Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Twenty: A Game of Chess

The doctor had proved Hal wrong. After a few miserable steps towards the salon, her body had rebelled against her. Now she lay once more in bed studying the lumps and cracks in the ceiling, trussed up in bandages and the door locked against further attempts at escape. Not that she would even try now. She had no desire to humiliate herself again. And Marc had promised he would seek word of Meracad. There was nothing more she could do.

The key now twisted in its lock. She attempted to raise herself on the pillows, expecting Lira with another tasteless bowl of gruel. Instead, she found herself staring up at Beric, his face flushed with anger, sweat dripping from his forehead as if he had run all the way from the academy.

"Well, you wouldn't listen to us, would you? We tried to warn you, the Senator and I, but you had to ignore us. And now look at you. Do you think you'll be fighting anytime again soon? I'd be surprised if you could even pick up a sword, let alone use one."

Bereft of words she lay there, unable to summon the strength to speak. Marc must have sent word to the old training master. She could have killed him herself for that.

"And I'll tell you another thing," the old man appeared to be warming to his theme. "No fighting means no money. And just how are you planning to survive without any money?"

She shifted her head sulkily on the pillow and looked away. He was right, of course. Even those sorry quarters in Riverside would be beyond her means now.

"If you feel well enough one day, I suppose I may let you come back to train. But you'll be practising with the novices until you can prove you're good enough to fight on the circle again."

He stormed from the room, shoving open the door and almost colliding with Marc who had been eavesdropping.

"Well, Senator, I hope she's pleased with herself," he snarled on his way down the stairs. "No one can say we didn't try to warn her."

"Quite." One eyebrow raised, Marc entered the room, putting the door to behind him. Hal groaned, feeling as if she had just endured a tempest.

"What now? More criticism, scolding, lecturing? Anyone would think I welcomed the chance to be beaten half to death by a bunch of thugs."

"He's angry because he's lost you ─ for the time being, anyway. And, deep down, I do believe the old bear worries about you. He's simply not very good at expressing it."

"You can say that again."

Marc peered down at his friend, his eyes flecked with concern.

"I can sympathise with him. You really do some stupid things on occasions."

"Thanks," she returned drily.

"You're welcome. I know that what happened isn't entirely your fault, but as far as Meracad is concerned, you won't do her any good as you are."

"I understand what you're saying, Marc." She raised herself up in bed, wincing as she moved. "But I'm worried about her. The spirits alone know what Léac might have done. I have to find her."

Marc scrutinised her face and then sighed. "Listen, I probably shouldn't tell you this but I had a visitor yesterday. An old friend. She lives in Caraden and, well, a carriage passed through the town recently with Meracad inside. She was being taken north to marry Bruno Nérac, Lord of Dal Reniac."

Hal stammered a reply but coherent words escaped her. What came out was more a strangled moan.

"I'm sorry, Hal, but you really need to try to forget her. Nérac is the most powerful of all the northern lords. Hal? Are you alright?"