The two women shared a glance and then broke down clutching their sides into helpless laughter.
“The follies of youth,” Muirgheal agreed when they could once again talk.
“It hasn’t been that long since we talked in market but this is not the market,” the Healing Wench said her smile slowly fading into a serious expression. “What can I do for Witch Muirgheal of the Two Wicks?” she asked formally, “I assume it isn’t to go over past girlish slights…”
Muirgheal looked up to the moon, which hung high in the sky above them before returning her gaze to the Healing Wench. “Though we walk separate paths, we are bound by more than just moonlight, Sister.”
The Healing Wench shook her head. “I have forsaken that path long ago,” she said wearily. “The women of my mother’s line kept the secrets of these lands, but the world has changed — and we must change with it. Healing is all that is legal, and it is all that I will ever need.”
Muirgheal fixed the Wench with a burning stare that unnerved the Healing Wench more than a little, but she held her ground and eventually the Witch shrugged. “The moon is needed for Healing but the Path is not. If they knew of it, I’ve no doubt they would make that illegal as well,” Muirgheal said pointedly.
“Perhaps,” the Wench acknowledged the truth in a murmur but refused to be cowed, “but mysteries of the Path are harmless enough, and for peace of mind in the family even a goodwife might not tell everything to her husband. Let the King and his Lords be happy with the results; there is a difference between hiding a harmless heirloom, and secreting a knife in your skirts.”
“So the King is your husband now, Enna?” Muirgheal said scornfully.
“A figure of speech in a turn of phrase, and you know it,” the Wench said angrily before taking a deep breath and placing her hands together, “before I took up the mantle of a Wench I was called Enna — now, I am the Healing Wench of East Wick.”
“Thank his royal majesty for allowing me to retain use of my given name when next you see him,” Muirgheal said and then grunted irritably and smoothed her expression, “my apologies, Healing Wench. Each of us makes her way as she must,” she allowed with only a slight edge to her voice. “That — each making her own way — is why I have called you here to this place,” she continued, “since each of our paths is…unique…and I must stay here, I would ask a favor of you on behalf of another.”
The Healing Wench cocked an eyebrow. “I do not trade in the Old Ways, except at dire need,” she said hesitantly. “To accept an obligation-debt from you in such a fashion might well be considered heresy…”
Muirgheal waved a hand dismissively. “This matter is between you and I, and I’ll not be blabbing about it to the Lord’s men, or our beloved King’s Witch-hunters, she said impatiently, “the means by which our bargain is agreed upon do not concern me — only its substance. Draw up a paper if that’s what you want, that detail matters little to me at this moment.”
The Healing Wench hesitated, “Go on,” she said slowly.
“Traditionally, every Witch and her daughters has certain… responsibilities,” Muirgheal said with a grimace and then looked up to meet the Wench’s eyes, “even one who has abandoned the path of Root and Thorn — for herself and her daughters — knows this, yes?”
“I am somewhat familiar with this,” the Healing Wench was confused for a moment, but she nodded slowly finally said, “although I don’t know what any of this has to do with me, since I’m not pregnant and my daughters would be free to do as they wished regardless.”
Muirgheal stepped closer and lowered her voice, “I would ask you to keep a watchful eye on a certain…‘warrior’ for me, during the coming campaign.”
The Wench was well and truly mystified, “Why would a Brood Witch concern herself with the fate of a common soldier on the battlefield, especially on who fights for the foolish pride of Lords and Princes?”
The smile which spread across Muirgheal’s face was enough send chills down the Wench’s spine. “This particular warrior has a secret which must be guarded, and yours is the most likely hand to discover this secret…or to guard it, given the right price…” she trailed off with a pointed look.
The Healing Wench still did not understand, and was beginning to tire of the Witch’s cryptic words. “I am no mercenary; I have my own obligations during the campaign,” she snapped, before adding more wearily, “I cannot run around the battlefield playing nursemaid to one person while an entire village militia has need of my attention.”
“Had I need of a nursemaid, I would employ one,” Muirgheal snapped. “All I ask is that you keep this soldier’s secret from the light of day to the best of your ability. I will not hold you responsible for the fate which befalls ‘him’,” her lips twisted slightly as she continued, “but I would be grateful — and personally indebted to you — should you accept my request.”
“What is this soldier’s name, and what is his secret?” asked the Wench skeptically.
The Witch chuckled under her breath. “The soldier’s name is Falon, and he,” she stressed the word while locking eyes with the Healing Wench, “is my firstborn daughter, who I would see safely returned from the battle — with her Blooding complete… in accordance with the old ways.”
“You own daughter,” the Wench hissed with outrage, “what mother in this day and age sends her daughters off to fight and die for a King she doesn’t even call her own, when only sons are required?! Ye must truly be lost to Brood tradition that ye’d send yer own daughter to the slaughter for an old Path that wouldn’t matter, even if it wasn’t lost!” Seeing the Muirgheal the Witch clench her fists down at her sides, the Wench took a cautious step backwards.
“My hand is in this pot, I don’t deny it,” Muirgheal said angrily, “but I am not the only one stirring! Not everything in this world is inside my control, Wench of East Wick. You, who would give her own daughters the freedom to be fools if they so desired,” she spat. “By The Mother,” the Witch swore turning around and presenting her back to the Healing Wench, the Wench had just started to open her mouth when Muirgheal spun back around.
Realization dawned on the Healing Wench’s face, and standing there in the moonlight she felt a pang of sympathy for the woman standing before her. She nodded her head slowly, “I will do what I can, but I can promise nothing — you must know that going into this. I cannot guard your daughter against everything she might find in a camp full of men, let alone in the field.”
“My first and only daughter prepares to walk the ways of her ancestors: the Path of Thorns,” Muirgheal said, her face hardening as she spoke, “she may stumble. She may die. She may even choose to step off and abandon it if she so desires, and that is here choice. However, she is my daughter, not the King’s — and certainly not any Lord’s or Prince’s! She will do her duty to her blood while she walks. To the honor of our ancestors,” she finished clenching a fist at the sky.
“Okay,” the Wench finally said with a nod, taken back by the expression she saw on the other woman’s face. It was clear this Mother cared for her daughter, but the Wench was not sure that it was the sort of caring she would ever want for her own daughters, if ever she had them.
Muirgheal lowered her fist and gave the Healing Wench an appraising look for a long moment before her expression cleared and she looked pointedly to the moon above them, “Then it is agreed? A Thorn walks the path and her body is yours to shepherd, her secret yours to guard.”
The Wench looked to the moon as well and nodded, “It is agreed, under the light of the moon in this place of our ancestors. I will go with her on this war for the Prince’s pride.”
Muirgheal nodded curtly and turned to depart the clearing. She turned as she reached the first tree bordering the clearing and said, “Then I thank you. Call upon me at need.” Then the Witch turned, a shimmering path appeared before her and she faded slowly away until nothing more could be seen.
The End
The Story Continues in: Th
e Blooding, Book One of Rise of The Witch Guard
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 14
