Leda

Chapter Eighteen: Ræslings

She was cold ˗ colder than she'd ever been in her life. The ice crystallised on her skin, burrowing its way down, settling in her blood and bones, worming inside her stomach and her heart. Leda sank deeper beneath furs and blankets but the coldness chased and caught her, leaving her shivering, her teeth chattering, her thoughts and memories sluggish as if they too had been turned to ice. She barely remembered her own name, could recall nothing but water pressing her down; her own weak struggles against its weight and force. Although whether that had been a dream, she couldn't say.

And where was she now? In Dal Reniac? Hannac? Colvé? Whose voices were those, murmuring on the edge of consciousness ˗ Mother, Edæc, Marc? It didn't sound like them.

"Cold," she whispered. "I'm so cold."

"I know," someone said ˗ a woman, her words laden with worry. "I'll fetch some more blankets and stoke up the fire."

There was the harsh grate of metal, a sudden hiss, the pop of charred wood, and then something heavy was draped over her ˗ another layer of warmth, but it did no good.

"Let me look at you, child." Hands peeled the covers from her face. She winced, screwing her eyes shut against the light.

"No, no ˗ it'll be alright. Don't worry." A palm pressed against her forehead ˗ rough, work-worn skin. "You were lucky, though. By all the spirits you were lucky. And for once, my husband pulled more than a few minnows out of that lake."

Her last word unlocked the door on Leda's memory. She saw, with bitter clarity, the wet shingle of Brennac's shore; heard once more the shouts and screams of the hunters as she, the hunted, plunged into icy water. Jæc's body floated past her once again ˗ face down, his hair like fronds of weed.

"Where am I?" she gasped.

The woman stroked her hair, releasing a light grunt of laughter. "That's the most I've heard from you these last three days."

"Days?"

"Aye, lass. You've been with us for a while now. My husband, Lev, he fished you out of Brennac ˗ said the raiders on the eastern shore were hunting you down. At first I was afraid. Told him you might be a ræsling."

"A what?" She forced her eyes to open. The room swam into focus and with it came a light that probed and clawed, puncturing her mind with pain. Wincing, Leda worked at her forehead and eyelids with her fingers, rubbing tenderly. The light lost its intensity, weakening to a dull ache. Beside her, a woman took shape ˗ greying strands of hair knotted severely behind her head, her face careworn, her eyes mournful. She might have been Mother's age, perhaps older. It was hard to tell.

The woman rose and attended to the fire once more. This was a small, cramped, whitewashed chamber, Leda noticed, strewn with nets and crayfish traps, with pots and pans, a single table and a pallet on the floor for sleeping.

"A ræsling? Well, there are stories of beautiful women who live in the lake ˗ who'll seduce the fisher folk, tempt children into the water, even sometimes animals if they're desperate enough."

"And why do they do that, these ræslings?" Leda dragged herself into a sitting position.

"Well, they live off their poor victims' flesh, you see."

A door scraped open. There was a stamp of boots and then someone was standing behind the woman, peering down at her ˗ a man built like an ox, with a weather-tanned face. He was almost completely bald, his eyes as dark as the lake itself.

"Your ræsling's woken up at last, Lev," the woman said.

Lev worked a hand over his bare head. "Don't call her that," he replied in a half whisper.

"Why not?"

Lev jerked a shoulder in the general direction of the door. The woman frowned and stared at him, incredulous. "You don't mean to say..."

"How are you, lass?" Ignoring his wife, Lev took Leda's hand in a bear-like paw. "Spirits, you're cold. Yaga, have we no more blankets?"

"No," Yaga snapped with sudden viciousness. "We've not. That's all we have." The concern vanished from her eyes, replaced by hard scorn. She left Leda's side and after a few moments came the bang and clatter of pans and the salty scent of fish broth.

"Forgive my wife." Lev sat on the edge of the bed. "She's not used to strangers."

"Thank you," Leda said simply, "for saving me. Could I...could I have my hand back, please?"

"What? Oh, Yes. Sorry." He'd not even realised he was still holding her. She slunk half-crushed fingers back under the covers.

"Who were they? Those people who were chasing me?"

Yaga reappeared with the broth. "Can you manage?" She pressed a wooden bowl towards Leda who raised it to her lips with trembling hands. It tasted of salt, and when it hit the base of her stomach heat fanned out across her body. For a brief moment she stopped shaking.

"Raiders," Lev said. "They've been plundering the eastern shore for weeks now ˗ terrorising the fisher folk over there. And it's only a matter of time before they reach our side of the lake."

Yaga shook her head. "You'll only scare the girl."

"Aye, but I was thinking about...."

"I know what you were thinking about. And if you'd behaved like a true father ought to, you'd not be afeared now."

"You have children?" Leda glanced around the croft, but there was no evidence of anyone else living there.

Again, Yaga appraised her husband with scornful eyes. "We had," she said.

***

"Woah there, lass! It's too soon for you to be on your feet yet." Yaga slid an arm around Leda's waist to support her.

"I'm strong enough, Yaga. Don't worry." The floor was rough stone, coated in rushes. Leda relished its firmness against the soft skin of her feet. "I thought perhaps ˗ you know, we could take a walk outside. The rain's stopped. At least, I can't hear it."

Yaga shook her head, her fingers tightening around Leda's waist. "No! Now wouldn't be the right time. You're not ready."

"I'm fine, Yaga. I've been resting for days. And I need to find my way to my family. I need to know they're alright."

"But, love, it's..." Yaga's hands dropped to her sides. "It's too dangerous."
"I'll stay out of sight. Once I'm north of Brennac, I'll be fine. I know the terrain ˗ and Lev said the raiders haven't come west yet. I appreciate all you and Lev have done for me, and I can promise you'll be richly rewarded...what?"

Yaga seemed to age years in minutes. "They were here last night," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

"Who were?" Leda sat back down on the bed, her heart thumping wildly.

"The Emperor's men."

"Oh." She clutched at the bedding, squeezing it until her knuckles paled.

"Passing through, they said. Searching for Lady Nérac. And for Meracad Nérac, her mother. They hung up likenesses. I can't read, but...I could see from the picture who it was."

Trapped, then. Josen had been right after all. His brother truly wanted her for his wife. And no one spurned the Emperor. Castor's men would already be approaching Hannac ˗ what might they not do to Edæc now, a mere crofter, as Josen had called him. And Mother a fugitive, too? And if Mother was running, if she had escaped, that meant that Hal must be...

Her mind wrestled with fear, with confusion, with a rising, unfurling bitterness which she took to be hatred.

"Don't leave us, Leda. Not yet." It was Lev who spoke. She hadn't noticed him enter. "It's not safe. Stay here."

She looked at the crofters: at Yaga, suddenly so frail, so worn and tired. Lev wouldn't meet her gaze as he spoke. There was something else; something they could not or would not tell her. Why were they, this strange couple, so desperate to hold onto a stranger, to a woman they barely knew?

"Alright," she said softly. "But first, tell me this. Whose bed is it that I'm sleeping in? Whose clothes am I wearing? Whose place is it that I'm taking?"