She ignored the fur, and layered a second wool cloak over the one she already wore, not caring if it looked silly. Ayla slipped out into the dark hall. If the knight had been down in the kitchen, he was awake, and probably not in Ditmar’s room. She paused outside the dark door, steeling herself against the familiar flood of discomfort that always rose in her like a tide in this particular doorway. Slowly Ayla raised her hand and forced herself to knock, praying nobody answered and that she could just slip quietly inside.
Just when she was reaching for the door knob, it swung abruptly inward. Ayla took a quick step back with a gasp.
The knight stood in front of her, so close she couldn’t breathe for a moment.Handsome, she thought, stupidly. Sheblinked away her morning exhaustion that made her think such things about a warrior without any honor. He was dressed and armored, his hair tied neatly back, watching her with scrutiny that threatened to strip her away entirely.
“I, um… I…” Ayla cleared her throat, line of thought entirely lost with the large knight towering over her. At least he already thought she was an idiot. No damage done.
“Were you looking for me, Lady Blackfell?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t manage to find words. Maybe she’d acted like enough of a fool in front of him that it wasn’t an act anymore. But standing so close to him was terrifying, and overwhelming. Her mind stuttered.
“Then how may I be of assistance?” he asked, patiently.
He’s polite, Ayla’s brain sputtered.Well, for a traitor to the crown, anyways.Who probably deserves to be horribly poisoned. Or worse.
“Packing,” she said, and lifted the bag in her hand. “I’m—packing. I came for my lord’s things…”
“Ah. You planned to bring him something.” His low voice turned flat. “Very well. Be quick about it.” He moved to the side but remained in the entryway. She had to turn sideways to skirt past him, holding her breath the whole time.
The thought of being alone with him in Ditmar’s rooms for a second time in twenty-four hours made her stomach knot nervously. But as she stepped into the room she found it occupied. The blonde man who’d led Ditmar away from the castle sat on the settee, staring at papers laid out on the table. Another soldier, a brown-haired one she didn’t recognize, was beside him. Neither stood to bow to her, but then, she supposed she wasn’t a lady to them. She was just a woman in the country they were going to burn to the ground.
“Beg pardon.” She bobbed a curtsy to them nonetheless, as the blonde warrior stared openly at her. She stole a quick glance atthe papers on the table and saw a map and a page of writing broken up into columns. The movement of enemy troops, perhaps? If only they would leave, she could get a closer look at whatever they were working on, and maybe have something valuable to tell Ditmar.
She’d thought she’d have more time. More time away from him, and time to do something about the threat in the castle, and time to prepare for her husband’s wrath.
“Well, Lady Blackfell?” the knight said behind her.
She scanned the room, wondering what Ditmar would most want. Clothes? No; he would want her to take something of value. There, on a shelf, between a gap in the rows of books she’d never been allowed to look at: his great-grandfather’s dagger stood on display, passed down between the men in his family. Ditmar had bragged once there was phoenix ash mixed into the metal, giving the blade the ability to burn as the phoenix tried and failed to reconstitute.
She felt the knight at her back as she approached it, making the hair on the back of Ayla's neck prickle. As she reached up and touched the knife, a large hand shot forward from behind her and circled her wrist.
“Not that, Lady Blackfell,” the knight said softly into her ear, the cold of his armor radiating against her back. “I fear I cannot let you bring your husband a weapon, even one so… small as that.”
A shiver ran down her back. She lifted her fingers slowly off the weapon’s sheath. Just as slowly, Lord Niel let go of her wrist. The scrape of his hand shifted the fabric, and her sleeve fell back down her arm, revealing a slip of purple bruises. Ayla quickly dropped her arm.
The knight’s hand rammed forward again and grabbed her hand tight in his. With a gasp Ayla jerked away, turning, and thumped against the bookcase. Her half-packed bag fell fromher free hand. She shivered and winced away as the knight grabbed her sleeve and peeled it swiftly back away from her wrist all the way to her elbow to show the newer purple alongside old fading greens and yellows. Her skin pebbled instantly against the cold air. She turned her head away from the sunrise-colorful sight of her arm and tried to tug out of his grip. A pitiful whimper escaped her lips.
“She’s covered in bruises.” Lord Niel’s voice was cold as iron, cold as his armor, cold as a blade.
“It’s nothing,” Ayla whispered. “Please.” She tugged to free herself from his grip. Rather than letting go, he gently forced her arm to rotate, inspecting the other side. Then his eyes left her arm and roamed over the rest of her, as if wondering what else her clothing hid.
“Who’d dare risk that, after what you did to Baldram?” the blonde man asked. He was standing now, frowning in her direction. Shivering, Ayla squeezed her eyes shut.
“No, these aren’t fresh,” Lord Niel said to him, his hand still tight around Ayla’s. “It was not our men.”
He dropped her arm abruptly. She yanked the sleeve down, feeling shamed and small and utterly cold.
“Prepare a letter,” the knight said, venom in his voice. “Tell that coward Blackfell that I’ve changed my mind. I’m keeping his wife.”
Women’s Weapon
She didn’t know how a man like him could have compassion.
Ayla retreated immediately to her room and spent most of the day there, feeling shamed and sick, her sleeves pulled down to cover her bruises. She didn’t want to feel grateful to the knight who’d invaded the castle. She didn’t want to feel relieved that she was to remain his hostage. And she absolutely refused to believe a man like Lord Niel of Mount Eyron meant to beherprotector.
Probably he hadn’t wanted to follow the codes of war and ransom her, she decided. For some reason he’d decided to keep to the law, even though he was already a traitor. Seeing the way Ditmar treated her had just been a convenient excuse to keep a hostage on hand. She stared into the flames, pulled her blanket tighter, and tried not to look up at the stilder garlands on the wall. The berries were as pretty as little clumps of snow on the pale green boughs.
Woman’s weapon, they were sometimes called in the old lore. The thought of using them against Ditmar had only crossed her mind in daydream. She’d be tied to one of the Kettalist firs and burned if she killed her own husband. The servants might try to protect her, but Ditmar’s family would see thatsomebodypaid, and she’d hardly let them be executed in her stead.
