The ancient forest was familiar. Filled with light, white birch bark and silvery green leaves scattered the ground. Thistle looked up into the eaves to see a form pass in front of the midday sun. An owl flew overhead, coming to rest on one of the branches of an oak. It blinked lazily and Thistle remembered it's name. It was her grandmother's owl, Nacken.816Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVbZ0aG0Bfy
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She tried to extend her hand but was rooted in place. Quite literally. Thistle looked down at her body and found that her front half was that of a young woman but her back was a hollowed out, rotted tree with moss lacing her limbs. She closed her eyes and Nacken drifted down to land on her shoulder. Standing in the sunlight, Thistle felt her old self return to life. She had forgotten she was a daughter of the wood as much as the mountain.
She awoke moments later. Blinking up at the single window high above her bed, she swore she saw the shadowy form of an owl perched there. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she found nothing beyond the casement but blue sky.816Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUTY07JjioA
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Thistle hadn't gotten out of bed yet when the horrible screaming began, the shrill echo tearing through the hall. She shot out from underneath her furs and grabbed a woolen shawl. Rushing onto the balcony in front of her chamber, several other figures were gathered there looking down on the hall.
“Dear gods,” one of the women breathed as Thistle wrestled her way to the railing, “It's a Bonetalon girl.”
Blood stained the blinding white floor of the hall once more but it wasn't from a horse this time. It was human blood. The body of a young woman lay where she had presumably fallen from the balcony, her dark head cracked open on the marble. Thistle squinted, her heart pounding in her breast. The black skirts and a slight figure, she hoped it wasn't who she thought it was.
Miska Bonetalon tore through the crowd below and keened out a harrowing cry, falling to her knees beside the lifeless body of her eldest daughter. Varin reached his sister-in-law and pulled her up from the floor, the woman's hands covered in gore. Holding her to him, he stared down at Hesla.
“Suicide.” One of the servants behind her whispered.
Thistle remembered Gundrak peering into the dark corridor outside the sparring room and whispering Hesla's name. She peered towards the High Seat. In the hall leading behind it where Seran Wulfspine resided, a male figure stood in the shadows. Thistle couldn't tell who it was but he limped away towards her grandmother's chambers. She recalled the accidental wound to his calf he had received from Varin a few days earlier.
The darkness she had felt on the battlefield invaded her heart. Thistle shivered, her feet freezing on the cold stones. But she could only stand there and look down on Varin as he comforted Hesla's mourning adopted mother. Thistle didn't want to think what such an event would stir among the Bonetalon men. She had a feeling they would not take to the conclusion of suicide.
The next day, Varin paced the armory. Thistle sat nearby waiting for him to speak. He twirled a stone hammer in his right hand. His strip of hair was unbound, falling long and wild over one side of bare scalp. Kicking a discarded shield out of the way, he halted in his steps. His breathing was harsh.
“She was very quick to name the death. You should have seen the way she said it at the Council of Earls,” he scoffed and ran his fingers through his sandy waves, “Hesla Bonetalon died of her own hand. Till I pass from this earth, I will never believe such an outrageous lie.”
“But then how did it happen?” Thistle ventured, rising to her feet. Crossing her arms over she chest, she approached him like one would a snarling dog.
“I don't know- Well...I have an idea but I don't want to voice it. Not around...” his voice trailed off and he glanced up to where she stood arm's length from him.
“Why don't you want to say it around me?” Thistle asked, surprised by how the words hurt. “I thought we could be candid with each other.”
“Those of lower Clans must always be on their guard around the two ruling Clans. Our people all live under the rule of the Blackhelms and Wulfspines. It's not that I don't trust you. I don't want you to be held liable for anything I say.”
“You mean, you think it was my grandmother who kill-”
“Thistle.” Varin stopped her with a glare. “Don't say it out loud. You don't know who else might hear.”
“But why would my grandmother do such a thing? It makes no sense. Hesla was a servant girl, an illegitimate daughter. She was nobody to her. Besides, her mother is a trusted handmaiden to Seran.” Thistle rambled.
She was trying to talk herself out of the suspicion. It wasn't that she particularly cared for Seran Wulfspine. She was just loathe to think she could be related to someone that evil. Yet the memory of the man limping away in the shadows after the discovery of Hesla's body burned in her mind. It had to have been Gundrak.
Varin shook his head. Thistle watched him warily as he approached and tipped her chin up with his knuckle. His eyes were afire and jaw tight with anger. She had never felt afraid of him until that moment.
“My dear girl. Perhaps it would have been better had we left you on that battlefield to return to your wood.” He growled low.
His gaze drifted over her face in pity. The same piteous look she had received from Gundrak upon their first meeting. It was in that moment that Thistle knew she would never be fully accepted by her father's people. Even those she deemed her friends. The sting of that failure sank deep in her heart. It dishonored her father's memory.
Varin dropped his hand and without another word, left the armory.
Varin stood next to his brother as Miska laid out Hesla to be buried. Funeral pyres were only for the royalty. The common folk among the Clans were buried in vaults deep below the White Horn. Hesla would be entombed next to the bones of her mother, the woman who died giving her life.
Varin's head pounded but still he drank the rich mead his brother had handed him. Miska was dressed in mourning, her hair pulled back in a simple braid and face gaunt with grief. Though she had only been her surrogate mother, Miska had raised Hesla from infancy. In the last few years of the girl's life, her parents had grown concerned for her meek behavior. Miska was known for her talent in the magical arts and her gift of foresight. Perhaps she had seen shadows of this fate.816Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkC6u1DH7tR
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Striding over to the fireside, Varin brushed a rough hand over Valtha's head. Trails of dried tears stained the faces of his younger nieces. They sat on the floor, Valtha holding the youngest Nandri as their parents made the final preparations for the procession. A reverent knock sounded at the door. A few close friends of the family entered the room. He downed the last of his glass.
Varin's brain spun with the image of Hesla running towards him as a toddler, dark curls bouncing down her shoulders. Her smile had been so free and sweet. The older she had gotten, the less he saw of it. He knew their culture did not accept a gentle spirit like hers readily. The fact that she was a bastard from a former slave opened her up to ridicule as well. Still, these facts were not enough to make him believe she'd want to end it all.
He glanced up at the open door and saw Thistle tentatively entering. Her black gown was modest in make, she had shunned all royal finery for the procession. She fought to catch his eye, her expression dripping with sympathy. He could not return the gaze.
Thistle was as dangerous to him as he was to her. He had allowed their relationship to become too close, too familiar over the past few weeks. He had forgotten whose granddaughter she was. The sound of Thistle's betrothed murmuring Hesla's name had haunted him since her body had been found. He had no doubt that Hesla had gotten in the way of Seran Wulfspine's plans and was eliminated.
Eubar took the head of the casket and Varin took the feet as pallbearers. A trail of women chanting hymns to soothe the dead soul on her way to the gods followed after. Torchlight dancing off the walls of the tunnels as they walked deeper into the mountain.
The newer catacombs were deeper in the shafts. They passed generation after generation of Clan ancestors. Thankfully this part of the mountain had been sealed magically to prevent the woodland King's men from desecrating the graves. The procession stopped at the humble tomb of the slave his brother had once loved.
Eubar was stone faced as he slid the body of his eldest daughter into the darkness and set the stone seal over the opening. He said nothing but placed a hand where her broken head was on the other side. Varin's throat throbbed with unshed tears, anger raging over the grief. Eubar turned and picked up his youngest daughter, cradling her against his thick shoulder. Squeezing his wife's hand, the mourning family led the way back to the light.
Varin stayed behind. Thistle was the last in the procession. She said nothing but paused in front of him. Her hand was warm on his cheek as she pressed her palm to it. Varin tore away from her as tears threatened to spill over.
He stayed below, the glow from the torches fading into the darkness. It was peaceful down there. Varin let go a sob and paced in front of his niece's grave. There had to be a way to find justice for the girl. If he didn't, he'd surely go mad.
He halted in his steps as a pair of lone footsteps echoed up ahead. A torch light grew stronger, the flame held by a man with a limp. Varin glared in shock as Gundrak Wulfspine came into view. The other man stopped hard.
“Come to pay your respects?” Varin's harsh voice grated off the walls.
Gundrak shifted his weight in his boots and sighed, “She said she was pregnant.”
The air left Varin's lungs in a painful laugh, “And that would interfere with your plans to become king.”
“It would have looked bad to the Clan elders when they discussed my betrothal to Thistle.”
“So you pushed the young mother of your unborn child off a balcony to her death?” Varin rushed forward, his hand on the dagger at his waist, the only weapon he had on him.
“It wasn't me.” Gundrak's voice cracked as stood his ground, “I didn't know- I didn't think it would come to this. I thought she- ...they would just send Hesla away. Maybe back to the Collachs-”
Varin threw his body at the man, the torch clattering to the floor. He felt crazy enough to kill the Wulfspine right there. He held the blade of the dagger to the man's throat, “After I go to the elders, there will be no place safe for you. You will lose the throne and by the gods, I will fight to make sure you lose your life-”
Gundrak gave a strained laughed, fear and heartbreak coating his strange features, “And who will believe you? The word of a Bonetalon against a Wulfspine? Certainly your Clan has an honorable name, you are not some scum from the Redeyed or Forgelander Clans. But you are my servant. Your fathers served my fathers. You are no better than she was,” Gundrak jerked his head toward's Hesla's tomb, “That's why she was so easily removed from the situation.”
Unable to control himself any longer, Varin slashed the man across the cheek. Spots of blood flew into his face, salty on his tongue. Gundrak howled and grabbed his face. Varin spit on him and hammered his boots in the direction of White Horn.
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