Thistle's hair smelled like smoke when she awoke the next morning. Wrapping herself in a sheep skin, she stepped out of her chamber towards the edge of the balcony. The hall below was littered in bodies, in a drunken sleep from the funeral festivities. The throne was still caked in blood.
Out in the courtyard beyond the massive doors, the heap of her father's funeral pyre smoked in the frigid morning air. After Varin had gone to fetch her from her rooms the evening before, he had escorted her down to the courtyard. Seran lit the stacked pyre where Roark's body lay next to the horse that had been sacrificed. Varin explained that the animal had been Roark's favorite steed. He would need the animal to help him ride among the stars in the next life.
Thistle peered across the fire towards her grandmother. The woman was studying her, a young man at her side. Seran nodded towards Thistle, whispering something to the warrior who turned his attention towards her. Firelight caught the sheen of ebony in his long hair, he appeared to be one of her kin of the Wulfspine Clan. Thistle's eyes shot away and her palms grew clammy despite the heat of the pyre. The way Seran looked at her made her feel more like a pawn than a person.
The floor was chilled under her bare feet and drove Thistle back into her room. She wasn't alone for long. Before she could dress, a knock came at her room. She turned to see a tall woman in servants garb, her golden red hair tucked into a thick braid that swung past her hips. Thistle straightened from picking her dress off the floor.
“You won't be needing this.” The woman strode forward and took the blood stained homespun from her hands.
She waved in three more servants. One had a large copper tub, the other following with a steaming bowl of water. The last carried a mound of cloth in her skeletal arms, her goose egg eyes shy as she laid out a gown and underthings on the cot.
“Your grandmother insisted you wash before meeting with her this morning. I am her handmaiden, Miska Bonetalon. If there is anything you need at any time, you may ask me. I am here to serve my lady and her issue.” The tall woman explained as the tub was slowly filled. Her gaze trailed over Thistle's bedraggled form, thin mouth drawing into an even thinner line. "We certainly have our work cut out for us. But don't worry. You will look like the daughter of a Blackhelm once we are done with you.”
Miska's promise held true. After scrubbing away the dirt and blood with clay soap that left a scent of lavender, the skinny servant girl who barely spoke helped dress Thistle in a dark blue gown. The warm sleeves and hem were lined with black fur. After cinching her into the dress, Miska waved away her attendants and sat Thistle in front of the mirror.
“You certainly do have the hair of a Wulfspine,” she grumbled to herself as she yanked Thistle's curls into two slim side braids. She finished with an ornate thick braid at the back so all of her tresses were tamed away from her face.
Thistle ran her fingers over the heavy skirts, the fabric finer than any she had ever worn. She knew that her father had done well for himself in the Collach Highlands but hadn't realized how well. Apparently exile had been good to the Highborn Clans. Even as a servant, Miska's green wool was well woven and slim gold hoops adorned her ears.
Miska assessed her. She frowned. “You haven't spoken a word since we began our work. What do you think of it?”
Thistle was taken aback by her candidacy. “I- I like it.”
“A word of advice, hold you head high and tell your true thoughts. The meek do not fare well among our people.” She glanced over her shoulder at the quiet servant girl as she gathered the bathing things.
“Very well.” Thistle wet her lips in thought, “The braids give me a headache.”
Miska shook her head, “That you will just have to get used to. You aren't running wild in the forest anymore, Blackhelm daughter. You are of royal blood and you must act like it.”
“How did you know-”
“Another thing, word gets around fast among the Clans. Best keep your secrets close at hand.” Miska gave her a clandestine smile and motioned to the door, “You're ready to see her now.”
While she had been dressing, the other servants had cleared away the mess in the great hall of White Horn. One was finishing scrubbing the throne clean with a strong smelling lye, its acidic bite filling the air.
Thistle was ushered down a long hall behind the throne. It opened into a sitting room, the floors covered in rich furs and trappings of war adorning the walls. Her grandmother rested in a chair in the middle of the room. The young warrior in black leather with the long dark hair stood beside her. Seran wore a wine red gown, her hair braided and decorated with bone beads. She nodded her sharp chin in acknowledgment.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” Seran motioned the young man forward, “This is my nephew, Gundrak Wulfspine. Gundrak, this is my granddaughter, Thistle Blackhelm.”
Gundrak stepped forward, bowing his head, his narrow gray eyes bold as he took her in. Thistle bowed her head.
“No! You do not bow to him.” Seran snapped, “You are the daughter of a dead King. Our new leader has yet to be chosen. You are still superior to him.”
A flicker of a smirk graced Gundrak's mouth but it wasn't cruel. His hard expression softened as he studied her in a look of both pity and wonder. Thistle would have almost preferred cruelty to that look.
“I'm sorry, grandmother. I'm still learning your ways-”
“Our ways.” Seran rested a hand on her forehead with a sigh. “Girl, don't mistake my tone. I expect you to immerse yourself in this world. Truly. For our survival. We have enemies all around us, those who want the throne for themselves. Even those from lowborn Clans. All eyes are on you.”
Thistle raised her chin and met the woman's gaze, “I will continue to do my best.”
Seran's face soured into a frown. "Of course you will.”
“But I do wish to know what my purpose is to be here at the White Horn.” Thistle asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.
Her bold question pleased Seran and the woman's face softened. “Well, I don't believe we have a chance at making you sole heir of the throne. A woman has only been queen in the White Horn once and you haven't been among us long enough to get that kind of support. If you had been male, it might have been different. So that is where Gundrak comes in.”
Thistle glanced over at the warrior. He avoided her eyes as he retreated a step. “Who is he?”
Seran gave her a confident smile, “He is to be our future King and your husband after your next monthly bleeding.”
“That was all she said?” Varin asked.
Thistle paced her room, running her hands over her braids, heart racing, “When I came here, I wanted to find a sense of belonging. To learn something of my father. I never wanted to get caught up in a battle for the throne. I definetly never intended to be married off as though I were a mindless pawn.”
Varin stood from the cot, crossing his arms over his barreled chest. “I wish I had warned you more fervently what you were getting yourself into. Seran is notorious. I believe it was her manipulations that kept your father from returning to your mother-”
“What are you saying?” Thistle whipped around towards him.
With a sigh, Varin peered out the high window towards the ice blue sky. "Your father returned from the eastern woodlands years ago with the intent of leaving his people forever. That's what he told me at least. He never admitted it, but I knew it was for a woman. Honestly, I thought your mother was a witch who had cast a spell on him.”
Thistle scoffed, “You wouldn't be the first.”
“Seran wouldn't hear of it. He was her only child and that tie overrides any romance he might have had in life, at least as far as she was concerned. She almost died bringing him into the world, the birth was so violent she was never able to have another child. Roark was her everything.”
“She doesn't seem too shaken up by his death-"
Varin peered down into her face, his expression was so earnest it made her stop. “Clansmen do not mourn the way others in this country do. For a woman in her position, shedding tears publicly would be unheard of and weaken her position."
Pacing once more, Thistle rubbed her hands together against the cold, “Why does it sound like you are defending her?”
“I'm not, I'm trying to make you understand.” Varin groaned. “This discussion is pointless. A marriage between you and Gundruk would have to be approved by the Earls of the Clans before a decision can be made. Especially since you are both from powerful families and distantly related. Her plans might not even come about as she desires.”
“So what do you suggest I do for now?”
Varin shrugged. A slow smile spread across his face as he smoothed a hand over his beard, “There is more to being a Clansman than just politics and feasting. I take it you have never wielded any weapon bigger than that hunting knife.”
“No. Why?”
With a grin, Varin beckoned her towards the door. “No better time to start your training than the present. A woman of White Horn must always be able to defend herself with a sword.”
“Sword fighting? In this gown?”
Varin grimaced, “You're right. I'll be back in a moment.”
Inside of an hour, Thistle found herself cinched into a pair of trousers and a tunic. She put on her old boots, thankful Miska hadn't gotten rid of those. They were much more comfortable than the leather shoes she had been given.
"Axe or sword?" Varin lifted a heavy brow expectantly as they perused the armory.
Thistle shrugged, trying to seem more enthusiastic than she felt. She wondered if she would be any good at what Varin was suggesting. She hated the thought of disappointing him as she had everyone else at White Horn.
She scanned the finely forged swords and axes mounted on the walls. Her thoughts drifted back to that horrific night after the battle when she had entered the tent of her dying father, his weapon discarded on the ground. His sword that had been used in the sacrificial ceremony the evening before, it had to be nearby.
"Where of the sword my father wielded?" She asked.
“I don't believe Seran Wulfspine kept it with her. It's not hers by right, its yours. Give me a moment."
He strode over to the Master of Arms where he was busy organizing the armory. A moment later, Varin returned with the sword. When he held it out to Thistle, she paused.
“Can you unsheath it for me?” She asked carefully.
Varin sighed, “Lass, you can't expect to use the weapon if you won't-”
His voice failed as he stared down at the hilt. Thistle looked down at it. His large hand gripped over the runes. The letters shimmered white like fresh snow on the mountainside.
“How did you do that?” She asked as the enchantment faded.
Varin blinked, shutting his mouth. “It must be some lingering spell from battle, s-some trick of Avol's.”
He thrust the weapon towards Thistle, surprising her with it. Gingerly, she took it by the hilt. Her touch did not have the same effect on the sword.
“Let's get started.” Varin announced marching away from her, his eyes distant as though he were thinking on something else but unwilling to voice it. Thistle followed, wishing Avol was here to explain what had just occurred.
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