Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Thirty-Six: Heirs

Hal raced down the stairs, her mind filled with their argument, her feelings all at odds. Franc had lied to her all her life – or at least he had failed to admit the truth. How could she trust him now? Maybe he was really so selfish, so concerned for his own reputation, that he would change his mind again and try to treat her once more as a friend or a mere acquaintance – something she knew she could no longer accept. On the other hand, she found herself tempted by the prospect of having somewhere to call home: and the possibility of offering that freedom to Meracad.

She peered through a small window in the turret. The welcoming light of a brazier glimmered in the courtyard and she made out a few soldiers sitting around it on log benches, warming their hands. The scene aroused memories of her childhood at court: the simple, unpretentious atmosphere of the guards' room. She continued down the stairs and through a door which brought her outside into the gloom of the autumn night. The air was freezing and carried on it the first wet flakes of sleet. The five men sitting around the brazier turned to look at her curiously as she headed towards them and sank down alone on an empty bench. Hal stared into the red, burning embers, groggy with exhaustion and emotion. They continued to observe her until eventually she was passed a frothy mug of hot beer. Grateful, she took it, recognising Arec, the guard she had first met upon entering the fortress. He favoured her with a snaggle-toothed grin, his broad face creasing once more in amusement.

"Bet you gave old Franc a surprise, turning up like that."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have to pretend. No foxing us. We're a group of old-timers, aren't we lads?"

His comrades nodded and laughed. Hal experienced a creeping sense of unease, uncertain as to where the conversation was headed. "What do you see?"

"Well," Arec continued, apparently oblivious to the fractious strain of her voice, "we always believed the master had a secret, didn't we, lads? I mean, there he is, handsome fellow, rich, and he lives all by himself walled up in his fort. I always had my suspicions that he must have had his heart broken to behave in such a way."

"And you think I broke his heart?"

"You?" Arec exploded in mirth, and the others followed suit.

"What is it?"

"Well," he spluttered, "he might be a dark horse, but I don't think you're his type, lad."

The soldiers collapsed in peals of laughter. Hal rose, her head now swimming as the hot beer mingled with her fractured thoughts, her temper rising once more. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Arec shook his head. "Don't take it so badly, I didn't mean any offence."

"Well, you've quite a temper on you, boy," another guard observed. "Just like the master. Doesn't lose it often, but if he does – you know about it."

Arec nodded in agreement. "Aye – same temper – got something of a likeness to Franc when he was young, too." He looked her up and down. "We don't think you're his lover, lad. We know you're his son."

They chattered excitedly together, heads bobbing in agreement.

Her heart sank. Was it so obvious to everyone but herself? How could she have been so blind as to have missed it over the years? She felt that there had been enough deception, lies and half-truths. She shook her head. "You're wrong. I'm not his son. I'm his daughter."

The idea became real as soon as she gave it expression. Arec seemed to sober up instantly. "I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't realise."

"It's alright." She sank back down on the bench. "It often happens. My name's Hal – once Thæc. I was named after my mother's side. I've lived in Colvé all my life and I had no idea Franc was my father until he told me this evening."