Leda

Chapter Fifty: A Woman Grown

"That's good, Oræl. Now up quickly. Faster...yes. Like that. Block. Again. Block."

Duelling, Oræl decided, had much in common with fishing. You had to pick your moment, to deceive your opponent ˗ as you deceived a fish. To know when to move and when to wait. You had to reel in the other duellist, to trick them into believing that they were winning. And then at the last moment to prove them wrong.

Hal dragged a sleeve across her face and grinned. "Are you sure this is the first time you've held a sword?"

Prowling catlike as Hal had taught her, Oræl crouched low. "And what use have crofters for swords when we're too busy hunting our dinner?"

Hal grinned again and lunged, but Oræl blocked.

"Good," breathed the older woman, throwing pressure behind her blade. "Good. If you can throw off the Hannac block, that blade is yours."

"The Hannac block?" Oræl pushed against Hal, gritting her teeth. "What makes it so Hannac?"

"Well I invented it...and I was at Hannac at the time, so I suppose..." Her voice trailed, her grip weakened and she slipped.

"I'm sorry," Oræl said, extending a hand to Hal as she picked herself out of the wet snow. "It must never be far from your thoughts."

Hal's eyes narrowed and she gnawed on her lips, staring across the snow-kissed battlefield towards Dal Reniac. "No," she said at last. "It isn't. Well, the sword is yours, at least. I hope it serves you well."

They both turned, eyeing the distant city walls and the moors beneath them. What could be salvaged safely enough had been taken, but Oræl knew that corpses lay blanketed beneath the slush and mud ˗ guards, mercenaries and their mounts, the bleak landscape studded with arrows, swords and shields. And over all of that, over the bodies of the slain, they would rush again. No respect, her mother would have said. Arms and legs and heads trampled beneath boots, mere stepping stones for the living.

They continued to stare, the silence growing awkward. Oræl wasn't sure she liked Hal. She'd rather that Magda taught her the use of a sword. Magda seemed patient ˗ more forgiving. Hal scared Oræl in many ways. Like the first shaft of lightning in a summer storm, the Mistress of Hannac shocked with her violent, brilliant rage. Yet at other times she seemed as brittle and weak as an autumn leaf on Brennac's bank.

"Don't tell Leda about the sword." Hal continued to study the city walls.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want her getting ideas."

Oræl swelled with indignation. "Why are you so hard on her?" She caught the heat in her own voice.

"What do you mean?" Hal stared at Oræl in surprise. "She's hard on me," she grinned. "Or hadn't you noticed?"

"She's not...she's not a little girl. She's a woman grown. And one who may rule the empire. And yet you and Meracad ˗ you both treat her like an infant!"

"No we don't!" Hal protested, but her words wavered.

"Like last night. She was right. Dal Reniac must know that she's still alive. I've seen how she can change people. She has...power."

"Well she's certainly had an influence on you," Hal said, one eyebrow cocked.

A flush of embarrassment surged from Oræl's chest and upwards, warming her face. She turned to go.

"Wait! Wait, Oræl." Hal put a hand on Oræl's shoulder and span her back round. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we have...cushioned her. And that's the last thing she wants or needs. We just...we love her. That's all." Her eyes seemed to penetrate Oræl's skin: to see inside her.