Long winter evenings were spent with Eubar and his family. Thistle sat with Miska by the hearth, weaving on the loom and speaking quietly of magic. Though they were very different in nature, something about Miska reminded Thistle of her mother. It was enough that she felt like she could breathe around the woman. Miska was the only one who understood her upbringing.
“If I had my way, we would live in one of the outlying villages and shepherd goats or sheep. It was how I was raised.” Miska sighed, “Things are simpler outside the White Horn.”
“Where did your family go during the winter months?” Thistle asked, remembering how she could hear the wind screeching at the window of her old bedroom.
“There are ancient tunnels below the White Horn with temporary living quarters for Clan families who live elsewhere for the rest of the year. It was always fun as children, we got to see more people and interact with other Clans.”
“What Clan were you before you married Eubar?”
Miska smiled. Handing Thistle the shuttle, she tugged a pendant out from the next of her shirt. It was a heavy, silver charm in the image of a human eye fashioned into the hilt of a sword. Thistle immediately recognized it.
“Redeyed?”
“Yes, on both sides actually. My parents were cousins.”
Thistle ran a finger over the well worn grooves, “My mother and I had a friend who is a Redeyed. Avol the Mage, do you know him?”
Lifting her eyebrows, Miska smirked, “Oh yes. All of our Clan know Avol. The Redeyed Clan had always been known for dabbling in magic. I learned from my mother, her father was the most well known mage of his time. They say Avol will be the most infamous of his generation.”
Thistle threaded the shuttled through the strands. The girls giggled as their father told them a story at the table, Varin leaning back in his chair and almost dozing off. The warmth of Eubar and Miska's home was calming compared to the rest of her life at the White Horn, it made Thistle want to cry.
“But,” Miska broke her thoughts, her tone dropping a note, “he is one you must watch.”
Thistle glanced over at her quizzically, “What do you mean? Avol? But he is always so kind, he used to bring me presents when I was younger.”
“He is charming to be sure. The man doesn't need magic to persuade a crowd, he has a silver tongue that one,” Miska dropped a hand on Thistle's wrist and met her eyes, “But don't be mistaken, the man is a politician, not some dream drunk magician. While you reside at White Horn, Thistle, you mustn't treat anybody without imagining they come with a price.”
Thistle's eyes drifted away and she pulled her wrist back. “I shall.”
“Even I have a price, dear one.”
Thistle peered back at her, swallowing dryly, “What do you mean?”
Miska smiled enigmatically, “Don't worry, my desire has already been seen to. I wanted out of Seran Wulfspine's service but was fearful there was no way. You opened that door for me. Thank you for taking me on.”
Thistle nodded and gave her a small smile in response. However, she couldn't get the woman's warning out of her head. She thought back on the times Avol had visited them in the wood. She couldn't remember how he had become friends with Lirare but he was more than congenial during his stays. Sometimes Lirare would give him little potions or teach him small spells, nothing volatile of course.
She was preoccupied with the matter while Varin walked her back to the King's chambers. Thistle tried to remember how long she had been at the White Horn, how many days it had been since the battle that had won back their homeland.
“Should we be hearing from Avol soon?” Thistle asked as they passed the High Seat.
Varin shrugged, “There is no knowing with this weather. And with Avol.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man does what he wants. Avol has never been bound by another person's expectations, even those in authority over him. Why do you ask?”
Thistle shook her head, banishing her suspicions. Ever since taking her place as the King's only heir, she was seeing enemies everywhere. She had known Avol Redeyed since she was a girl. Thinking the worst of him was absurd. “It's nothing, Miska and I were talking about him tonight. It made me wonder.”
“I shouldn't be surprised if we didn't see him again till spring.”
Two days later, in the middle of a blizzard, the wide doors of the great hall of White Horn creaked open. Three icy visitors dripped on the threshold. Thistle noticed the air around them humming with heat, a warming spell to fight off the conditions and allow travel. The tallest of them pulled the woolen scarf from the lower half of his face and tipped back his hat.
“The bitterest winter I have seen in these mountains, how are the lot of you faring?” Avol Redeyed chattered. Eubar happened to be close by and pulled him into an embrace.
As Avol beamed back at the larger man, Thistle recalled his visits. He would share a cup of dandelion tea with Lirare then help she and her mother gather rosehips, purslane and wild violets from the wood. He would stick a bob of milkweed behind his ear and cross his eyes at her. Lirare always said Avol was a wild soul but good. Brushing away the shadows Miska had spun around him, Thistle strode through the crowd and embraced his snowy figure.
“My goodness! Is that you? My wildling of the wood?” He exclaimed, removing a hat from his bushy head, “You look like a true Blackhelm Clanwoman now. How are they treating you?”
Thistle grit her teeth and forced a smile, “Very well!”
Her tone didn't decieve Avol but in the midst of the crowd, he knew better than to say anything. Instead he motioned his two companions forward. One was of medium height with ash blonde hair and a somber mouth. The other could have been half giant, he stood well over most of the other Clanmen present.
“This is Arnall Wagrin and Sathal Bron,” Avol hesitated, “They are from the court of King Gendall.”
A wave of displeasure rippled through the crowd. Thistle noticed a couple men reaching for their weapons. Thankfully, Eubar did as well and stepped forward.
“Now Avol,” he chuckled, “When we sent you to treat with the Lords down on the Collachs for our possessions, we didn't mean bring them here.”
“I know. But I bring news. Who is leading us now?” Avol replied in a low tone, drawing close to Eubar.
Eubar smirked and glanced down at Thistle, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Thistle met Avol's impressed gaze. She stood a little taller, “That would be me for the moment.”
“A lot has happened now, hasn't it?” He gave a wary grin.
Thistle shifted her weight, unsure about his reaction. She forced another smile, “We may meet as you wish, Redeyed. But first, you and your guests must rest.”
Eubar clapped Avol on the shoulder and led him down the White Horn, the two Woodland men staring at their surroundings in awe. “You family's old quarters are still unoccupied. Come! Let me bring you and your...guests.”
A body bumped into Thistle's shoulder. She glanced over at Miska, a woolen wrap covering her bright hair. She furrowed her brow at her, “Remember what I said about that one. I just hope these friends of his do not bear us ill will.”
Thistle rubbed her arms against the chill, “How could they not? Their King was cheated of this land and lost most of his troops in a vain attempt to keep it. Still though, I want to trust Avol.”
Miska shook her head, “We all do. But don't let him take you for a fool because of it.”
Varin marched down one of the upper tunnels under the White Horn towards the armory. Since she had taken over her grandmother's duties as regent, Thistle's responsibilities to the people had grown. It left them less chances to spar or even see each other as they used to when she had first arrived.
He and Eubar were her chief advisers, especially when meeting with other elders from the Clans. They were well known warriors among the men and respected for their loyalty to Roark while he had lived. Since the elders had trusted Roark, they felt more comfortable with Thistle seeing the Bonetalon brothers by her side.
Still things hadn't been the same between he and Thistle since the death of Gundrak. He sensed a change in her. She had never said it but the more she was among the people, the less she needed him. He was glad to see her adapting. Of course it would be a long process but she was heading in the right direction. Part of him couldn't deny his jealousy of having to share her with others now. It was a ridiculous notion and one he squashed whenever it reared it's head.
But the moments she'd pull him aside alone to ask his opinion, he felt secure in her attention.
He growled as he turned a corner, banishing the thoughts from his head. He wasn't some lovesick boy, he was a grown man. And Thistle was heir to the throne. Whether she would end up taking it or not was still to be seen.
Varin halted as a figure nearly collided with him coming out of the armory. Thistle righted herself, Eubar following close behind. His brother's face was grim, “Good. You're here. I need you to both follow me.”
Eubar strode down the hall without waiting. Thistle jerked her head in his direction, her curls braided up into an intricate bun on the top of her head, “He said it was urgent.”
He didn't have to hear it from her to already know it. Eubar's expression had been stony, a striking difference from his usual calm demeanor. The two of them trotted to catch up.
The rock tunnels had been borne out of the mountain hundreds of years earlier. The first inhabitants were not even Clannish. They were an ancient folk that had disappeared leaving very little behind of their identity. The Clans, always a mountain people, found the tunnels and had built the great hall of White Horn over them.
There were some similarities between the two periods of human habitation of the White Horn. Their water supply was an underground stream that fell down in a freezing waterfall into deeper levels of the mountain never delved. The ancient people of the mountain, the Clans called them the Shadows as their touch still haunted their home, had etched images of sheep, goats and bears into the rock surrounding the waterfall.
Eubar led them down a tunnel to the ledge blocked by boulders as a safety barrier. It looked down on the waterfall. The three of them emerged into the cavern. It was apparent that something was wrong. The waterfall was too weak, the stream almost a trickle.
Eubar frowned towards Varin and Thistle, “It gets low in the Winter but never this low.”
“This winter has been especially hard.” Varin commented, “I've never known it to be this cold, this soon in the season.”
“This whole year was cold. If we see the same next year, the water flow could be even weaker. It could make conditions for those living deep in the tunnels very hard. We can go melt snow for water but it would be hard to do every day for this many people.” Eubar explained to Thistle.
Thistle stood silent, her lips pursed.
“This stream is mostly from the melting of the ice mountains around us. Its been steady for many years. This is the worst it has ever looked.” Varin explained.
Rubbing her hands together, Thistle took a step back. Light rippled off the torches and onto the high vaulted ceiling overhead, mica glistening in the dark. She brushed the mist from her face in thought.
“My mother said these were strange days,” she breathed. “I think I know who to speak with about this.”
“Who?” Varin asked.
Thistle turned to him, “Can we postpone our lesson till tomorrow? I need you to take me to see Avol Redeyed.”
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