Over the next two weeks, Thistle didn't hear from her grandmother again. She was thankful for the reprieve. Miska came every morning to dress her, despite Thistle's objections. She was told that a woman of her station must allow herself to be taken care of by servants. It was a strange reality from her self sufficient life in the woods.
Another change was her diet. Her mother had been staunchly vegetarian all of Thistle's life. Now she found herself eating pork soaked in whey, broth simmered with lamb bones, and goose eggs. There had been several nights she spent doubled over in her cot, her stomach painfully trying to digest the heavy food.
The highlight of her day was every afternoon, Varin came to fetch her for their training. He had started sparring practice with her but only using wooden swords. Her skills were rough as to be expected but Varin was a good and patient teacher. Thistle recalled that her own father had been the one to teach Varin so in a way, Roark was teaching his own daughter the sword.
“I believe you are ready to try it.” Varin nodded towards Roark's sword propped up against the wall.
Thistle gripped the wood hilt of her practice sword. “Are you sure?”
Varin nodded silently towards the sword once more as he retrieved his own weapon. Thistle obeyed. She picked it up, the hilt remaining cold and ordinary in her hand. She hadn't spoken again of the strange spell that Varin's touch had cast on the weapon. But he hadn't tried to touch it since.
She was always surprised to find it lighter than it looked. She carefully unsheathed it, the sheer blade ringing softly as she set the ornate sheath on a nearby black stone bench.
"Hold it like I've shown you. Just pretend its a practice blade. I can take care of myself." Varin stepped forward. Placing her hands on the hilt correctly, he lifted her arms by the wrists. "Remember, never lose your momentum. Keep your blade swinging and your feet quick. A blade like this isn't meant for you to be on the offense. You must always be the first to attack. Never be passive."
Thistle nodded, swallowing hard. She had always longed to learn to use a weapon. Now as she stood with her stomach roiling with nerves, she wondered if she was actually as fit for a blade as she had fancied.
They started with a few basic practice swings, Varin encouraging her as she swung the blade. He surprised her as he brought up his axe and blocked her.
"Set blows aside with the flat of your blade," he instructed, pulling back, "Better yet, try to counter an attack with your edge against your opponent's flat. Don't be afraid to use your full weight in a thrust."
Thistle realized that she had romanticized warfare. Such a thrust would certainly kill a person. She wondered if she would truly be capable of such a thing even if her own life were at stake. Deciding it was best not to consider such things, she set her concentration on what was before her.
They continued for an hour till she felt as though her arms would give way. In a desperate attempt to bind his weapon, Thistle rushed forward with one hand above the hilt to give her extra leverage in the attack. Varin dodged her attempt. Thistle's ankle twisted as she missed him and fell to the sparring hall's hard floor. Varin was quickly at her side.
"That's enough for today." He said gruffly, setting aside the sword as she sat up, "Are you hurt?"
Thistle shook her head, massaging her ankle, "I don't think so."
Without a word, Varin removed her boot and inspected her joint himself. He turned it in his large hands, his brow furrowed in concern.
"I shouldn't have pushed you so hard." He berated himself.
"No! I wanted to learn more. I look forward to these lessons. They make me feel like I hold a practical purpose here." Thistle sat forward, laying a hand over his wrist.
Varin's gaze flickered up at her. He shrugged, letting her ankle loose, "It's getting late and you need your rest."
"You need it more than I. You look as though you have not rested in days."
Impulsively, she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture that had come to feel commonplace for her, she did it so often. She felt as much concern for her protector as he did for her. It wasn't really the kind of affection towards a father or uncle. Varin had become her only friend at White Horn.
She knew he had not been sleeping well since their arrival. In the night, she would awaken in her own bed to hear stirring in the forge down the hall from her. One evening, she had peeked into the smithy to spy Varin bellowing the fire as he fashioned his Clannish metal.
“I hope I'm not interrupting.”
In the door stood the black haired Gundrak Wulfspine. Her possible betrothed ambled into the room, eyeing their position on the floor with amusement. Varin rose, brushing his hands off on his trousers. He bowed his head, pressing a fist to his heart.
“Bonetalon.” Gundrak acknowledged the man's subservience, his narrow eyes grazing over him. He reached down to Thistle, “Mistress Blackhelm, may I help you?”
Thistle begrudgingly took his hand. The man brought her to her feet, his fingers lingering on hers a moment longer than necessary. Gundrak's features were not handsome but his face was striking. His nose and square jawline were strong below sleek, catlike eyes. His beard was trimmed close to his face and not full like Varin's. Thistle felt that if Varin was a bear then Gundrak was certainly a wolf.
“Are you hurt?” He asked, motioning to her leg.
Thistle broke eye contact and took away her hand, “Not at all.”
“Well, would you like a fresh sparring partner then? Give your father's manservant a rest?”
Though the statement was true enough, the condescension in his tone made Thistle pause. Varin shifted restlessly in her peripheral. Thistle gave him an icy smile. “I believe I've had my fill for the day.”
Gundrak shot her a grin and turned towards Varin. “Very well. Then how about you, Bonetalon?”
Gundrak unsheathed his sword, pointing with it towards Varin's ax on the floor. Varin's jaw tightened and he leaned over to pick it up. "Perhaps I could use some more practice with a different opponent, Wulfspine."
“If you would like,” Thistle spoke up, both men turning to look at her, “you may use my sword to even the odds.”
Wulfspine blinked over at the sword in her hands. He wet his lips, dark eyebrows furrowing. "But that is the King's sword. you would allow a Bonetalon to touch it?”
“It is my sword for now, Wulfspine.” Thistle shot back, surprising even herself with the authority in her voice.
She strode towards Varin and traded the sword for the ax. As before, she noticed the hilt shimmer at Varin's touch. There was more going on than a mere leftover spell and they both knew it. Varin glanced up at her, forcing his grimace to subside. Thistle bowed out, waving a hand for their match to begin.
Varin bowed to the noble from the higher caste in acquiesce. Gundrak circled him, his heavy blade held before him. He made the first advance only to be blocked by Varin. He tried again not a moment later. Gundrak was aggressive though if he were in real combat, he could be seen as reckless. Varin was clearly the more seasoned warrior and he soon had Gundrak bound. Gundrak's hand slid down the blade of his sword above the hilt, losing the strength in his stance.
"Ready to give, Wulfspine?" Varin growled between gritted teeth.
Gundrak turned his steely gaze on Varin. A droplet of sweat slid down his face from his damp hairline. Before Gundrak could respond, he was distracted by movement at the door of the sparring room. Thistle noticed and glanced over. A slender figure hovered in the shadows, watching with large eyes. It was the silent maid servant that sometimes helped Miska dress her in the morning. Gundrak breathed a name and lost his grip.
Varin shoved Gundrak away, the flat of his blade slipping and slapping the man on the shin. Gundrak fell hard to the stone floor.
"Varin!" Thistle rose and ran forward, "This was only a sparring match."
Varin pulled a hand over his braid, wetting his lips and looked wide eyed down at the Wulfspine Lord, “I'm sorry, it was an accident-”
“Of course, yes.” Gundrak rose to his feet, helped by Thistle, “Good work, Bonetalon. Should have expected more brawn than wit from you.”
His gaze drifted towards the open door. Thistle followed it and found that the girl was gone. Gundrak sheathed his sword and limped away.
“I will now adjourn to my rooms to lick my wounds. Mistress Blackhelm, I take your leave.”
Varin and Thistle stared after him. She looked over at her protector, narrowing her eyes. “Did you see who it was by the door? That distracted him?”
Varin sniffed, wiping the sweat from his brow, “No but- I thought I heard him-”
“Did he say a name?”
Varin scoffed and peered over at Thistle, jutting out his jaw. “I thought I heard him say Hesla.”
“Do you know anyone called that?”
Varin handed the sword back to Thistle, “Only one. My niece, Hesla Bonetalon. Daughter of my brother Eubar and his wife Miska."
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