“I am capable ofmanythings, Lady Blackfell,” the knight’s deep voice said behind her. Despite his size, his approach had been silent. She jumped quickly from the chair, turning and falling into a curtsy that she held, head dipped down in submission. Ink stained his hands from the letter-writing. She could feel him staring at her, but she didn’t allow herself to look anywhere but his large, scuffed, black leather boots. There was a dagger strapped to his calf.
“My lord,” she whispered hoarsely. “I…”
“Far be it from me to interrupt a lady’s meal,” he said, eyeing the half-finished pastry on her plate. “That looks good. Give me one.”
“Yes, your lordship,” Nyven murmured. The cook reached for a clean plate from the stack. Ayla slowly straightened from the curtsy.
She waited a moment longer to see if the knight would say another word or threaten a punishment for her insolence. But his square jaw was turned towards Nyven, his posture easy, apart from the hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Shecould not tell if that was simply a comfortable pose or if it was a warning.
Either way. She fled.
Questions
The sound of a shifting log drew Niel’s attention to the fire. It was beginning to look weak, the chill of the sitting-room getting into his bones despite his chair’s proximity to the hearth and the fur cloak covering his shoulders. He stared a moment at the licking flames and debated adding another log.
The castle’s woodpile was large, and well-cured, and he’d be leaving the next day anyways, using all of Blackfell’s horses to cover ground quickly. He could light the whole woodpile on fire, for all he cared. But for all his family’s wealth, his father’s teachings were beaten in too deep to dislodge.
Eyron men are strong. Eyron men don’t waste resources on comfort. Stop sniveling like a girl.
Never mind that he’d been eight. And never mind that there was plenty of wood now.
The fire was still alive. It didn’t need more wood until it was nearly dead. Niel went back to oiling his sword, wiping arag carefully down the freshly-sharpened edge as the red of the flames tinted the blade like blood.
A knock sounded. Finally.
“Enter,” he called, tearing his gaze away from the sword. The Lord of Blackfell’s sitting room was long, the stone walls plastered over and painted with colorful, if gruesome, tournament scenes. No light came through the window; night fell earlier every day.
Lady Blackfell slowly opened the door and stepped inside. It was the first time he’d laid eyes on her since the kitchen the day before. His men reported she’d taken supper in her bedchamber that night; he wasn’t sure she’d left the room at all until his summons some fifteen minutes past.
He saw her chest swell with a quiet gasp, gray eyes startling wide as she took him in.
Niel blinked, glanced down, and realized that having ordered the lady to this room, it was perhaps not the best time to be polishing a longsword. He quickly tossed the rag onto the floor and slid the sword back into the sheath at his belt so he wouldn’t look so much like he was plotting an execution.
“Sit, Lady Blackfell,” he ordered sheepishly. The lady approached him slowly, like he was a dog that might bite. But Niel’s rage was reserved for the Enarian nobles who abused their power. Not timid, common-born wives who squeaked at shadows. She had nothing to fear from him or from his war.
She took the chair next to him carefully. The skirts of her pale yellow dress swirled around her legs as she tugged her midnight-blue wool cloak tight around her shoulders. Niel could not help but wonder where her furs were, in this cold. Lord Blackfell certainly kept his wife in finery otherwise. It suited her, though he’d never understood spending much on clothing, which had no use besides practicality. Lady Blackfell, though… she was tall for a woman, with raven black waves of hair and lips that lookedsoft and pink as rose petals. He wasn’t at all surprised Blackfell had married her, despite her being an uneducated peasant who seemed to squeak at shadows. She possessed the type of beauty that could drive even a sensible man mad.
She was also another man’s wife. And he was staring at her, hard enough that the lady ducked her head and twisted her trembling hands anxiously in her lap.
“Did my lord write?” she asked softly, as if to remind him she was spoken for. Niel’s jaw flexed.
“Not yet,” he lied. He needed information from her. He didn’t want her thinking she could squeeze her mouth shut and wait him out. But the truth was, Niel only had until the next dawn before he surrendered the lady back to her husband, who was no doubt anxious to hold her in his arms again. And scarcely a few hours more than that before he and his men made their way back into the Kettalist’s storms, somewhat better equipped and only slightly rested, to fight their way towards Mount Eyron while they still could.
The knight leaned back in his chair and kicked one of his long, thickly muscled legs out in front of him, studying her now not for her beauty, but for any hint of emotion he could grasp.
She nodded to show she understood, the movement small. Her mouth was pressed tight together, and she blinked rapidly, twice, as if fighting back tears. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly.Don’t pity her.She’s a pretty face, but she’s a hostage, too.Yourhostage.Think what father would say.
“These negotiations take time,” he muttered, despite himself. It wasn’t particularly kind, making a wife think her husband didn’t want her enough to write back. Especially when a woman of her standing, even if only by marriage, was worthfarmore than a string of second-rate horses.
The lady didn’t answer, except to minutely nod her head again, her hands tightening in her lap. Her shoulders shivered slightly.Cold, or fear?
He’d debated building the fire up for himself, but now he did not hesitate for even a hairsbreadth. Niel grabbed another log out of the basket and tossed it onto the fire. The flames shot out at the gust of air, then began to lick their way around the hunk of black Kettalist fir.
“I have questions,” Niel said. Her eyes flashed to him, wide and gray, then quickly ducked down again as she gave another small nod and stared at the floor.
He was going to throw himself out the window if she intended to carry on an entire conversation with nothing more than tiny nods of the head and a face that looked like it might break out into tears at any moment. Mercy's sake, hadn’t he treated her people kindly? He hadn’t killed a single one of hers, even when taking the castle. Surely that ought to be commended. But she wasn’t the first person to assume he was a monster, and Maker knew she wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he informed her flatly. “You’re far more valuable to me in one piece. Enough with the silence, it’s getting annoying.”
