Perhaps Megh had tripped on the stairs carrying the food. Perhaps nobody had eaten it, or ever known. Perhaps she’d failed so thoroughly at her first attempt at violence that it had gone completely unnoticed by the world.
She felt relieved.
“Did he?” her words came out like a squeak. “What did you, erm. What did you tell him?”
“That I wasn’t interested in the horses any longer, but that if he wanted you back, I’d take Hannes of Ashbrin.”
“Themargrave?” she said, voice rising despite herself. The March of Ashbrin was one of the greatest houses of Enar, ranking just below the Dutchies of Mount Eyron—before, of course, the treason happened, which rather tarnished its standing—and Emelzen; a margrave was closer to royalty than even a count was.Shewas a merchant’s daughter who’d been sold to a petty lord after her father accidentally incurred Ditmar’s wrath.
Lord Niel raised an eyebrow slowly.
“No,” he said flatly. “Hannes is only the margrave’s brother. Still, you won’t be leaving the castle anytime soon.”
She frowned as the knight reached forward and grabbed the unlit pillar of candle. Leaning to the side, he reached into the hearth and tipped the wick against the embers at the edge of the fire, his hand so close to the flames she couldn’t help but wince. He straightened a moment later, looking unbothered, and set the lit candle back in the middle of the table, the wax stained with smoke at the top.
Ayla couldn’t help but notice the size of his hands, or the scars on them.
If this wasn’t about the poisoning, what merciful reason could he possibly have to invite her to dinner? He wasn’t courting her. And she knew she wasn’t good company; he’d probably have a more enjoyable meal with his men.
“Are you mocking me?” she asked quietly, forgetting she was meant to be a dull-witted, glaze-eyed fool.
“Mocking you?” he echoed, his black eyebrows knotting towards each other. The knight’s head tilted slightly to the left, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers.
“You saw my husband does not want me, so you thought to make a joke of it by asking for a man worth far more than I am,” she suggested. Ayla wasn’t sure how much sense this theory made, but nothing about his actions added up in any merchant’s ledger-math that she knew how to do. It seemed as likely as anything else that this whole situation was a joke at her expense.
The knight didn’t smile. She saw a muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he were gritting his teeth. Then he spoke, his voice cold and the words sharp.
“I do not mock you, Lady Blackfell. The code of war demands I offer a ransom. My own honor demands I set one he will never pay.”
She heard the hinges of the door squeak open behind her and turned to look. Megh eased her way through and walked slowly towards the table, her eyes focused on the tray in her hands, onwhich two bowls and a small platter balanced precariously. The bowls clinked with each step.
“Here—” Ayla started to say, standing to help, but the knight shook his head, and she sank back into her seat.
“In any case,” Niel continued, as Megh balanced the tray on the edge of the table and placed a bowl of white broth in front of the knight, then Ayla. The smell of ginger, almond, and leek wafted to Ayla’s nose. “You’re wrong. Hannes is worth less than cow shit, which at least makes good manure. Though maybe his body will too.” His voice was emotionless.
Ayla saw Megh blink, the maid’s eyes flashing briefly to her own as Megh reached forward to set a small platter of rolls and butter between the two of them. Ayla stared hard at Megh, silently begging for help she knew the maid was unable to give. Megh winced in response. Then, with a curtsy, she backed up and quickly left the room.
Ayla picked up her spoon in a trembling hand. Before she could sink it into the bowl the knight’s hand came into view. He lifted her bowl, then switched it with his own.
“But why follow the code of war at all?” she asked. “After all, you’re…” she trailed off.
“A traitor?” He suggested. “If you want the truth, Lady Blackfell, my enemies broke their oaths long before I ever did.”
“What’sthatsupposed to mean?” She hadn’t heard anything about oaths being broken. No, surely he was just a man looking for excuses, determined to believe he was in the right. She’d seen that kind before.
“Just eat your soup,” the knight said. He hadn’t picked up his spoon. And he was staring at her, too hard, like if he let his eyes off her for even a second she might vanish. It was rather unsettling. What, exactly, did he think she was going to do? Stab him with the butter knife?
Oh. Poison.
Perhaps Megh had not dropped the food after all. Perhaps he’d somehow known it. Recognized the seeds, or had a taster take the first bite...
Was he trying to avoid it happening again? Or was this her punishment—he was so particular about which seat and which bowl she used because he was going to poisonher?
She bowed her head, gripped the spoon tight, and took a small sip of the broth, avoiding the bits of leek and poultry. The knight gripped his own spoon in one large fist, his eyes scrutinizing her every move.
He did not look satisfied. Ayla gulped, dug her spoon back in, and forced herself to take another trembling sip of the broth.
“Is something wrong, Lady Blackfell?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “The food not to your liking?”
