Mist-Torn Witches 03:Witches With the Enemy Page 8

  A beautiful young woman stepped into the room with her hands pressed together. Her hair was black and silky straight. The top of it was held back by a thin silver band. Her dress was simply cut, but of good quality, brushed wool in a shade of light peach. Her dark eyes were slanted, giving her a hint of the exotic. Her nose was small, and her mouth was heart-shaped.

  “Forgive me,” she said, looking at the floor. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Master Lionel sent me up to see if you might need anything to help you prepare for dinner.”

  “Master Lionel?” Amelie asked. She’d assumed the odd little man was Damek’s personal attendant.

  “Yes, my lady. He manages the household, and he wishes to make certain you have all that you require. He sent me.”

  The young woman spoke quietly, with a frightened, almost defeated tone.

  Céline walked over to her. “Please assure him that we have everything necessary. And I thank you . . . ?”

  “Johanna, my lady.”

  “You needn’t call us that,” Céline said. “I am Miss Céline, and this is Miss Amelie, and this is our faithful maid, Helga.” She said this last part with humor in her voice, and Helga grunted.

  “Very good, miss,” Johanna whispered. “When the gong sounds, you must go down to dinner. Master Lionel is very particular about the gong. Make sure you come down directly.”

  With that, the young woman fled the room, closing the door behind her.

  Céline turned around with a puzzled expression. “What do you think of . . . ? Was she a servant? And what did you make of the whole ‘Master Lionel’ deference? He may be higher placed than we thought.”

  Helga grunted again. “I wouldn’t try and make sense of anything just yet.”

  Amelie shrugged at Céline. Helga was probably right, and they’d have a better idea of the hierarchy here after dinner tonight.

  “All right, then,” Helga said, pushing Amelie forward. “You sit yourself down at that table and let me pin up your hair.”

  Céline gave Amelie a stern look of warning, and with a loud exhale, Amelie gave up. She plopped down at the dressing table and sat there stewing as Helga brushed out her shoulder-length hair and then deftly pinned it up, again, with a few loose strands at her temples. When it was all done, Amelie looked into the mirror in surprise, barely recognizing herself. The burgundy gown did suit her pale skin . . . and Helga had arranged her hair so effectively that no one would even be able to tell it only reached her shoulders.

  “Lovely,” Céline said approvingly. “We should be able to play our parts well.”

  From somewhere below, a gong sounded.

  Before going to his own room, Anton had explained that as the Kimovesk guards would now be under orders to treat Amelie and Céline as honored guests, they were safe to walk the common areas of the castle on their own—such as between their room and the great hall. He did stress that he preferred they walk together.

  Further, he’d told them that most of the Sèone guards in their party had been assigned for protection along the roads, but it was considered bad manners for any visiting guest, even a prince, to have too many guards inside a castle. So apparently, there would only be a few Sèone men in the hall and the rest would remain in the barracks. Anton, of course, was free to do as he liked, but for much of the time here, Rurik would be with him playing bodyguard, as would be expected by everyone else.

  Before coming here, Anton had promised he would protect the sisters, and Amelie couldn’t help noting that while Jaromir’s idea of protection was constant vigilance and a sword, Anton’s idea was to look ahead for any possible threat and cut it off before it happened.

  So . . . it was now time to head down for dinner.

  Amelie could see Céline in the mirror, and Céline met her eyes.

  “You ready for this?” Amelie asked.

  After a few breaths, Céline nodded.

  Chapter Five

  Locating the great hall took little effort. At the bottom of the stairs of the east tower, the sisters entered a passage that ran down the backside of the middle portion of the castle, and it emptied directly into the hall itself.

  Still, as Céline walked into the hall through an archway, she feared that she and Amelie might be late, and she was surprised to see only Anton, Damek, several servants, and fifteen guards in the hall. The number of guards didn’t surprise her, but one color in the mix of tabards did. In addition to the five black tabards of the Kimovesk men and the five tan tabards of Sèone men, there were five guards wearing the bright red tabards of the house of Väränj . . . and the Väränj were always assigned to protect whichever of the houses had a leader serving as grand prince at the time. They must be here in temporary service to the family of Quillette, and their very presence spoke strongly of the importance of Damek’s future bride.

  Corporal Rurik and Captain Kochè both stood a respectful yet close distance from their lords. Among the Sèone guards who were present, Céline recognized Guardsman Voulter, Guardsman Rimoux, and Sergeant Bazin, who all stood at attention at various positions around the hall.

  However, none of the other dinner guests had arrived yet.

  Céline took in her surroundings.

  The vast chamber was rectangular, with a long table and high-backed chairs positioned at the far end. A blazing fire burned in the hearth.

  There were no dogs.

  Directly across the hall was another archway, on the west side, which led to the first of the double towers on that end of the castle.

  Both Anton and Damek turned as the sisters entered, and as they were standing side by side, Céline couldn’t helping noting how alike they were in appearance, even in their choice of clothing tonight. While Anton wore a sleeveless midnight blue tunic over a white shirt, Damek wore a red sleeveless tunic over a white shirt. Both men wore black pants and boots. Anton wore his long sword, while Damek wore a sheathed dagger at his left hip. Damek’s hair was longer and a little darker, but their faces were almost identical. The effect was somewhat eerie considering how different they were in temperament.

  As the sisters approached, Damek glanced at Amelie—who was beautiful tonight—and then smiled at Céline.

  “Ah, Miss Céline,” he said. “What a vision you are.”

  His attention unnerved her. Why did he focus on her? The emphasis he’d placed on the word “Miss” dripped with sarcasm, as if reminding her that he knew exactly who she was: a peasant from one of his own villages.

  She shot a quick look at Anton, worried that he might take offense. But his expression didn’t change, almost as if he hadn’t heard the slight.

  “Are we early?” Céline asked him. “I thought we heard the gong.”

  “No, you’re precisely on time,” Damek answered. “All of Rochelle’s family enjoy making . . . an entrance, and who am I to object?”

  Anton’s gaze swept over her gown and hair, and then he took in the transformation of Amelie.

  “You both look lovely,” he said politely, but his voice held no emotion at all.

  Céline wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Several large casks of wine had been stacked against the wall across from the hearth, and the striking black-haired woman, Johanna, was drawing a pitcher.

  “A precaution,” Damek explained. “After Carlotta’s death, I ordered several casks that had been locked in the deep cellars to be brought up here and guarded. No one but Johanna has been allowed to touch them.”

  “You trust Johanna above anyone else, my lord?” Amelie asked, speaking directly to Damek for the first time.

  He glanced at her absently. “Johanna can be trusted.”

  As Céline mulled that over, movement from the archway caught her attention. Two middle-aged, finely dressed people walked into the hall: a man and a woman.

  Damek offered them both a bow, and then said, with some ceremony, “The Lady Helena and Lord Hamish.”

  Céline took in as many details as possible in the next breath. Lady Helena’s hai
r must have once been reddish blond, but was now fading, leaving only hints of its past color. It was elaborately arranged on top of her head in a fashion that must have taken a maid at least an hour. She was statuesque, with her waist just beginning to thicken and her generous bosom beginning to sag—even though she was tightly laced into a satin gown of sapphire blue. Her expression caught Céline’s attention the most: haughtiness mixed with a hint of desperation.

  Lord Hamish was well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was thinning, and this made his overly broad features look even broader. He had the appearance of once having been quite fit, but was now going to fat. The only thing Céline could read in his expression was privileged arrogance.

  However, the instant he spotted Céline and Amelie, his eyes raked over them both with a glint of lecherous interest, and Céline fought not to shudder.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Lady Helena paused at the sight of Anton.

  “My lady,” Damek continued. “May I present my brother, Prince Anton, Miss Céline and Miss Amelie of Castle Sèone?”

  Helena ignored the sisters as her eyes locked on to Anton. Céline had no idea how this would play out, as by all reckoning, Lady Helena should be in a state of mourning.

  “My lord,” Helena said, with a curtsey to Anton. “It is an honor. I remember meeting you once when you were but a youth.”

  Anton stepped forward, took her hand, and kissed the back of it.

  “Forgive my intrusion at this time, and I offer my condolences,” he said. “My father sent me to assist you.” He motioned toward Céline and Amelie with one hand. “And he asked me to bring my two seers.”

  Lord Hamish frowned. “Seers?”

  “Yes, they have proven invaluable to my family,” Anton answered. “My father himself recently sought their help to resolve a difficult matter.”

  “Indeed,” Damek put in with some bravado. “And our father would do anything to offer you all the resources of the house of Pählen.”

  As Lord Hamish was about to speak again, voices came from the archway, and Céline looked over to three much younger people who swept into the hall, side by side. From Anton’s earlier descriptions of the family, it was not difficult for Céline to know who was who.

  Rochelle was on the left. The first word that came to mind was “exquisite.” She looked to be about eighteen years old. She was tall for a woman, probably reaching Damek’s nose, with a slight, willowy figure. Her hair was red-gold and hung to the small of her back. Her eyes were so light brown they seemed to glow. Her complexion was creamy and flawless, and she wore a light green gown of crushed velvet, similar in cut to Céline’s, with a V neck that exposed her slender throat and collarbones. Her walk was so graceful she might have been gliding on ice.

  To the right of the trio was a much shorter girl of perhaps fifteen. This would be Lizbeth. Although she shared her elder sister’s coloring, there the resemblance ended. A few spots—commonly suffered by those her age—marked her cheeks. She was of a healthy, slightly stocky build. Her hair had been carelessly woven into a loose braid, and she walked with both arms swinging at her sides. The skirt of her satin gown was already wrinkled. She exuded a youthful energy and struck Céline as one of those people who showed every emotion on her face.

  Finally, in the center was a young man . . . Rochelle’s twin brother, Heath, already a baron, wearing a sleeveless cream tunic over a black wool shirt. He was only an inch or two taller than Rochelle, with her same willowy build, coloring, and delicate features.

  On her the effect was ethereal. On him . . . it was something else. It gave him an aura that was borderline effeminate. While Anton and Damek were both slender of build, the bones in their wrists, arms, and shoulders looked solid, as if neither would put much effort into swinging a sword, hurling a spear, or handling an unruly warhorse.

  The young baron could be described as fragile and almost pretty.

  Directly behind these three young people came a tall, armed man, most likely their bodyguard. However, he wore the pale yellow tabard of the house of Äntes.

  All of them stopped only a few paces into the hall.

  “Who are they?” Lizbeth asked bluntly, looking at Anton, Céline, and Amelie.

  “My dear,” Lady Helena said, her voice rising in reprimand. “Please remember yourself.” She gestured somewhat regally to Anton. “This is Prince Damek’s brother.”

  Damek strode to Rochelle and took her hand. “Anton, I introduce my bride-to-be, Rochelle Quillette.”

  Rochelle dropped her head and blushed prettily, but the pride in Damek’s voice was clear. Perhaps he truly valued her?

  Or . . . was he just throwing his good fortune in Anton’s face?

  Further introductions were made, along with the background that Anton had created for the sisters—as the daughters of a wealthy wool merchant—and Céline found herself caught up in a current of polite nods and responses.

  The young baron was barely able to make eye contact with the new arrivals, and as a result, Céline felt an unwanted rush of pity. He seemed even shyer than his twin sister.

  Lizbeth, however, did not labor under any form of shyness, and as Céline was further assessing Rochelle, she heard Anton use the word “seers” again.

  “Seers?” Lizbeth asked. “Why would your father want you to bring them?”

  Anton’s expression flickered, as if he wasn’t certain how to broach this topic with a fifteen-year-old girl, and so Céline stepped in.

  “As it has been feared that your sister might have been poisoned, the princes’ father hoped my sister and I could uncover whoever was responsible.”

  “She was poisoned,” Lizbeth returned. “That’s not in doubt.”

  Céline found herself thrown somewhat off-kilter by this straightforward girl.

  Before she could respond, Amelie broke in. “Why would anyone want to poison Carlotta?”

  “Why, to put a stop to this marriage, of course,” Lizbeth answered derisively, as if the question were foolish. “She’d been negotiating the match for weeks.”

  Lady Helena’s face tightened with undisguised anger. “That has nothing to do with why some mad person would poison her wine, and you will keep your ignorant assumptions to yourself.” She turned back to Céline. “Forgive my youngest daughter. I fear she has not the years or the sense to be out in polite society. Whoever committed this horrible act most likely has a grudge against those better than him or herself and wished to do my family harm.”

  Lizbeth’s face tinged red, but she kept silent, and Céline’s mind raced. Carlotta had been the one negotiating the betrothal? That was a worthwhile piece of news.

  An awkward moment followed until Damek said, “Miss Céline presented me with another possibility today.”

  Céline’s eyes flew to him, and he gave her a hard, almost threatening look. He wanted her to repeat what she’d told him in the cellar.

  With little choice, she turned to Helena. “My lady, I am not certain your eldest daughter was killed intentionally. In addition to serving as Prince Anton’s seer, I am also his court healer and apothecary.” She hesitated at the next part, wondering how it would be received. “Prince Damek allowed me to examine Carlotta’s body . . . and although it was a difficult task for me to conduct, I saw no signs of death by poison. Almost every form leaves some telltale mark, and your daughter bore none. It is possible she died of a natural cause . . . perhaps a weak heart.”

  Both Lady Helena and Lord Hamish suddenly stared at Céline as if she were their savior. Helena even grabbed her hand. “Oh, my dear, is this true? If so, you are the bearer of good news.” Then, perhaps mindful of how that might have sounded, she quickly added, “Of course we are in pain over the loss of Carlotta, but the thought of her being murdered has been too terrible to bear. If indeed her sad death was natural and unavoidable, it would give me some peace.”

  Helena glanced at Damek with a gleam in her eye, and Hamish looked as if he’d
just been granted a great boon.

  With a jolt, Céline realized that they wanted the marriage to take place just as badly as Damek and Prince Lieven. An ugly murder at the dinner table was hardly conducive to negotiations, but if Carlotta had simply died . . . things could move forward with much greater ease.

  “Perhaps you and I could speak later in private?” Céline asked Helena. “It would be helpful for me to know the history of Carlotta’s health. I may be able to shed more light.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Helena answered readily, “as soon as you like.”

  Johanna approached silently, carrying a tray laden with goblets and a large pitcher.

  People began taking goblets from the tray as Johanna moved between them, pouring dark red wine. All talk of Carlotta’s death ceased, as it would be unseemly for her mother to discuss her health history in such a setting.

  “Let us have wine and conversation before dinner is served,” Damek said, playing the gracious host. “We are still missing the Lady Saorise. I’ve tried to speak to her about listening for the gong, but I fear it is a losing battle.”

  At the mention of that name, Amelie’s eyes went wide, and she froze in place. Thankfully, no one but Céline noticed.

  What was wrong?

  Further movement in the archway caused Céline to half turn, and as if she had been called by Damek’s comment, a woman walked into the hall. She was middle-aged and slight of build with long silver-blond hair. Her face showed signs of fading beauty. She wore rings on all her fingers, and as opposed to a gown she wore a long robe of purple silk, like that of a scholar or a priestess.

  “Ah, there you are,” Damek said. He turned back to Anton, “I don’t believe you have met my counselor, the Lady Saorise.”

  Amelie was taking in quick breaths, and Céline moved to her side. “Whatever is wrong, do not show it now,” she whispered. “Tell me later.”

  As Amelie recovered her composure, Lady Saorise entered the group. Céline smiled and nodded again, but she was beginning to grow slightly overwhelmed at having to take stock of so many people at once.