An hour passed before a golden white haze shaded Thistle's vision. Miska and another servant girl were helping her dress when the potion took hold. Thistle swayed as Miska wound plaits on the top of her head, a loose braid decorated with onyx beads brushing over her shoulder. Steadying her, Miska peered into her eyes.
“Leave us,” she commanded the other servant with a steady voice. Her eyes didn't leave Thistle's. “What did you take?”
Thistle's blood hummed as though she had drunk rich wine, her fingertips tingling as she flexed her hands. She gave a light laugh and shrugged. “Its a potion Avol suggested.”
Miska pursed her lips and exhaled out her nose. “I see. It's taking hold. A facade manipulation. But there is something else in it as well.”
Thistle squinted, her cheeks flushing. Miska's face morphed, her skin crinkled with frost and lips black with cold. Only her eyes burned, fire raging inside her. Running her hands over her face, Thistle took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Miska settled her into a seat.
“What's wrong with me?”
“That absent minded....child!” Miska growled. “He forgot to tell you another side effect. Others will see you as a goddess but you must keep your wits and not give your enchantment away. For you will see them as they truly are.”
Thistle opened her eyes and stared up into Miska's snowy countenance, her hair dripping in icicles over her shoulder. “Don't tell me what you see in me. I have a good idea and I'd rather not hear it.”
“What do I do?”
“You will need to control yourself. Not every face is lovely to look upon. Some will want to send you screaming.” Miska chuckled, her breath turning to chilly plumes in the warm room. “I don't want to imagine how Seran will appear to you.”
Thistle rose and moved towards the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat. Her face was her own but she glowed like Meridun, flesh like hot candle wax under a flame. Even her hair radiated with warmth. Whatever impression she would give King Gendall's men that night, it would be memorable. She brushed away the thought that it was a lie. If it helped her people in the end, that's all that mattered.
Miska's smile gave an icy crackle. Thistle responded the same and led the way out of the King's chambers. As she entered the great hall, the scene was similar to her first night at the White Horn. This time, instead of being repulsed by the sight, Thistle was fascinated.
Children rushed past her chasing a dog, ivy leaves curling open around their laughter and green footsteps. Old women coiled gnarled roots around drinking tankards. They lifted wood chipped chins, blinking eyes of polished black poplar. One of them was on fire, flames leaping from her mouth as she hooted at a young man drunkenly tipping out of his seat. He blinked up at Thistle as she passed, his fish mouth and silver gills flapping for air. A fish hook pierced his forehead and blood dripped into his eyes as he gaped after her.
“Keep moving, my lady,” Miska hummed in her ear. Thistle nodded towards her wintry lady-in-waiting and kept on walking towards her place below the high seat.
The only thought that kept her going was how she would enjoy giving Avol the tongue lashing of his life. Keeping her eyes high above the crowd, she almost didn't notice the glances she received. Men and women halted in their merriment to stare after her in awe. The messy throng of humanity parted as Thistle waded through, a hush rippling out like a stone thrown into a pond.
The two men from the Woodland rose to their feet as she came to the table. She didn't look at them until she stood directly before them. Gravel skittered down the giant man's stony head as he bowed. When he stood straight again, he revealed a deep crack in the middle of his rock chest, the chasm frozen with ice where his heart lay.
The other man held out a glinting hand to her. His skin was the purest silver, light slicking the angles of his face. As she took his fingers, she noticed his palms bore imperfections. His hands shed like rust, brittle to the touch.
Avol came up behind him, his head covered in fox fur. He grinned with spiny canines, “My lord, may I introduce you to Thistle Blackhelm, the regent of the White Horn and only child of the late King Roark.”
“We are honored by your hospitality, my lady." The rusting man bent over her hand and kissed her fingers. "Your presence is certainly...unnerving. I had no idea Clannish women were so beautiful.”
“Thank you, my lord...” Thistle took her fingers back and fought the impulse to brush the rust stain he had left on them.
“This is Arnall Wagrin.” Avol motioned to the silver man. “And this huge specimen of a Woodlander is Sathal Bron. They are both sons of the King.”
Thistle's lips parted in surprise. Arnall's metal eyes glinted as he gave a tight lipped smile. “We are two of many. Our father has taken more than a few mistresses in his life. We are illegitimate. Like yourself, my lady?”
Bristling at his comment, Thistle managed a cool nod. “Quite, my lord.”
“Except in the Woodlands, we are unable to claim the throne,” Arnall added, his sword of a tongue clanging in his mouth.
Sathal shook his head and a landslide fell down the boulders around his neck. “It is fascinating how different our cultures are despite our close distance.”
“Yes." Thistle replied, taking a seat between Avol and Arnall.
Avol lifted a furry hand and a servant girl stopped at the table to set tankards and plates before them, her earthen fingers leaving mud on the pewter. Thistle opted only for the slice of wheat bread and honey. The evening was uncomfortable enough without upsetting her stomach by ingesting the rich meat in a thick gravy.
“Avol told us that you were vegetarian. Many in our country have a similar diet,” Sathal commented amiably as he tore into a pork rib.
Arnall lifted his goblet to his lips, his eyes trailing over her briefly. “I'm sure you miss your forest.”
Thistle swallowed the bread dryly, ignoring the pang of homesickness that erupted without warning. She took a swift drink from her tankard before answering. “I have been enjoying discovering these mountains. Since my people won back their land from the Woodland, their joy in their homeland has been a gleeful distraction.”
Sathal coughed into his fist before shooting a glare in her direction. He moved to speak, ice climbing up from his heart and into his mouth but Arnall held out a hand to silence him. Arnall turned to her. “It is refreshing to sit with a leader who is so candid about the relationship between our two countries. King Gendall will certainly agree with me when you travel to our lands in the spring.”
“I hadn't agreed to such terms yet, Lord Wagrin, but I'll consider it.”
Arnall's eyes flashed like a smithy's forge. “Surely you won't reject our invitation, not when your country is still on such weak grounds.”
Thistle sensed the threat in his metallic voice. The Clans needed to root themselves in their leader and their homeland if they were to survive. As things stood, the Woodland might stand a chance if they attacked the White Horn to try and regain it. Thistle could feel the thin ice under her boots crack. She took a step back.
“I can't see what would keep me from a visit but you shall have my answer before you leave, I promise.” She blinked calmly at her guest and took a sip from her cup.
“Very well, my lady,” Arnall replied, bowing his head with a wry grin.
Ignoring the chuckle from the rock giant, the liquor going to his thick head, Thistle turned her eyes on the room. A man from the Huntax Clan was dancing a jig on a table, his golden beer hair splashing around his bloodied face. He tumbled backwards with a roar of laughter from the crowd, a man with hands like mangled meat catching him before he hit the ground.
Another figure came alongside the drunks and clapped a hand on the beer soaked man. Thistle squinted as the figure moved past them, an easy smile on his face and a tankard in his hand. He approached, eyes steady on her like a target. She clenched the goblet in her hand when she recognized it was Varin Bonetalon, but then again, it wasn't.
Thick plums of white feathers lined his scalp, his lips black and the plumage around his glassy dark eyes was shaded gray. Golden talons gripped the tankard in his hand. An owl. Varin passed the table, his smile fading as he looked away. Thistle realized of whom he reminded her. Nacken, her grandmother's owl consort. The bird that had always seemed predatory but was actually her protector.
“Varin! Come drink with us!” Avol hooted.
Ambling back towards them, Varin gave a rough nod towards the Woodland lords. His feathers wafted in a breeze felt by no one. He didn't look at Thistle. “Long way you have come, Woodlanders. A shame considering you leave with nothing as you did a few months ago.”
Sathal rose from his seat but Arnall held out a hand to restrain his half brother. “It was worth the trip to be able to sit with such a lovely woman as your regent. She is looking especially beautiful tonight, I can't imagine it was only for us,” Arnall replied, leaning back in his chair.
When Varin peered down into her face with his keen owl eyes, Thistle had to look away. Varin scoffed and took a deeper drink from his tankard. “Yes, she is looking rosier than usual. Don't you think, Avol?”
Avol coughed into his fist. Thistle sighed, “My lords, I wish you wouldn't speak like I wasn't in the room.”
“My apologies.” Arnall nodded towards her.
The air was too hot, the room spinning with grotesque facades and her blood warm with mead. Thistle rose to her feet, her hands trembling. “I fear I must retire, gentlemen. Thank you for your presence, I hope you will stay as late as you wish to eat and drink to your heart's content.”
Avol and the Woodlanders stood as she moved away from the table. She strode past Varin, the feathers in his arms tickling her neck as she ducked around him. Miska was with her husband at the other end of the room and couldn't see her. It was no matter. Thistle wanted to be alone to let the potion work itself out of her system.
She was nearly out of the great hall. In front of the gleaming white High Seat, she halted hard in her tracks. A drowned woman, blue skin and seaweed strangling her, leaving puddles on the stone floor. Seran Wulfspine stopped in front of Thistle. Greenish yellow rot painted her sunken eye sockets, her pupils blind white. Her hands were folded in front of her, the nails torn from clinging onto to ship wrecks. Thistle was shocked by the pity Seran's bedraggled figure sparked in her heart.
“Are you looking to drive your father's name into the dirt?” She hissed, salt water dripping over her fish flesh lips, “When we first met you said you wanted to do your best to honor your father and his legacy. I know what these men are here for, you will bring nothing but shame on the Blackhelms by allowing this treaty-”
“I know. I know, Seran,” Thistle sighed, too tired to argue with the water logged woman. “But these are different times. We must find peace with the Woodland if we are to survive.”
“You will whore yourself to Gendall, he is without a queen and the man is known for his trysts-”
“I will do no such thing,” Thistle snapped with a warning glare. “You know as well as I do that even if I were to take Gendall or any of his kin as a husband, the Council of Earls would need to approve. Do you think I'd win the vote? Especially with you as Earl of Wulfspine?”
Seran paused. “You don't know what's at stake. My son lost his life to win back the White Horn, I will not allow you to let it fall.”
“I hope you don't.” Thistle smiled sadly, the potion fading.
Seran's sour expression hazed into view, the ghost of the drowned woman materializing like smoke. But the pity she felt for the lonely old woman lay in her stomach like a stone. She left Seran standing by the High Seat and retired to her bed. She slept till morning and didn't remember her dreams.
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