Read Online To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) by Barb Hendee - Free Book Online
Authors: Barb Hendee
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“Marcus!” he called. “Stop.”
He pulled the larger wagon around in front. He wanted to handle any “greeting” they received here himself.
A guard walked toward them in long strides, but his sword remained in its sheath, and his expression was not threatening.
“Sorry,” he said, standing below, near the bench of the wagon. “There’s no work for you this season.” He motioned toward the orchards. “As you see.”
“We haven’t come to work the harvest,” Jaromir answered. “We have kin here, and we heard they aren’t allowed to leave.”
“That’s the case. Prince Malcolm’s orders. He thinks one of your people has done this to the crops. I can let you in, but I’d advise against it. Once you’re in, you can’t leave.”
“That makes no sense,” Amelie said. “If we’re just arriving now, we couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with what’s happened here.”
“Prince’s orders,” the man repeated, looking her up and down. “I suggest you turn around now and find somewhere else to spend the summer. That’s what most of your kind have decided to do.”
So other Móndyalítko groups had been arriving and were then turned away on the threat of imprisonment.
“We’ll stay,” Jaromir said. “We have people expecting us.”
The guard shrugged and stepped aside.
Jaromir clucked to the horses, and they started forward. He could hear Marcus coming behind him.
Dried grass crunched beneath the wheels, and people began emerging from around the sides of wagons to watch the newcomers arriving. Small burned patches encircled by stones showed where campfires had been built. Chickens pecked at the dried earth. Empty cook pots hung on iron hooks with wide stands. Most of the horses were tethered on the west side of the meadow, and some were beginning to look thin.
Jaromir studied the people themselves as his wagon continued through the center of the other wagons. Most had dark hair. Some were pale, and some were dusky. They wore brightly colored clothing, and many wore silver rings in their ears. Their expressions were serious. Most of the faces he saw were pinched, but no one appeared to be starving.
Just over halfway through the meadow, he saw a clear spot, large enough to park both of their wagons in, and he pulled over with the back door of the white wagon facing the inside of the meadow itself.
Marcus pulled in beside him, leaving about a wagon’s width of empty space between them, and set the brake.
It was time to climb down.
Amelie’s eyes were wide, almost anxious as she looked up at him. This surprised him, as she was rarely afraid of anything.
“These are my mother’s people,” she said quietly, “and I don’t know anything about them.”
“It’ll be all right,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t make such a promise.
* * *
From the back of the white wagon, Céline had watched what she could of their arrival.
Helga pressed up beside her and began reciting the names of families as they passed.
Some of the wagons were fine with new wheels and fresh paint; some were rickety and decayed.
As they rolled past a set of especially lavish-looking wagons with shingled rooftops, Helga said, “The line of Renéive.” At the sight of three shabby wagons, shesaid, “The line of Klempá.” Then she just began providing some of the family names. “Taragoš . . . Kaleja . . . Džugi . . . Ayres . . . Fawe.”
“Fawe?” Céline echoed, noting two fine wagons painted deep red with white shutters. She tried not to tremble with anxiety at the prospect of meeting her mother’s family. Then she glanced down at Helga. “Ayres? Your own family?”
Helga nodded tightly. Céline longed to ask her what had happened, what had driven her to Castle Sèone, but the older woman still forbade any questions.
The wagon stopped and a moment later, the door opened and Marcus stood outside, setting up the steps.
“It’s time,” Helga said.
Taking a
“Marcus!” he called. “Stop.”
He pulled the larger wagon around in front. He wanted to handle any “greeting” they received here himself.
A guard walked toward them in long strides, but his sword remained in its sheath, and his expression was not threatening.
“Sorry,” he said, standing below, near the bench of the wagon. “There’s no work for you this season.” He motioned toward the orchards. “As you see.”
“We haven’t come to work the harvest,” Jaromir answered. “We have kin here, and we heard they aren’t allowed to leave.”
“That’s the case. Prince Malcolm’s orders. He thinks one of your people has done this to the crops. I can let you in, but I’d advise against it. Once you’re in, you can’t leave.”
“That makes no sense,” Amelie said. “If we’re just arriving now, we couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with what’s happened here.”
“Prince’s orders,” the man repeated, looking her up and down. “I suggest you turn around now and find somewhere else to spend the summer. That’s what most of your kind have decided to do.”
So other Móndyalítko groups had been arriving and were then turned away on the threat of imprisonment.
“We’ll stay,” Jaromir said. “We have people expecting us.”
The guard shrugged and stepped aside.
Jaromir clucked to the horses, and they started forward. He could hear Marcus coming behind him.
Dried grass crunched beneath the wheels, and people began emerging from around the sides of wagons to watch the newcomers arriving. Small burned patches encircled by stones showed where campfires had been built. Chickens pecked at the dried earth. Empty cook pots hung on iron hooks with wide stands. Most of the horses were tethered on the west side of the meadow, and some were beginning to look thin.
Jaromir studied the people themselves as his wagon continued through the center of the other wagons. Most had dark hair. Some were pale, and some were dusky. They wore brightly colored clothing, and many wore silver rings in their ears. Their expressions were serious. Most of the faces he saw were pinched, but no one appeared to be starving.
Just over halfway through the meadow, he saw a clear spot, large enough to park both of their wagons in, and he pulled over with the back door of the white wagon facing the inside of the meadow itself.
Marcus pulled in beside him, leaving about a wagon’s width of empty space between them, and set the brake.
It was time to climb down.
Amelie’s eyes were wide, almost anxious as she looked up at him. This surprised him, as she was rarely afraid of anything.
“These are my mother’s people,” she said quietly, “and I don’t know anything about them.”
“It’ll be all right,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t make such a promise.
* * *
From the back of the white wagon, Céline had watched what she could of their arrival.
Helga pressed up beside her and began reciting the names of families as they passed.
Some of the wagons were fine with new wheels and fresh paint; some were rickety and decayed.
As they rolled past a set of especially lavish-looking wagons with shingled rooftops, Helga said, “The line of Renéive.” At the sight of three shabby wagons, shesaid, “The line of Klempá.” Then she just began providing some of the family names. “Taragoš . . . Kaleja . . . Džugi . . . Ayres . . . Fawe.”
“Fawe?” Céline echoed, noting two fine wagons painted deep red with white shutters. She tried not to tremble with anxiety at the prospect of meeting her mother’s family. Then she glanced down at Helga. “Ayres? Your own family?”
Helga nodded tightly. Céline longed to ask her what had happened, what had driven her to Castle Sèone, but the older woman still forbade any questions.
The wagon stopped and a moment later, the door opened and Marcus stood outside, setting up the steps.
“It’s time,” Helga said.
Taking a
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