The ghost appeared in Thistle's room two nights after they buried Hesla. The apparition stood in front of the mirror. Thistle blinked at the shimmering image of Hesla. Her figure wavered as though she was a reflection in a clear pond. She turned towards Thistle, her dark hair flowing around her head like smoke.
“Lirare?” Thistle croaked, “Mother?”
The ghost had the body of Hesla Bonetalon but the face of Lirare. Her green eyes were moist as she raised her pale hands towards the bed. Thistle sat up out of her furs. Lirare's lips parted as though she were to going to speak. The moment Thistle placed a foot on the cold stone floor, the figure vanished.
Thistle's heart burst in heavy rhythm, her eyes flying open to find her room empty and glowing with the morning light. A knock came at the door. Before she could beckon them in, Miska entered the room with the two servants carrying the tub and water basin. Miska brought in her clothes for the day.
“My lady. Your grandmother requests your presence at the Council of the Earls,” she explained wearily, her face washed out except for the shadows under her eyes.
Thistle knew why both Lirare and Hesla had come to her as one. Hesla deserved justice. If she was to give honor to her parents' memory, she must do what she knew to be right. Whether it gave her prestige among the Clans, it didn't matter.
After her bath, Miska laced the silvery cords up Thistle's back. The gown was blood red, a fitting color considering where Thistle's thoughts dwelt. Once the other servants left the chamber, Thistle took her chance.
“Miska?” She breathed, placing a hand flat against the embroidered bodice, green vines threading through the rich fabric.
“Hmm?”
Thistle breathed again and hoped the woman wouldn't notice her trembling, “Miska, do you believe that Hesla...threw herself from the balcony?”
Miska jerked her stays as she tied them, nearly throwing Thistle off the stool where she stood. “You shouldn't speak of such things.”
“Do you think she could have been pushed?”
“She was.”
Thistle's heart jumped to her throat. “How do you know?”
“I foresaw it years ago. That's why we were so vehement that Hesla learn to stand up for herself and be open with us. Unfortunately, one cannot change their nature. She was too gentle for this world.” Miska's voice broke.
Thistle fought back a surprising lurch of tears in her own chest. She had known someone very much the same, Lirare. Perhaps that is why they were bound in the afterlife, kindred spirits with soft hearts. Someone had to do something.
“Miska.” Thistle turned, her eyes wide and stern on the woman's face. Her boldness caught Miska by surprise. “What if there was a way we could give your daughter justice?”
The middle aged woman's jaw went slack, her eyes scanning the wall behind Thistle. “How-”
“I have a plan.”
Eubar asked Varin to accompany him to the Earl's meeting as his second. Eubar was the elder of the Bonetalon Clan, one of the four principal Clans. The council was held in the great hall, high backed chairs lining the long, rectangular hearth. Flames burned golden yellow as snowy sunlight streamed in from the open doors of the White Horn.
The two men were positioned at the head of the formation, directly in front of the High Seat. If they had a king, he would have presided over the meeting from the throne. For now, it was empty. The chairs were arranged with Eubar seated on the far left with Varin directly behind him. Next was the seat for the Blackhelm Clan, then Wulfspine and finally Huntax.
“I wonder if the hag will give up her seat for Thistle, a true Blackhelm.” Eubar murmured to his brother.
Varin glanced over at the two empty seats between them and the Huntax Earl. The thirteen lower Clans filed in and took their places. Varin smirked. It wasn't surprising that Seran would keep them waiting. He wasn't sure if the old woman would allow her granddaughter to be present as the meeting was to discuss her betrothal. Seran would want to keep Thistle far away from any control over her own life. The idea made Varin's stomach turn.
Still, part of him hoped Thistle would not be present. They hadn't spoken in three days, the longest since their arrival at White Horn. Varin wasn't sure how she would receive him after he had lost his temper and blamed her for being no different from Seran Wulfspine. He had spoken rashly. Thistle was as dissimilar from her grandmother as blood from wine. He had regretted his words for days.
The room hushed. From around the gleaming High Seat, Seran Wulfspine appeared. Her black curls were bound harshly from her face then tumbling to her slim shoulders, her gown midnight with a silver belt at her waist. Behind her strode Thistle. Varin's eyes danced back and forth from her, hoping to catch her eye but scared to do so. Thistle's gaze remained on her feet, the folds of her rich gown sweeping the floor behind her.
From around the other side of the seat came Gundrak Wulfpsine followed by his second. Varin forgot about Thistle and shot his gaze forward. It took all his strength not to behead the man right there in the White Horn. Slit his throat like a horse for sacrifice. Except that bag of filth was no offering he would make to any god.
Gundrak and Seran took the Earl seats for their Clans. Thistle stood behind her grandmother. Varin glanced briefly towards her. Instead of seeing her bright, earnest expression, her face was unreadable. Not cold but distant, her sight fixated on her hands folded before her. Something was off.
“Earls of White Horn. It has been many years since we have kept council in this hall.” Seran's voice boomed across the hall. A resounding response of cheer followed and Seran allowed them a cool smile. “My son would have loved to have seen this day. I pray this first of many meetings in the hall of our fathers will honor his memory. The principle reason you have been summoned here today is to discuss the matter of my granddaughter and who will rule the White Horn.”
As usual, a cacophony of voices exploded. Council meetings were not patient and orderly ones among the Clans. The man that spoke the loudest got the attention. The first to gain the floor was the Earl of the Redeyed Clan, Avol's family line.
The man shouted above the din, “Tell me, Seran! Do you mean to put that untested girl on the throne? Without a lick of experience? I hear she was raised half-wild in the eastern woods with a witch for a mother—”
“Yes, yes, Molki Redeyed. I'm sure all of you have heard tales of my granddaughter's unorthodox upbringing. Tell me, does the girl look like a wild thing of the forest?” Seran motioned to Thistle behind her.
“Yes but a dog can be taught to sit and be silent too,” Molki replied, earning a uproar of laughter from the other men.
Varin grimaced, hoping he wouldn't have to suffer this stupidity for very long. Thistle remained silent, peering down at her shoes.
“In any case, I do not plan on petitioning that my granddaughter be put on the throne as sole ruler. I do agree with you as so would she, Thistle Blackhelm is too untried and ignorant in the ways of our people.”
“So what are you suggesting, Seran Wulfspine?” a skeptical voice from the back called out.
Seran glanced over at Gundrak. The man nodded his head humbly and rose to his feet. Varin gripped the helm of his sword, his whole body stiffening with rage. Seeing the wound on Gundrak's cheek that he had given him in the tombs did nothing to quell his anger. He wanted more of the man's blood.
“The Wulfspine and Blackhelm Clans have a long standing history together. Throughout the ages, the throne has passed back and forth from each line with good and fair rulers.” Gundrak's steely eyes scanned the crowd as though daring one of them to disagree. “Now in this strange season of new beginnings, Seran Blackhelm has come to me with a proposal.”
“I propose a betrothal between my nephew, Gundrak Wulfspine, and the last heir of the Blackhelm Clan, Thistle daughter of Roark Blackhelm,” Seran announced, her expression smooth as glass.
Again the hall erupted in protest. It was too powerful a match for these times. It might give way to an imbalance in power. The lowerborn Clans were affronted by the very notion. Except for one. Orthic of the Forgelander Clan rose to his feet. The tallest among them with a shining bald head, his voice rolled over the hall.
“I believe this is the best choice for us in this uncertain time. Gundrak is fierce in battle, I have fought beside him. But he is certainly a man of peace. His wife would carry the royal blood of our last King, eliminating any dispute for succession in the future.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt, his meaty shoulders bare except for the brown bear fur vest he wore. He nodded towards Seran and Gundrak.
Without a doubt, the man had been bought. Varin wondered what the promised price from Seran was if Orthic spoke in favor of the match. Perhaps a seat as a King's councilor. More likely a vat of gold from Wulfspine slave trades, Orthic was more practical than politically ambitious.
The room went quiet as the men muttered among themselves, considering the well known warrior's opinion. Seran's expression was mute, but Gundrak forced back a grin as he took a swallow of mead from his cup. Varin exhaled hotly through his nose, enough for Eubar to glance back at him with a withering stare. Eubar had always been the more composed of the two brothers.
“I will leave it to a vote,” Seran announced as she stood.
She lifted her hand towards the Huntax Earl on the other opposite end of Varin and Eubar. The young man was a friend and servant to Gundrak, so of course his answer was yes. The next couple answers were tentative but affirmative. Finally one negative answer from a much older Earl. Varin knew the man was taking his life in his hands with Seran by saying as such. The answers were more mixed after that though. By the time it came to Eubar's turn, the votes were even. Bonetalon would be the deciding vote.
Varin could feel his brother's hesitation. He had already lost one daughter under mysterious circumstances. No one would blame him for taking the safe road. But still, Eubar was a sensible man who saw no advantage in setting up puppet rulers for Seran Wulfspine to rule behind. He stood to speak.
“Bonetalon says nay—”
A gut wrenching scream rose from the Wulfspine chair. Gundrak rose to his feet, his cup clattering to the floor and staining the stone. He gripped his head as his scream died to a gurgle. Seran jumped to his side as the man writhed on the floor. The men from Huntax fell to their knees, trying to give him room to breathe. Guntrak choked and spit blood.
“He's been poisoned!” Seran cried, kicking the cup out of the way, “Someone fetch a surgeon!”
“This isn't poison,” Roil Huntax stated in horror.
Varin strode over to the scene with his brother and watched as Gundrak's face shaded green. His skin turned to scales, arms and legs withering as he convulsed on the floor. An acidic spill of bile poured from his mouth, and Gundrak stopped moving for the last time.
“It's a spell; I've seen it on the battlefield. A mage's weapon.” Eubar spoke, his eyes fixed on the lifeless body of the would be king, “It's a serpent spell.”
The Clan leaders rose and hollered, chaos rocking the White Horn as Seran ran her bony fingers through her hair, her face turning bright red in revulsion.
“Find who did this!” She cried, “Give my nephew justice! Bring me their hearts!”
Varin blinked, coming out of his stupor. He looked up from the petrified body of his former enemy and glanced over his shoulder towards Thistle. For the first time since entering the White Horn for the meeting, she looked up from her boots.
He almost didn't recognize her. Her eyes turned to Wulfspine ice, the same shade as her father's. She met his gaze before striding out of the hall towards the chambers behind the High Seat, her ancestral place of residence by rights, not her grandmother's.
With a scoff, Varin ran his hand over the neat strip of braid down the center of his scalp. He wondered if he really did know the witch's daughter from the eastern woods.
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