The Blooding

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “I’m no Lord and you know it, so stop clowning around,” Falon snapped.

  “Stop putting on airs, Fal,” Duncan advised dropping his knuckle and mockery of respect with it, “back in camp, on the training field—and the battlefield also, I’ll wager—yer the Lieutenant,” when her eyes flashed at him he hastily added, “and none of us begrudge you it.” The other boys quickly nodded their agreement.

  Falon snorted at this, but allowed herself to be persuaded into nodding.

  “But out here,” Duncan continued into the breach, “we’re all just a few lads out looking to spend some coins and have a good time,” he finished with a firm nod.

  “Spending my coins,” Falon grumped and then gave up, “let’s go find this Tulla again, wherever she is, and get this over with,” she said finally.

  “Hurray,” yelled John.

  The other boys quickly shushed him before Falon’s resulting glare could turn into anything further.

  She was still chewing on what to do as an appropriate response when they arrived in the area of the camp vendors set aside for the herb-wives and potion mongers.

  “How will we know which one belongs to Tulla?” Falon asked with dismay as she observed a half dozen small, one or two person tents and another dozen, colorful blankets set out in a long row. Hooded women and, in a couple cases, men were set up and appeared eager for business.

  “They said Tulla has the blue tent,” Duncan said condescendingly, as if everyone else was slow for not already knowing it.

  “Right,” Ernest drawled, beating Falon to the punch when he pointed to the two different faded blue tents and three different blue blankets, “there’s two tents and just in case you were wrong, three different blue blankets.”

  “They said tents!” Duncan growled, turning bright red in the face with rising emotion.

  “They seem to say a lot of things,” Falon observed hiding a mean spirited grin. She couldn’t help it; after dragging them all over here it was almost humorous that they still didn’t quite know where they were going, “too bad they aren’t here,” she couldn’t help adding.

  “Everyone’s a naysaying nanny goat,” Duncan scowled and then looked back and forth between the two tents before issuing a grunt and heading toward the more faded one.

  “Finally figured out which one it is?” Falon asked.

  “It’s this one, I know it,” Duncan said heading toward the faded blue tent.

  “How can you tell,” Falon asked with surprise.

  “Because this one has a pair of guards standing outside it,” Duncan frowned.

  “Tulla has guards?” Ernest said with surprise.

  “No idea,” Duncan said stiffly.

  “Then how…” Falon trailed off questioningly.

  “How did I pick this one?” Duncan said and then groaned, “Because it would have been too easy if the one we wanted didn’t have the guards outside it keeping everyone else out.”

  “What?!” the other three members of the group, including Falon, exclaimed.

  Falon hadn’t even realized the guards were turning the occasional person away from the tent until Duncan pointed it out to them. She kicked herself; she should have seen that before Duncan.

  “Earth and Field,” John complained, “you’re right.”

  “Course I’m right,” Duncan snapped, giving the former Page a sour look for seeming to suggest otherwise.

  “Well let’s just make sure,” Ernest said and, agreeing that this was a good idea, Falon and the rest trailed along behind him all the way to the entrance of the tent.

  “Tent’s closed for business,” one of the two guards stated, while both of them crossed their spears in front of the entrance.

  “But why?” Ernest asked curiously.

  “Madam Tulla will be available again shortly, now shove off,” barked the second guard.

  Up close, Falon could see the two guards each wore a tabard with the image of a stag darned into the front and back of it over their armor.

  “I said ‘get lost’ you young roustabouts; scram,” the second guard said taking a step away from the tent when their small group didn’t back away fast enough.

  The group scattered in every direction before reassembling a short distance away. Everyone waited until they were out of easy earshot before talking.

  “What a tool,” Ernest complained overly loudly.

  “Shhh, not so loud,” John quieted him.

  “I don’t see why I should,” muttered Ernest, “who are those guards anyway, telling us to shove off like that?” Duncan nodded in agreement with his brother and grumbled something under his breath.

  “Didn’t you see the Stag over their armor?” John said with patent disbelief, “those are royal guards; they can do whatever they want!”

  “But the stag wasn’t silver, and they had no antlers,” Falon pointed out, her eyebrows shooting up with surprise.

  “Yeah, it was brown,” Duncan agree belligerently, giving John a squinty look.

  “That’s because they aren’t regular armsmen; those were royal huntsmen,” John explained, glancing back and forth between the other members of the group indignantly.

  “So are they guards, armsmen or huntsmen?” Duncan said his jaw jutting out belligerently. “And what would huntsmen be doing in camp?”

  “No Duncan, I think he’s right,” Falon said with growing excitement, “if they’ve got the stag they’ve got to be a royal something or other.”

  “Yeah…but it’s not silver,” Ernest argued, rising to the defense of his older brother and stressing the lack of the royal color.

  Falon opened her mouth and stopped, actually stumped. She knew the royal emblem was a silver stag with a various number of points, depending on how close the person was to the throne, but that was about all she knew. Mama Cink’s old protocol book had a fair amount of information in it, but it was pretty dry and boring stuff. Once again, Falon thought it was pretty awful of her to run off to a convent like that. Only this time it wasn’t because Mama Cink left her son and daughter behind so that she could go and learn magic, but because if she had been around maybe Falon would know the answer to a problem like this.

  “I don’t have an answer,” Falon finally admitted as she looked over at John expectantly.

  John had just started puffing himself up with pride when someone emerged from within the tent. “That’s the Prince,” he gasped in a strangled voice.

  Glancing over with sudden and intense interest, all Falon could see was that this person had a faded green cloak with fine embroidery around the edges of the cloak and hood. The elegant boots had animals worked into the front and sides of the leather, and the tips of the boots were iron shod. Everything else was covered by the cloak, or concealed within shadows by the hood pulled up over his head.

  Looking closely, the only thing she could tell for sure and certain was that the man had a mustachio and goatee, and she could only determine that because he stopped outside the tent to twirl his pencil-thin mustachio and then stroke his beard.

  “Ye’re sure?” Ernest asked, sounding more than slightly awed.

  “I saw him once at a distance, back in the Keep,” John admitted.

  Falon glanced over at him sharply; he had never mentioned this before. Apparently feeling the weight of her look, John glanced away from the Prince and tried to look blasé and world wise, but she could see the way he craned his head around with the rest of them as the Prince’s guards—or rather, his huntsmen, if John was to be believed—hustled his royal highness around the tent and out of sight.

  “Did you see that, Ern?” Duncan said excitedly, pounding his brother on the side of his upper arm with a fist after the Prince had disappeared from sight, “We’ve just been in the presence of greatness!”

  “Mama won’t believe us,” Ernest sighed.

  “Won’t it be great when we tell everyone back home, Ern!” Duncan said practically jumping up and down. “No one can top this, I swear.”

  �
��No, I mean she really won’t believe us Dun,” Ernest said with a longing look in the direction of the disappeared royalty.

  “Whatever do ye mean?” Duncan said with disbelief.

  “Anyone we tell will ask us what he looked like, and then what are we going to say? All we saw was his cloak,” Ernest sighed, kicking a rock on the ground.

  “Well,” Duncan looked stumped and then more than just a little irritated before his face cleared, “we can tell him about his beard!” he said triumphantly.

  Ernest’s expression picked up a bit at that, “Hey, that’s true!”

  “Yep,” Duncan said with such certainty that if one did not know better, one would think that he had never experienced a moment of doubt, “and then we can show them the beards we’ve all got!”

  “I thought you weren’t going to get a beard,” John interjected suspiciously, “it was all about the hair with you earlier.”

  Duncan waved his hand in the air as if shooing away flies. “Details,” he scoffed, “don’t bother me with details. Of course I’m going to get me a beard; why else would I come down here. ‘Sides, if’n it’s good enough for the Prince then it’s good enough for Duncan Farmerson, my good man.”

  John opened his mouth angrily, but Falon quickly put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a slight shake of her head. If Duncan had changed his mind and wanted to pretend otherwise, it was no skin off her nose.

  After a moment John released a pent up breath and shrugged of her hand. “Alright then, let’s go inside,” he said regaining a portion of his former happy go lucky attitude. Falon was almost relieved to see everyone start to reclaim their former excitement as they hurried toward the tent before someone else beat them to it.

  “Besides, Lieutenant Falon’s paying,” John added, shooting an evil grin in her direction.

  “Hey!” Falon protested, reaching to grab him by the collar, but the little scamp dodged her grip and ran toward the faded blue tent that was their target, “get back here you little scamp of a Valet!”

  Laughing and joking, the boys and Falon raced the last twenty steps or so to the tent. For her part Falon didn’t even mind that she was the last one there…or at least, she didn’t mind too much.

  Chapter 38: Mama Tulla’s Tent of Wonders

  “What dost a pack of fool boys, old enough to be knowing better, be doing charging my tent as if they mean to take it by storm?” came a no nonsense voice from within the tent.

  Everyone—including Falon—pulled up to an abrupt, skidding halt at the crack of command in that voice.

  “Now that’s better,” said the voice which Falon recognized as Tulla, now speaking to them through the folds in her tent.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Ernest said, trying to smooth things over.

  Falon pursed her lips and kept silent.

  “Call me ‘Mama Tulla,’ none of this ‘Ma’am’ nonsense,” Tulla’s voice changed, taking on a calculating tone, “and just whom might thy lot be?”

  “We’re the companions of Lieutenant Falon,” Duncan boasted, leaning over and throwing an arm across her shoulders, “and we’re here for the same style beard as the Prince!”

  “Lieutenant Falon, is it?” Tulla cooed, and Falon could all but feel her coins slipping out of her purse. She angrily shrugged off Duncan’s arm and punched him in the shoulder.

  “Great going, now she’s going to charge us more; do you understand nothing about haggling?” she hissed at him.

  Tulla chuckled, no doubt having heard everything Falon had said, while Duncan frowned down at her and shook his head to look back up at Tulla eagerly.

  “Such a wealthy patron; you all are fortunate to have such a rich benefactor,” Tulla said lightly.

  Duncan winced and avoided Falon’s narrowed gaze.

  “You can do it then,” Ernest asked eagerly, “you can give us the Prince’s beard?”

  “Such a name for it, ‘the Prince’s beard,’” Tulla laughed, and then said in a crafty voice, “alas, the identity of mine customers is a tightly held secret. I can neither confirm nor deny thy supposition.”

  The conversation lulled as the two farm boys exchanged dumbfounded looks, and Falon merely rolled her eyes.

  “What did she say, Fal,” Ernest asked her in a whisper.

  “She can’t admit it was the Prince,” Falon muttered to him.

  Duncan overheard and narrowed his eyes. But after a moment a smile crept over his face.

  “Look, we just want the same beard as your last customer—the one before us, whomever he be,” the older farm boy said with an exaggerated wink and a cheeky grin.

  Falon winced.

  “One golden queen,” Tulla said her voice taking on an aura of mystery and secrets, “and you can step within the Mama Tulla’s house of wonders.”

  Falon actually choked as her throat tightened at the suggested price, and Ernest had to step over and pound her on the back. “That’s it; we’re out of here,” Falon declared hoarsely as soon as she had her wind back.

  “No, wait!” Ernest jumped forward between Falon and Tulla, as if somehow his presence between them could forestall her leaving. “A gold’s too much, but how about a silver for all of us?” he pleaded.

  Falon stared at him in surprise. Earlier that day he couldn’t get out of seeing this Tulla person, and now he was trying to throw himself into the breach? Boys were simply beyond her understanding sometimes; she would far prefer to be a sister any day of the week.

  “A silver!” Tulla exclaimed breaking out of her ‘tempting you to purchase’ voice and registering what sounded like genuine dismay, “I wanted a gold per head! Stop wasting my time and blocking my tent from paying customers; now scat!”

  Ernest leaned down toward the tent flap and whispered something to Duncan. There was some back and forth between them which Falon ignored, as she was ready to be out of there. Standing in front of the tent, she was starting to have second thoughts. Mama Patience used to say that coins came and coins went, but the one thing one always had was her disposition.

  What kind of disposition would Falon have if she came back from the war with hair growing thick upon her face? The waxing alone, she shuddered. Would it be better to die with my beautiful skin, or to live ugly? A scar is one thing, but facial hair?!

  Hearing the tent flap pulled aside, Falon stared with surprise as Ernest reached out and dropped something—or multiple somethings—into Tulla’s hands.

  “A Silver per head and that’s me final offer, thou roustabouts,” Tulla said, her voice with a hint of censure in it.

  Before she knew it every boy in the group had a hand outstretched toward her.

  “Four silvers!” Falon said with dismay as she did the math. She was trying to think how far that money would have gone back home with her family.

  “It’s just a few silvers,” Ernest pleaded.

  “Yeah Fal,” Duncan urged, “Ernest already paid the most of it already; this is just the last part.”

  “What did you give her?” Falon asked, turning to Ernest with surprise.

  “I just offered her a few creek agates,” Ernest said with a shrug.

  Falon stared at him in shock. She had known that agates were valuable to a Witch, but that the woman had gone from asking gold to silver made her wonder if she had never had any real idea just how valuable they were.

  “How many did you give her?” Falon demanded before she could regain control of her reaction.

  “Just a couple I picked up back home for luck, but this was more important,” Ernest said with a shrug.

  “I thought you didn’t even want to come here?” Falon rebuked with a shake of her head.

  Ernest assumed a stubborn expression and frowned at her.

  Then John jogged her elbow. “Can you loan me that silver? Until I can pay you back of course,” he said urgently.

  Falon threw her hands in the air and thrust a hand into her money pouch. This was a mistake, no doubt about it, but soonest begun was half done and all
that. She just wanted this over with.

  “Here, you go first,” she said thrusting a silver into her Valet’s little hand.

  “Thanks, Fal,” he shouted, turning toward the tent and heading inside, the silver coin waving in the air.

  “You’re going to pay me back for this—and don’t think I’ll be loaning you any coins again,” she yelled after him. Then with a sour expression, Falon handed a silver to both Duncan and Ernest

  “One at a time,” Tulla said when Duncan tried to follow, and the Witch closed the tent flap.

  Standing outside the tent, the three of them could hear some kind muttering going on inside the tent, followed by John giving a yelp.

  “We should sneak around back and listen to her spell,” Duncan said with a wicked expression.

  “New Blood can’t learn Old Blood magic,” Falon scoffed at the foolish idea, “and besides, why do we need to go around back?” The more she thought about it, listening in wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

  So when Ernest and Duncan took her advice to listen in at the now closed tent flap, she gave a start and stepped forward to join them.

  “That sounds like scissors,” Duncan whispered too loudly.

  “Shh,” Falon and Ernest quickly shushed him.

  Then Tulla started muttering again, and John gave another yelp.

  “Hey, that hurt!” the Valet protested with a yelp that was muffled by the cloth walls of the tent.

  Ear pressed against the ‘wall’ of the tent, Falon could barely make out the words Tulla was using. Then, realizing it was still daylight, Falon stiffened and look up in the sky. She relaxed when she saw that although the sun was just starting to set, the moon was clearly visible in the blue sky above them.

  Fifteen minutes after entering the tent, John came stumbling out with a pencil thin mustachio and elegant looking goatee on his face.

  Half fascinated, half horrified to imagine such a mess of facial hair on her face, Falon unconsciously pulled back.

  After much backslapping, an eager-looking Duncan pushed his way forward and practically jumped into the tent.