The mirror from her old chamber was moved to her new residence, down the hall from the High Seat of the White Horn. Thistle specifically requested it. As the ghosts of Hesla and Lirare had chosen to stand before it, she wanted it close by should they need to give her another vision. She hoped she would have some guidance from them, especially with what she now decided to do.
Miska finished laying out the last of the black bear furs on the floor, replacing the wolf skins that had belonged to Seran. On the walls, only the war trophies of her Blackhelm ancestors remained and all Wulfspine souvenirs were removed. Thistle wanted to remind the people that her father had been Blackhelm and as long as she remained unwed, she was Blackhelm through and through.
“So, you have decided to usurp the hag yourself?” Varin's voice boomed across the grand chamber of the King.
Thistle turned from the wall where the mirror was being hung. Folding her hands over the midnight blue bodice of her gown, she nodded with a shaky breath, “I'd had enough of it. That short time as Seran's pawn was more than I could bear.”
Varin chuckled. He ambled towards the high backed chair at the center of the room. Running a hand over the arm rest, he sank into it and slung a leg over the side. Thistle smirked but was relieved to see him so at ease. Undoubtedly, it had something to do with the unexpected death of Gundrak Wulfspine.
Miska swatted his boot and glared down at him, “Such insolence. That chair is not for the likes of you.”
“Nor shall it ever be. Which is why I'm sitting here. I'm being ironic, dear sister-in-law.” He gave her a cheeky grin and laced his fingers over his chest.
Thistle rubbed her arms and paced next to the walls of the room. She studied the relics from victorious battles, successful raids, blades gleaming clean of the blood they had taken with relish. She shivered.
“So!” Varin broke her train of thought as he produced a crust of bread from his sleeve and took a bite, “Does her ladyship know of your rebellion.”
“I just sent a messenger.” Thistle answered, “She is helping organize Gundrak's funeral.”
“I'm sure you were invited.”
“I was. I lied and said I had a headache from the day's events.”
Miska clucked her tongue, “Are you sure you know what you are doing? Wulfspine is not a Clan to take lightly. And they listen to everything Seran tells them.”
“Fortunately for me, they are the only ones. One thing I have noticed, in everyday whisperings and then at the council meeting, the other Clans only tolerate her because of who her son was. Now that he is gone, I'm sure they would prefer her out of the seat of power. Which gives me a good opportunity.”
Varin tore a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth. His mossy eyes locked on Thistle from across the room, his gaze questioning and wary. She paused and waited for him to speak.
“So tell me this, lass. Are you planning on taking the High Seat yourself? Becoming a queen without a king?” He sat up and leaned an elbow on his knee.
Thistle shrugged, “To be honest, I don't know what I am doing. But I do know that having Seran in power is dangerous and if I can take her place if only as regent, I will be helping my people.”
“Do you want to be queen-”
“No! If I can help it. I have no desire for the High Seat.” Thistle affirmed breathlessly.
Varin grinned, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, “So you really don't know what you're doing.”
Thistle glanced at the floor but then met his gaze again. She shook her head without looking away, a quiet smile playing at her mouth. Varin jutted out his jaw and whistled low, rubbing a hand over his braid.
“Mistress, I really must get back to my home. Seran will be here any moment-” Miska interrupted.
“Of course, please do, Miska.” Thistle approached the older woman and gathered her hands in her own, “Thank you again. For everything.”
A hint of her secretive smile flitted across Miska's face. Bowing and then nodding her farewell to Varin, she left the two of them alone.
“Miska is to become my principle handmaiden. In my position, I have observed enough to know that I should get first choice of my attendants. Seran has had the privilege for years but I am here now.” Thistle explained, turning to Varin as he drew near.
Varin laughed low and stopped in front of her, peering down into her face curiously, “You're something of a mystery, Thistle Blackhelm.”
Thistle swallowed, breaking eye contact. He was close enough for her to smell pipe smoke on his linen shirt. The laces near his neck were loose, revealing the edge of a pink scar touching the hollow of his throat. She wrung her hands and turned away. She wished he wouldn't look her at like that. Miska's words of warning against getting her heart tangled with his rang in her memory.
“You have more of me in you than I thought, granddaughter.” Seran Wulfspine announced as she strode into the chamber, two Wulfspine men in step behind her. She scoffed as she scanned the room, “This place is Blackhelm to the bone. It seems like you have made your point.”
Thistle straightened her posture and pressed her folded hands to her stomach, quelling her nerves. Seran was dressed in mourning, her hair covered by a light black shroud. Her blue eyes pierced Thistle, a volatile mixture of pride and hostility. She walked across the furs towards Thistle.
“So this is how you chose to honor your father's memory? By uprooting his mother from her rightful place-”
“This was never your rightful place, Seran Wulfspine.” Thistle cut her off and thankfully found her tone calm in her ears, “It took me some time to realize this but now things are set aright. Whether you deem me acceptable or not, I am the heir of the White Horn. I honor my father's name by taking my rightful place as any Clanswoman would.”
Seran blinked at her. She scoffed, her gaze trailing towards Varin, “And what? You will rule in his stead over a people that were alien to you only months ago? With this servant at your side? Is this Bonetalon your teacher in bed as in life-”
Thistle held out a hand as Varin took a step forward, Seran's Wulfspine men advancing slightly as well. The last thing they needed that day was blood spilled in the King's chambers. She sensed Varin relax behind her. Seran flashed a cool smile that didn't reach her eyes.
“Very well, if this is how you want to play, Granddaughter. I am proud to see you are a worthy adversary. I was beginning to fear you were nothing more than a little forest mouse. As much of a threat as that witch mother of yours.” Seran studied Thistle's expression as the girl fought to keep her face like stone, “Was it she you learned that little spell from that took Gundrak from us?”
Thistle blinked back. “My mother only taught me respect and consideration for all living things. It's a lesson you'd do well to keep in mind. I will not suffer another innocent like Hesla Bonetalon to suffer for your gain.”
“That was her name?” Seran shrugged and folded her hands in front of her, her brow lifting in mock interest, “I had no idea.”
Again Thistle sensed Varin tense. It would be best if the woman left before things got out of hand. Gathering the train of her gown in her hand, Thistle walked towards the high backed chair. She sank down into it, gripping the arm rests and lifting her chin. “You will be accommodated as you are the dowager. If you need anything, please send word through one of your servants. I feel it would be best if we did not meet again unless necessary.”
Seran lifted her chin. Thistle swore the woman would have spit if she were less arrogant. Snapping her fingers at the two Wulfspine men, she swept out of the circular room. Thistle relaxed into the chair, running her hand over her face.
“I hope you know what you are doing.” Varin exhaled heavily, glancing over at her.
Thistle scoffed, “I really don't.”
Varin walked over to the chair. His hand briefly hovered over her's on the arm rest but did not touch it. Pulling it back, he stared across the room towards her father's sword where it was mounted in honor, “I promised Roark I would protect you. I will advise you as I can, Mistress Blackhelm. You can rely on that.”
He strode from the room. Thistle closed her eyes and wished for a sign to know she was doing the right thing.
Thistle's new bedchamber was down the hall from the King's room. Tossing sleeplessly in her large, new bed, she bounded to the floor and picked up a candle by the door. Her mind spun with the day's events. So much had changed in such a short amount of time. What burned in her mind's eye was Gundrak Wulfspine's expression of terror as his body contorted with the poisonous magic.
When she had spoken to Miska that morning, she had proposed the plan. However, she needed the right spell for the job. Poison could be traced but magic was anonymous when done correctly. Of course with her peaceful upbringing, she had never learned anything that could harm another person. Miska Bonetalon, however, knew exactly what to do.
The serpent spell was a duel fold practice that took intense concentration. She knew little of Clan life, but Thistle did know how to weave an enchantment. Miska stood on the balcony in front of Thistle's room, directly over where her daughter's body had been found. The two of them wound the magic around the man till finally it sucked him in. Justice was dealt for Hesla Bonetalon and now she could rest in peace.
Still, Thistle didn't want to think what her mother's reaction would have been to what she'd done.
Thistle walked the gleaming white hall and stopped before the King's room. She entered, only one torch by the inside door giving the space light beside her candle. Tentatively, she approached the mirror on the wall. Her figure wavered in the weak light, her eyes wide and face like snow with a wild braid of black resting over the shoulder of her nightgown.
“I wonder what you would think of me now.” She breathed to herself.
A dribble of wax slid down the candle and onto her hand. Thistle hissed, her breath blowing out the delicate flame. She looked up at her reflection again. A ribbon of smoke twisted in front of her face. Thistle swallowed hard as the smoke took shape in the mirror, obscuring her face.
The gray vapor rippled like ocean waves as another face appeared. Owl feathers fanned out of her grandmother's burning white curls, her eyes unnaturally round as she observed her.
“Meridun?” Thistle gaped.
Meridun smiled enigmatically. Her face hazed and Miska's features blurred into view. “Choose your path carefully.”
The image rippled again. Thistle peered over the edge of the balcony looking across the great hall of White Horn. A scream pounded in her ears and she looked down. On the gleaming, white floor was a body, blood seeping from the shattered skull. At first, she thought it was Hesla. As she looked closer, horror overcame her. The body was face down but a swath of wild black curls splayed like an ink stain across the floor.
The scryed vision melted like snow. Thistle stood trembling, her jaw slack and the wax drying on her fingers.
ns 15.158.61.41da2
