Leda

Prologue: Castor

The air was heavy, stale and scented sweetly with death. Sodden with sweat, Castor's shirt and breeches clung to his chest and thighs. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This was all so unbearable. Why wouldn't the old bastard just admit defeat? Diodiné seemed intent on hanging to life as he had hung on to his throne. Drawing in each last breath with hoarse, desperate rasps, the Emperor's withered frame shivered beneath mounds of quilts and blankets as he coughed and wheezed but would not, the spirits damn him, die.

Half curious, half revulsed, Castor stretched out a hand and touched his Uncle's forehead. The old man's skin was as rough as leather, as chill as the marble floors of the palace and filmed with sweat. Recoiling, Castor wiped his fingers on his shirt and rose.

It was far too humble a room for such a royal man to die in with its plain, whitewashed walls and pallet bed, its stained carpet and threadbare drapes, permitting only the slimmest sliver of moonlight to pass through. But then that was how Diodiné had chosen to die having caught, in his final fever, a religious zeal that he had singly lacked in life. On the promise of a seat amongst the demigods, the Emperor had displayed a sudden hatred of luxury: of the court and all its trappings, of grand salons and lush gardens. Instead, he had withdrawn to a mere cell: a forgotten room in a forgotten wing of the palace, admitting no one to his bedside. No one but that wretched bunch of priests who turned up once a day to choke the air with incense and chant dirges over his fading frame. That was before Castor had reminded his Uncle's would be guardians that Diodiné having one foot in the grave meant that his nephew had one buttock on the throne. Their resistance crumbled. He cajoled, he threatened: they let him in. Too weak to protest, Diodiné was forced to endure his presence. And so Castor's lonely bedside vigil was fused with the sweetness of revenge. Because all his Uncle's sly, dry insults, the half-muttered barbs, the raised eyebrows, smirks and withering looks ˗ they still cut and wounded. But those harsh words and disdain would die along with Diodiné. And then, rising like a new sun over a corrupt, cankered empire, Castor would usher in a fresh era of greatness.

Diodiné had tolerated dissent, had allowed feuds to fester like open wounds, had played off one noble house against the next, granting concessions, fraternising where he should have ruled. But no such decadence would stain the reign of Castor, third of that name. The entire empire would jump to his command, from the lowliest crofter to the most powerful of nobles. He would expand its borders, would bring the Yegdanian barbarians to heel at last, would finally extract true fealty from the North...

A long, racking, phlegm-inflected cough issued from the bed. Irritated, his reverie of power and greatness shattered, Castor paced the room once again before halting beside an alcove. A crystal decanter and goblet rested on a shelf in its shadows: a treasure he'd smuggled in when the priests' backs were turned. Well, he was a man after all. He could hardly be expected to endure such grief without some kind of balm for his nerves.

But as he reached for the glass, his knuckles brushed against something else which lay, tucked away in the darkness of the alcove. Something cold to the touch and hard. He prised it from its hiding place and held it to the light: a fine circlet of gold-forged laurel leaves. For all his rejection of worldly needs, Diodiné had clearly failed to part with his crown.

Castor stepped back into the room, turning the burnished coil over and over in his hands, imagining all the imperial heads upon which it had rested. And now it was almost his! Just a single breath was all that rested between him and greatness: a final, fading heart beat, a slow glazing of the eyes. So close! And that being the case, how could it hurt?

Closing his eyes, he indulged in the mental image of his coronation: the nobility gathered on one side of the imperial temple, senators on the other. His mother, brother and the soon to be dowager Empress his aunt watching with pride. The streets of Colvé thronged with cheering crowds...solemnly, slowly, he lowered the crown upon his own head.

"I'm not dead yet, you know, boy."

Castor froze, his hands still raised to his forehead, a yelp of surprise and irritation catching in his throat. He slipped the crown off with furious haste, stowing it back on its shelf in the alcove.

"I know that, Uncle," he said, smiling so tight it hurt. Castor inched back towards the bed, bent over and peered with feigned concern into Diodiné's rheum-ridden eyes.

"Then why were you playing Emperor?"

"I don't know what you mean, Sir."

"You know very well what you were doing. And it's still not too late to unmake you my heir." The words came out as if from some old squeeze box, accompanied with wheezes and rasps. "Your brother Josen has twice your intelligence and charm. Your only saving grace is that you're a year older than he is."

"Yes, your Majesty."

There they were, those little cuts and barbs. They still slipped out, even as the Emperor hovered on the threshold of his own death. Almost as if Diodiné's dying wish was to strip his nephew of all self-respect: to gnaw away at his ambition until he formally renounced his claim and passed his entire birthright onto his brother. In the past, Diodiné might have succeeded in shaking Castor's resolve. But now, his insults only served to strengthen it. The heir apparent dropped to one knee at the old man's side and leant forward, his lips almost brushing the Emperor's ear. "No. You're not dead yet, Uncle. But you will be. Soon."

From distant corners of Colvé, the night bells rang out the late hour. Diodiné's lips parted as he strained to reply. But a long series of spluttering coughs issued in place of words, each followed by a desperate bid for breath. Castor drew out a handkerchief, and with delicate care dabbed away the blood and spittle which flecked his Uncle's lips. He was a patient man, after all. He could wait.