Leda

Chapter Fourteen - Ropes and Rings

Down winding passages they took her: a guard to her left, one to her right, and one behind to make sure she couldn't turn back. Marching at a frantic pace, they twisted and turned down passage after passage until Hal was almost dizzy and quite, quite lost.

Which was strange because she thought she knew the palace. She'd explored its corridors a thousand times as a child, sneaking out of lessons when her tutor's back was turned or conducting midnight raids on the kitchens while other wards were tucked up fast asleep in bed. But now it all looked so strange. In fact, nothing on this awful night appeared as it was meant to.

Shame hit her like a punch to the guts. She had hurt, provoked and sneered at those she most loved. The entire court had looked on as she humiliated Magda in that pointless duel. The slur she'd thrown at Meracad was vile. And those had been their last words ˗ she was under no illusions. A lifetime of love brought crashing down in a single, ill-tempered insult. Because even if Meracad forgave her, Castor certainly wouldn't.

These walls were bare stone, so were the floors ˗ only the occasional stub of candle offered a filthy, guttering light. And no sound reached them from the coronation feast. They must be far from it, perhaps in some abandoned corner of the palace. She had heard rumours of some rooms bricked off, reached only through hidden doors or down secret flights of stairs.

At last they came to a breathless halt before a low-beamed wooden door. One guard rapped his mailed fist upon on its planks. The handle jerked down and she was pushed into a modest room: low of ceiling and cramped, the walls plain and whitewashed, a tattered old rug stretched over bare floorboards. Rain hurled itself at the chink of a window. A pallet bed rested in one corner, a chair propped beside it, and on this sat the Emperor. He turned as she entered and rose, staring at her with his wolfish eyes, playing absently with the large emerald ring on the smallest finger of his left hand.

"Hannac."

"Your Majesty." Her bow was a curt nod.

"Where is Meracad Nérac?" Castor crossed the room, reached into an alcove and pulled a decanter from it, pouring himself a glass of wine.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" He swilled the wine and watched her, one eyebrow arched.

"She was not in the carriage," one of the guards offered. "Nor was Magda Brighthair."

"Really?" Castor cocked his head on one side, now no longer a wolf but a hawk eyeing its prey. "Well, they'll both be found. And Leda Nérac ˗ you were lying, Hannac, as I knew you must be. We searched the Senator's house. She was not to be found."

At least Marc hadn't been at home, she thought. In asking him to follow Meracad, she might well have saved his life.

"Your Majesty led me to believe that I was banished ˗ along with Magda. I understand that something has changed?"

"Nothing has changed, Hannac." He put his wine to his lips and drank, observing her. "You're still the traitor you were when you spoke out of turn at my coronation feast. It's just that I now have proof of your disloyalty."

"Proof?" She swallowed hard. Her mind felt as if it had been wrung, mangled and hung out to dry.

"Yes." He set down the glass and felt inside the lining of his frock coat, pulling out a worn envelope. "Luckily, my guards intercepted Leda Nérac's letter before it left Colvé."

"Leda's letter?" Her head swam. She rubbed wearily at her forehead.

"The letter she wrote to her crofter," he snapped, now impatient. "She advises him to make good use of Marec Pæga's estate in her absence. Pæga being dead."