baby, and Anton had wished to die with them. It took him a long time to recover, and he’d never even looked at another woman . . . until now.

  In most ways, Céline was nothing like Jocelyn. She was certainly not sheltered or shy. She had suffered more than her share of hardships and exhibited a poorly hidden caution of most men. She was a consummate liar and showed no compunction against using this talent when necessary.

  But . . . she was also warm and sympathetic and generous with small kindnesses. She was beautiful and intelligent and took pride in supporting herself and Amelie with her noted skills as an apothecary.

  He had not thought to ever feel so drawn to a woman again, and yet he couldn’t act upon his feelings or even tell her.

  Marriage was out of the question. She would be viewed by everyone who mattered as a gypsy peasant, and given the current political situation, even Anton wouldn’t go that far outside social convention. Nor would Céline wish him to. She cared about her country, and she wanted to see him named as grand prince. That left him with the prospect of making her his mistress, and he’d never allow such a thing for someone so fine as Céline. On several occasions, he had wanted her to touch him so badly that he almost forgot himself, but one or both of them had pulled back at the last moment.

  Thankfully.

  No, it was his fate to remain isolated, and he understood that. Unlike Damek, he would not marry for money or connections, and love was rare for him. Yet self-awareness was a strength—or at least his father had always said so.

  His tall stallion walked easily along the muddy road, and again, he fought to push the image of Céline last night standing in front of the hearth, telling that story, from his mind.

  He was so focused on his thoughts that his horse almost collided with the back of hers before he realized the entire contingent had stopped.

  “What is it?” he called.

  Before anyone answered, he looked a
head, up past Corporal Rurik, to see a large but shabby wagon blocking the road. A wheel had come off on the rear left side, and that corner had fallen into the thin top layer of mud on the ground. A half-starved mule was harnessed out front. Perhaps twelve peasants—men, women, and children, all bone-thin—were gathered around the back of the wagon, as if assessing the damage.

  Several of them turned to see the contingent about the same time Anton saw them, and terror flooded their faces.

  “Run!” one of them shouted.

  Instantly, the small crowd began to flee for the trees.

  To Anton’s surprise, Céline urged her horse around the side of the guards in front of her.

  “Please stop!” she called. “We won’t hurt you. Please!”

  Before he could move, she was cantering her gray mare down the edge of the road, still calling to the peasants. Some of them began to slow down and look back at her.

  With a jolt of realization that she might be in danger, he kicked Whisper in the sides, urging him forward. He heard Amelie coming after him.

  By the time he reached the front of the contingent, Céline’s horse was beside Rurik’s, and she was leaning down from the saddle, speaking to one of the peasant women.

  “I promise no one will hurt you. These are Prince Anton’s men,” she said.

  The woman was filthy, in tattered clothing, and her eyes were frightened as they turned up to him. He had no idea what to do and was indeed rather embarrassed by Céline’s display. He would simply have had his men ride around the broken wagon and leave these people to return from hiding once all the soldiers had passed.

  “What has happened?” Céline asked the woman . . . and then she climbed off her horse!

  “Céline!” he called, more harshly than intended.

  She looked back at him. “My lord, these people require our assistance. The wheel to their wagon has come off.”

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he jumped down and walked to her swiftly. In some alarm, Rurik jumped off his mount as well. Without thinking, Anton grasped Céline’s wrist and pulled her a few steps away.

  Suddenly, Amelie was on the ground beside them, looking at his hand. He let go.

  “These are Damek’s people,” he explained quietly, “and there is nothing we can do for them. The kindest thing we can do is to be on our way.”

  Céline’s eyes clouded in confusion. “No, they need help, and . . . what do you mean by ‘Damek’s people’? If you are elected grand prince, all the people will be your people.”

  He stared at her. Her hood had fallen, and the drizzling rain was darkening her hair.

  “Can you not show them what sort of grand prince you would be?” she asked.

  Anton glanced at the fallen wheel and lopsided wagon. Then he turned to Sergeant Bazin, who was still up on their own wagon’s bench. “Can that be repaired?”

  “Yes, my lord, with a few strong men to lift it.”

  Although stopping to help Damek’s suffering peasants had not occurred to Anton, the prospect no longer seemed so strange. “See to it,” he told Rurik.

  Céline turned back to the frightened woman. “Gather your women and children at the back of our wagon. We have apples and biscuits to spare, and I can hear some of the children coughing. I have a syrup that will help.”

  And with that, Anton stood on a muddy road of his brother’s province, in the rain, and watched the activity around him. Tattered peasants began melting from the trees, coming back to join them. Rurik and Bazin called some of their men down to help with the fallen wheel. Amelie and Helga were at the back of the wagon, giving away the remainder of their supplies, while Céline attempted to dig out something among the luggage. She looked over to him.

  “My lord, I need my box of medicines, and I cannot pull it from beneath this luggage. Can you help?”

  To his astonishment, he wanted to help. He could have ordered a guard, but he didn’t.

  He climbed up into the back of the wagon, pulled out a large wooden box, and handed it down to her. He watched as she opened it and began to administer cough syrup to the children, giving a large bottle to one of the women to take home.

  As she was dabbing some sort of astringent on the arm of a boy with a festered insect bite, she lifted her head and looked back toward the guards repairing the wagon. “My lord, do you see that old man limping? I think he suffers from sore knee joints. Can you bring him over? I have a liniment.”

  This was indeed one of the most unusual experiences in Anton’s memory, but he went over and helped the old man to Céline. A moment later, she had the old man pull up his pant legs and she began to rub a dark liniment into his knees.

  “I’ll send some of this with you,” she said to him, “but you must be careful to wash every drop from your hands after using it. It’s very good for sore joints, but dangerous if swallowed.”

  Anton continued to watch her work.

  Before long, the wagon was repaired, the sick had been tended, and food had been passed out.

  “Give them some grain for that mule,” Anton ordered Sergeant Bazin.

  “How much, my lord?”

  “At least half a bag. We’re almost to Kimovesk, and we can resupply.”

  Putting her hands to her back, Céline straightened. “Is their wagon ready,” she asked.

  “I think so,” Anton answered, and then he was at a loss again. He was glad they had stopped. He was glad they’d done what they could to help some of Damek’s people. But he couldn’t say that.

  Céline smiled at him and raised her hood to cover her head. “Then shall we get back on the road?”

  This all seemed so cut-and-dried to her, as if their actions here had been commonplace. They weren’t commonplace to him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Everyone mounted up, and once again, Anton took his position behind the sisters, riding alone. In his mind, the image of Céline telling her story last night was now replaced by one of her urging her horse around his soldiers to stop a band of fleeing peasants.

  Several hours passed, and he was still lost in thought when Rurik called out, “Kimovesk Village ahead.”

  They would need to ride through the village and travel a league beyond it before reaching the castle. Anton had been through here only a few times, but as his remembrance of the place was suddenly jogged, he rode up beside Céline.

  “Prepare yourself,” he said. “The people here might be . . . worse than what we saw earlier.”

  She turned her head toward him. “I know exactly what we’ll find. You forget I grew up in Shetâna.”

  Yes, she had grown up in Shetâna, and sometimes he did forget it.

  Chapter Four

  In spite of Céline’s calm response to Anton, as he let his horse drop back behind hers again, she dreaded the prospect of riding directly through one of Damek’s villages. For much of the day’s journey, they had passed roads that led to villages, but they had not been exposed to many tragic sights regarding the overtaxed and oppressed people who lived in this part of the country. Unlike the soldiers in Anton’s province—who were hired and trained to protect the people—Damek’s soldiers had free rein to abuse almost anyone they wished.

  Céline feared being forced to remember too much that she’d managed to successfully push to the back of her mind. Although she and Amelie had lived in Sèone less than a year, their previous life sometimes seemed distant.

  She was now Prince Anton’s seer and his people’s apothecary.

  She liked this new life, this new self, and although she felt no shame regarding her former self, neither did she care to be reminded of the years when she had barely scraped by while living in fear of Damek’s soldiers.

  “You all right?” Amelie asked, riding beside her.

  The edge of the village was only a few horses’ length away.

  “Yes,
I’m just . . . too many memories.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  Céline wanted to reach over and grasp Amelie’s hand. She wanted to glance back at Anton, but she did neither of these things. Instead, she gripped her reins and followed the guards ahead of her into Kimovesk Village.

  It was as shabby, dirty, and depressing as she’d anticipated, consisting mainly of wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs. As soon as Rurik passed the first dwelling, people began running out of sight. Céline saw no one’s face clearly. She only saw thin villagers in tattered clothing fleeing for doorways.

  The contingent rode on, and the passing proved to be not as difficult as she’d expected. Within moments, the main street was empty, and she saw nothing but decaying dwellings and a few shops—with closed doors. Before she knew it, they were out the other side. She wished she could feel some relief, but their next stop was the castle.

  They pressed onward until she realized the road had begun to both narrow and incline upward. Soon, they were forced to ride single file, and Céline found herself following Amelie.

  The road continued to narrow until the branches of trees were close enough to touch, and Sergeant Bazin began having difficulty getting the wagon through without getting himself or Helga hit by a branch. Helga was not polite about this.

  Trees overhead blocked out nearly all light from the sky, and the world around them grew dim.

  “We’re almost to the gate,” Anton said from behind. “You and Amelie keep your hoods well over your heads and around your faces. You cannot be seen just yet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” But she did not understand the urgency for this, as they were both going to be seen soon enough. “Did you hear him, Amelie?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “I heard him.”

  Céline expected a break in the trees, but this didn’t happen. Instead, she looked ahead, through the branches, over the top of Rurik and the front guards, and she saw a dark tower stretching into the sky.