“No, I won’t do it,” Falon said flatly. Her sisters just didn’t realize what it was like when she went to live with Mama Muirgheal. All they saw was what a splendid time they had each and every full moon Trio with her mother. The Trio was the day before, the day during and the day after the full moon.
Falon had to admit that the full moon time wasn’t so bad, when magic was in the air and it was easy to feel the energy of the earth, even for a girl who refused to cast any spells.
It was the going into the forest during the dead of winter—shivering and freezing and, worst of all, starving in a drafty little hut while the snow piled up all around her—that made her mother so unbearable.
Unlike the full moon outings her sisters were familiar with, when all the girls would go out of the House for dancing in the moonlight, or when their former mother made pretty magical lights and colors, actually living with Mama Muirgheal on a day to day basis was completely different.
Falon hated freezing in the winter and eating a diet consisting mainly of boiled rats, squirrels and groundhogs. Having a mother on top of all that who also expected you learn to the Old Language, and recite strings of oral history in that same language was terribly frustrating, but at least those memory chants were halfway interesting. It was being forced to memorize endless lists of herbs and herb lore that pushed things over the edge from simply unbearable to something that should avoided at any cost.
She shuddered at the unbidden memory of one time when they had not eaten for three days straight. Mama Muirgheal said it was because they needed to go on a vision quest, but Falon suspected it was because there was not a crumb of food in the house, or rodent in the traps outside.
The one time she had complained to Papa about her living conditions, he had taken his belt to her so bad that she hadn’t been able to sit still for days. After that, she learned not to return home telling tales of her winter hardships.
Christie snapped a pair of fingers in front of her face, breaking Falon out of her reverie.
Shaking her big sisterly head, Christie took Falon’s hand just below the wrist to avoid the still bleeding wound left by the ashwood splinters and quietly escorted her into the house.
“Sit,” she said sternly. Feeling grateful, Falon willingly sank down into the hard wooden chair.
Pulling a bubbling pot of hot water off the fire and mixing it with some water that had already cooled, her older sister quickly and efficiently started cleaning and dressing her wounds. First she started on Falon’s face, and then worked her way down toward her hand.
“It’s either a Healing Wench or a witch, Fal,” Christie said as she focused on wiping a bit of grit off Falon’s face.
“Papa knows all kinds of tricks for dealing with broken ribs,” Falon replied stubbornly, glad to be broken out of her memories of winter hunger and privation, “I can remember half a dozen different remedies off the top of my head, just from the stories he always tells,” she jutted her jaw stubbornly, “I’m sure I’ll heal up just fine in a few weeks.”
“We don’t have weeks, Fal,” Christie said patiently as if explaining something to a sick person. However Falon wasn’t sick…actually, she had just been injured but it was nothing too serious—
She broke off her mental confusion to stare incredulously at her sister.
Christie looked at her quizzically and then her older sister’s eyes widened as she took in Falon’s current expression. Breaking Falon’s gaze, Christie looked down at the table for a long moment before returning to the business of cleaning scratches wounds, although this time her hands had a brisk touch.
“You’ll probably scar here,” Christie tapped Falon’s left cheek, “even if we get a healer of some sort, it’ll still have to be stitched.”
“What?” Falon demanded, refusing to be diverted from the answer she was seeking by this sort of passive-aggressive behavior.
“It’s up to you, Sis,” Christie said refusing to meet her eyes.
“What’s up to me?” Falon asked still confused but growing angrier by the second.
“I thought you realized,” Christie said to herself in a low voice, one that Falon never the less still picked up on.
“Enough with the riddles already, Krisy,” she said, anger turning to exasperation.
“Fal,” Christie said shortly, “if you want to take a few weeks to heal up, that’s your choice. I—we can’t ask any more from you than you’ve already done.”
Falon’s brow wrinkled but despite the continued confusion, she was unable to stop a smile of vindication from crossing her face.
Her older sister sagged, “But someone has to go out with the levy, and that means Father or one of his heirs…and Rogan’s too young,” she explained half angrily.
Falon’s smile froze on her face.
“What do you mean,” yelped Falon, “of course Papa can’t go; he’d be killed!”
“He wouldn’t even make it to the battlefield,” Christie agreed, verbalizing their greatest fear, “but someone has to go or we’ll lose the estate.”
“We’ll lose the Estate anyway when Papa dies, because Daman and Garve ran away and Rogan’s too young to inherit,” Falon shouted, unable to contain herself anymore at the injustice of it all, she clenched her fist and squared her shoulders, “we’ll just have to explain the situation to Lord Lamont and ask him to make an exception.”
Falon froze when Christie shook her head.
“Didn’t you hear the Reeve? This isn’t something Lord Lamont has any control over; the order came straight from the King,” Christie said so sharply that Falon leaned back in the chair to get away from her sister.
“This is Prince William’s doing, not his Majesty,” Falon corrected almost despite herself.
“The King,” Christie shrugged, “his son,” she shrugged again, this time scornfully, “it’s the same difference from where we’re sitting. A Crown Decree is still a Crown Decree.”
“But then…” Falon’s mind scrambled frantically, “that just means we’ll have to petition the King himself.”
Christie laughed, and it wasn’t a nice happy laugh—it was mean and spiteful. Falon gulped, as every idea she threw out there was crushed. She knew that thanks to her big sister’s ties to the Cink’s through her own mama that Christie knew more than Falon ever would about politics.
“Or we could try the Prince,” she tried again, mustering a weak smile.
“We can let Papa know in the morning,” Christie replied heavily, tears in her eyes.
“There must be something we can do,” Falon muttered pleadingly, feeling upset all the way down to the pit of her stomach.
“There really isn’t,” Christie had the grace to look down at the table shame-faced. She was clearly hiding something, and Falon was afraid she knew what it was but she just couldn’t admit it to herself yet.
“Unless what, Krisy?” Falon all but exploded because somewhere in the back of her mind, in a place where she was afraid to look, she already knew, “I can see you’re hiding something.”
“Daman and Garve are gone, and Papa’s first family already have their own obligations to another Lord,” Christie whispered, “I’d offer to go if I could, I really would Falon, but…” she bit her lip and gestured down to her body.
As if for the first time Falon looked at her sister, really looked, like Christie was a just another person and not one of her sisters. It had always seemed so matter of fact that Christie was too well known, and her woman shape much harder to disguise than Falon’s. Now the easy decisions of yesterday came back to take on horrible new meanings.
Despite the fact Christie was much more buxom and with wider hips—exactly like that of her Cink Mother—for a long, terrible moment the flustered younger sister wondered if Krisy had expected something like this to happen from the very start.
Unable to help herself, Falon stared at her older sister with hateful suspicion.
“Did you plan this?” she hissed, knowing what would happen if s
omeone didn’t step forward and take Papa’s place, but just like she knew what would happen if no one did, she knew what would happen to that person if they actually did.
For a moment Christie looked taken aback at the accusation, and then her face hardened. Taking Falon’s hand in her own and squeezing it hard enough to hurt, she looked her younger sister straight in the eye.
“I would never do that, Fal,” she said in a hard tone, and under the force of that gaze Falon’s evil emotions twisted and melted away.
For a moment Falon railed at the unfairness of everything. All her life, the most she had ever wanted was to just live out her life—and if she being honest—maybe meet a dashing stranger or two along the way and be swept off her feet in a tale of danger and romance. She paused, her brush with the boar taking on new significance for her. Well, perhaps more like a hint of danger, she decided firmly, plus a lot of romance.
Was the chance to wear a few pretty gowns—the type her older sister kept hidden away in the hope chest to protect from the moths—and maybe even some jewelry too much to ask? Bowing her head, she finally admitted to herself that maybe it was.
Then she gave a mental sigh heard only in the quiet of her own thoughts. Feeling sad and crushed, she reluctantly put those dreams away…maybe forever.
The world that had been slowly falling apart for two years (since Daman and Garve dreamt of the Sea and slipped away in the dark of night) finally came crashing down around her ears. It isn’t fair, she thought fiercely. Her brothers had thought only of themselves when they left, turning her father from a strong iconic figure into a heart broken wreck of a man.
She felt sick. Deep inside where no one could see, she felt a heart-rending pang, as if somehow this was all her fault. If only she had tried harder, done more, or been a better person none of this would be happening.
On the outside she rallied a brave smile, while on the inside she desperately wondered if this was all somehow her own fault.
“I believe you,” Falon sniffled.
“It’s a hard time, Fal but we’ll get through it,” her big sister said bravely, “we always do.”
Falon nodded and gave her sister’s hand a squeeze, before letting go and pulling her hand back.
“It’s okay Krisy,” she whispered, “I’ll do it.”
Chapter 7: A Weighty Decision
Christie stared and then her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry I put this on you Falon,” she said with a catch in her voice, “it was wrong. I’m the big sister here, the one who is supposed to find a better way. Please just forget I even mentioned it, I was scared and,” a tear dropped down her face, “it was selfish of me.”
“Please, call Muirgheal,” Falon said feeling a sense of serenity come over her, much as she thought their own mothers must have felt when they left the family. In asking this, she knew that she was giving up on her old hopes and dreams just as surely as if she had become a Witch herself, or joined a Convent like Christie’s mother. No one would want to marry a scar-faced woman who had been to war.
“Fal, please forget it,” Christie pleaded, “this is Father’s duty, or maybe Daman or Garve if they were still here, it’s not yours.”
Falon could feel her sense of serenity crack but she valiantly kept her face clear of any fear. Today she had killed a boar, and today she was pledging to go to war for her family. She may have awoken this day a girl, but as of tonight she would go to sleep a woman grown.
“It can’t be any worse than facing down a rampaging boar,” she said, trying to project confidence and unconcern.
“War is nothing to joke about, Falon,” Christie scolded severely, “and boar hunting is something men do to prepare for battle and keep our lands clear. It’s not the same thing at all.”
Falon felt her face crumple in the face of Christie’s genuine fear and worry for her younger sister.
“Don’t you think I know that?” she said thickly, tears on her face. She was a girl, not a full grown man. She had no real training in weapons and while she had wrestled around with her brothers a time or three growing up, that was nothing like learning how to swing a sword in battle. She had no business on a battlefield, and she knew it.
“Oh, Fal,” her older sister sobbed and came around the table to hold Falon in her arms.
For a long moment, the younger sister took great strength from her big sister before she reluctantly pulled away. She wiped her face with her free hand, careful to avoid the large cut on her left cheek.
“You can make a decision in the morning; there’s no need to rush,” Christie said sadly.
“Being a Spinster won’t be that bad,” Falon replied with a brave smile. On the inside she couldn’t imagine how she would make it through the first clash of arms. Women just didn’t have the physical power to match a man, and on a much more personal level she had never even learned how to swing a sword properly. She was careful to keep these doubts off her face. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had to play the role of the big sister.
“No one ever needs know, Fal,” Christie whispered, looking a little broken around the edges and forlorn. No doubt she was able to see the same odds of survival a Falon could. “You just go and come back to us. We can keep it a secret. We’ll just say you had a twin with the same name who was a boy and—.”
“Just call Muirgheal, Krisy,” Falon said with as much finality as she could manage, her face still wet with tears.
Then before her big sister could keep on arguing, she turned around and blindly headed for the stairs leading up to her room.
For all her earlier protestations that Christie didn’t really want Falon to take Papa’s place on the battlefield, her older sister stayed at the table silently watching her go.
Returning to her room, Falon looked around as if for the last time, and her shoulders slumped. In her head she knew that—assuming if she didn’t change her mind between now and tomorrow—that she still had two weeks before she was supposed to leave with the wagons. Still, in her heart she was silently saying goodbye to everything in her room and it almost broke her heart
Going over to her hope chest, she ran her hand over the polished heartwood. Before flipping it open, she remembered how excited she had been when she had heard Papa was making it for her.
Inside was her favorite dress, it was a hand-me-down from Christie, given to her the first month after Falon’s courses had come in. It had been an emotional time in her life and her big sister had come to the rescue, lifting her spirits by giving her one of her older sister’s great treasures. It was one of Stella Cink’s old formal dresses left for Christie when Mama Cink had left to learn and practice magic in the Nunnery.
It was far too big and showed its age in the elbows, wrists and around the neck line, but for all of that it was the finest thing she had ever owned and she cherished it with all her heart. Both for the fine dress it was in its own right, and because of the sister who had given it to her.
Holding the old thing up to her neck she looked down at herself, admiring the blue on green pattern, elegant cut and soft material for the last time.
“This dress will make a find dress for Kaitlin someday,” she said as firmly as she could manage, and if her lower lip quivered and her heart felt like it was going to break into pieces at the thought of never wearing such a beautiful gift from her older sister, there was no one around to see.
“I’d never get to wear you to any famous balls anyway,” she chided the dress firmly, setting it and the girlish dream that came with it aside, “I’m sure you’re old and terribly out of fashion by this point,” she finished with a pang.
Angrily picking up the dress and tossing it onto the single lone chair in her room, she suppressed a much more realistic vision of herself in that very same dress being escorted around a dancehall or three, all with a different beau on her arm for each and every dance. Attending a famous ball had always been a fanciful dream, just like princes charming and sugar drop fairies, she could
admit that now. But breaking hearts on those future dance floors had been a real enough possibility, and that was what hurt the most.
Reaching into her chest she pulled out a series of very fine—if threadbare in places—scarves, gloves and a pair of elegant little slippers. Tossing them on the same chair as the dress, she dug into her hope chest with a frenzy of emotion and fabric. Finally reaching the bottom, it was almost cathartic to get rid of these reminders of everything she was about to give up.
Seeing the pictures she had started drawing over the last two years when she had first started having to pretend to be a brother, she paused. The wall over her bed was literally covered with the images.
Her eyes went from one scenic pastoral view of the farm to the next. The orchards, both the one filled with their various fruit trees as well as that populated almost exclusively with old Heartwood trees, graced her sleep in all their majestic beauty.
Every family member including the long lost Daman and Garve graced her wall, along with a fanciful image of what she imagined their ship to look like. Seeing it now, she realized it was just an enlarged version of the local lake rowboat. Angry with her childish fancies of the world, she tore it down from its long-time place on the wall. Then she started taking down each of the rest of the pictures.
She had only really started practicing with lead and easel, taking her childish drawings from hobby to outright passion, when she first begun pretending to be something she was not. Maybe in the back of her mind she had always imagined a day like this would come. Well…nothing this horrible, but something like it, and in the back of her mind perhaps she had imagined that if she somehow became a famous artist she could make everything all better again.
Putting all of her drawings into a neat, orderly pile, she looked over at the candle sitting on her table and then turned and carefully placed them in her hope chest.
Realizing she had yet to get around to creating either a drawing or a painting of little Rogan, she returned to her chest and pulled out a sharpened lead stick, worn down almost to the nub. Taking one of her last blank pieces of paper, she sat down at the little desk that passed for her vanity table and began to draw. Her hand shook and her fingers had difficulty holding the lead steady, but she was determined.
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 5
