Leda (The Duellist #3)

Chapter Forty-Eight: In Bad Spirits

The headache brewed and boiled. Castor buried his face in his palms, welcoming the darkness. He'd had the candles and torches put out, for light ˗ it was always light ˗ fuelled the pain ˗ those great pulsing, murderous throbs which rippled across his temples. It would worsen; he could sense it. Not content with hacking at his skull, it would soon engulf his entire body, rendering him as helpless as a newborn, as fragile and weak as an old man.

Castor had not suffered the affliction since his coronation. In fact, he'd assumed that divine right and absolute power would shield him against it. And yet here it was, back again, and plaguing him with a ferocity he could not bear. Those first pinpricks of pain had signalled its return when, standing atop the gate tower, he'd witnessed the charge of Roc's army and the slaughter of the Dal Reniac guard. Unable to watch further, his mind pierced by a thousand rough splinters, he'd retreated to his rooms and shut his ears to the carnage outside.

Lord Roc himself had led the assault, riding beside his son. The fat, traitorous drunkard had taken out a brace of men with one sweep of his mace. The thieves had also been observed on the battlefield; those so-called ladies of the 'Great Company.' And there were rumours that Hannac herself had ridden down his defence with vengeful fury. Marta Ilenga had been right after all. And that being the case, what had happened to his spies ˗ to those he'd sent west? Had they turned traitor or been slaughtered by Roc? Castor howled, lashed by another wave of pain.

There was a knock at the door. He struggled to his feet, clutching the bedpost for support. "What is it?"

"Your Majesty, Aescylus Gric and Pella Fabiac wait upon you in the great hall."

"Yes, yes." He rubbed at his forehead. "Tell them I'll be with them shortly."

The longer he sat there in darkness, shrieking and shivering like some wounded animal, the more likely it was that rumours would spread. His Majesty has been overcome by the disaster. His Majesty is incapable of rule. His Majesty is a coward. All the traitors and the naysayers, the gossipmongers and the low scum of the court vindicated. Not fit, his Uncle had once said. A weak minded fellow. Vicious, but ineffective. A failure. It's such a pity.

"I'll finish what I've started," Castor snarled to the air, labouring his way across the bed chamber.

Once out in the corridor he shaded his eyes against the torch light, but it did no good. Castor leaned into the wall and retched. But he must...he must talk to Gric before it was too late. Before the pain became too great, and he... He pushed on, clinging to tapestries and furniture for support.

It's in the family, his Uncle had once said. Not on my dear dead brother's side, thank the ancestors. But his mother...well, look at the poor creature.

His mother's face flashed before his eyes...her faded beauty and fractured soul. She claimed spirits visited her at night. Their invisible claws and talons and pincers scratched and tore and bit she said, sending her reeling and screaming around her chambers. He pushed the image from his mind. As always, his Uncle had been wrong. Castor was ˗ would be ˗ his father's son. He wiped sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve, sucked in air, exhaled hard and threw open the doors to the great hall.

There she was: Fabiac. If her chill blue eyes grew any more scornful he'd have them plucked out. And her servile excuse for a husband. Castor passed between them without word, mounted the dais and threw himself into a chair.

"Wine!" He seized the cup with a shaking hand, tipped back his head and drank, dropping the empty vessel to the floor. It rolled like a child's spinning top, tipping off the dais and shedding drops of wine that stained the rushes blood red. Castor gripped the armrests of the chair in a bid to steady himself.