While the Witch inside did her magic, Falon and Ernest took a closer look at the insanely proud-looking John.
“I look just like a Prince,” John bragged as he twirled the end of this mustachio. “Owe!” he exclaimed, looking down with dismay at hair that was still wrapped around his finger after he pulled it back.
“It came out,” Ernest said, poking John in the side of his mouth and pulling back a finger with a small bead of blood on it.
“Hands off the face,” John cried, pushing Ernest’s hand away and covering his face with the other, “Mama Tulla said I have to be careful the first couple days or it will come out.”
“Wow!” Ernest said sounding impressed.
Falon was stunned and then took a closer look at his face. “It looks a little thin…the hair, I mean,” she mused, leaning in towards his face curiously.
“Since I didn’t have any natural face hair she had to use clippings from head,” John said backing away.
“But it’ll stay on, like forever,” Ernest said in wonderment, his eyes as wide as saucers.
At this, John’s mouth twisted with disgust. “She said it’ll last for at least a week and if my body’s ready it’ll stay, and even come in thicker like a real beard, but that I’m probably too young and it’ll most likely fall out. Something to do with clippings she took having no roots, and my facial soil not being ripe or some other kind of nonsense,” he complained but then brightened, “but for the rest of the week I’m going to be one of the most dapper boys around the camp!”
Falon’s face twisted as she once again calculated whether or not death was a preferable option to looking like…well, a man.
“Oh man, you were robbed,” Ernest said looking more than a little put out.
John shrugged, “She said a few of them will probably stick even after the rest fall out, and if I keep coming back for the spell that pretty soon I might not have to come anymore; the spell will become permanent,” he said with rising excitement.
“Yeah, right,” Falon snorted unable to help herself from raining on his little parade, “you and what pot of gold?”
“Ah you know how to ruin a good time, Lieutenant,” John grumbled. Looking with surprise, he reached up to feel around his mouth again, “Hey, having hair on your face feels weird!”
He said it like it was something to look forward to, and Falon suppressed a shudder. The closer she got to actually having a beard, the more and more certain she didn’t really want one. Darned that Darius anyway for forcing her to this extreme!
Then Duncan came out, already smoothing down his new beard and looking entirely too pleased with himself. “It didn’t hurt a bit,” he bragged, giving John a superior look.
Then, wiggling his upper lip Falon watched with horror as Duncan repeated the trick she had seen the Gatesman back at Lamont Keep perform. As his tongue swept out to drag the corners of his dapper new mustachio into his mouth, Falon felt the urge to smack him upside the head or barf.
She settled on the first.
“Hey! What did you smack me for?” Duncan said with outrage.
“Using your tongue like that is a disgusting habit,” she said flatly, “and besides, didn’t you hear a thing Mama Tulla told you?! If you pull on it, it will fall out before it has the chance to properly take root.”
“It feels weird,” Duncan said in his defense, “and besides, all this talk of transplanting hair to your face like vegetables in a garden sounds like a mess of made up mumbo jumbo to me. I’m sure now that me beard’s come in all the way it’ll stay on just fine,” he finished with a brag, going from defensive to overconfident in the blink of an eye.
Seeing Ernest heading inside, she shushed the boys and leaned back to the tent flap and tried to listen in. Unfortunately she couldn’t really hear enough to be sure she could repeat what Tulla had been saying, but unless she was greatly mistaken, every time Tulla cast her ‘spell’ it sounded different.
She wasn’t even using the Old Language as far as Falon could tell, which probably meant she didn’t really need to use the words to work her magic properly. Mama Muirgheal always used to say the words were there to help remember how to do the magic. Unlike with the New Blood magic where their words actually had a power of their own, the Old Language was there just to help you remember what to do.
After another fifteen minutes, Ernest emerged with a slightly different demeanor, but the exact same mustachio and goatee as the other three. Like the other boys, he couldn’t seem to get enough of touching and smoothing the stupid thing. Facial hair was something Falon had never really understood the attraction of. Her father’s face had been as rough as sand paper after a few days growth, and even when it was longer and less sharp it still hadn’t been anything she’d have wanted for herself—even if she had been a real brother.
She was still just standing there thinking when Duncan cleared his throat. Surprised, she looked up and saw the other three were looking at her expectantly.
Feeling like a woman going to her execution, she turned and looked at the tent flap. Squaring her shoulders, she headed inside ready to face her doom.
“Welcome, Lieutenant,” Tulla cooed as soon as Falon had stepped inside the tent. With barely enough room to stand, Falon had to hunch over to avoid bumping her head against the arched ceiling.
“Who told you I was the Lieutenant?” Falon asked curious to know who had ratted her out.
“Oh, it was easy to tell from your initial reaction and a few comments here and there from the others,” the old woman said with a deep chuckle.
“Oh,” Falon said.
“All we’ll need are a few clippings; it won’t hurt thee a bit,” the stout and powerfully built old woman said, leaning forward with a pair of what looked like large sheep shears.
Falon swayed back and out of the way.
“Wait,” she protested, holding out hand to stop her.
“Yes, dear,” the old woman said, a hard glint entering her eyes.
“I’m not really sure I want a beard,” Falon said before she could stop herself.
“Cold feet?” Mama Tulla grinned wickedly.
“Something like that,” Falon agreed, hesitant to share more than she had to with this old woman.
“Well while thou decide what to share with, Mama Tulla, why don’t we talk of other things?” said the stout old woman.
“Such as?” Falon asked in surprise.
“I’ve heard tell of a young Lieutenant in the Old Blood Militia of Lamont Fief,” the old woman said perceptively, “be that thee?”
“Yes…” Falon said, raising her eyebrows and wondering if having this old Witch know more about her was the wisest way to do things.
“Thy face has a touch of the Old Blood?” Tulla observed.
“I’m a Half Blood, but why do you ask?” Falon asked curiously.
For a moment the old woman’s face seemed to twist disdainfully, but the expression (if it had ever really existed) was gone before Falon could be sure and in its place was an old grandmotherly smile.
“I just like to know who’s in charge of looking out for the boys while they’re away from hearth and home, that’s all,” Mama Tulla said with smile.
“Okay…” Falon said, not sure what—if anything—the old woman was getting at. “I don’t know how good a job I’ve been doing of it, but no one’s complained yet,” she sighed, “I only wish Lord Lamont had chosen someone else.”
“Most New Blood Lords are nothing more than a passel of motherless sons. If they didn’t murder their way into a power they never deserved, then it was only because their father’s did the slaughtering for them,” Tulla said sharply. After a moment her expression smoothed out and she seemed to peer deeply into Falon’s eyes, “But all that said, his Lordship has been better than most.”
“I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings,” Falon said warily, feeling like she was about to fall into the old woman’s gaze and drowning, “is it getting hot in here? It feels stuffy,” sh
e complained, tugging at her collar but strangely unable to pull away from Tulla’s gaze.
“I have a question for you; I hope you don’t mind,” said Tulla with a smile that Falon felt odd about.
“Anything,” Falon mumbled, her head feeling like it was filled with cotton. If anything, Tulla’s eyes seemed to grow until they were overly large on the old woman’s face.
“Which side of thy heritage dost thou cleave most tightly to?” asked the Old woman, slipping into the old tongue.
Falon blinked slowly as if her eyelids were moving in molasses. “I never really thought about it,” she replied in the same tongue.
“Thou never thought—” Tulla started out angrily and then abruptly cut herself off. After a moment, she tailed off into unhappy mutterings.
Falon just looked on; everything seeming distant and unimportant.
“The vile deeds of the New Blooders when they conquered this land cause your soul to burn with rage,” Mama Tulla finally demanded.
“What they did was wrong,” Falon agreed after thinking about it, “but that was long ago, and I have more important things to worry about.”
“What kind of things?” Tulla asked in a deadly voice.
Once again Falon slowly blinked, and it occurred to her that she wasn’t feeling right, “My sisters back home, for one,” she replied, feeling her voice start to rise as the sensation that something was very badly wrong started to grow inside her, “but mostly I just want to make sure my friends and neighbors—both New and Old Blood—get home alive!”
Tulla blew some kind of powder in her face, and a wave of lethargy suddenly swept over her.
“Why art thou hesitant about getting the beard thee already paid for?” Tulla asked, plucking the silver from Falon’s unresisting hands and returning to her former demeanor of a kind, grandmotherly figure. For some reason, Falon’s suspicions of a moment earlier seemed to fade away into nothing, and she realized that absolutely nothing was wrong.
“I never wanted a real beard; I only ever wanted one so I could get my sword training,” Falon said listlessly.
“So get one, fool boy,” Tulla said so scornfully that Falon felt the faintest ember of emotion ignite deep within her belly.
“I need an Imperial sword and a beard before he’ll agree train me,” Falon explained, speaking with a mixture of certainty uncaring.
Tulla narrowed her eyes at Falon. “’He’ who?” Tulla said sharply. “What New Blooder hast thou tried to sell thy soul unto?”
“An Imperial named Darius, who I rescued from the stocks,” Falon explained, once again starting to feel like something was strangely wrong.
“Thou art strangely resistant,” Tulla frowned, turning Falon’s head from side to side critically, as if examining something.
“If you say so,” Falon muttered.
“Why don’t thou want a beard—and no lies, now!” Tulla said strictly.
Falon stared at her with slowly growing horror. “And ruin my face with hair?!” she said with real disgust.
“Right,” Tulla shook her head and then sighed, “here.” She reached into a small chest on the floor that had been placed up against a wall.
Pulling out fake mustachio and small patch for a goatee, Mama Tulla paused to glare at her, “These are made from real hair, and hath thy natural coloring well enough. I got them off a wandering acting troupe as payment for a few simples they hadn’t the coin to pay for,” she said.
“Thank you,” Falon said with real hope rising up from inside her.
“I’ll attach them using a glue made from goat hooves and the resin of the Jack Fruit. This fruit comes from a tree in the hot lands below the Merciless islands, and is one of the most powerful adhesives known to womankind,” Tulla told her strictly, “so don’t try to take it off, lest thy skin will come with it.”
“Will it ever come off?” Falon asked with the faintest stirrings of real fear.
“Eventually,” Tulla answered, frowning in concentration.
“Thanks,” Falon said uncertainly, feeling very confused…almost as if she had just awoken. It felt like only moments had passed since she had stepped inside the tent. She vaguely remembered that she and Tulla had talked about something, but it just wouldn’t come to her what that was.
The old woman leaned forward, and the next thing she knew Falon had a new fake mustachio and patch of hair on her chin.
“It doesn’t exactly match thy friends’, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice,” the old woman said with a professional sigh of discontent.
“Thank you anyway,” Falon said touching her face. It felt weird when her hand encountered the prickly hair.
She had just started to turn back toward the tent flap, her head pounding like that one time Falon and her sister Krisy had snuck down to the cellar and drank a whole flask of wine together, when the old woman’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm with punishing force.
“Go to the end of Tinker’s lane and ask for Grioghar; if anyone hast what thou needs, it be Grioghar,” Tulla said with a steely glint in her eye that warned Falon not to disobey her, “tell him Old Tulla sent thee.”
“Why are you helping me?” Falon asked, looking down at the hand still grasping her arm with brutal force.
“In thy hands rest any number of our fine militia, and I would do anything for my people—anything,” Tulla repeated with a deathly certainty. “Thou hast a trust; do not fail it, lest there be consequences beyond those of his lordship.”
Falon felt as a chill course through her, and before the old woman had time to unsettle her any further, she twisted her arm free and practically threw herself out of the tent.
Ignoring the questions and friendly ribaldry of her friends, she hurried away from that tent as fast as she could. Falon knew it was an unreasonable fear she was feeling, but something about that old woman unsettled her. She couldn’t put her finger on it, since everything about their conversation within the tent felt hazy whenever she tried to think about it, but one thing was certain: she wouldn’t breathe easy again until she’d left that faded blue tent far behind.
Not paying attention to where she was going, she heard the sound of metal clanging on a miniature anvil and she looked up. Entirely without thinking about it, her feet had taken her to the end of Tinker’s row.
“Do you need something?” asked a bald man of Old Blood extraction, looking down on her with a frown. Falon gaped up at him; he had to be the biggest tinker she’d ever seen, standing in an easy six feet tall.
“Are you Grioghar? M-Mama Tulla said to come here,” Falon stuttered, not wanting to say anything but it was almost as if the words had forced themselves out against her will.
The overly tall tinker’s face took on a darker cast than it had before. “I’m Grioghar,” the Tinker said dourly, “what does that old interfering Witch want with the like of an honest, hard-working Tinker like me?”
Falon gulped. “She said you might have an Imperial style sword,” she said weakly.
If anything, the Tinker’s face darkened even further.
“Wait here,” he said before disappearing behind his cart.
Looking around curiously, Falon didn’t see any animals to pull the two-wheeled contraption. While the Tinker was digging around in the back, she wandered to the front. To her surprise, she saw the strangest looking harness set up between two poles up in the front.
“I pull the cart myself,” Grioghar said from directly behind her, causing Falon to jump and release an involuntary squeal of dismay.
“Sorry, I—” Falon stammered, embarrassed to be caught prying into his affairs.
“Here,” he cut her off, thrusting a cloth-wrapped bundle into her hands, “take it and be gone.”
Looking down, Falon saw the familiar triangle shaped hilt of an Imperial sword. Pushing down the cloth just enough to see the darkened Imperial metal, she looked back up and gaped at him.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed with real happiness. It was beyond
her wildest hope; she had both a beard—albeit a fake one—and an Imperial sword! “How much do I owe you?”
“No payment necessary,” Grioghar said putting a hand up between them.
“But I can’t just take this,” Falon gaped, “it would be wrong.”
Grioghar’s frown which seemed to have been present ever since she’d met him deepened, “I’ll be speaking with Tulla myself; there’s no need.”
“But it wouldn’t be right, this sword’s for me, you have to let me pay you,” Falon insisted, not liking the thought of being in this man’s debt.
“If in a few days you find a broken sword or two upon the battlefield and still want to repay me, then bring them here,” Grioghar said firmly, “but for now be gone. I’ll not take thy coin; it wouldn’t be right.”
“Why ever not?” Falon said unable to believe her luck.
“I’ll not take payment from a man under a geas. It’s shameful enough that witch put one of our own people under her spell, and don’t think I won’t be having words with that old harridan over that. But for right now I’ll not have any part of this,” he said sharply, “so get thee gone.”
“A geas?” Falon repeated, wide-eyed as comprehension flooded through her. “You mean she spelled me…to come here?!”
Giving her a disgusted look, Grioghar packed up his wares into his cart. Extinguishing one of the torches that had allowed him to continue working into the evening and grabbing up the other, he strode past her and into the night without another word.
“But…wait!” Falon called out after him but when she made to follow him, she couldn’t find Grioghar.
Wide-eyed and worried that maybe she really had been under a spell, Falon clutched the sword to her chest and, slowing only to avoid running into someone, she sprinted back to her militia camp.
Chapter 39: The Last Camp
When Falon arrived back in camp and showed up for her nightly sword training, Darius did a literal double take.
All her trouble with spells, and witches, and geases temporarily forgotten, Falon stalked over to the stunned looking Imperial training master and unwrapped the cloth-covered package in her hands. She proudly produced her new Imperial style sword with a grin and a flourish.
The Blooding Page 29