Eventually settling on a green shirt so faded it was almost grey, the one with the big brown stain on its back from the first time she’d had to figure out how to kill a goat. Back then it had either been eat the creature or listen to Blair, Sin and Rogan go to bed hungry another night. The choice had been easy but the execution had been anything but, and Falon felt herself turn green at the memory of how it had felt.
So while the others had feasted like kings for a day, she had hardly managed a bite, moving the stewed meat around on her plate and then slipping most of her goat meat to Rogan when no one was looking. My stomach is tougher now, she thought resolutely.
Sponge bath completed and clothing selected and donned, it was time to stop procrastinating. Soundlessly opening her door, Falon slipped out her room and down the hall.
Arriving at the master bedroom, she grabbed the door latch. Feeling a shiver go down her back at the thought of seeing her Papa, a man she always thought was as strong as a bull growing up, lying sick and wasted on his bed she hesitated. Leaning her forehead against the stout oak of the door, she rested there for a moment. It killed her a little bit more each time she had to see him like this.
Reminding herself that this was her own idea, she straightened her back and pushed open the door.
The smell when she stepped into the room was like running face first into a wall. The stench of sickness and rot was palpable. Gulping, she took the first one step, and then another into the room. Seeing the small brazier unlit, she hurried over to relight it. Bustling around the room with a purpose, her back turned to the bed was avoidance, pure and simple, but it was better than anything else she could think of.
All too soon, the small bed of coals was glowing bright red, and the smell of a fresh piece of cherry wood smoke wafted through the room.
“Hello,” her Papa said, his voice as raspy as two pieces of old wood rubbing against each other.
“Hello, Papa,” she said brightly, “are you ready to get out of bed today? I think the Cherries in the eastern Orchard are ready for picking. They’re so fat and swollen I’m sure…” she trailed off as his gaunt face turned in her direction, his eyes like deep, cavernous pits hiding behind a scarecrow’s nose. She almost forgot to breathe until he blinked, which broke her mesmerized state.
“Garve?” he asked hoarsely, “is that you, boy? Come to finally do right by your old Papa and settle down to your duty?”
Schooling her features into neutrality, Falon felt as if her heart was breaking. Here she was right in front of him, doing the duty of any two sons, and all he could ask after were her faithless brothers.
“It’s me, Papa,” she said in a small voice, and the way his face lit up with joy caused her heart to twist so painfully she found it hard to breathe. For a moment she dared hope against hope that it was because he saw her, and was proud of his daughter by way of Muirgheal the witch.
“I’m so happy,” he said and even though his eyes were still cloudy his face was showing more animation than it had in days.
“I killed a boar yesterday, Papa,” she said timidly. For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her, then his eyes lost some of their cloudiness and started to track.
“How many stone, lad,” he asked, and her heart twisted. Wiping away a tear at the knowledge that her own father didn’t even seem to recognize her, she swallowed with a suddenly dry mouth.
“Farmer Doyle and Blacksmith Vance estimate it was around five hundred pounds,” she said and then added quickly, “and Reeve Modesto just put a five silver bounty on it, Papa.”
“I don’t hold with the use of pounds here on the estate,” her Father said, his voice slowly gaining strength, “you know that.”
Falon jerked her head in a nod as her stomach dropped; she had so hoped he would be pleased.
“A silver bounty, you say,” her father said after an extended silence.
“Yes papa, five silver,” she repeated, looking at him hopefully.
“A man killer then,” he reflected, and Falon decided silence was better than repeating the rumors the East Wick men had been saying about what happened—or might not have happened—in West Wick.
Then he said the four words she had been so desperate to hear. I’m proud of you, Garve,” he sighed contentedly, and at that fifth and final word, the name of her brother, the breath whooshed out her the same as if she had been punched.
“It’s Falon, Papa,” she said, struggling to sound grown up and not at all affected by the fact her father still mistook her for her brother. But she feared she sounded just as plaintive as Sinead at her very worst.
Her father looked almost befuddled, but his eyes suddenly cleared.
“Why, so it is,” he responded after a moment and then shrugged, “where is Garve, Fal, he was just here.”
“He’s been gone for two years, Papa,” she whispered, “him and Daman.”
“No, I was just talking with him,” he insisted, shaking his head sharply. Then, as if that little movement had sapped him, his eyes clouded and he lay back down on the pillow, “you would have been so proud. He killed a boar, you know. Thirty six stone.”
“That was me, Papa. I killed the boar,” her voice rising in volume, and for the first time since she was a little girl she felt genuine anger toward her Papa igniting in her belly, “Garve ran away and abandoned us!”
Papa looked at her apathetically, looking ready to sink back into his torpor at any moment.
“You couldn’t have killed it by yourself,” he said dismissively, “I thought I taught you that lying was wrong, Falon. I raised you better than that.”
“They call me the Boar Knife now,” she said sharply, wanting to grab him with her two hands and shake him out of his depression. Maybe using the nickname might inspire some kind of reaction, if it had been Garve or Daman who had received it she knew he would have been beside himself with joy.
Papa sighed, as if humoring a little child and turned his face away.
“Kaitlin and I figured out how to brew two barrels of apple ale last year,” she said desperately. She was willing to do anything to keep and hold his attention, and wanted so desperately to hear his approval.
“That’s not an appropriate pursuit for a pair of young ladies,” he growled under his breath, and for a moment he looked and sounded like his old self again, almost as if he was about to come out of that bed and give the two of them a good thrashing. Then he shook his head and his eyes clouded again.
“This year we’re planning to make cherry wine and sell it over at Lamont Keep,” she continued, tears rolling down her face. She was willing to say anything keep him focused in reality, even if it meant all but begging for a good thrashing.
“That’s nice, Falon,” he said dreamily, his voice fading and his eyes sinking back into his face until he once again looked like death warmed over, “although why can’t you make mead from bees and honey—like a proper young woman—is beyond me.”
“If we make enough wine and at least half of it keeps, we think we can cover the taxes for both this year and last, with enough left over to start to make repairs,” she sniffled, “we need the honey to trade for necessities.”
“My feet hurt,” he croaked, his voice once again sounding like two pieces of wood grinding on one another, and then he went unnaturally still.
Placing her face in her hands, her heart in pieces, she went over to the stone ledge on which sat the brazier. Kneeling down beside it, she retrieved a wooden bowel and papa’s old Shri-Kriv.
Stumbling around to the foot of the bed, she lifted the covers off his feet. Looking down at the ugly little fleshy white protrusions sticking out of the calluses of his feet and from between his toes, she placed her right knuckle in her mouth and bit down hard.
Watching as the little mess of root-like protrusions, more fleshy and skin colored closer to the foot, and more white and wood-like further away, start to sway toward the sunlight she forcefully suppressed the urge to throw up.
Steeling
herself, she leaned down and gently placed her father’s long knife against the base of the first set of roots, the ones attached to the knuckles of his big toe. From long experience having done so, she placed a thumb against the side of the root opposite the blade and gave a sudden jerk.
“Argh!” her papa yelled in, jerking his foot away but she grimly set about her task. His wails and cries as she slowly and carefully trimmed his feet of the little root-like protrusions were heart rending to his daughter. Reminding herself that members of the Old Blood were prone to the rooting sickness when reaching great age—or when they lacked the will to live—was no comfort as she went about the stomach-churning business.
Her father was only a half blood like herself, but Falon refused to allow him to die. At least not until her sisters were all married and Rogan was old enough to inherit. For all his talk of the way their brothers had failed in their duty to him, he seemed to have forgotten all about her and her sisters.
If she had to go out and die on the battlefield for her family then she would. But there was no way she was letting him take root over in the West Orchard with the other blood trees any sooner than she had to—assuming his weight of blood was strong enough to manage it, and he didn’t die first.
“Papa,” she said abruptly. When he didn’t say anything she wiped the last of the blood off his feet and carefully bandaged them, but already she saw that his feet had scabbed over, his blood taking on a hard, sap-like consistency.
“I need you to make me your heir, Papa. After, Rogan,” she said faintly, not even sure if he heard her. Thinking he was lost to the world she carefully cleaned the bowl of the trimmings, emptying the roots out the window to mulch in the earth and rinsing it with water.
“You are heir to your Mother. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to steal you,” he murmured, “let my new blood children follow in my footsteps. Gods, but I have enough of them.”
As Falon stared at him she realized she had always thought of him more the ‘New Blood Squire’ than ‘Warrior of the Old Blood’. Now it all made sense, why he had become angry and refused to listen when she came home complaining about living with her mother.
A man of the Old Blood would naturally expect his children to follow the traditions of their mother’s people, unless there was some prior agreement in place before hand. Girls especially were viewed as belonging to their mothers. She finally understood that, in his mind, he would always be her father but she would belong first and foremost to Mama Muirgheal.
Looking down at this wreck of a once mighty warrior, she understood that there was no way he could leave the house in this condition, let alone sit his horse. This knowledge lodged like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach and something—some hope she had barely dared admit, even to herself—withered and died.
“If I’m to do a brother’s duty while you try to rot in bed,” Falon said as she lifted her chin. Her voice was unexpectedly shaking. “You have to make me your heir, after Rogan.”
He grunted but said nothing.
“Papa,” she urged, silently hoping against hope that this request, this demand, would finally be enough to break him out of his lethargy and he would jump out of bed in a rage. Anything so she could have back the imposing, honorable man of her youth.
“Father!” she exclaimed, seeing him trying to go back to sleep.
“Fine,” he snapped, his eyes popping open to glare at the ceiling, “you can make your cherry wine and trade it with my blessing. Leave! Me! Be!”
Falon stared at him and he suddenly broke down and started weeping. “If all my boys are dead, what does it matter who gets the estate?” he wailed in a brittle voice.
Falon’s lip started trembling. This proof that he loved her runaway brothers more than life itself was devastating, but it was nothing she hadn’t known for months. It was that he could care so little for the plight of his daughters that crushed her, especially when all she had ever wanted was his love and respect.
“Christie can scribble it all out on paper and fix my signature and seal to it,” he continued.
“Papa. Please,” Falon cried, the words ripped from her chest.
“If your older sister doesn’t care, then neither do I,” he whispered, his words brutal and aimed to hurt, “now let me root away in peace, you greedy slip of a girl.” So saying, he turned to face the wall and said nothing more.
Staggering back, Falon threw her face into the crook of her arm to muffle her sobs and fled the room.
Chapter 10: Hiding Out
“Falon open this door,” came a clear and authoritative, contralto voice.
“You can’t make me, so just go away, Christie,” Falon shouted at the door.
“Blair said she saw you come out of Papa’s room crying and you never came down for lunch,” her big sister said sternly, “we worked on that meal for almost two hours.”
“Leave me in peace,” Falon cried.
“Open up the door this instant. This instant Falon, you hear me?” yelled her older sister, finally sounding like she was starting to lose her cool.
“You’ll have to burn me out,” Falon growled at the door.
“This isn’t like you Fal,” Christie said pounding on her door, “stop being childish and let’s talk about it.”
“Go away!” Falon retorted hotly.
“I’ll get a battering ram is what I’ll do!” raged her older sister.
“You and what army?” Falon challenged in a rising voice that ended in a shriek. All the fear and despair she had been feeling, yet doing her best to keep at bay, suddenly broke in. Combined with the anguish she felt over her father’s heartless rejection, her tumultuous emotions were clear in her voice.
Loud stomping came from the other side of the door as her sister walked away.
Falon had just placed her face back into the pillow so she could finish having a good cry, when there was the sound of something metal being scraped against the keyhole outside her door.
Falon lifted her head in time to hear the lock click, and the heavy oak door swung ponderously open with her big sister pushing her way inside. Falon picked up the pillow she had been crying into and hugged it against her chest, as she stalked over to the door.
“Get out of my roo—,” she started hotly, but didn’t get a word further before Christie produced a pitcher of water from behind her back and threw it into Falon’s face.
Shocked by the frigid temperature of the well-drawn water, Falon stared at her older sister Christie in surprise.
“Grow up and get a hold of yourself,” Christie glared, “barricading yourself in this room like some kind of cowardly bear isn’t going to fix anything. Let’s talk.”
Falon’s shock turned to rage. “You heartless old ninny,” she shrieked, pulling her pillow back with her left hand.
Christie looking concerned for the first time since she’d stepped into the room took a step backwards.
“I just wanted to bring you to your senses so we could talk,” Christie assured her, raising her hands in a placating and defensive gesture. Something else she had been hiding behind her back went thump as her big sister dropped it, in favor of self-defense.
“Cowardly,” Falon shouted bringing her pillow forward in a brutal overhand attack, one aimed right at her sister’s big, fat, interfering forehead.
Blocking the pillow with her raised hands, Christie’s eyes filled with anger.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, little sister,” she sneered at Falon, “a lot better!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Falon shouted. She knew she would have to do a lot better than that if she was going to step one foot out onto a battlefield.
Christie looked taken aback and her anger and disapproval melted. “I didn’t mean it that way, Fal,” she said lowering her arms.
Seeing her chance the still outraged Falon jumped forward swinging her pillow with all her might. Taken by surprise, her older sister failed to duck or raise her arms in
time and the pillow smacked into her face.
Giving vent to a wordless sound of feminine rage, Christie finally lost her cool and the battle was joined.
Getting two more good swats of the pillow in, Falon was backing away and lining up for a third blow when Christie lunged forward and grabbed a handful of hair.
Falon cried out and dropped the pillow in favor of returning the favor.
Yelling and shrieking loud enough to wake up the house, the two oldest sisters scratched, pulled hair and rolled around the floor in a frenzy of pent-up frustration. But Christie was three years and twenty pounds bigger, and these advantages soon started to tell.
Her head pulled back to a painful angle and sensing imminent defeat, Falon balled up her left fist and with an overhand cross punched Christie right in the face.
Rolling off her chest, Christie looked more surprised than anything, holding a hand against her face in shock.
Exhausted by all the crying followed by the fight, Falon looked at her warily before rolling off the floor into a crouch.
Suddenly Christie burst out laughing. After a moment Falon followed suit and they hugged.
Seeing Sinead and Kaitlin’s heads peering around the corner of the room with wide eyes, Falon stiffened. Christie, sensing Falon start to pull away, held her close.
“Rug rats at six o’clock,” Falon whispered in her ear.
Christie straightened and turned with a smile to the door.
“Is everything okay?” Kaitlin asked with concern, the tension in her voice audible for everyone to hear.
“We’re fine. Falon and I just needed to talk,” Christie replied, standing with one smooth gliding motion.
“Why were you fighting?” Sinead asked quickly.
“Don’t worry yourself, Falon and I weren’t fighting,” Christie said dismissively, stepping to the door and starting to push it closed, “everything’s going to be okay.”
“You said that when papa got sick and all we had to sell was honey from the bee trees,” Sinead argued, her lower lip sticking out in a pout, “then the ‘big three of you’ had to learn how to make three barrels of illegal ale,” she finished triumphantly, referring to the three oldest sisters as the ‘big three’.
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 7
