Leda

Chapter Eight: The Salon of the Ancestors

Leda was late ˗ or about to be. Late for the new Emperor's coronation feast! She had been so busy writing to Edæc, trying to recreate the horror of Degaré's execution and Castor's expression of triumph when at long last he received the crown. As if this in its way were some kind of victory ˗ over whom, or what, she dared not imagine. And so by the time she had sealed the wax and put her letter into the messenger's hands it was already dark and Hal and her mother were waiting impatiently.

"Leave without me," she said. "I'll follow with Marc. I'm not ready yet."

Meracad shook her head. "Leda, you look beautiful."

"We won't be lingering anyway," Hal said. "I want to be back at Hannac as soon as possible."

She'd tied back her hair and put on a fresh shirt. But the sabre hanging from her belt was nothing short of a provocation, Leda thought, suddenly irritated.

"Are you going dressed like that?" she asked without thinking and then bit her lip.

"Like what?" Hal's eyes hardened.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"No, say it, Leda. You think I should put on a dress, perhaps? Wear my hair in a different way?" Her voice dripped scorn.

"Hal..." Mother laid a hand on Hal's arm.

"It's just the sword," Leda ventured. "They won't let you in with that."

"You might credit me with some subtlety, Leda. If I were plotting assassination, I'd hardly make it obvious."

"I don't know if Castor will see it in that way."

"Let him think what he likes. I make no concessions to spoilt young men who abuse their power." Hal turned to go.

Leda shrugged. "Your head, not mine."

"What did you say?" Her face dark with anger, Hal turned back.

"You heard me."

Hal thought that she could do as she pleased. Could swagger into the court as if it were a public house. But Castor was not Diodiné. Castor was probably a man cast from the same mould as Leda's father: cruel, capable of crushing anyone who challenged his authority.

"I'd like to make it back to Dal Reniac in one piece," Leda added.

Hal stared at her as if she were a stranger. And that hurt so much that Leda almost caved in and apologised. But the words wouldn't come, swallowed by a chill sense of pride.

"Don't disappoint me, Leda." Hal spoke in little more than a whisper, the hardness in her eyes surrendering to a pain that Leda had never witnessed before. "We'll see you at the palace."

And with that, Hal and Meracad left wordlessly. For a few moments, Leda stood as if paralysed, her thoughts veering between shame and fury. She wished Edæc were here to calm her, to laugh her out of her misery with a joke. But he wasn't. He was far away. And she was now alone and had offended one of the few people she loved. And Mother too, who had looked so shocked at Leda's words, as if she had heard someone else speaking in Leda's voice: a person who had died many years ago but whose presence seemed to haunt their little family even now, even here.

"Ready, Leda?" Uncle's voice drifted up the stairs.

She leant down and peered into the mirror: brushed her hair, adjusted the sash on her dress, pinched some colour into her cheeks. "Ready."

But something made her pause and stare even harder at her reflection. For whose eyes peered back at her? Were those hers? Or her father's? Which parts of her in truth belonged to him? Did Mother see them? Did she inwardly flinch at something Leda had said, or at a sudden gesture ˗ something Leda was not herself aware of? Of course, if she did, she never said so. She barely ever mentioned the man who'd raped her, who'd laid siege to Hannac and tortured Hal. She didn't have to. He was with them all the time.