Leda

Chapter Forty-Two: The Grieving Moon

Home! Meracad thought. After all the days and nights at sea, the pain and trauma of Marc's murder, Josen's conspiracies and death, she was finally on her way home. The word took root and grew. She allowed it to flourish, nurturing it until it became as real as the stretch of forest through which Kris's army now marched. Hannac with its warm hearths, with the laughter and cheer of its great hall, her bed, the long view over Brennac's shining surface. And perhaps...just perhaps...

She turned to Kris. "Do you think she might have made it back?"

Kris frowned and looked at her. "Who? Sorry? What?"

"Hal." Meracad hardly dared give word to her hope. "She might have escaped back to Hannac."

"Yes," said Kris doubtfully. "She might."

Meracad's heart sunk once again and they pressed on in silence for some time. These interminable forests, she thought, clenching her jaw. After the vast emptiness of the sea there had been nothing but pine trees; the sun's rays making weak stabs at the undergrowth. Apart from that, just the flap of birds' wings, the rustle of branches and the incessant stamp of feet. Even Kris wasn't quite sure how many feet exactly. She estimated that about a thousand mercenaries had joined her cause. Somehow, Meracad thought, that wouldn't be enough. There were few enough horses too. A few had been picked up at Fisher's Point ˗ for herself, Kris and Ven Lund. But most of the mercenaries trudged on foot, hoisting their own provisions on their backs. Perhaps Jools was depending on Dal Reniac and the Nests, Meracad worried. But even with their assistance, it was hard to imagine how they'd sit out a siege of Colvé in the autumn during a famine.

"What happened?" Kris's harsh Colvé accent cut through her thoughts.

"When?"

"After Castor's coronation ˗ when Josen kidnapped you. Why weren't you with Hal?"

Meracad sighed, unwilling to revisit that awful night once again. "We argued," she said quietly. "She insulted Magda and...I slapped her."

"You what?"

"You heard." She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. "I ran after Magda to apologise. That was when Castor had Hal arrested. Why...why are you laughing?"

Kris's face twitched with suppressed mirth.

"Kris, Hal could be dead. How can you?"

"I know, I know." She wiped her eyes. "But it was long overdue, Meracad."

"Yes, well." Meracad bristled. "She has her ways. She's not been herself of late...with the famine and...I don't know what else was going through her head. She never lets me in there these days."

Kris stiffened, her face clouding with sympathy. "She was never the easiest of people to understand," she said at last. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. We'll find her, Meracad. It takes more than a green lad like Castor to get the better of Hal."

"Let's hope you're right."

At long last, the moors: a tapestry of purples, browns and ochres. They would reach Hannac by nightfall, she was certain of it. She closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar scents of heather, gorse and damp earth. But their horses sank to their fetlocks in the soft ground and the peat sucked down supply carts; the mercenaries cursing as they heaved and pushed them out. Even Ven Lund's patience appeared strained as he jumped from his horse to assist.

"Not so sure I want Pæga after all, Meracad. Somewhere drier'd suit me and Hovey just fine."

"But you're a sailor, Mr Ven Lund. I didn't think you'd get squeamish at a bit of rain."

"Ocean's are one thing, this bog's quite another." He caught her eye and flinched. "Sure it's beautiful enough in the spring."

"It is. Believe me, it is."