He pushed it down and forced himself back to numbness. It was over. He had to believe Ayla was well on her way to safety. He’d kept silent as his brother questioned him about the lady’s whereabouts. A thorough search of the castle had not turned her up, which meant she’d found the cloak and used it.
It had to be enough to keep her safe. He had to believe that, because there was nothing more Niel could do now, and nothing else he cared about.
“How goes it?” the knight riding with Corin called. Niel recognized the older, red-haired man as Sir Anton of Yovren, Corin’s former knight-master. The man Corin credited with making him less of a brute. Niel bent his gaze down to the snow and continued to trudge.
“Well enough,” Sir Melchior said.
“Better than well. We’re pointed south,” Sir Herdan said cheerfully. They’d been marching for three days already, with the luxuriously slow pace of an army leaving a battlefield, and Herdan had expressed the same sentiment a good half-dozen times already. Niel recalled distantly that the man had a wife and children waiting for him at Liron.
“We’re not far from Stromacre,” Corin said. “There’ll be a path from there.”
“You’ll be off, then?” Herdan asked.
Niel looked up sharply, but kept walking. His thighs burned as he lifted each step clear of the broken snow. His brother was leaving?
He knew the name Stromacre, if he could just place it. There were so many tiny, nothing-towns in the kingdom it was hard to keep track of them all, even with how many hours Niel had spent poring over maps in preparation for the war.
“Aye,” Corin said. For a moment he met Niel’s gaze. Then Corin’s eyes returned to the path ahead. “Make sure nothing happens before I’m back.”
“We’ll tell her you said as much,” Herdan said.
“Don’t just tell her. Make sure of it,” Corin said. “There will be no executions before my return.”
“That eager to see my blood yourself?” Niel’s voice came out as a rasp, and he realized these were the first words he’d said in days. “Perhaps you miss the old days.”
“Enough,” Corin told him. There was a dark glint in his brother’s eye, and Corin’s jaw set. Niel's brother wheeled his warhorse and charged back down the line. Sir Anton followed, with a look Niel could only interpret as pitying.
He’d finally placed Stromacre. If Corin rode to the town, and past it, he wouldn’t be far from Yovren castle. The county’s seat, where Corin’s squire training with Sir Anton had been based out of, was buried deep in the Hulder wood on the county road. It irritated him that Corin was larking off to another castle, and what Niel could only imagine was a social visit. But Corin could do what he wanted.
What was the point in being jealous now? It was all coming to an end. Just like he’d always known. Only now, he found himself regretting the war. It all seemed so foolish, throwing himself headlong into a war just for revenge on Hannes. He could have dueled or assassinated the knight instead of setting out to conquer Ashbrin and burn it to the ground. He could have revealed the truth at court and let them all judge, instead of keeping quiet in shame.
Living was revenge. Happiness was revenge. Ayla had taught him that. And if it was a lesson he’d learned too late, at least he had learned it.
And at least Ayla had gotten away from Blackfell. He’d achieved that much. Where was she now? He hoped she wasn't cold.
They camped on the road itself. No clearing in these parts was large enough to hold the great number of warriors and wagons traveling south. They unbound Niel’s hands for a moment to shackle them in front of him instead, then led him away to a spotin the forest where he could piss, surrounded by armed men, and feeling rather like a dog.
Melchior swept the ground beside a tree clear of snow and covered it with a pelt. Niel allowed the other knight to tie his shackles around the tree-trunk, and then his waist. Melchior's copper-brown face was grim as he worked, and he would not meet Niel’s eyes.
Niel leaned back against his tree and watched as the soldiers around him split into smaller camps. He still couldn’t see his own men, but nor could he see clear to the end of the sprawling army that was marching Niel south. Modest fires sprung to life up and down the road, for warmth and cooking. Herdan snapped open a blanket and dropped it on Niel’s knees. Even with his hands shackled in front of him, Niel couldn’t move them more than a few inches forward, tight as the rope around the tree had him bound. He strained to reach the edge of the blanket, drawing his knees in closer. The iron shackles bit into his skin through his clothes. His fingers skimmed the edge of the blanket and he grasped it, drawing it up further over his body against the cold.
“Water, lad?” the older man asked, as if Niel was just a boy. Herdan stood over him, his hips level with Niel’s head. Shackled, Niel couldn’t move.
Unexpected fear bowled through him, savagely fast. Despite the cold, Niel felt sweat prickling down his back and on his forehead. He couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t move his arms. Was at their mercy for warmth, food, water.
It was years since he’d felt so helpless. All the same he forced himself to tilt back his head for the waterskin when it came, and let the icy liquid fill his mouth, and tried not to shudder or spit it out. He breathed through his nose, long drags of frigid air. Herdan gave him an odd look and walked away. Niel’s shoulders slowly unclenched.
Bradhan was making his way over. Niel could see his distinctive gait from a distance, as he hopped forward, planted the two crutches he’d acquired since being freed, and hopped again. The Ashbrin heir wove his way between cooking-fires and nodded in response to Herdan and Melchior’s greeting.
“I’m just heating a cider,” Niel heard Herdan offer. Niel's former captive shook his head no, and hopped the rest of the way to Niel, his face tight with determination and obvious pain. Bradhan looked pale, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.
Niel braced himself for one of the crutches to ram into him. No doubt Bradhan would have his revenge, now that Niel was the one in shackles. Over the past few days plenty of soldiers had taken their time to land a discreet blow or spit on him when they thought the two knights guarding him would not notice.
“I need to know,” Bradhan said, coming to a stop with the crutches slightly in front of his foot. “Why did he go to Ashbrin?”
“What?” Niel frowned in surprise.
“You must know. What is he doing there?”
