The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “The only thing I’ve ever asked the Prince for is to let me go back to my men,” Falon said, confused and realizing she was treading on dangerous ground.

  “That’s it?” he asked, his voice threatening dire consequences of she lied.

  “I swear it,” Falon said truthfully.

  The Captain harrumphed again, but this time with less dark undertones to it.

  “But, Sir, how can he separate you from the Swans?” she asked haltingly. “You are in the service of Lord Richard Lamont, the same as I?”

  “Up and out, Squire. Up and out,” he repeated as he glared down at the map.

  “How so?” she asked, craning her neck to peer down at the map.

  “I can no longer be the Captain of this Company because I’ve just been given lands in the Frost March,” Smythe snapped.

  “Really, Sir?” Falon said with surprise and then her face lit up. “This is great news, Captain; you’re a Lord now!”

  “Landed Knight, Falon,” Smythe said sourly, “and my lands lay on the extreme edge of our ‘settled’ lands. So thanks to our lord Prince, I’ll be given the chance to fight savages in the Summer and freeze in the Winter, all from the comfort of a burnt-out manor—and winter lasts the better part of half the year, this far north of the Gap!”

  Falon stared at him and then back down at the map.

  “Being a border lord is no walk in the park. This is not thanks for service rendered; it’s the chance to do what I’m doing right now, only for the rest of my life and without the opportunity to seek a new Lord or a new contract,” he explained bitterly.

  “Why not, Sir?” she asked, because it sounded like he was looking for her to ask the question.

  “I can’t seek a new Lord, because I’ll be the bloody Lord! Or, at least close enough to it as makes no difference, being a Landed Border Knight,” he turned to her with a heavy gaze. “Beware the gifts of a powerful Lord, young Lieutenant. Often times it’s far worse than when they simply ignore you.”

  So saying, he snatched up the map and tossed it into the corner, sending Doolie scrambling to pick it up and carefully roll it up to replace in the map case.

  “I think I understand, Sir,” Falon said with a slow nod, “you’ve been given poor land, angry neighbors, and a thankless assignment. But,” she felt compelled to ask, “why would you think any of this is somehow my doing?” She felt genuinely put out by the implication, as she had been nothing but loyal to the Captain and couldn’t let her honor be called into question without objection.

  “Remember how I told you you’d need at least a half a dozen recommendations from valor on the field in order to make Knight?” Smythe asked bluntly, answering her question with a question of his own in return.

  “Yes,” Falon said cautiously and with a sinking sensation in her middle. “Why?” she felt compelled to add when the balding Captain just stared down at his belly.

  He looked up at her with hot and red rimmed eyes. “Because, along with my pension, I’ve been informed that,” he picked up the scroll and started quoting, “‘due in no small part to your thorough training and high commendation for battlefield valor, your recommendation to make your Squire, Falon Rankin, into a full-fledged, belted Knight, is to be granted by the Prince.’”

  Falon stared at the scroll dumbly and then clenched her fists. “No!” Falon burst unable to contain herself any longer. “This was supposed to be my last campaign,” she raged, reaching up and grabbing her hair and pulling until it hurt. The pain let her focus through the enormity of what had just happened—the unthinkable had quite literally just taken place. She couldn’t be a Knight! “And if not my last campaign, then at least an important step towards it—along with a release from service!”

  Smythe thumped back into his campaign chair. “It goes on to say that because of the constraints of the situation—which I take to mean the death of Baron William and the need to apportion his lands and estates to the Prince’s sycophantic hanger’s-on, and ensure the loyalty of those Knights and Lords that survived the Ice Raiders as well as the nature of your battlefield elevation—that you’ll have to forgo the three day vigil,” Smythe told her.

  Falon shook her head, simply unable to believe this.

  “So you’ll get to forgo the joy of spending the night bathing naked in a bathtub filled with ice-cold water, surrounded by your soon-to-be fellow Knights as they regale you with their wisdom,” Smythe informed her, “in favor of escorting me to my estates.”

  “I have to bathe naked in a tub?” Falon said, backing away as she tried to figure out if she should run now, or after she was out of the tent and had some time to gather her things. She could slip away in the night. She could— Her train of thought was interrupted as she stumbled over a piece of armor and fell on her backside.

  “I think we can forgo that particular trial, as since the Prince says, I’m to leave for my lands right away. I may retain command of the Swan Battalion until he calls for them, as a personal favor from him unto me,” Smythe glowered, “did you hear that? I have the privilege of finding a way to feed and shelter the Battalion on my new, almost certainly gutted lands—at my own expense, no less—until he finds it convenient to take the Battalion off my hands!”

  “What other things will I have to do, if not the bath?” Falon asked, feeling trapped in the tent and suddenly needing air. There was no way she could survive a naked anything trial. Better to stage her death at the hands of the savages and flee—at least that way she’d finally be free of it all.

  “Like me, you’ll be a simple battlefield Knight, not belonging to any of their special high and mighty Knightly Orders,” Captain Smythe frowned at her. “He claims time is of the essence, so after a basic dubbing of the sword on your shoulders, we’re to break camp and leave.” He jumped to his feet and loomed over her, “Did you hear that? He’s too cheap to feed and pay us even one day longer than necessary.”

  Falon blinked in surprise. Maybe she didn’t have to fake her death after all. On the other hand…what was she thinking? She needed to run as far and as fast as she could. She couldn’t be a Knight! This was all the fault of that abominable Prince.

  She clutched at her chest as realization dawned. She wasn’t being Knighted because of battlefield heroism, no matter what Smythe said. If that were the case she was sure Prince William wouldn’t have elevated her, not in a thousand-thousand years. This was payback for staying silent about the murder of the odious Baron William, former Lord of the Frost March! She was being Knighted not for honor but the exact opposite: because of murder! That she didn’t commit the crime with her own hands and that there was nothing she could do to bring the truth out and make it right, did nothing to console her at the moment.

  Her ‘Knighthood’ was to be based on a reward for evil deeds. She was doomed. The gods themselves would strike her down, the Saints would avert their eyes, the—

  Smythe was looking at her strangely. “Are you okay, Lieutenant?” he asked for the first time since she’d entered the tent a hint of concern in his face.

  “Never better, Sir,” she lied woodenly, then felt compelled to ask because a man in her circumstances would ask, “Did he say anything about who would take command of the Fighting Swans after you’re pensioned off?” she asked half-heartedly, struggling against the disinterest she felt over who would take over after Swans left the Frozen North. For all she knew they might be left out in the North under the Captain until they died.

  “Nary a word,” the Captain frowned at her, “he’ll play some kind of game with us. With your lot, I suppose I should start thinking that’s for sure.”

  “Okay,” Falon closed her eyes.

  “You look a little peaked; you need to get some rest,” Smythe said with concern.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Falon replied politely, already planning her escape within the privacy of her mind.

  “Best you go and get ready for your dubbing; the Royal Guards will escort you to your tent so you can get dressed in yo
ur best and then take you to the Prince for your Knighting,” Smythe said sourly. “Then you can rest.”

  “Royal Guards?” Falon yelped.

  “They’re right outside,” Smythe told her, “like I told you, the Prince wants this over and done with as soon as possible so he can get rid of us. The blood hasn’t even dried on the field and he’s already—”

  The Captain continued in this vein for quite some time, obviously feeling free to vent his spleen against the Prince now that he was being exiled in the frozen north to fight barbarians for the rest of his probably-short life, but Falon was no longer really paying attention.

  Her plan to slip away into the night, taken by savages, had just imploded. Royal Guards were waiting outside the tent to take her to the Prince! One way or the other, baring a miracle, she was going to be Knighted.

  Falon hung her head. Hopefully the Prince didn’t change his mind and decide to have her bathe naked in front of him—and a bunch of other men—or she was doubly ruined.

  Falon stood up, uncaring that she was interrupting the Captain mid-rant. “I’d best not keep his Highness waiting,” she said faintly.

  Not waiting for Sir Smythe’s permission, she turned and headed out to face her doom.

  Epilogue 1: Like a Bull through the Fence

  “Remember, dear: you have to open yourself to everything that is all around you,” she said patiently.

  “I know in my head that I can see the magic, even if the moon doesn’t cast its glow…but it just seems so strange and unnatural,” the younger woman sighed.

  “Some of us have a natural affinity for moonlight, which makes some things easier and others harder,” the older woman sighed, “it just takes time is all, dear.”

  “You say that as if some do not have an affinity for the moon. Yet how can that be? The opposite of a talent for healing would have to be a complete lack of talent,” she paused her eyes narrowing as she looked up at the old woman. “Or do you speak of other sources of power?” the younger woman asked insightfully, “other than the moon.”

  “The moon is the most benign of the powers once held by the Witches of old, Cloe,” the old woman said with a faintly mocking smile and then added mildly, “and to speak of anything else could be considered treason by some.”

  “You know more than you’re telling me,” said Cloe, sounding frustrated. “But that’s why I sought you out and then marched into this land of ice and snow; I could have been back home healing sprains and small cuts weeks ago!” She took a deep breath and then continued less emotionally, “I know still have much to learn, so even if all you’re willing to teach is healing then I promise to apply myself fullest of my abilities—limited as they may be.”

  Tulla smiled serenely. The little fish is primed and ready to start being slowly reeled in, she thought. A woman never really appreciated something unless she had to work for it. How far this apprentice Healing Wench could go would depend on her ability and continued willingness to learn.

  “Have you ever heard of a Moonstone?” she asked mildly. The little fish wasn’t ready for the deeper mysteries yet…and maybe not ever. That would depend on where her talents eventually lay and so far the only talent that was clear was for the moon. But Tulla could tell it was time to give out another crumb and secrets were like apple juice, no matter how small or harmless they appeared. No matter how much one drinks, a secret—just like apple juice—only left one thirsting for more.

  “No…?” Cloe looked at her with suppressed excitement in her eyes.

  “They are very rare, and few know their uses. But like a woman can see power during the day and without the light of the moon to assist her, a moonstone can store that power for future use,” Tula explained, reaching into her pouch and producing a small, white stone the size of her thumbnail. This particular stone had a crack running almost all the way through it. Tulla had a better one secreted away but there was no need to expose more than was absolutely necessary—even to one who had proven, for the most part, to be trustworthy and had no cause to betray her. Besides, having hidden resources never went amiss.

  Cloe’s eyes became as wide as saucers. “Tell me more,” she breathed, extending an open palm.

  Tulla smiled and was just about to drop the cracked Moonstone in the younger woman’s hand when there was a commotion outside the tent.

  “Out of the way, boy!” said a deep, gravelly, male voice.

  Tulla’s hand closed back over the Moonstone and clenched it tightly. “I’m afraid that will be all the time we have for a lesson today,” the old Witch said flatly, her eyes hardening as the man outside kept making a fuss.

  Cloe’s eyes darted to the wall of the tent and the commotion outside and then ducked her head. “Thank you, Madame Tulla,” she said quietly, gathering herself and getting to her feet.

  “Feel free to come back any time, dear,” the old Witch smiled benignly, “hopefully we’ll be less busy next time.”

  “Of course,” the younger woman said in a low voice and then pulled back the tent flap to step outside.

  Tulla sat quietly within her tent waiting, as outside she listened as her old visitor—and her soon-to-be new one—moved past each other.

  “Captain Smythe,” Cloe said quietly.

  There was a pause followed by grunt of impatience at being held up by the social niceties. “You’re that young Wench healing for the other half,” he said and Tulla could all but feel the big oaf’s brow wrinkling, “Cloe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. If by ‘other half’ you mean the Lieutenant’s company…” the apprentice Healing Wench—or rather, former apprentice, as she was currently filling the duties of a fully trained Wench—said questioningly.

  “That company is the other half of the Swan Battalion,” the Captain said stiffly and then pushed his way inside the tent.

  Tulla watched him scowl at her before kicking the leather cushion Cloe had been sitting on into another position prior to flopping down on it as if he, not she, was the owner of this tent.

  She held her tongue, listening until the young apprentice’s footsteps faded away from the tent. Then her face morphed from the mostly placid font of elder wisdom she had presented to the young, would-be Witch, and back into its rightful demeanor as a hardened woman of immense skill and power.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” she said in low cold voice, her eyes boring holes in him.

  “You know what this meeting is about, Witch,” the battle-hardened campaigner grunted, completely unfazed by the dire warning in her eyes.

  “Pretend that I don’t—and explain yourself,” she snapped.

  “You really ought to use something other than goat leather for these,” he said, shifting on the pillow as if enough pressure from his large, man-sized body would somehow grind it into submission.

  The old Witch just glared at him. Meeting her gaze without flinching, he reached over and plucked a half-eaten chicken bone and proceeded to demolish what remained, and he did so with every apparent relish.

  “That was to be my lunch,” she said when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything any time soon.

  “It was a bit gamey,” he said, licking his fingers and smacking his lips, “just like the pillow.”

  “A battle-hound like you should be used to worse,” she retorted.

  “I am,” the Captain said more or less agreeably.

  “I would think you’d be more concerned with eating the food off an old woman’s plate than you seem to be,” Tulla said sweetly, and if one changed the words ‘old woman’ for ‘old witch,’ the implication of poison was quite clear. Few robbed a witch, left her alive, and failed to regret it later.

  For half a second the Captain looked ill at ease, and then he shrugged and tossed the now well-gnawed bone against the tent wall with a nonchalant shrug. “My chances of living a long life just went down considerably, so I’m not as concerned about munching on a suspicious piece of meat as I might have been before,” he grunted, starting to
reach over for the small chunk of moldy cheese still left on the plate.

  Tulla irritably swatted away his hand and the Captain settled back with a snort.

  “I did what you asked and put in the good word for your Thorn, Witch,” he said, finally coming to the topic that had brought him here to her tent. She could tell this was so from the half feral glint in his eye, “She’s a Knight now—or will be shortly, just like you wanted.”

  Tulla almost dropped the Moonstone clutched in her hand in surprise. Realizing this, she quickly pocketed it back inside her robes. “I didn’t want her to become a Knight,” Tulla snapped, recovering her poise.

  “You instructed me to put in the recommendation, so I did; lo and behold, the Prince then sends his guards to my tent to escort her over to be dubbed,” Smythe growled.

  “This is happening now?” Tulla asked feeling her stomach start to churn. “Right now?”

  “As we speak,” the Mercenary, Old Blood, Captain said as he bared his teeth.

  “Well…this is a surprise,” she said realizing there was nothing she could do about it at that point.

  “It was to me and so I came over to share the news,” the Captain said. Then his voice turned hard, “You know, when you first came to me for help with your little Thorn, I was surprised.”

  “Yes, your failure to realize ‘he’ was really a ‘she’ was quite obvious,” Tulla said sweetly, or as sweetly as an old woman who wasn’t very sweet at all could manage.

  “Careful, crone,” Smythe snapped and then seemed to settle for a moment, “as I said, I was surprised. I mean at first and even second looks, ‘he’ seemed like a dutiful, if green and not particularly inspired, Officer. ‘His’ skill with arms alone was decidedly subpar although I had heard reports ‘he’ was working hard to correct that deficiency. All of which combined to make ‘him’ seem superior to the half dozen other choices pushed at me. ‘His’,” he quirked a smile, “or rather I should say ‘her’ lack of ambition, when combined with the ability to take direction, actually made my Lieutenant much more valuable to me than some Knight or Lord’s son too full of himself to follow orders. That lot’s usually too determined to get himself and a bunch of other killed proving himself worthy of his name. So finding out she was a Thorn wasn’t a factor. I know my heritage; we used to have a lot of women leaders and warriors, and besides, I’d have something to hold over her if she started to lose her mind, begin hungering for glory and bucked at the bit. But now I have to wonder…”