“Keep the food warm; we’ll be right down,” Christie said, slowly yet firmly closing the door in their faces.
Hearing the door latch close and then locking it, Christie leaned back against the solid oak door and sighed.
“Why were we fighting anyway?” she asked, shaking her head and looking more bemused than anything.
“Because we promised not to use the key on each other, only on the little ones when they’re being bad—and you broke the promise,” Falon replied mulishly.
“That’s not why we were fighting,” Christie retorted, rolling her eyes.
Falon picked up her pillow and held it to her chest as she sat back down on the edge bed. Taking this as permission, Christie gracefully sat down in the single chair posted at Falon’s combination vanity, writing and drawing desk.
Taking her younger sister’s silence for the stubborn refusal to engage that it was, Christie leaned back in the chair and folded her arms. “I can wait here all day,” Christie said in a mild voice.
“Be my guest,” Falon said, and even though she secretly wanted to make peace she couldn’t help adding, “your precious lunch will get cold if you do, though.”
Christie arched an eyebrow, one that by its mere presence made Falon start to feel guilty. “My sister is more important than any meal,” she paused and then said with cutting effect, “although…winter wasn’t that long ago, and you were the one insisting to the Littles that it would be ungrateful in the least to waste any food.”
Remembering how sick to her stomach and morally outraged she had felt immediately after butchering the goats, Falon’s shoulders hunched. They had always had someone else to do the butchering of their food for them. She had known in her head that goat meat came from goats, and cow meat from cows, but to actually have to kill and slaughter one of them herself was something entirely different. She shook her head, maybe she had taken a some bit of her own upset and outrage on the siblings. She certainly hadn’t been able to eat two bites of meat after killing her first goat.
“They can have my portion; I’m not feeling hungry,” she finally grudged.
“We made a big meal,” Christie said in a smooth voice.
“I know what you’re up to,” Falon grumbled, “fine. I’ll go. There, are you happy?” she scowled.
“This isn’t about food, no matter how much effort went into it,” Christie said in a long-suffering voice, “if that’s all it was, I swear I wouldn’t have said a thing.”
“That’s a lie,” Falon retorted, “ever since the first winter father started taking to bed you’ve been watching with the eyes of a hawk and the voice of a harpy to see if the rest of us don’t eat properly.”
At first Christie looked taken aback and then slightly offended, until she suddenly burst out laughing. For some reason, this relatively good natured response to her dig left Falon feeling even more frustrated and upset than ever.
Chapter 11: Confessions and a Meeting of the Minds
“You know what? You’re right,” Christie admitted as soon as she had stopped laughing, “nice way to try and change the subject, by the way.”
“It’s the truth,” Falon said, both looking and feeling offended.
“One of the best ways to change the subject is with the truth,” Christie agreed before continuing, “why it’s almost as effective as a lie betimes.”
Falon stared at her older sister, feeling her ears turn red.
“Oh don’t get all high and mighty, sister, I just want to talk is all. I promise,” Christie placed a hand over her heart.
“So talk already,” Falon said glaring at the floor. She knew the best way to get past this mess was to let her sister have her say, then Falon could speak her piece in return and it would be all over and done with.
“Look,” Christie started half irritably before taking a shallow breath and evening out her tone, “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t have the skills to survive on the battlefield.”
“Thanks,” Falon said shortly, even though it was probably true.
“Even though it’s the truth,” Christie continued, echoing her inner monologue.
“Gee thanks,” Falon retorted clenching her fists, “any more pearls of wisdom before sending me off to die?!”
Christie went red in the face. “I guess I deserve that,” her older sister said finally, “although you do insist on taking everything I say the wrong way.”
“I don’t know of any other way to take them…” Falon started out hotly, and then trailed off when her sister turned her back on her and started for the door.
Seeing Christie walk away wasn’t just surprising—it caused a heart wrenching pain inside her. “Hey, where are you going?” she demanded.
Bending over and leaning down right beside the door, Christie picked up a leather parcel. Bringing it back to the vanity she set it down with a thump, and Falon could see that the ‘leather parcel’ was really an old, leather satchel.
“I take it your meeting with Father didn’t go so well,” Christie stated matter-of-factly, placing a hand on the satchel.
“Why do you think that?” Falon asked defensively. “For all you know it went perfectly fine.”
“Blair said she saw you running out of his room crying,” Christie said bluntly.
“Oh,” Falon’s shoulders slumped, “he-he was so proud of me…until he realized I wasn’t Garve. Then he just wanted me to leave so he could finish taking root.”
“Oh, Falon,” Christie breathed, sounding helpless.
“It’s okay,” Falon replied with a brave smile, “he said as long as long as you were willing to write it all up, I could be his heir after Rogan.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Falon,” Christie said shaking her head.
Gratified that her sister wasn’t acting as if Falon was somehow secretly trying to steal their inheritance, the younger sister lay back on the bed with a thump.
“At least now I can go out and fight instead of Papa, and it’s all nice and legal for Prince William,” Falon smirked.
“I understand,” Christie said simply and looked away.
“At least now if I die, they can’t take away the Estate,” Falon continued morosely.
“That’s not funny,” Christie said bluntly.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Falon snapped, giving her sister a withering look.
“I mean it,” Christie said severely, “if you’re the one to go…”
“Oh get over it,” Falon said hotly, “Papa doesn’t care.”
Christie raised her arm before realizing what she had done and lowered it. “I understand why you feel that way, but you have to understand there are lots of people in this house that love you, and that includes Papa—even if he doesn’t seem to be able to focus on anything except himself right now,” Christie said.
Falon nodded, knowing that her sister was right and a small ball of warmth started to grow in her middle at the renewed realization. Then she sighed, “I know you didn’t say it, but if Papa went out and died we wouldn’t automatically lose the Estate, but Lord Lamont or someone else would probably appoint a steward or Guardian.”
“That’s true,” Christie said raising one eyebrow in surprise, “I’m surprised you were paying attention.”
“Protocol books are old, dusty and really boring,” Falon agreed, “but when it’s your future on the line, it’s kind of hard not to pay attention.”
The two sisters sat there in mutual silence for almost a minute.
“Look Christie, I know it’s not something you want to hear,” Falon began hesitantly before deciding it was time to just say it, “but if I die, at least there’s a chance Papa will hold on long enough for Rogan to turn old enough to officially manage things.”
“I refuse to talk this way,” Christie said wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s probably for the best, all things considered,” Falon continued morbidly.
“I absolutely refuse,” Christie reiterate
d, getting to her feet and giving the satchel on Falon’s little vanity desk a resounding slap, “you hear me Falon Rankin? I absolutely, positively refuse!”
“At least I can shoot a short bow now, although I still miss the target more times than not,” Falon said bluntly, “but watching our brothers play around with their Shri-Kriv’s doesn’t suddenly turn me into a master of the knife or dagger.”
“You seemed to do alright with the boar,” Christie said stiffly, “and you used to wrestle with our brothers more than I ever did.”
“At least until they started getting too big for me,” Falon flared, “and the boar was more luck than anything.”
“I refuse to believe that,” Christie said sharply, “you’ve a brain, if you’ll only use it. You can learn the skills you need with time; I believe in you, even if you don’t.”
“I’m a girl, not some giantess of old, Krisy. I don’t have a man’s weight, a man’s heft, or a man’s strength. I certainly don’t have a man’s skill to compensate,” Falon looked down at her clenched hands and stared at them as if the brand new little red spot between the space of her thumb and pointer finger, where the ashwood sliver used to be, would somehow provide inspiration, “I almost got killed yesterday by an overgrown pig. How much worse will I fare against a man?”
“Men die from boar strike every season,” Christie said firmly, “and I realize we don’t have a lot of time, but what little we do have we’re going to spend getting you ready.”
“How?” Falon exploded. “How are we going to cram a lifetime of teaching and training into me in less than two weeks?! Papa was training Garve and Daman from the time they were old enough to hold a stick, and even they weren’t the best. They did okay when placed against other squire’s sons, but against the sons of knights…” she shook her head.
“We can do more than you think, Fal,” Christie replied in a voice with absolutely no give to it.
“We have no arms teacher, no bow master—not even a simple riding instructor,” Falon flared with righteous anger, “nor do we have the money to pay one, if by some miracle he walked on the farm this very day!”
“I have a plan, Fal,” Christie said flatly.
Falon blinked and then her mouth tightened before she shrugged, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel as she threw her hands in the air.
“Baffle me with your mastery of the art of combat. Your brilliant insight into battle, sister,” Falon scoffed kicking her feet into the air, “since I’m probably dead anyway. Why not listen to the words of wisdom from an older sister with just as little experience in such things as I do?”
“Stop it,” Christie cried, “you’re not dead yet. Stop talking like that!”
Seeing how upset such talk was making her older sister, Falon actually felt guilty. It wasn’t fair that she was the one about to die and yet she was still the one feeling guilty, but that was certainly how she felt and it only compounded the overwhelming sense of misery she felt.
“Oh, go on,” Falon said sourly, pressing her lips closed and waving a hand for Krisy to continue.
Picking up the satchel, Christie slammed it back down on the vanity desk, causing the little working/beauty table to shake.
“Hey! Easy on my stuff,” Falon exclaimed, sitting up at the side of her bed abruptly.
“If you’re already dead, then what do you care?” Christie demanded stiffly.
“You’re the one who’ll care if you break it,” Falon growled at her older, bigger sister.
“Since I don’t know anything about combat and dying, why should you listen to me?” Christie demanded, reaching into the satchel and pulling out a leather-bound book. Falon could only stare at her in surprise.
“Fair enough,” Christie continued evenly as she tossed a book in Falon’s lap, “don’t listen to me then. Listen to someone who’s actually been there and cut your whining. We’re going to get you through this; you don’t have a choice.”
Falon’s jaw dropped and she continued to stare at her older sister. “I’m about to join the King’s Levy and you want me to read a book?” she asked incredulously.
“Papa’s journal,” Christie said flatly, “read it, learn it, know it.”
Falon’s face twisted, but her big sister continued, “Don’t give me that look. I don’t care how angry or upset you are with him,” Christie glared, “if you’re heading out there like you were one of his sons, then you will have access to his journals just the same as if you were Garve or Daman.”
“I’m not sure a book is the best way to go about this,” Falon tried to say tactfully, but Christie was having none of it.
“Oh I promise you it’s not the best way to learn the things you need to know,” Christie said reaching into her satchel and pulling out the other leather-bound book.
Falon stared with dismay at the second book. This one a monster, at least twice as thick and half again as long as the smaller more weather beaten journal.
“However, for you it’s the only way. As you pointed out, Father hasn’t been training you since you were old enough to walk. So we’re just going to have to cram your head full of everything you’ll need to know as best we can,” Christie said firmly.
“Those things are huge,” Falon said in disbelief.
“You’ve read longer,” Christie said bluntly, “at least…you did back before papa took sick and we had to look after the farm. The two of us did that together,” she held up a hand, “I know everyone helped—Kaitlin especially—but let’s be honest here, it was the two of us that kept things together here. Well now it’s time to make up for all that time in the barn, orchards and fields.”
“How can I read that many pages? I’ll go cross eyed,” Falon exclaimed.
“You’ll read them both before you go,” Christie said with implacable determination.
“Look, Krisy,” Falon said as tactfully as possible, “I’m not sure staying inside the house and reading is the best way to get ready. I should probably be outside, practicing my riding and such.”
Christie was already shaking her head in negation, “No Fal, the last thing we need is for you to break your neck trying to get ready to ride and fight like a man.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that,” Falon exclaimed in surprise, “I have to learn how to fight or I’ll be killed!”
“Look Fal,” Christie said sitting back down heavily, “we just have to face facts. There’s no way we could train you up to be as good as the weakest, stupidest, least skilled Squire’s son of your age—not only in the time we have, but possibly ever.”
“Gee thanks!” Falon spat, starting to feel insulted.
Christie sighed. “You just don’t have the size or the muscle for it,” she said finally.
“We’ll I’m glad we finally cleared all that up,” Falon replied hotly, “I don’t know about your New Blood ancestors, but my foremothers used to carry their weight on the battlefield.”
“Yeah, and look how well that went for them,” Christie flared, “a bunch of hot-tempered forest women who ran outside the safety of their trees and promptly got themselves killed,” she sneered derisively. “They may have held out for a generation or two happily getting themselves killed fighting off our men, but meanwhile ‘my’ foremothers—who didn’t feel the need to run out onto the battlefield—popped out another brood of kids, and we overran those Old Blood biddies of yours with numbers; pure and simple numbers!”
“So I’m a hot tempered forest woman now, am I,” Falon glared, “with mud under my boots and a pine cone up my shirt. Is that it?”
“Maybe if you had their Old Magic you could run around playing Duncan thick-thews with the boys and men, but unless I missed an entry in the ledger somewhere, you’re still just plain old Falon Rankin: a Half Blood young woman without the advantage of years of battle training under her belt.”
“I hate you,” Falon snapped.
“I don’t care,” Christie retorted coldly.
There was a palpable si
lence between the two, which Falon eventually broke. “The worst part is when you’re right. You get completely insufferable,” she ground out. Falon paused to take a few deep breaths, and then reluctantly looked over at her sister, “What’s your great plan?”
“You try to play the country Squire on her charger and you’ll just get killed,” Christie said forcefully, “the first time you cross swords with a man who’s trained his entire life for battle,” she snapped her fingers, “that’ll be it.”
“I can ride Phantom,” Falon snapped, “I know you think I can’t because I fell off him one time, but I’ve been sneaking out and riding him for months now.”
“Falon,” Christie started warningly.’
“He needs the exercise. If you keep him all cooped up every day, even as old as he is, he’d go stir crazy,” she defended righteously, “the stable or the field, it’s all the same to an old warhorse like him.”
“Don’t think I’m an idiot; I knew you were riding him in the evenings,” Christie said rolling his eyes.
Falon stopped short with another angry retort dying on her tongue. “No way. I was careful, I waited until everyone else was inside,” she objected, feeling outraged. Her sister had flat out refused to let her ride Phantom after falling off him last year. With no one else around to hog him—like her older brothers, and her father who was too sick to care—it had been liberating to finally be able to ride Papa’s warhorse…well, at least until he threw her into a tree. But she had been careful after that—both in the riding, and in making sure no one else saw her.
“I knew if I let you back on him with my blessing that you’d be just as reckless, and next time you’d break and arm or something,” Christie explained, rolling her eyes emphatically. “This way you were more careful, and he actually got some exercise. It was a win-win.”
“You half-braid, you,” Falon breathed at the way she had just been played…for months!
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 8