Closing her eyes with a sigh, she began thinking up everything she would say and tell her sisters when she got back home to Twin Orchards. Her little brother too…although he was young enough that she certainly wouldn’t relay most of her experiences until he was much, much older.
She almost didn’t notice when Tulla sat down on the cot beside her. But Tulla wasn’t a woman to be ignored, so Falon reluctantly did notice.
“I’m afraid thou’ll not be going back to hearth and home just yet,” Tulla said, her eyes drilling into Falon’s own.
“What?” Falon blurted, rearing back in surprise. “Why? Has the Prince started another war already?”
Tulla’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head until only the whites were showing, and her voice took on an eerie tone, “This has nothing to do with the Prince, or rather it has everything to do with…” Tulla began, then blinked rapidly and her face went slack, “your work here is not yet done.”
“Please don’t speak in riddles,” Falon begged. She was genuinely worried—and more than a little scared that the old woman had just prophesied.
Is she a seer as well as a Witch, she wondered fearfully?
“The wages of Glory are in Suffering, and the reward for Victory a burden too great to bear…almost. Hearth and home lay deep in the future, if you are strong enough to survive…but path is hazy and survival carries its own cost…” she trailed off. “What hearth, and what home?” the old woman asked suddenly, her head swiveling to the side as if seeing something that only now caught her attention. “Live by the sword and die alone, but what if the armor is too heavy to bear? Hone your skills and beware the freezing winds!”
The old woman’s face suddenly regained animation, and she froze open-mouthed with a look of deep surprise on her face. This look slowly faded until only a touch of resignation remained, covering a hint of triumph like a bad coat of paint
“You don’t have to keep me here with your magics. Please just let me go, Tulla. I’m no threat to you or whatever secrets you have,” Falon begged, worried that this was all a ploy by Tulla to keep her there, but even more scared that the words she had just heard had come from Tulla’s mouth but did not belong to the old Witch.
“Are you one of our people, Lieutenant Falon?” Tulla said abruptly.
“What?” Falon asked surprised at this non-sequitur. “Of course I am. We’re both a part of the same people, Tulla; we’re all Staglanders.”
Tulla’s mouth twisted bitterly, “Under the laws of today, what I did last night to save thy life is a burning offense. Common wisdom would call me an evil witch for of it, who does whatever she darned well pleases,” the old woman said grimly.
Falon swayed against the tent wall and then stood abruptly. She had to get out of there!
“Sit down!” Tulla’s voice cracked with the power of command, and the next thing Falon knew she was sitting back on the cot. “Now, tell me what it was I just said to thee.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Falon said, feeling as though her throat was in her mouth.
“Under the rules of our people—the true, right and native laws that have ruled this land since our first foremothers set foot here—I have saved thy life with my art. Thus I am owed not less than two and not more than five years of service,” Tulla explained, her lip curling.
“No, this is not fair. It’s not right,” Falon close her eyes, squeezing them tight in rejection as if by not looking she could avoid this terrible waking nightmare.
“I want my five years,” Tulla said evenly, “unless…”
“But my sisters,” Falon said feeling lost. She was under the power of this crazy Witch, and if her mere voice could order Falon against her own will, then there was quite literally nothing she could do…except possibly run away before Tulla told her not to do so.
“Life isn’t fair…it certainly wasn’t to me,” Tulla told her shortly. “However,” she grudged, “I am not entirely without a heart. Speak to me the prophecy I spoke, tell me who your mother is, and I will consider releasing you from this debt,” she paused before her voice once again cracked with the power of command, “just don’t even think of trying to leave until then.”
Falon slumped against the wall fighting the urge to put her face in her hands. She was a grown woman and she had to act like one.
“What use could I possibly be to you?” Falon asked, trying to use logic where an emotional plea had failed.
“Oh I can think of any number of things you could do for me,” Tulla replied, and her answer sent a chill coursing through Falon’s body. “The prophecy and the name of your mother, now!”
Falon shook her head mutely. She was afraid to voice the words she had just heard the old Witch utter, and she was also fearful of why this Witch wanted to know about Mama Muirgheal.
Tulla’s lip curled and she stood. “I know thy mother has placed protections upon thee,” Tulla said, waving a hand over her belly, “and she has sent you off to this war in the traditions of our people, even as our foremothers of old, so I mean her no harm. Just tell me her name, and I can discover the rest if need be from others if thou saying more would feel like a betrayal. It has been long and too long since I had potential allies sympathetic to our cause.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Falon said, feeling bewildered. What was this crazy old lady talking about?! She was here because of her mother. “My father—”
“Don’t pretend I’m daft…girl,” Mama Tulla said triumphantly, and Falon’s heart froze inside her chest.
“I’m not—” Falon choked.
“Oh yes, that’s right. Mister Falon Rankin…but thou art no boy,” Tulla grinned, “should I say a more proper greeting and address thee as Miss Falon?”
Falon felt lightheaded; the old woman knew her secret! This was a catastrophe of the first order, pure and simple. “I…” Falon was at a loss for exactly what to say, as her face first flushed and then she felt herself going pale. Her whole strategy for survival was built on not being discovered!
“Stop trying to play an old huckster like myself. I’m not thy mother, to be taken in by a sweet lie and a pretty little face,” Tulla said scornfully.
“Don’t tell anyone, please!” Falon begged. “We won the battle and the war is over; I just want to do is go home. I won’t come back as a boy ever again, I promise!”
“No wonder thou didn’t want a ‘real’ beard from old Madam Tulla,” the old Witch said contemplatively.
“Didn’t you hear? I said—”
“Enough blathering,” Tulla said sternly.
Falon sat back on the cot, stunned. The wily old witch didn’t believe her.
“Who’s thy mama, lass,” Tulla asked in a clearly forced attempt at a slightly kinder voice.
“Which one?” she finally mumbled rebelliously. Her father had four wives after all, and she remembered three of them. Even if she knew exactly which ‘mama’ Tulla was speaking of.
“Don’t get cute with me, girl,” Tulla snapped, and Falon felt a shiver of fear at the last word. If anyone just so happened to be passing near the tent and was there afterward to see the ‘girl’ in question exit…She swallowed the knot in her throat—hard.
“What are you going to do if I don’t tell you?” Falon said bravely, her head hardening a little more each time she was pushed
“Now that would be unfortunate,” the Witch’s mouth tightened, and she paused and seemed to actively consider, “but I suppose I could always use a bodyguard for the coming years. Following the war drums is a dangerous business after all.”
Falon stared at her in disbelief. “But I’m just a girl,” she protested.
Tulla shrugged. “Girls make the best apprentices,” she smiled grimly, “in fact, they make the only apprentices.”
“I thought you said you wanted a bodyguard,” Falon remarked absently, starting to feel nauseous.
“Oh that,” Tulla shrugged dismissively as if it was of no moment and Falon’s jaw
dropped in disbelief. “Thou hast already proven to have the heart for battle,” she said, touching Falon’s right chest where she had been stabbed and then down over her hip and belly wounds, “so that is no issue.”
Falon winced at the touch and drew back. “I’m not as strong or as big as a man; there’s no way I can be a bodyguard for you,” she protested.
Tulla shook her head as if at a slow child. “Take a look at your leg—the left one,” she said simply.
Falon looked down at the tattoos winding from her foot up her leg and gaped.
“I’ve already started the process of turning thee into a painted warrior,” Tulla said with a mean spirited smile, “that’ll give thee increased strength and stamina, enough to deal with any man once it’s complete.”
“This is against the law,” Falon said, scrambling back until her back slammed up against the cloth sides of the tent, “I could be burned at the stake…as a heretic!” She couldn’t help but stare at the tattoos writhing up and down her leg.
Tulla closed her eyes and her face tightened slightly. To Falon’s renewed horror, the marks seemed to disappear entirely.
“What have you done to me?” she demanded hotly, her emotions slowly turning into anger.
“Saved thy life is what I’ve done for thee, thou ungrateful little whelp!” Tulla snapped, coming out of her trance. “It’s time to pull that head of thine out of the clouds and put on thy big girl undergarments. Everything has its cost!”
Falon glared at her for a long while, and the old Witch was more than willing to return the favor without flinching.
“I understand,” Falon finally bit out, and she did. She understood that this woman was going to make Falon into her slave. Unless she gave up who her mother was and repeated that stupid prophecy, that is. Feeling the overwhelming flood of emotions coursing through her being, a single tear track rolled down her face.
Tulla seemed able to make her do anything—or not do anything—she was told using her binding magic and the simple power of her voice. Underneath the terrible, terrible disappointment at the thought that she not going home right away and the outright fear she felt for the witch, a small fire began to burn.
She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when, but someday she would free herself from the clutches of this witch and her evil bindings. If she died, her soul shooting into the heavens, then so be it. But assuming she lived, Falon and this Witch were going to have an entirely different conversation at some future time.
Paying back a life debt was one thing, but it was sounding more and more like this old woman was three kinds of crazy at best, and at worst…she was not only some kind of insurrectionist, but the kind of Witch that gave other Witches bad names. She also didn’t sound like someone who took too kindly to hearing the word ‘no.’
Falon was going to have to keep her eyes open. Still, on the off chance that telling her prophecy and her mother’s name might set her free, then for her sisters—abandoned by both Father and Mother—she had to try.
“My Mother’s name is Muirgheal,” Falon said defiantly, “and she’s a witch.”
Tulla smiled. “I expected nothing less,” she said with satisfaction.
With no reason to hold back any further, Falon repeated the words of the prophecy as closely as she could remember. Thanks to her mother’s training with history and herb lore, that was very closely indeed.
When she was finished, Old Tulla leaned back as if satisfied. “Now am I free to go?” Falon asked stiffly, her insides clenching.
“Your debt has been…mitigated,” the old Witch said after a moment’s contemplation, “and it seems as if I have little need to hold you close to me.”
“I’m going home unless constrained otherwise,” Falon said sullenly, not daring to hope against hope that it would be that easy to escape the old woman’s clutches.
“Like by my magic?” the corner of Tulla’s mouth curled up. “Have no fear; I’ll not hold thee here.”
“Thank you,” Falon said her face a mask to cover the great relief she felt as she started for the tent flap. She had to get out of there as quickly as possible. Falon had just placed her hand on the flap to push it aside when Tulla spoke.
“Just remember,” Tulla’s voice cracked like a whip, “that your debt is not yet fully cleared. So for as long you are around and we travel nearby, I will feel free to call on your services. And when I call, you shall come.”
Falon hesitated. “I understand,” she said reluctantly. She planned to get Bucket, her two wagons and ride on out of there as soon as she could take her leave from Captain Smythe.
“Goodbye my thorny little flower,” Tulla laughed from behind her.
Falon whirled around. “You aren’t going to tell anyone the truth about me,” she half asked, half demanded. She hated having to do it, since she wanted out of there as fast as possible, but she felt she had no choice.
“Cross my heart,” the old woman cackled, doing that very thing with her right hand.
“I’m going and I’m never coming back,” Falon swore, “not unless you stop me.”
“Go if thou can, and good for thee,” Old Tulla said firmly, “no magic or schemes of mine will hold thee, make no mistake. But even so, I have a hunch thou won’t get far.”
“We’ll see,” Falon said grimly and turning on her heel she marched out of the tent.
Epilogue: The Chain
If anyone could have looked inside through the fastened and warded flaps of Madam Tulla’s faded blue tent of wonders, all they would have seen was an aged woman laying on her cot with an arm thrown over her eyes.
To anyone other than another trained practitioner of the mystic arts, she might have looked just like any other old woman trying to block out the light while she took a nap.
With her arm over her face, they would completely miss the way her eyes were rolled so far back in her head that nothing but the whites of her eyes were exposed. Even then, had someone thought to check, they wouldn’t have thought that she was casting magic because, as everyone knew, Witches could only work their magics by moonlight. Of course, everyone would have been wrong because while the magic of the moon was limited in exactly that way, the Deep Magic of the Earth was not.
Lost inside her head, the Witch known to the world as Madam Tulla sent her magic pulsing through the earth. Utilizing the faintest of magical vibrations, such communications were so difficult to detect—let alone decipher—as to be all but undetectable by the Invader Wizards of her people’s New Blood oppressors.
The magic, known among the Common Brood as the Witch Chain, had just been wrought. Now the only thing that waited was a response from one of the Brood.
After an interminably long wait, someone eventually felt and responded to signal.
“Greetings, Sister,” came the response in a magical signature the old Witch was unfamiliar with, “with whom do I have the pleasure of communion?”
“Root and Thorn, Sister,” the old Witch sent back sharply. “A proper greeting begins with the proper formula, or art thou now claiming to be a Branch? In which case, thou should say so!”
“My apologies, Sister,” the other sender responded contritely, “Root and Thorn, and may I have yer name?”
“Sister, my name is Tulla,” the old witch sent back shortly, “am I speaking with a proper Witch, or a mere Brood Sister?”
“I have the honor of being a Sister of the Common Brood, Sister Tulla; however, I will be taking the last of my moonlight trials next equinox and hope to qualify for the next Veil Conclave,” the Brood Sister sent back, and added as if in afterthought, “my name is Bonnie Bee, out of Glenda by Morlan.”
“Better than I could have expected, I suppose,” Tulla replied, unable to completely eliminate the hint of sourness that colored her sending magic. The name ‘Bonnie Bee,’ combined with her low class Invader slang, smacked too much of crossed bloodlines for an old Witch of Tulla’s tastes. And even though she knew this was the way things were more and mo
re nowadays, she couldnot help but wish things were otherwise. But her wishes clearly did not move heaven and Earth, as she had been reduced to a camp-following huckster and mountebank of an herbwise woman by fate’s cruel, treacherous plan.
“Ye are fortunate to find a woman in range of the border at this time of day; I’d be more careful with yer words if ye want a relay, Brood Witch,” the other woman, Bonnie, snapped at her. “If instead ye have news of the army, then make it quick; I have things to do.”
“My apologies,” Tulla said just as sourly as before, although this time her sending was also laced with more than a hint of contrition. “Thou hast been helpful in responding, and I didn’t mean to imply anything otherwise, Sister. Please forgive an old Witch for her unthinking prejudices.”
“I suppose I must,” the other woman metaphysically sighed, “very well, what can I do for ye? Have ye information to share, or are ye looking to form a Chain?”
“Sister, I need a Chain extending to two or three weeks’ foot travel back from the border—to deep within the Invader Fief known as Lamont,” Tulla explained quickly.
“Ye have the oddest manner of speech I’ve encountered,” the Brood Sister sent back.
Instead of saying any of half a dozen things, Tulla held her piece and simply radiated impatience.
“Ye are fortunate I was even at home; the Witch over at the Stag River hamlet goes to sell her fish at this time of day,” the Brood Sister said pointedly.
“A blessing, Sister,” Tulla gritted out, and the other woman only responded with the equivalent of a magical sniff.
“I can try, Sister Tulla, but three weeks distance on foot? We’ll need luck to Chain that faraway…I’m not sure we’ll have enough of the Brood open to the Witch Chain on a non-designated day.”
“Please try, Sister Bonnie Bee, if thou would be so kind,” Tulla urged, doing her best to stroke the younger woman’s ego so that she would stop prattling and do her job.
“First: any news of the army?” Bonnie Bee asked anxiously.
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