Leda

Chapter Twenty-Six: On Brennac's Shore

Oræl loved the early mornings best of all, when everything was quiet and still. When there was no noise save for the lapping of water on Brennac's shore, the distant cries of birds, the wind sifting the leaves. That was when she pushed out her boat ˗ before the others had woken, the fishermen who tolerated her and the villagers who didn't. And never would.

She padded barefoot across the dirt floor of her hut and squinted out at the boats, the lake and the crofts. The clouds promised rain, but for now it was dry and a fine breeze meant billowing sails and a move into deeper waters where, she knew, swam shoals of bream and pike, their value rising with every day of the hunger. She thought, for the briefest of moments, of her father. He'd always said she brought him luck when they were out fishing together. That he came back with a laden hull and fish enough to feed the Emperor's own troops. Had his luck run out now? Were he and Mother starving too? A knot hardened in the pit of her stomach: a knot which tightened every time she thought of home. If they'd just let her be...well she'd still be fishing Brennac with her Da. She'd still be bringing him his luck. She wouldn't be living up here, amongst strangers and alone.

Oræl cursed, dragged a hard lump of rye bread from her pocket and bit into it savagely. It was all she'd managed to coax out of that old bitch in the village, no matter how many fish she'd offered in exchange. These people ˗ they wouldn't let her be, either. She heard them when her back was turned, scoffing and whispering and muttering. Once, some small boys had thrown stones and mud at her. That made her really mad. She'd hissed at them like a snake, told them she was really a ræsling ˗ that she'd come for them at night when they were asleep. That scared them. They ran away screaming. Oræl chewed solemnly on her bread, and then smirked. So easily frightened, these people, by a girl with a boat. A girl with a boat!

She fastened her hair behind her head with a leather band, knocked back a slug of water from her bowl and stepped outside. One fisherman was already picking his way along the shore amongst the boats, their hulls pointing belly up at the sky. She observed him, half shaded by the doorway to her hut as he yawned, stretched and then pissed into the lake. Then, whistling to himself, he turned over one of the coracles, threw in his nets and launched. Better get moving, Oræl thought. Before they're all out, taking the richest stretches of water for themselves.

She shielded her eyes and stared out at the lake again. Far to the south, two long dark lines split the water. Oars rose, then sank, then rose again. Two long dark sculls, ploughing through the froth. Fascinated, she ran to the water's edge. She could make out the rowers now, dressed in armour, their capes black, red and gold. Imperial guards! Oræl dragged the bread from her pocket once again and gnawed on it excitedly. She'd heard it said in the village that the Emperor's men had been travelling around Brennac on the hunt for some traitors: perhaps those marauders who'd caused so much fear over on the eastern shore.

The boats made a sharp turn inland, heading for the village, or so it seemed. Her excitement bled into fear; a sharp thrill traversed her spine. Perhaps they sought someone here.

"Oræl!"

She froze, staring out at the lake. Who, but a few of the fishermen knew her name? Perhaps she'd imagined it.

"Oræl!"

Oræl's heart squeezed itself into a ball. Slowly, she turned, her hands slippery with sweat. She turned to see a girl racing barefoot, wild and beautiful towards her. A stranger, with a mass of dark curls, her face pale with exhaustion. And, Oræl noted with utter shock, the stranger was wearing one of her own dresses! A dress her mother had sat up nights to weave.

Sent by her parents, then. Oræl's heart paid itself out and sank. She turned to go: to right her boat and save herself another plea to return, only to be told that everything would be alright. That there was no need to live as a stranger any longer.

"Oræl, don't go. Please!" The girl's hand was on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and slunk back towards the lake.

"Leave me alone."

"Oræl, please!"

"Go!" Oræl bellowed into the girl's face.

"No!" She was holding Oræl's arms, her fingers white and frozen with cold. Oræl shook herself free, but the girl clung on. Villagers poked their heads from the doorways of crofts, staring, frowning, shouting.

"Oræl," the girl wouldn't let her go, no matter how hard she resisted. "You have to help me."

"I have to help ... you?"

"Yes."

"My parents didn't send you?"

"Not exactly."

With a sigh, Oræl turned and pulled away.

"No! They didn't send me. I need your help. My name...my name is Leda Nérac."

"You're..."

"Yes. Yes I am. Of Dal Reniac." Leda licked her lips, panting little clouds of breath out into the brisk morning air. "Those men..." She waved a hand vaguely at the lake. "Those are the Emperor's men. They want to take me to him, Oræl. He thinks I ought to marry him. And I don't want that. Do you understand?"

Leda's lips were blue, her body shook with cold. Oræl turned, looked at her boat, then at Leda, then at the imperial guards as they drew closer to the shore.

"Get in," she said.