Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Twenty-Five: Seconds

It was early evening: already dark, the training hall creaked and groaned as wind lashed the window casements. Beric and the cadets had long since left, and now only Finn remained, dropping swords into the racks as he prepared to return home.

Hal rolled her sleeping mat out on the academy's wooden floor, weariness creeping its way along her limbs, taking her by surprise.

"Are you sure you don't want to come back with me?" Finn asked. "You're welcome, you know."

"I'm fine. You should be getting home. Your family will be wondering where you are."

"Suit yourself." With a shrug he pulled on a woollen cap and left for the cold and the dark outside.

"I usually do," the girl muttered to herself. It was time, she decided. She had spent long enough preparing and thinking. The doors slammed shut below and she peered through a window, observing Finn's silhouette disappeared into the night. When she was certain the street below was deserted, she pulled on thick leather boots, wrapped herself in a winter great coat and headed out.

This was the first time she had been alone on the city streets for months. She shivered, hugging her arms around her body to keep out the cold, and set her head down against the wind. It had been a long time since she'd walked in this direction, and the last time, she realised ruefully, had been with Meracad. The memory struck her like a blow. It had been too long. Surely Meracad would have given up hope by now. Shame burrowed its way inside her conscience. She still had the chance to leave Colvé right now: there was no need to go through with this.

Yet the prospect of the duel tore at her, nagged her, bit her, refused to let her go. She could not go against her instincts: it would be an act of self-denial. After all, the first thing Beric had ever taught her since her arrival at the academy was that honour meant everything. And honour meant fighting, no matter what the odds. Once a duellist, always a duellist.

And if she was honest with herself, the perverse desire to face her enemies drove her on. Even if their plan was a trap ─ and she was quite capable of conceding that it was ─ she had to confront them. She had to ask Léac how he could possibly sacrifice his only daughter in such a cold blooded way. Above all else, she had to hear Cara acknowledge that she was her mother. For, deep in her heart, she harboured a desire to transform Cara: to make her see that, for whatever reasons her hatred existed, there was still a bond between them. The future could be different. Biting her lip, she trudged on, the wind whipping up the rain which stung her face and eyes.

The Emperor emitted a cheery glow. She caught the faint, casual strains of a fiddle working over the dull hum of conversation, and pushing open the door was greeted by the familiar fragrances of pipe smoke and stale beer. It was much quieter than the last time she had visited in the late summer. Now, the clientele clustered around tables, the floor stained and wet from the mud brought in on their boots.

When her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she made out Jools sitting at a table near the fireside, both hands clasping a tankard of hot ale. The young thief seemed buried in thought, failing to recognise Hal until she had drawn up a seat opposite. Jools glanced up, her confused, defensive expression quickly resolving itself into a broad smile.

They embraced warmly. "Hal! Didn't think I'd ever see you back here, girl. How are you keeping?"

"I've felt better."

"I'll bet. We did the rounds, Kris and me, trying to find out what'd happened to you. We heard that Meracad had been sent north and we could only assume the worst. Then Kris comes back one day – she'd been spying around Marc's place. Maids can be quite talkative if you ask them the right questions."