The commotion for moving the Clans into the mountains began in the wee hours. A group of warriors had ridden ahead the previous night to the White Horn, the ancestral seat of Clannish power. The highborn Clans of Wulfspine, Bonetalon and Huntax were to lead their people with the body of their dead King at the head.
“Boy, be careful with that!” Eubar Bonetalon reached out as a servant almost dropped Roark's sword in the dirt.
Varin took the weapon from the adolescent and waved him on. He turned to his brother, holding the sword and peering down at the script on the handle. The runes read the warrior's prayer to the thunder god, Dargta.
“It is said Dargta only takes those in battle that he deems worthy to fight for him in the heavens. Perhaps Roark was always fated to make war in the stars.” Eubar commented, taking the sword from Varin.
A pang of grief pierced Varin as Eubar placed it beside the tightly wrapped body of Roark Blackhelm. Roark was older than Varin and had taught him how to fight. Their families were distant cousins, both from one of the four highborn Clans. Both had lost their fathers when the bloody handed King had taken their halls. Varin peered up at the windswept peaks and wondered what it would be like to return home without his best friend leading them as King.
Eubar came alongside his little brother and clapped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he peered into Varin's face, “We will give him a funeral to send him to his fate that will be made legend.”
Biting the inside of his mouth, Varin glanced down the line of tents as they were being taken down. He caught sight of Avol walking with the girl towards the horses. Thistle, the last Blackhelm heir, leaped back as one of the more volatile mares snapped at her.
“What of the girl?” Eubar nodded towards them, “What did the old battle ax have to say about her granddaughter? Will Seran acknowledge her as kin?”
“She can't go back on it now. She did so last night in front of both Avol and I.”
“Doesn't mean the girl will be considered for Queen.”
Varin chuckled and shook his head. “I don't know what Roark's forest daughter wants. I don't think she knows what she wants. But I have a feeling taking the High Seat isn't a fervent desire.”
“We'll see what her grandmother has to say about that.” Eubar shrugged his shoulders. He peered over Varin towards the growing crowd of Clans people. “I see my Miska and the girls. I'll be off then, see you at the White Horn.”
The words were so heartrendingly foreign, it made them both pause. After decades as refugees, they were going home. Just as Roark foresaw. Eubar gave his brother a short embrace before trotting over to his family.
Avol led Thistle towards him on a gentler white mare. The mage's scrappy beard showed hints of auburn in the pale morning light as he jerked his chin in Varin's direction. Avol was to return to the Highlands to make secure their holdings before the King could steal their years of hard work in exile.
“She's all yours.” Avol handed the reins to Varin.
Varin took them with a grimace up at Thistle. The girl was pale and wide eyed, staring at the gathering Clans. They were her people but the way she looked at the them, one would think she was being led away to be cooked and eaten. Varin shook his head, “It seems the longer the lass is among us, the jumpier she gets.”
“Be fair, Bonetalon. Shes never known anything but her mother and the forest.” Avol replied, rubbing his hands together against the chill, “She used to be the most curious sprite you could imagine. But I think too much has happened too soon. Shes seen too much horror in a short time after never having known it.”
“Still,” Varin glanced over his shoulder towards the large tent where Seran Wulfspine was readying herself for the journey, “She needs to keep her wits about her. The wolves are closing in. It would be different if Roark were here but he isn't.”
Avol grimaced at Varin's sharp tone. He dug into his pack and pulled out a draw string purse and pressed it into Varin's hand, “If she seems like shes too jittery, mix this with warm water and have her drink it.”
“What is it? One of your spells?”
“No, it's chamomile. Should help to calm her down.” Avol smirked.
Thistle stirred on the saddle, breaking out of her stupor, and peered down at Avol, “Must you leave?”
“I fear so. I was given the direction straight from Seran Wulfspine and I have no desire to contradict her will, would you?”
Thistle shook her dark head. She had braided her curls but spirals escaped and whipped around her pale face in the winter wind. Tugging the fur lined cloak she had been given tighter around her shoulders, she gave a weary smile, “I hope to see you soon again friend.”
“As do I, Mistress Blackhelm.” He patted her hand and nodded his farewell to Varin before striding towards his steed.
Alone with the girl, Varin seriously questioned his old friend's wisdom in leaving her to his keeping. He had no idea how to talk to the maid. She emanated fear and indecision, from her trembling hands to her wary gaze. Nothing like the Clannish women he had been raised around. If she was to survive among them, much less enmeshed in the political intrigue of the Highborn clans, she was going to have to gather her wits.
Without a word to her, Varin led the horse after Seran and her Clan as they accompanied Roark's body. The old road into the mountains was as precarious as he remembered. It was early enough in the winter for it to be clear of snow. A few more months and there would be no one coming or going.
“How long of a trip is it?” Thistle called out.
“A day and a half.” Varin replied without looking at her.
“Won't you ride your own horse?”
Varin wasn't in the mood for a conversation but swallowed his annoyance for the girl's sake. “Mine was killed in battle. I have no desire to find another for now. Besides, walking these mountains suits me.”
“Well then,” her voice pitched in forced cheerfulness, “We shall take turns just the same. I can walk in a little while and you can ride-”
“That won't be necessary, lass.”
“But I insist.”
Varin barked a laugh and peered up at her earnest expression, “You don't know anything of our ways yet.”
Her thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “In what way would that be offensive?”
“You are a Blackhelm. I am a Bonetalon. Though we are both Highborn, my people have always been subservient to yours. Just as the Huntax Clan is subservient to Wulfspine. Your grandmother could use your leading me on a horse as grounds to start a civil war among our people.”
Thistle's mouth drew into a thin line, “I had no idea. The traditions of your people are so strange to me.”
“We are your people as well now, lass. Don't be forgetting it.” Varin growled up at her, “But it would be best if you stayed silent for now and do as I say. The last thing your family needs so soon after regaining White Horn is to spark a rebellion.”
Thistle's gaze flared into a glare. Briefly, Varin swore he saw his dear friend ghosting across her face and his heart jumped to his throat. The moment passed as her eyes trailed up towards the head of the caravan. Varin turned to looked to see Seran Wulfspine on her horse, staring at them in curiosity. Her lips teased at a grin before she turned to face her son's dead body.
Varin hoped in his heart that the old shieldmaiden would let the girl adjust before throwing her into the fray. He knew she wouldn't though. Seran's ambition overrode her empathy.
Alone in the chamber, Thistle cowered in a cold stone corner in the semi darkness. Wrapping her borrowed cloak about her shoulders, she tried to remember the sound of the wind in the trees and birdsong. But all she could see was blood.
She tried to give reasons for her to stay among her father's people but could find none.
When they had reached the heart of the Westward mountains, dawn had just broken. They'd travelled all night, the air growing thin and making Thistle's head spin. Great chasms of jagged blue ice opened up on either side of the road. Wind howled through the peaks, sending whooshing blankets of ice and snow down on them. But still the Clansmen trudged on.
Damp with ice and shivering violently, Thistle forced herself to look upon White Horn as they stopped in front of it. Varin Bonetalon, who had barely spoken to her except to see if she was hungry, halted in his tracks. Many other Clansmen around them did the same. In one roar, they keened out a cry in their strange tongue, stabbing their weapons towards the steel gray sky. Some cut themselves, letting their blood splash on the snow.
The great doors of White Horn were built into the mountain side. They had stopped in an icy courtyard opposite them, great pillars marked with symbols of the clans hemming the smooth stones. The doors growled open as the warriors who had gone ahead opened them to the people. Old men wept, many offering prayers of thanks as they crossed the threshold. Thistle gripped the saddle as Varin led her into the Horn.
A cathedral of white and gray stone, the floors shining like ice despite their disuse for decades. A second floor wrapped around the room at least two stories over their heads. In the middle of the White Horn was a long, rectangular fire pit. Flames had already been kindled and leaped high, kept alive by the potent coal found in the mines below.
Thistle gasped at the sight of the High Seat. A throne of white stone, transparent Clannish runes etched into the arms and headboard, the names of the kings who had sat there. Varin tapped her leg, bringing her out of her stupor and helped her off the horse. She looked back to see her grandmother leading her own horse to the head of the room.
In one swift movement, Seran unsheathed the Blackhelm sword of her son's. A couple men of her clan held the animal and in one swift movement, she slit the horse's throat. Blood spurted, slicking the floor crimson. Thistle recoiled and fought down vomit. Seran continued the tradition by smearing the throne with the blood of the animal. With her red hands, she dabbed the blood on her own forehead.
Seran met the eyes of her granddaughter with a manic laugh and strode across the hall towards her. Thistle held her ground best she could though her knees threatened to give way. Her mother's speeches on respecting life and nurturing the world around her echoed in her brain. She felt like she was committing a mortal sin against Lirare. Especially as Seran swiped Thistle's forehead in horse blood.
“Now we will send your father to the heavens.” Seran cackled before turning away.
Thistle felt like ice, despite the growing heat from the fire. The feasting began soon after and the drinking. Even her protector Varin grew rowdy, guzzling tankards of mead and beer with the men of his Clan. Thistle watched it all by herself in a chair built into the wall. The mark on her forehead designated her as one of the royal family in mourning, she was later told. So she could not wash it off or else insult her people.
Her people. These were not her people. They could never be.
A servant from the Bonetalon clan showed her to the room her grandmother had given her. It felt more like a prison cell. It was a plain chamber with furs spread out on a lonely cot by a high window, the only source of light. Thistle lit a torch and set it in a sconce by the slotted wooden door. It did not give her much privacy and let in all the sounds from the hall below the balcony outside.
A polished plate on the wall served as a mirror. It was a luxury she had never known in her wood. The blood mark had dried, the smell invading her senses. Hair wild from the journey, eyes red from no sleep and now with her face smeared in gore, Thistle scared herself in her reflection. Dropping to her knees, she rubbed futilely at the blood.
Hunched in the corner, she hummed a song her mother used to sing when a figure thudded unbidden into her room. Impulsively, she reached for her hunting knife sheathed at her side. The action was not lost on Varin. Bleary eyed from too much drink, he scoffed and stopped in the middle of the room.
“What is it you plan on doing, Blackhelm? Running me through with that little blade of yours?”
Thistle's face warmed as she struggled to her feet, “Don't call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“Blackhelm. It was my father's name, not mine. I'm just Thistle.”
Varin barked a harsh laugh as he ambled forward. Thistle tried not to be intimidated as he loomed over her. “While you reside here, it is your name. From this moment on, you had best be claiming it. Your father could have rejected you on his deathbed, but he didn't. He was honorable, even to a half savage thing of the woods like yourself.”
It was now Thistle who laughed, “Me the savage? Have you looked down there? Vomiting and fighting, coupling in corners, rolling around like bears in a tussle! Is this how my father's memory is to be honored?”
“It is our ways. Your ways.”
“No,” she shook her head, “I don't want any of this-”
She tried to pushed past but Varin reached out, grasping her arm, “Where will you go? Back to your wood? Avol told me there is nothing for you there. That life was fit for your mother but not for someone like you.”
Thistle didn't wrestle away from him but looked up at him. His breath reeked of drink but his gaze was steady. “What do you mean?”
“This is the life you dreamed of if you would only give it a chance. Do you remember that night on the moors when I first met you? How you laughed at the adventure? You loved it out there. Where did that lass go?”
Thistle tried to remember who she had been before her mother had been torn from her. Before the battlefield and her newly found father's death. Could she ever have been that person? Thirsting for the independence Lirare had rarely allowed her. Now that it was hers for the taking, she didn't want it.
Thistle choked back a sob, “I don't know, Varin. I don't know who I am anymore.”
The tears came easily to her. Varin loosed her arm, running his thick fingers over his half shaven scalp. He shifted awkwardly in his boots. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a scrap of cloth and held it out to her. Thistle gave a mute nod and took it to wipe her face.
“I know this all must be strange to you. I can understand. I felt just as lost when we had our home taken from us. But hear this, I made an oath to your father. One that can only be broken by my death. As long as you will have me, I am your servant.” Varin knelt in front of her, catching Thistle off guard. Without warning, he took the hunting knife from her waist. Slicing his palm open with it, he offered the blade back to her. “I gave your father my word and now I give you mine.”
Thistle's heart quickened with the words. With steady fingers, she took the knife from him. Wiping the blood away with her cloth, she sheathed the blade. Reaching out for his hand, she wrapped the cloth around the wound. Varin's eyes shot up to her face, studying her as she bound his palm.
“Then I suppose I must stay for now, Varin Bonetalon.” Thistle coaxed him to his feet, his expression one of questioning surprise, “But I would prefer a friend in this cold place more than a servant.”
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