The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3) Page 16

  Slowly, the half-forgotten way of reading with one’s hands came back to her and she closed her eyes as her fingers discerned the message.

  It was from her mother. She cared for and missed her daughter. She wanted her free to find her destiny and…

  Tears leaked down her face within the privacy of her own tent. She had come here to the northlands to make sure Falon was in a good condition. She wouldn’t stay because that might interfere with Falon’s witch ordeal, but…there was some part she couldn’t understand. It used an arrangement of notches she didn’t fully understand, but she thought it had to do with another witch in the camp. It might have meant Tulla? But her mother said that if she had any more trouble, all Falon had to do was hold the little amulet under the light of the newborn moon and she would know to come. It said that she didn’t have to be a Thorn, or a warrior, or anything else, but she was her daughter and if she wanted to be a witch she could teach her back home when she was ready.

  “Oh, mama,” Falon sighed, her sudden happiness at receiving this message from home turning to sadness. Why make a journey all the way out here only to not come and see here? It made no sense. And the message spoke of an ordeal. What ordeal? She yearned to see a familiar face.

  Had her mother spoken with the other witch somehow? Was that why she left without speaking with her? Had something happened?

  Falon felt a shiver.

  Left with only questions that had no answers, she picked back up the stick and read it once again before carefully placing it in her campaign backpack beside her letters from home.

  For several minutes she sat there thinking about Two Wicks and the Brown Creek estate before giving herself a shake and firmly putting those things out of her mind.

  She had to get up, see to the men, and get her breakfast before they marched. Life went on and the Prince’s army waited for no woman. Even if that young woman would very much like to take a day off and search all around the camp to see if, just in case, she could find a clue as to if her mother was really here or if she’d somehow sent a night owl out to find her.

  Absently humming a familiar tune from back home, she started to tidy up her tent as he put things away for travel. They had a campaign that wasn’t going to wait.

  At least that’s what the prince kept telling everyone.

  Chapter 29: The Tower Adepts petition the Prince

  “That that’s the full list, my lord Prince. In summary: every unit that is a part of this army, plus an additional two levies from lords holding a grudge against Baron Froggor, have rejoined the army.

  “Wonderful news, Lord Declan,” the Prince said with a big smile.

  “And finally…” Darius said carefully, causing Prince William’s brow to furrow.

  “What is it?” he asked, pursing his lips. “And I’m warning you that right now I am in a very good mood. I would caution you not to ruin it without very good cause.”

  “I would never dream of such a thing,” Declan said, pulling out a folded handkerchief to dab his suddenly damp forehead.

  “Then feel free to proceed,” the Prince said lazily.

  “Right, of course,” Declan gathered himself, “there is a petition from several Adepts of the White Tower seeking action from the Prince Marshal.”

  “Feel free to write an appropriate reply in our name sometime this week,” the Prince said disinterestedly.

  The Prince’s advisor coughed. “In point of fact, a delegation is in the camp this very moment awaiting a chance to present their petition directly to you in person,” said the Advisor.

  “Regarding?” the Prince said suddenly as his focus sharpened on the Advisor, “What exactly do they want from us, Lord Declan?”

  “I believe it is regarding a party of Witch Hunters that have gone missing,” he replied.

  A fire kindled in the Prince’s eyes. “I wonder just how much this Delegation would be willing to give in return for the favor of a Prince?” Prince William said slyly.

  “A Prince by himself is no small thing. A Prince with an army at his back?” the Lord Advisor sighed. “Given their current state of agitation, I’m sure they’d be eager to come to some kind of accommodation.”

  “Your words are sweet music to my ears. Send them in immediately upon their arrival to my tent,” the Prince said, and by ‘tent’ he was referring to the near palatial edifice of canvas and poles large enough for more than fifty men to take up residence inside.

  It took only a few minutes for the delegation to be brought forth. “Greetings from the White Tower, your Highness,” said a wizard with an iron grey beard with streaks of white running through it.

  “How’s the old ivory league doing today?” the Prince drawled laconically.

  “As resigned to the annals of history—as they have been for the past sixty seven years since the big three joined forces to form the White Tower—as ever, or so I would presume, Highness,” the wizard sighed.

  “The same buildings the same people, or nearly the same, same agenda…you can understand why there are those of us who are sometimes confused,” the Prince snickered before suddenly turned serious, as if his previous levity had never existed. “What can the Royal Family do for an esteemed member of the Tower?”

  “A few doddering remnants who, even back in the day, were near fully aligned with—” the Wizard got a handle on his agitation and then frowned. “The internal politics of the wizarding community are not up for discussion, but are neither here or there for the purposes of today’s discussion. You ask what you can do for us? The Tower has a group of wayward adepts we need help locating.”

  The Prince covered his mouth with a hand, miming shock and dismay. “Don’t tell me that adepts of the Tower have fallen in with a bad crowd and need to be rescued from the fleshpots of midlands before their virtue is deemed entirely unrecoverable,” said Prince William.

  The Wizard’s face purpled with rage, and the half dozen adepts behind him glared at the Prince. “If all you’re interested in is casting aspersions on the good name of our organization, we’ll take our leave. The Tower sent out a group of Witch Hunters on a routine tour of the surrounding areas of the midlands. They missed their last check-in. The last information we had from them was the reporting of a suspected rogue witch sighting and then nothing. Right now we don’t even know for sure if they are dead or alive,” the Wizard ground out.

  “How shocking,” the Prince said, suppressing the urge to yawn. The last Blood Rebellion had been more than twenty years ago, and resistance had been so pitiful both in numbers and execution that there’d hardly been any reprisals outside of the execution of the participants themselves. The witches were a failed and nearly forgotten force, and were now an enemy trotted out by the adepts of the Tower whenever the crown was considering a tax or they were in need of additional funding for their experiments. But they were not a genuine threat to the crown. It was more likely, in William’s opinion, that the witch they’d captured had proved so comely that the Witch Hunters decided not to report in for a few days to give her a head start after a ‘spontaneous’ escape than it was that they’d been overcome by a lone woman living in the woods. “We will of course lend our effort to support the White Tower in this time of crisis for its members,” he added, mouthing the routine, standard and meaningless platitudes expected from a man of his position.

  “Curse it!” snapped the Head Wizard, his iron grey beard flaring as he slapped himself on the thigh with a resounding crack. “The Witch threat is real no matter what the Crown believes! For all we know, a coven of witches—using unconstrained and nearly uncontrolled magic—are a threat that could bring this kingdom to its knees if it weren’t for the tireless efforts of the members of the Tower’s Witch Hunter and Inquisition conclave! And even if it’s not witches, our scrolls have been confirmed delivered and received by enchanted messenger bird but no replies have been sent back. An Adeptus takes years of training, and a witch hunter even more. This is not an issue of just some crazy woman in the
woods but at best missing adepts and at worst…a vast left wing conspiracy of feministic proportions! Their magic is nearly uncontrolled. Curses, hexes, spoiled food goods—have you even seen the records of the last Witch war? Entire crops withering in the fields; milk-bearing animals drying up over night in vast droves; seemingly harmless, pregnant women casting off their clothes and then running naked into the battle lines; full grown men sent flying through the air as easily as if they were thrown horseshoes; spell works which are so tangled thanks their ‘intuitive approach’ that they proved nearly impossible to remove. With every hearthfire and kitchen a potential enemy gathering place, unless you enjoy being manhandled by a woman while a food tester checks every bite before you eat it, I suggest you start take our concerns seriously and help us find our Adepts!”

  “I understand,” the Prince said after the grey-bearded man sputtered out and blessed silence had returned to his tent. “I understand that you are concerned for your people.” He failed to add that he already had food testers tasting his food before he ate, nor the fact that the idea of being womanhandled was oddly tantalizing to his depraved mind.

  “My concerns are for all people everywhere. And I’m not just talking about their ludicrous approach to magic. Unrestrained magic cast ‘from the heart’? What about spells without built-in limiters? Or even just their prowess on the battlefield?!” the Tower Wizard protested.

  “Then just what are you talking about?” William sighed, thinking that they’d already moved past the bombast and into substantive deal-making. But apparently not.

  “I mean, have you ever even heard of a society run almost solely by women—I mean even one?” demanded the grey-bearded Wizard.

  The Prince frowned and cocked his head. “Other than the Witches…no,” he said with surprise, “I guess I haven’t.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” declared the other man, “that’s because rule by women is inherently unstable, untenable and ultimately doomed to internecine in fighting. I’m not saying there aren’t competent women just like there are incompetent men—the nuns trained in the proper use of magic by our order are a prime example, I’d say. But they are the exception and not the rule; show me a group run by its females and I’ll show you an area that’s behind its neighbors both culturally and technologically—not to mention magically. And that’s saying nothing of the war arts in which they lag behind, as evidenced I would say by our ability to take the field of battle during the old Witch Wars.”

  “Listen,” the Prince finally interrupted, “while I think my mother might take issue with the notion that female rulers are inherently inferior, I’m not about to argue the point. Let’s reduce this issue to its lowest terms: you want my help, correct?” said the Prince.

  The Wizard nodded and opened his mouth, no doubt about to launch into an anti-witch-slash-anti-female diatribe, and so the Prince raised his had to cut the older man off.

  “Now that that’s settled, what are you willing to do for me in return?” the Prince asked leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression. In the pursuit of power, he was willing to listen to every crack pot with a plan, theory, or sad story about his long dead dog if need be. But ultimately his patience was limited to those people or organizations who were worth his time—meaning those that could pay. Otherwise if they were useless to him he’d just as soon throw them in the dungeon as listen to them.

  “As a Prince, you have a duty to the realm to…” the Prince lifted a finger and the Wizard trailed off. “Very well,” asked the Wizard with gritted teeth, “what is it you want?”

  The Prince flashed a predatory smile and, blessedly, proceeded to discuss the crux of the matter.

  Chapter 30: Armies Merge and Falon meets Tulla again

  Marching into camp, almost like they knew what they were doing, Falon watched with a sharp-eyed and cautious pride as the Fighting Swans were pointed to the location of their new campsite.

  It had taken a great deal of work, especially considering that half the time they were functioning as chicken raiders—tax collectors, in other words—with no options but to take their fair share of the farmer’s produce in lieu of future taxes. The fact that it literally was in the name of the king, or in this case Prince, really did nothing to take away from the fact they in many cases they were literally raiding chickens while farmers glared helplessly and farm wives shouted invective after them.

  Far too easily able to identify with the helpless wives who were only able to curse as their families entire food storage had been all but wiped out, Falon idly wondered how her own father had performed his duties as a Squire. Had he felt the same unsettled stomach tearing feeling each time they levied a ‘tax’ on a farmer? Or had he been made of sterner stuff and simply accepted that without the army they were feeding, these farmers would die at the hands of bandits or the first invaders who crossed the border?

  She’d spent several sleepless evenings trying to sort out the best balance between keeping the inhabitants of the kingdom from being killed, enslaved, and overrun by its enemies with the needs of the farmers to eat and keep living their lives in peace.

  She still didn’t have the right answer, and she feared that she never would. In a way, she was grateful she wasn’t a lord or great magnate of the kingdom who was forced to find answers to those sorts of questions. Right now, all she had to do was keep her warriors fed and fight battles so that the peasants and various farm wives were free to continue screaming at her.

  Stopping her internal monologue, she looked around the camp pleased to see that there was some kind of order being kept.

  “Looks like the army’s grown a mite,” observed Duncan as he strolled up beside her.

  Falon eyed him. “Why aren’t you with your band? Besides, what do you know about armies and their sizes anyway?” she said dismissively.

  “I know a thing or two,” Duncan said, sounding stung by her words, “the sergeants have been learning me about things like that.”

  “You mean he’s been ‘teaching’ you,” Falon said with exasperation, “and you still haven’t answered why you’re over here playing hooky.”

  “Hooky! Me and Ernest are the Knight Lieutenant’s official runners,” he said, puffing out his chest with pride, “my band leader told me his-self. Besides, we’re already in camp now and Darius told me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Runner, huh?” Falon snorted, but due to Ernest’s sensitive pride didn’t mention her thoughts on just how fast she figured a ‘runner’ with a bum knee was going to go. She had grown used to the two brothers—or half-brothers—but despite that there was one thing she wasn’t about to let pass without a word or three…or maybe six or even seven! “But what’s this about someone needing to keep an eye on me?” Falon demanded, her pride stung by the thought that she needed minders—babysitters, in other words—like as if she were still just a girl-child running freely and unrestrained around the house like when she was still a little.

  “Hey, it’s not like that!” Duncan said his face turning red.

  “Ha! Busted,” Falon shouted triumphantly, “it totally is. It’s just like that. Don’t try denying it!”

  “It’s different! It’s not like we’re supposed to keep a watch on you or anything,” Duncan denied desperately.

  “How? How is it different?” she demanded tapping her foot on the ground as she waited for the answer.

  Duncan looked from side to side, as if seeking an escape route, before finally caving under the weight of her continued stern regard. “Okay, alright…it’s exactly like that,” he sighed.

  “I knew it,” Falon thrust a fist in the air triumphantly before bringing the hand back down and leveling a finger at the hapless former farm boy, “do you know what we do with spies around here?”

  Duncan started to look squirrelly as he shifted around on his feet. “What?” he finally broke down and asked.

  “You,” she said in a low threatening tone of voice, “you’re coming with me.” Crooking her finge
r, she gestured for him to follow her as she stomped off into the camp general. Behind her, an uneasy looking Duncan followed along behind her like a lost puppy.

  ****************************************************

  “Hey, these scones are really good!” exclaimed Duncan a half hour later, shoving the entire rest of the scone into his mouth after only taking one bite to test it.

  “I told you,” Falon said smugly, “I’ve eaten from this vendor before. Crispy cornmeal topped with butter that literally melts in your mouth. Life doesn’t get any better than this,” she sighed as she licked her fingers clean before wiping her hands on the seat of her pants.

  “Thanks, this is really great. Ye really had me worried there for a minute, but this is really awesome,” he said with a relieved sigh.

  “I’m glad you think so,” she said sweetly. “I still have a few things to do in camp. So you can just head back to our campsite with the bags and packages.”

  “What?” Duncan said stupidly, his mouth bulging like a chipmunk with both cheeks packed with the contents of his second—or maybe third scone? She wasn’t sure.

  Falon waved easily at the large pile of various goods and packages she’d just picked up after shopping in the temporary camp follower evening bazaar. “Got to run,” she said with a straight face at his obvious dismay.

  “But, Falon, that’s a two or three man job,” Duncan protested desperately. “I mean, I thought you were going to help me carry it back?”

  Falon pursed her lips and then wagged her finger at him. “I’m an officer and apparently, or so I’m told, a gentleman now,” she said barely keeping from snickering at that last part, “my dignity doesn’t allow me to carry my own bags any more, don’t you know?”