Grela, Avol Redeyed's lover, was of the Huntax Clan. The slight woman was as tall as Miska but with limbs like reeds. Catlike dark eyes, her features were more striking than beautiful. A tattoo of an ivy vine traced her collarbone. Miska watched her like a hawk as she and Avol entered the King's chamber.
“You should have warned me about the other effects the potion had, Avol,” Thistle reprimanded him as Miska wound her curls high on her head.
“Honestly, it slipped my mind. Though I hope it did shed some light on those around you. Tell me, how did I appear to you under the spell?” Avol grinned, brushing back his cloak and perching his hands on his narrow hips.
Thistle noted Miska's pursed lips. Perhaps it was best to keep such secrets to herself. “That doesn't matter right now. What does matter is that the Woodlanders are leaving tomorrow morning. Today is the last chance I have to strike a reasonable truce with them.”
“What would you call reasonable?”
“One that does not involve me selling myself in marriage to a stranger.” Thistle arched an eyebrow at him in the reflection of the mirror.
Avol sniffed, his eyes scanning the walls in thought. “King Gendall was fairly passionate that such a union could only be cemented by marriage.”
“But what of his son? What does he say?”
“He...agrees with you-”
“Then perhaps I might sway him to other means and he may speak with Gendall-”
“Mistress Blackhelm.” Avol stopped her, shaking his head and stepping forward. Miska shot him a glare and he paused before getting too close. “Gendall is old and sick, he's nearly 500 years old. I know with your mother and grandmother, that might seem like the blink of an eye but among mortals, that's a goodly long life. Most folk don't make it past 300. But he still has a strong hold over his kingdom and more importantly his sons, both the legitimate and illegitimate.”
A sheer veil of white drifted over Thistle's intricate braided bun. She brought the edge of it to cover her face to the chin. Smoothing out the black folds of her dress, she turned to face the room with her hands held lightly at her torso. “Well? Do you think they will know me from last night's enchantment?”
“Your presence is still awe inspiring, whether by potion or not.” Avol gave a handsome grin and Thistle almost saw the tufts of fox fur sprout around his ears without the aid of a spell.
“How many sons does he have?”
“Sathal and Arnall are two of twenty recognized bastard sons. Of his legal heirs there are three. Gendall will want you to marry the eldest, Conall. Though I have a feeling any of the three will do.”
Thistle glanced over Avol's shoulder at the slender woman he had brought with him. She didn't feel comfortable discussing such matters in length with someone who was not in her counsel. All she knew of Grela was that she was a talented minstrel. She played the harp and sang, Thistle had heard her the other evening at the feast. Still, that did not give her the right to hear intimate matters from leaders of the Clans.
Thistle nodded to the woman's instrument, “I hope we will hear you play this evening in the great hall after the council meeting, Mistress Huntax.”
Grela gave a small bow, hugging the harp with long, white arms. “Yes, my lady.”
“I will see you both then afterwards.” Thistle nodded curtly.
Catching her hint, Avol's easy smile chilled. Giving a bow, he led his lady towards the Great Hall. Thistle exhaled as Miska neatened the back of her veil.
“Who is she?” Thistle asked. “You seemed tense from the moment she entered.”
“It's not my place. Old bad blood between families.”
Thistle turned towards her handmaiden. Miska straightened her posture, fire sparking in her eyes. It only ignited Thistle's curiosity. “What do you have against her, Miska? Please. I value your counsel.”
Miska wrung her hands and paced towards the door. “That harp. Did you see how it was made from white wood?”
“Yes, it's beautiful-”
“That's not wood. Its human bone.”
Thistle paused a beat and narrowed her eyes. “Whose bones?”
“My aunt's, my mother's younger sister. She died when she was seventeen.” Miska's glare shot across the quiet room. “We believe she was killed for a man, the one who would become Grela's father. He was in love with my aunt and wanted to marry her. Others from the highborn Clans looked down on the match as she was a lowly Redeyed woman. Grela's mother coveted him. She was a great musician but could not charm him while my aunt- Thete was her name- captivated him. Thete's body was found on the cliffs outside the White Horn and she was interred in the mountain catacombs.”
Thistle's stomach clenched. “How would a harp come to be made from her bones?”
“I believe that woman stole down to the tombs and cut Thete's breastbone from her dead body. My mother said her new harp materialized soon after Thete's death and she stole her betrothed before the year was out. It's the music, it swept away any memory of her.”
The story put a chill in Thistle's bones. She swept towards the door. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I have heard Thete's voice in the music that harp plays. You have gifts from your grandmother. Listen and you will hear her crying out against the injustice.”
Shivering, Thistle looked away from Miska's strained expression as she fought to keep an icy demeanor. No wonder Miska was so cold. Two tales of murdered innocents followed her, first Thete and now Hesla. “I'm sorry.”
Miska's face relaxed. She strode towards Thistle and took her hand. “I do not look for sympathy. But I do hope you have heeded my warning about Avol. I don't trust him.”
“I am keeping my guard, Miska. Come now, the Earls will have assembled now.”
The Great Hall was arranged according to the Council traditions. As she entered the room, Thistle noticed that this time, she was the last to enter. Seran Wulfspine sat in Gundrak's former chair as the Earl of the Wulfspine Clan. She didn't stand with the other Earls as Thistle came to stand at the head of the proceedings. Thistle ignored the slight and sat.
Next to her sat the two Woodlanders. Heat simmered from the glares of the Earls and Thistle's courage wavered. She still didn't know how she was going to convince them to allow her to enter into a peace treaty with the Woodland. Though Varin had offered his support, he still seemed wary. Thistle couldn't blame them.
“Firstly, I want to thank the Earls for their presence here despite the...strong feelings these discussions may ignite.” Thistle's voice sounded small in the huge room. She wanted to command their respect like Seran had at that first Council meeting she had seen. However, she only saw disdainful looks shot her way.
“Strong is putting it a bit lightly, I think!” Roil Huntax growled, a roar of agreement rising.
The Woodlanders remained silent, staring out blankly at the roused crowd as though they expected it. Thistle stood, “My lords, I beg you to listen. The blood of your children depends on maintaining peace-”
“Not the blood of my child!” Seran sprang to her feet. “Your own father was murdered by the Bloodyhanded King, the father of these beasts you have invited to the White Horn-”
“I did not invite them but they are welcome just the same. And my father was not murdered, you do him dishonor by saying such. He was slain honorably in battle and now rides the stars with the thunder god as one of Dargta's own warriors.” Thistle's voice rose and she lifted her chin arrogantly.
The other earls quieted, mumbled amongst themselves in agreement. None of them would speak against their dead king. For the hundredth time, Thistle wished Roark had survived for her sake.
“So what are you suggesting? Taking up their offer of marriage? Become a Woodlander's whore masquerading as a wife?” Seran spat.
Before Thistle could reply, a figure rose behind her. Thistle turned to see quiet faced Arnall, his calm demeanor exuding authority. She could nearly spy the silver gleaming through his flesh. He gave Seran a condescending smile that didn't reach his steady gaze and folded his hands before him. The room hushed.
“I regret that I do not have the chance to discuss this with your son, Seran Wulfspine. I have heard many great things about Roark, I wish I had the chance to meet him.” He turned from her towards the Earls. “My lords, I am only an illegitimate prince of the Woodland. But I have been given the right to speak my King's wishes. Marriage has been discussed only because it would ensure peace if our people were joined in such a union. King Gendall cannot see any other way to keep us from further...aggressions.”
“The aggression is on your part!” A voice shouted and others agreed in turn.
“We acknowledge that. Our people have wronged yours. But hasn't that been the same of your people against ours in the past? There is a blood on the hands of all our ancestors.” Arnall turned towards Thistle, his gaze searching past her veil as he tried to read her expression. “But we are not our ancestors. I will not be held responsible for blood I never spilled. Especially as we seek peace with all our hearts. I only wish that Thistle Blackhelm would come to the Woodlands in the spring for diplomatic reasons. I assure you, she will not enter into marriage agreement without your word.”
Thistle broke his gaze and scanned the room of Earls. She swallowed hard. “I am new to the ways of my father's people. I assure you, I want nothing more than to give his name honor. But I have already decided I will travel to the Woodlands after the thaw.”
Seran scoffed, “We'll see after we put such a statement to vote-”
“There will be no vote. Not until I return with the details of the King's treaty. I will not be a slave to the Earls of White Horn, I am the daughter of Roark Blackhelm and regent ruler. In this, I will rebel.” Thistle lifted her veil and glared down the hall, daring the men to protest her claim.
She was stunned by the sweep of silence. One of the Earls, the elderly gentleman who had voted against her betrothal to Gundrak, stood to his feet. He pressed his fist to his chest and bowed his head. “Spoken like a true Blackhelm.”
Several other Earls rose and bowed their heads to her. The others, most likely allied with Seran, remained seated and scowling but did not argue. Thistle knew enough of the Clans to realize they appreciated a lionhearted woman.
Unwilling to let the sway of the room swing towards Seran, Thistle nodded towards Miska behind her. Miska waved in servants from the wings. Carrying the long tables and filling them with sizzling lamb hanks, bowls filled with green eggs in brine, salted pork and rich breads slathered in honey. Shouts of surprise rose from the group as barrels filled with mead were rolled into the hall.
“Now to celebrate the final night of our guests' visit, I wish to give the Woodlanders another night to tell their King about.” Thistle announced, smiling broadly as she received a roar of approval.
Seran's scathing stare bore into her. Thistle did her best not to recoil as the woman came to stand toe to toe with her. “If you think distracting these men with a little amusement will win them over, you are underestimating my influence.”
“What? Will you murder their children too if they stand in your way?” Thistle snapped, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “I have been told countless times that I take after your side of the family. Perhaps its time you recognize that you might have met your match.”
Seran snarled a smile and waved her second from the Wulfspine Clan up to her. “Don't flatter yourself. A dog may howl like a wolf, but it is still just a dog.”
