Young Writers Society

Wilh

Her bottom ached and so did her ears. Her Lady mother had been quite upset with her, not only for yesterday’s events but for running off in the night as well. Leanna had both scolded Wilh and spanked her with a wooden paddle for such “fanatics” as she called them. Wilh understood why her mother saw it fit to punish her for fighting with Stelle the night before; she did not understand why Stelle had not been punished as well. Although Stelle did not do much fighting, she reminded herself. Her sister was more like their mother, a southron lady, rather than a northern warrior. No matter how much Lady Leanna tried, she could not make a southron lady out of Wilh, but she would not give up. Now Wilh sat on a hard wooden stool in the weaving room, weaving soft, black wool thread in the shape of ravens across a blanket. The room was filled with others, women and girls from about the castle. The weaving room was never want for them; it was the first best place for castle gossip. The second being the kitchens and the third being the stables. Wilh worked to the click clack of wooden knitting needles from the far east corners of the room, east was at her left for the moment. She preferred to sit by the door or at least close to it; it was not allowed to block the only entrance and exit.

The looms were all lined up between each window, right of the looms and in another corner were the spinning wheels surrounded by baskets of wool. The women at the wheels talked to their neighbors in between instructing the younger girls. Gertie, a mother of six was telling Opal, a widow, about Castle Stuckham, a lesser lordlings home. Gertie’s sister worked as a maid there, Wilh knew. She was always disturbed in her focus on one conversation whenever one of the older women told the girls to pass them something or chided them or had to call out quick with a “No not there,” and “Careful.” Balls for yarn were passed around the room, in between the looms, the spinning wheels, and the knitting circles, Thread and garments were often passed around in the west corner of the room where the younger girls mostly did their sewing and stitching. There was no dyed thread or yarn being passed around, bright colors were reserved for the ladies of the house, but if one wished they could go and make a special request with Old Tenar the dyer. She had been in the castle’s service since Wilh’s late aunt, Cassandra was young. The Vukovic family tree was filled with doting fathers and persuasive daughters. The room was filled with mixed and mingled scents. The Duenna smelled of stewed cherries, she often ate them. Some women smelled like bread, they were from the kitchens, some like pine and lavender; they were in charge of her mother’s clothing and rooms, and others like sweat and soap. A few were from the dying hut so they smelled like sweat and herbs.

Her sister Stelle smelled of a specific perfume that had been brought back from across the seas. An Amber Island perfume made from lemon, jasmine, and a drop of mint. It had been a gift sent from their uncle Oswald who owned trading ships. He was fond of sending expensive gifts to them, but he did not know Wilh well and tended to send her the same things he sent Stelle and their mother. Stelle weaved away at her loom and chatted with her best friend, Ygritte Banner. Ygritte was a thin girl with milky skin that was rough to the touch and covered in thin hair Wilh gather from what was most often visible. Straw colored, brittle hair sat atop her head. Wilh hated her, the main reason being she always agreed with whatever Stelle said and was striving to be a southron lady herself despite her northern heritage and birth. Actually, Ygritte was there more to protect Stelle but they both seemed to have forgotten that, and besides, no one had ever dared try and harm a hair on any of Craig Vukovic’s children.

The two were busy gossiping while Wilh was hunched over her blanket, trying hard not to hear them but to no avail. It was not like she could very well ignore them: her dancing masters Ku Cyrah and Kur Kayode had always taught her it was important to hear and listen. She must be able to hear and decipher all sounds around her and read the mood and weather like one reads a book. She had always been doing that when it came to sound, but her teachers gave her a reason. The most she got out of it was the castle gossip and knowing when to slip away when the opportunity was best. There would be no slipping away today, not with Duenna Huerta standing over her as menacing and oppressive as the statues of her mother’s gods. Her shrewd, grey-green eyes stared down at Wilh as she weaved and the child dared not look up. No one could free her now so she was better off just waiting out her punishment. She just wished that the D’tri were allowed in the weaving room, but they scared the other woman despite Stelle’s sweet and trusting Queen who was not as wild as her siblings. Spirit on the other hand was wild and domestic in turn and could be trusted to behave in the presence of so many people; many familiar to her by now, but that could all go sour if she felt even the tiniest bit of unease from her master. The D’tris were known to react to their human owners’ emotions. Wilh sighed as she finished her last raven, wishing she could have Spirit beside her now, just to have the comfort of her presence.

She held the blanket up to Duenna Huerta for inspection and the teacher held her chin and peered at in it scrutiny. “You’ve improved,” she admitted with a curt nod. “But ravens are so bleak and foreboding, why not something cheerful or colorful, like a goldfinch or a humming bird?” Wilh stared up at the duenna, keeping her expression neutral. She did not often use bright colors; the brightest color she would use was red. Sometimes she used amber and evergreen and blue, but for specific reasons, just not often. She debated whether or not she should try and explain her reasoning behind the ravens but did not think it would get through. Still, she had to try.

“A raven guides a wolf, seven ravens to guide seven wolves,” she said slowly, keeping the confidence in her voice.

“What of your father?”

Wilh smiled slowly, pleased, “He shall never walk alone and already has the guidance of many. Heis already where he needs to be.”

The duenna nodded, taking that in and, behind her, Wilh heard a snort.

She whipped her head around to face Ygritte because Stelle would never dare let herself snort, it was not becoming of a lady. “What,” she asked.

The older girl smiled innocently, “Oh nothing, M’ Lady. It was just so unexpected of you to put that much thought and care into something so,” she thought about it, “dull.”

Ygritte had a nice voice, she was often loud, much to her embarrassment, but her voice was strong and smooth.

“Dull?” Wilh questioned.

“Mhm, for instance, you could have added a bit more color and spark to make it eye-catching. We’ve all seen he ravens and the snow, even now in the summer. But there are other colors to work with, like the rich green of the evergreen trees, or the reds of sunset.”

Wilh frowned; another way she was like her father, frowning was her default answer.

Stelle cleared her throat, adding another tawny thread to her tapestry, “A lady must never be dull, Wilh. She must always be full of cheer and life, or seem to be. Colorful and entertaining, pleasing on the eyes as well as on the ears,” she explained. “Her work should be so as well.” She stopped her work and turned to face Wilh, smiling innocently. “Understand?”

Wilh glared at her and turned away, picking up the golden lace she had been working on for a month now. It was to be a shawl to match one of her dresses, although the family color was silver. She had her back to her sister and worked as dutifully as she could with all the distractions such as the open windows, with the sound of horses being ridden through the courtyard and the scents of cedar and pine. She had better take Dancer out for some exercise at some point today. The call of The Mother’s Ring to the north, the river to the east, and the wild in all directions. Around her was the constant buzz of chatter and click, click of knitting needles, the creaks of chairs, the sshhh and Clack of the loom, and the sound made when thread is tugged at. A beautiful melody in its own right but it was not quite her tune. And it might have been bearable if her sister had not said “A lady should concern herself only with what is in front of her,’ which got Wilh wondering if she was trying to pick a fight, or if she could suddenly read minds. That was indeed a frightening thought. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and breathed deeply inward, then exhaled. Laughter immediately followed and that was not so strange, there was always a jest or two even during the serious task of weaving. But the laughter was coming from behind her. The duenna had moved to inspect Stelle’s tapestry.

“Wonderful,” she was saying. “It’s a wonder the Weavers Guild has not whisked you away yet. This is captivating, and so, so,—so uplifting.”

Curious, Wilh turned around to see it, wondering if it was really all that and found a tawny furred D’tri with steel grey eyes in front of Castle Frost, surrounded by spring life and beautiful colors, and staring at her. “It’s pretty,” she said, never one for over praise. Stelle glared at her and she flinched back, wondering how that could have been wrong. “What, I said it was pretty,” she defended.

“Hmph, well, I don’t expect you to like it,” Stelle said. “After all, your kind has always preferred the cold and bleak.”

Frowning again, Wilh dropped her lace back in its basket and asked to be excused. She rose and left the room before the duenna even answered. She did not go to her room, or even to the yard, but instead made her way to the kitchen to find Faye, humming as she went. Servants she passed on the way waved to her or nodded hello and she smiled at them but was not really in any mood to stop and speak. Her slippers were silent against the wooden floor, had she been in boots she would have made plenty of noise especially where the floor creaked. Be silent and swift, never let them know you are near, she had been taught. Although that was for fighting, and she had been forbidden from swordplay or any weapon of steel for a fortnight. She could still learn new dances but Cyrah and Kayode were forbidden from teaching her anything to do with weapons. Wilh wondered how her Lady Mother had gotten Craig to agree on that, or what her dancing teachers thought of it. Somehow though, she didn’t think she’d see them much this week.

Sighing, she twisted a loose thread on her sleeve and snapped it off. She wound it around her right index finger and hurried onward to the kitchens, they were in the west wing. At this time of the day all the cooks were preparing lunch which, by the smell; Wilh guessed would consist of roasted lamb. Faye was busy filling a bottle of rum with raisins; she hopped up on the counter and watched her work. The granite countertop was smooth beneath her palms, but in places it was dusted with floor. For a moment she just watched the kitchen work, fruit pies were being glazed with honey, the lamb was being roasted, vegetables were being chopped, and pots were being scrubbed. She liked kitchens, their scents; theirs sounds, their feel, and yes, even the warmth of them. Kitchens were the hearts of homes. One of the cooks gave her an apple tart, fresh from the oven, and Faye asked her what was wrong. She took a bite of the tart and chewed slowly, burning her tongue and savoring the warm apple and cinnamon tastes that filled her mouth.

“I am to be confined to the grounds until my mother says otherwise,” she said.

Faye nodded, and dropped a handful of raisins into the glass jug, Wilh liked the intoxicating scent of rum but her father never let them drink it. Rum was too easy to get drunk off of.

“Seems fair but rather pointless,” said Faye she gave Wilh a grin “Nothing has ever managed to keep you here for long.”

Wilh smiled, “True, but I wasn’t planning on running off.” She shrugged, “I just—it just felt like the woods were calling to me.”

Faye laughed, “Little wilding, the woods will always call. So where did you go anyways?”

Wilh nibbled at her tart, “The Mother’s Ring, I didn’t pray though, or sleep.”

She sighed, putting a cork in the mouth of the bottle. “That is bad for your health, why don’t you go take a nap?”

“Don’t want to? I’m not tired anyways.” She took another bite of the tart, avoiding Faye’s concerned stare.

Moments passed, Wilh finished the tart and Faye sighed. “Well, try not to cause too much trouble for the duenna,” she said as she put the bottle away. Wilh nodded, brushing the crumbs off her hands and hopping off of the counter. She left the kitchen, trying to decide if she should go back to the weaving room or seek out something else to. She did not really want to go back, Duenna Huerta was sure to reprimand her and Stelle sure to either ignore or mock her. She could go and hide in the library or she could ride Dancer, or find Spirit. One thing was clear at least, she knew she wanted to be outside. Instead of going straight outside, she went up to the roof.

Castle Frost was made like a mountain and was said to pierce the sky, she had often climbed every step to the roof. No one but she and Solomon ever came up here and it was always quiet. Holding her head in her hands and supporting herself with her elbows, she leaned against the embrasure and stared out between the merlons at the lands before her. She looked past the rolling hills, all green with summer’s grass, past the woods, and past the mountains searching for the edge of the world; the edge of their world. She knew it was out there, she just couldn’t see it from here. She wanted to go there although even her father said it was no place for women. It was not like she would stay, she just wanted to see it. If she was a bird, a beautiful raven, she could fly there and see it then come back or she could go all the way past the edge and see what lay on the other side. Then maybe she’d go south and see the lands where her mother grew up in, that the woman spoke so fondly of. But she’d have to return within a week or two; it would not do to stay away from the North for too long.

She was a wolf of Frost and the woods were hers, provided she always paid tribute to her father’s gods. The Mother’s Ring and the northern woods would always be home to a Vukovic child, to a wolf. Still, it would be nice to see the rest of the world. Sometimes, Wilh wished she could meet her great, great grandmother, Queen Zeta. She had been a fierce warrior and a wonderful queen, and her Lord Father often spoke of the resemblance between Zeta and her. There were paintings of her in the throne room, one from her younger years and one from her older years, they hung side by side. She had often wondered if Zeta had hated her husband, as the stories went she was taken captive from her home, although how, no one could say. She was to be illegally sold as a slave but escaped to the north where she was in an even stranger place with no way of getting home and no way of communicating.

The cold had been new to her and almost killed her, but King Omar, first of his name, had found her during a hunting trip. Well, the stories differ, some say she tried to kill Omar, and others say that Omar was arresting her for robbing and or murdering northern men. One thing was agreed upon though; Omar fell in love with her and taught her the common tongue of Arkos. Despite what his advisors told him, he married her and ruled with her and when he fell ill, she ruled in his place and led her people to victory in the Battle of the Crossing and the War of Sovereigns. She was the only queen in the Vukovic Tomb beneath the castle. She never did get to return home, Omar refused to let her and took great steps to keep her from the sea. She had been sixteen though, Wilh was only eleven, and she did not intend to let anyone ever take her away from her lands. But she did want to see the lands where her great, great grandmother had been born. Maybe Craig would let her go with Cyrah and Kayode. She sighed, “One day.”

She heard wings flapping in her direction, and loud cawing. Swift announced himself as he glided over to her. He perched on the merlon to her left and bent his head so she could scratch it. Her eyes were not on him though; as she had been daydreaming a procession had been making its way to the gates. A long line of horses and carriages and two wheelhouses stopped in front the gates. She could not make out the banners, but she counted about twenty, no, twenty-five horses, a wheelhouse, and eight carriages. Minutes passed, a man she assumed was a herald, looked to be arguing with Finn, the gatekeeper. In the end, Finn let them cross the drawbridge. Curious to whom this procession was, she went back inside. Swift followed her as she ran down all the stairs, up the halls and to her father’s solar.

She was breathless and panting when she arrived and Myriad Agreste was already there, along with the Hawk, the castellan Augustus Banner, and a young, blonde haired man that could only be a page with the black bear sigil of House Oberst sewn onto his dark green tabard. The bear stood in a rapid river and wrestled a grizzly, but the black bear would win. In that story, the Black Bear of Oberst always won and now the Black Bear of Oberst was king to all of Arkos. The page was announcing the king but was not allowed to finish as the king himself came bursting in through the double doors wearing a golden crown with onyx between the leaves and thorns, he was in riding gear but Wilh did not know if he had been one of the riders. With him came the faint smell alcohol and a stronger scent of horse and pine. Part of Wilh, the one that was taught to be a lady, thought she should curtsy. Instead she clamped her mouth shut, slowed her breathing, inched away into the corner, and watched what would happen next as though she were a piece of furniture. The page quietly left the room, shutting the doors behind him.

“There you are you great demon wolf,” boomed King Eric Oberst, first of his name. He was a tall man, as tall as her father. His skin was a shade darker than tan and his hair was coal black, although she thought she saw a few grey strands in his beard, and his eyes were dark brown. He was comely yes, a bit chubby, and when he walked up to her father his steps echoed throughout the room. He stomped and each step made her wince. Never had she met a man that walked so loud.

“To what do I owe the honor, Your Highness,” asked her father, ice lacing every word especially the last two.

“Didn’t anyone tell you? For the past two months I have been touring the kingdom with my family, making sure everything is as it should be. You are my last stop, Wolf.” He grinned and spoke with a challenging tone. No one had ever spoken to her father like that, or at least, she didn’t think anyone ever did.

Craig Vukovic rose from his armchair, deep red, satin cape sweeping behind him, and walked up to the King of the Realm. Their faces were mere inches from each other, both were glaring, and then suddenly, Eric broke into a grin followed by Craig. They clasped each other’s wrist, Eric with his right hand and Craig with his left, and shook. Both were barking laughter.

“It’s been too long my friend,” said King Eric.

“Not long enough it seems,” joked Craig. “Last was the Battle of the Scepter, almost lost your leg.”

“Well you almost lost your head, but I saved you.”

Craig slung an arm across King Eric’s shoulders and led him to an empty chair at the small round table in the center of the room as he said, “Let’s not forget how I saved you from falling into the sea from the tip of Pricilla’s Finger.”

Eric frowned, “I brought you back from the war didn’t I?”

“You brought me into the war,” he said pointedly, but not unkindly, as he sat in a chair across from him. “Now, how long will you be staying?”

“Hard to say, maybe a day or two,” his expression went from humor to serious in an instant. “Or however long it will take to convince you to return to the Golden City of Pylos,” he stared at Craig, but his eyes gave away nothing.

“No,” said Craig bluntly.

“Now hear me out Craig.”

“No, Eric I’m a northern man and we stay in the north.”

“You are one third Dashur, one third of you belongs in the south,” Eric said pointedly, tilting his head forward.

“Two thirds of me are from the north and I cannot leave my kingdom.”

“I’ve seen your people; they can get on just fine without you. And besides, it is my kingdom.”

“You are king of the realm in name alone, the south may be yours but the north will always belong to a Vukovic.”

He threw his right hand up in frustration and leaned back, rubbing his temples with his left hand, “Then how about a proposal?”

Craig, leaning forward, rested his elbows on the table, his left hand over his right fist. “What sort of proposal.”

“A marriage between my Paris and your Estelle, it would finally untie the North and the South, bettering our relations and whatever else the Myrads think I should do,” he said irritably.

Craig glanced down, thinking. “I will speak with Leanna, knowing her she will probably insist on it.”

Eric laughed, “I knew that woman had a good head.”

Craig huffed, a moment passed and he smiled at Eric. “So, tell me how your travels went. Wilh,” Wilh jumped, she hadn’t thought he would notice her still there. “Go meet the princes and princess, be nice alright?”

Wilh stood up straight and held her head up high, grinning at her father. “I shall try.” He laughed and she hurried out of the room. The last thing she heard was King Eric saying she was something. It wasn’t a complete compliment, but she would take it.

When she arrived in the lower bailey, only her brothers and her sisters were there with whom she assumed were princes Paris and Seth Oberst and their sister, Princess Alice. There were still servants taking the horses to the stables and moving the carriages. She weaved through them and went to stand beside Solomon, glancing at Rowan who stood at Ned’s left with his arms crossed. He winked at her, trying not to grin. Smiling, she sized up Princess Alice. She was about a foot shorter than her and two years her junior. Her hair was a mop of platinum blonde ringlets that hid her big ears, and took the focus off of her button sized nose and highlighted her doe eyes. Her full pink lips were pulled up into a small, shy smile, and she shivered in her black satin cloak over a caterpillar green dress. Her younger brother Seth had matted brown hair, much like his father’s, guileless brown eyes, and tan skin. He wore a scarlet doublet over a gray tunic and leather breeches. He too had a smile for them. Only Prince Paris, the oldest and a foot shorter then Ned, scowled. He had straw colored hair that seemed just as brittle. His ears were either too big for his face of his face too small for his ears, he was paler than both his siblings, even Alice who looked a bit sickly.

“Why do you not bow,” he spat. “We are royalty and I your future king, you should bow.”

Wilh rolled her eyes and glanced down at Solomon, he stared at Prince Paris in despair.

“You are in the north,” said Ned. “Your name means nothing here. Here my father is king and we are the royalty.”

“My father is king of the realm.”

“Doesn’t matter, the north is still the north. If we meet you on your lands then yes, you are prince. But here, you are just another lordling.”

Paris’ scowl deepened and he hissed.

Stelle glanced between her older brother and the prince, visibly worried. She hid it quickly however, and smiled wider. “Why don’t you come inside, you must be tired after your journey.”

“That would be nice, thank you,” said Princess Alice.

Stelle led them inside and after a moment, Ned sighed and followed them, taking Ty with him. Wilh watched them walk; Alice’s walk was stiff and unsure, Seth shuffled, and Paris strolled as if the world belonged to him. She wondered what would happen if that world suddenly came crashing down and was surprised that she did. “He’s dangerous,” said Solomon gravely.

“Who,” Wilh asked, looking down at him.

“Paris,” Solomon repeated.

“Doubtful,” said Rowan, a small grin blooming on his lips. “You could probably beat him in any battle Solley.”

“You are probably right, but that is not what I mean. He feels dangerous, wrong.” He turned to Wilh. “You and Stelle should stay away from him.”

“That is gonna be kind of hard seeing as Father and King Eric are planning to wed her to him.”

Solomon’s expression darkened, “Maybe we can talk him out of agreeing,” he said quickly.

Wilh shook her head, “Yeah, mayhaps you can talk Father out of it, but he’s going to tell Mother and there’s no way to convince her. She’ll see it as an opportunity.”

“I’m sure we can think of something,” Rowan argued but Solomon just shook his head.

“No, Mum doesn’t believe in my premonitions, remember?” Biting his lip, he started to pace, “The only thing we can do now is stop the next chain of events from happening.”

“Well what’s supposed to happen?” said Rowan, uncrossing his arms.

Solomon stopped pacing and fisted his hands at his sides; Wilh could see he was trembling. “Just stop Father from going to the capital,” he said and then ran inside. Wilh and Rowan looked at each other, worried.