Was she really trying to convince this man to take his wife into his arms? She had no business fixating on Lord Niel’s marriage bed. She knew she ought to drop the subject, but her mind kept poking at it.
“There is nothing. Not for me. There is only one way this ends.”
Ayla’s stomach twisted.
“But…” she frowned at him, tapping her fork’s tines lightly on her plate. “Aren’t your father’s reinforcements coming?”
“To Blackfell, yes. I don’t intend to diehere, with my work unfinished. But I have sworn myself to a cause, and I have no doubt it will cost me my life.”
A long silence yawned between them. A hollow opened up in Ayla’s stomach, a sickening, dizzy feeling. Niel’s marriage dropped down into it, unimportant beside what he’d just said. The fire crackled, its logs shifting. She watched the flames dance in Niel’s dark eyes, and felt a confused mess of thoughts swirling in her head.
“I have no idea what you expect me to say to that,” Ayla at last said slowly, “except that it sounds extremely foolish and hateful to me. Surely you cannot despise Enarthatferociously.”
“How can you still love it, after what you’ve endured?”
“The Queen has nothing to do with how Blackfell acts behind doors,” Ayla said dismissively, almost fiercely. She had to believe that.
“A country is its noblemen,” Niel said quietly. “Oh, the crown sits at the center, but the nobility exert their will over the pieces of it, from the cities to the small and far-flung reaches. And they arerotten, Ayla. They are like a piece of meat infested with maggot and rot from the inside.”
She wrinkled her nose at the image he painted.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes,” Niel agreed. “It is. Men like Blackfell should notrule. Bloodlines, bloodlines; we keep turning in circles, allowing the worst of us to hold power because their fathers’ fathers’ fathers’ clawed their way atop a bloody heap generations past. Well, enough. I will not suffer the tyrants among us to rule.”
“But your father,” she said. “Isn’t he…?”
“One of those?” Niel asked bitterly. “Deeply so. Or do you think a man comes to conclusions like this from a happy upbringing? I will tear down Blackfell, and Ashbrin, and if I am still alive after that, I will tear down the duchy of Mount Eyron, too, which will mean I am the enemy of both Enarandof its would-be conquerors. So you understand it: once I make my move, I will be without allies. This war will kill me. But Maker be damned, I will see this world changed before I leave it.”
“I do not think the only way to change is through killing,” Ayla told him quietly. Privately, she also didn’t think it wouldcreatemuch in the way of change. Surely other men would rise up to fill the place of the country’s noblemen he removed. Who was to say they’d be any better?
But he sounded so certain. Like an arrow that had already been loosed and was on its way to a far and distant target, its landing already a guarantee.
“Finish your supper,” Niel said, ignoring her words. “The kitchen made mention of a ginger cake. I should like to try it when you are ready.”
The Pantry
Could the knight really kill Ditmar? Ayla sat in the solar, an embroidery hoop with a cluster of silver stars in her hands, and stared out at the rows of army tents. In the distance she could see soldiers emerging from the treeline with arms full of branches. It wouldn’t take them long to burn through it, and good cut wood took months to cure. The Queen's army was in for a long, cold wait. Ditmar had probably established himself in the town; in the headman’s house, if she had to guess. Likely General Corin and his officers had done the same. It was the common men who’d freeze.
What were her options, if Lord Niel succeeded and Ditmar died?
The castle would fall to foreign forces, and she’d have no claim. But even if Enar reclaimed Blackfell, Ayla would never inherit the castle. Unlike most of the country, fief Blackfell followed the old law, where women could not inherit. She hadn’t given Ditmar an heir, so there was no child-lord to make her adowager. Custom dictated that if Ditmar’s cousin inherited, he would allow her to stay and would pay for a modest upkeep. But unless the cousin demanded Ayla’s hand—unlikely, when she’d produced no heirs—she’d be free to leave. Nobody could even blame Ditmar's death on her, when she’d been a hostage the whole time.
She couldn’t possibly go with the knight. He was a traitor, and bent on destruction, aiming for his own death.
No, if Ditmar died, she’d finally go home. To Carinth. A nobleman’s widow. She’d help with her father’s accounts and beg the glassmakers to take her back, to let her return to the craft she’d once loved above all else. The merchant-manor would feel snug after the castle. And safe. She'd make a name for herself as an artisan and create pieces so delicate they looked impossible.
The fire beside her was nearly dead. Ayla scooted her chair closer with a terrible scraping noise. Embroidery settled on her lap, on top of a pile of blankets, she reached forward and spread her fingers before the flames.
Her stomach growled. With luck, the knight would want his luncheon soon. She’d broken fast with him before dawn again, the hour so early that it might as well have been the night before.
There was no sense in rebuilding the fire, not now. Ayla waited a moment later, then stood from her chair and blankets into the achingly cold air. She tugged her cloak closer and wandered down the stairs. The great hall was empty as she passed between its black wood pillars, the soldiers wisely keeping their chores and entertainments to smaller rooms that could be more easily heated.
The rich smell of roasting meat grabbed Ayla by the nose and drew her into the warm doorway of the kitchens. Sarella stood alone at the stove, stirring a sauce in a large vat.
“Is lunch soon?”
Sarella glanced back at her in surprise, then smiled. The woman’s anger seemed over.
