Leda

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Gift

If Colvé was light then Dal Reniac was darkness, Castor thought with weary contempt. Indeed from what he'd seen, the North was a barbaric hole: a quagmire of moors, crofts and the savages who inhabited them. First the mean little villages, then the Nests ˗ mere lumps of rock sprouting above their dingy valleys. And finally this place, optimistically termed a city. Miserable, wet and misshapen, it squatted over the moors like a toad on a riverbank. Still, once Dal Reniac was firmly under his control, he would do his best to civilise it: to teach the city what it meant to be part of an empire, not some backward outpost on its furthest fringes.

Castor had not expected Dal Reniac to resist. With its ruler now dead, the city was a rudderless ship, commanded ˗ or so his spies informed him ˗ by merchants of the guild. And if news of Hannac's destruction had already reached them, they would be insane to think they could repel Castor's army. But then, this being the North and these people being but dimly acquainted with the light of reason, one could never tell.

The portcullis ground upwards and a cluster of guards galloped out across the moors towards him. Two figures rode in their midst: a man and a woman dressed in rich furs and embroidered robes, their clothing an intense knot of colour against the drab, dank heather.

"Your Majesty." The man bowed from his saddle upon approach, his auburn hair lank and long, plastered to his face by the rain. Immediately riled, Castor said nothing, staring at the merchant with unconcealed scorn. As the woman tugged at her companion's sleeve, Castor examined her, mentally testing out her beauty. She would not, he decided after a few moments, have looked so out of place at the imperial court after all: the brilliant white of her hair trapped in intricate plaits and knots beneath a gauzy veil and her body, he suspected, was willowy and supple beneath all the ermine and the robes. And now she levered herself from her horse and curtseyed at his feet. Pleased with the display of submission, he extended a hand and she kissed it before rising. Her companion hurriedly dropped to the ground and offered a low, flamboyant bow. Well, clearly they could learn, these savages.

"We have opened our gates to you, your Majesty, and entreat you to call Dal Reniac your friend." Her voice was lilting, melodic, with the slightest trace of accent.

"You have no cause to doubt Dal Reniac's loyalty," said the man. Castor stared at him.

"I shall be the judge of my city's loyalties, man. Your name?"

"Aescylus Gric, your Majesty. Chief guildsman of this city. My wife, Pella Fabiac."

The woman curtseyed again, raising her eyes to Castor as if gazing upon a wondrous sculpture or jewel. For the first time since he'd left Colvé, Castor witnessed something akin to true obedience. It almost made him hard.

"Quarters have been arranged for your Majesty ˗ and of course your private guard ˗ in the fort. Which is now yours. We will lead the way." Gric was already turning to ride back, one foot in the stirrup.

"And my army?"

"Your Majesty?" With a look of sweet puzzlement, Fabiac cocked her head on one side.

"My army. I trust you have provided billets for them."

"Your Majesty," Gric stammered. "As I said, our city is loyal. There is no need for your army to pass our gates."

"I will decide for what I have need!" Castor clenched his reins between tightly coiled fists. Gric threw his wife a look of pure fear.

"They have come far," Castor continued, "you will no doubt have heard of the hard work done at Hannac."

Gric nodded, trembling.

"And now they will be fed by Dal Reniac. Their welfare will be your concern. Or I will hear of it."

"Your Majesty, with the famine..." Gric turned anxious eyes to his wife again, clearly hoping for support, but she continued to stare admiringly at Castor.