Lord Niel was silent at breakfast, coughing lightly once before frowning down at his food, his focus clearly elsewhere. Ayla didn’t mind. She was too exhausted for conversation.
The night before, she'd visited the kitchens to tell Sarella, Nyven, and Megh—who was sharing a bottle of wine with the other two—that Lord Niel had decided they must leave. Nyven had been quiet and uncomfortable at the thought of leaving his home, but Sarella had cried from relief at finally getting to see her wife, and Megh had started to argue until Ayla grabbed the wine carafe and refilled Megh’s cup.
“Tell Ditmar you tried to help his soldiers,” Ayla instructed them. “Say that’s why the knight sent you out, alright? Because he could not trust you. Because you stayed loyal.”
She’d declined their offer to drink with them, uncertain if they really wanted her company, and went instead to bed. Except instead of laying down to sleep, like she’d intended, she opened one of the books Niel had forced her to take.
It had been well into the night before she slept. The delight of new words and stories was one she had forgotten. By the pre-dawn breakfast, she was hardly awake.
The farewells afterwards were not easy. She hugged Sarella tight, then Megh.
“Are you sure about this, Lady Ayla?” Megh whispered. “You’ll be alone here. Tell him you want me to stay. I’ll do it. I’ve no husband waiting for me.”
“But you have a niece and sisters,” Ayla whispered against the woman’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
And if you stay, she thought privately,Ditmar will think Niel trusts you, and he will surely punish you for that, after.
Nyven clapped her on the shoulder, his face still flush from whatever illness he'd felt the day before.
“How can I possibly thank you enough?” she told them all, as Sarella dabbed at tears and Megh frowned at her. “You’re worth ten times any noble. I could live to be a hundred, and I still wouldn’t forget…”
“It’s not forever,” Nyven said gruffly, but the cook made no effort to hide the emotion in his eyes. “Mind you don’t make a mess of my kitchen.”
Then Kerr was there, telling them it was time to go. Ayla went up on the wall, standing amidst soldiers who bristled with pikes and bows, and watched the wide stretch of open ground in front of the castle gates. There was a creak as the drawbridge lowered in shunts, each turn of the wheel dropping its lip a foot closer to the frozen moat it spanned. By the time it touched ground, watchers had gathered on the other side, a huge knight in silver armor at the head of them with his sword drawn.
As the servants walked out of the castle, bags over their shoulders, Ditmar shoved to the front of the crowd, pushing Isalde's father roughly aside. His face turned to peer up at the wall, and Ayla quickly stumbled back and fled down thecourtyard stairs, too terrified of him seeing her to even wave goodbye.
She regretted that, all the way back to her room. But it was done. And they were gone. She didn't know if she'd ever see them again. At least they were safe, and with their families, where they belonged.
Around noon, she realized Megh was not going to summon her to lunch with the knight. Perhaps he’d send a soldier. But another hour passed, and forty pages in the book of Hulder-stories, before a soldier at last knocked on the door and told her the knight wanted her company.
The castle felt miserably empty as she made her way down the hall, even though the population had not shrunk overmuch. She was alone, the only woman and only true Enarian in a castle full of traitorous warriors. A hostage, even if Niel didn’t treat her like it, and even if she wanted to be there. A cold loneliness crawled into her gut.
She knocked, waited, and entered. The knight was seated already, his face propped up on a fist and his eyes closed. His eyelids opened briefly at the sound of her approach, then fell again. Ayla paused uncertainly at the table, hand trailing along the back of her chair. The knight opened his eyes again and slowly straightened.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Sit,” he said with a nod. She frowned and sank into the chair. His eyes looked glassy and unfocused. His long dark hair was loose and a little tangled.
“You look ill.”
“Many thanks,” he muttered.
“It isn’t an insult.”
Between them sat a platter of cold sliced meat, bread Sarella had baked that morning before she left, and more of the quince.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he muttered, as he watched her fill her plate. “Larkin says something is going about. I know you didn’t poison me. This time.”
She froze with her knife stabbing a piece of venison.
“What?” Ayla whispered. The knight didn’t answer except to drag a slab of cold venison onto his plate and then stare down at it blearily. She waited for him to accuse her, heart pounding, but he kept staring at his plate. He was probably waiting on her, as usual. She quickly took a sample of everything, but the knight still hadn’t moved to eat. She lifted her eyes from the table to study him, and found that while he remained upright, his eyes were shut again. His high cheekbones were flushed with color, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“You really don’t look well.”
“M’fine.” His eyes blinked open again.
“No, you aren’t. You’re sick.”
