“Oh—the healer. For…” she gulped, not wanting to admit she was asking for medicines for Lord Niel in front of a knight who remained loyal to Enar.
She was a traitor, she realized. A fully-fledged traitor. And she was ashamed of it. But she was still going to need the medicine.
“Larkin’s resting. He’s got that same grippe that’s going about,” the soldier said.
“Is there something for it?” she asked quietly. “One of the… men needs it.”
“Dunno. Larkin’s been taking willowbark tea. That jar.”
“Thank you.” She took a tonic cup from the wall and scooped the bark shavings into it. “Sir knight?”
“Don’t talk to him,” the soldier warned.
She gripped the cup tighter and studied the blindfolded man nonetheless.
“I’ll see what can be done for you,” she said softly. “May I know your name?”
“Bradhan. Of Ashbrin,” the knight said.
“Out,” the soldier commanded.
“I’m going,” Ayla said, for the knight’s benefit, since he couldn’t see. She kept her head bowed the whole way to the kitchen, wondering what it meant that Niel had set her ransom as a man from Ashbrin, only for another Ashbrin to turn up inside Blackfell’s walls. She was still mulling the connection over when she ascended the stairs to Ditmar’s rooms. Ayla carried a mug of willowbark tea and a bowl of watered gruel on a tray, in case he wanted something simpler to eat than their luncheon. She balanced the tray one handed when she reached the door to the sitting room, knocked, and opened it. The door to Ditmar’s bed chamber, through the sitting room, was an open shadow.
Ayla froze outside it, her breathing shallow and her nostrils flaring slightly. Nothing to it. The man she was going to go see was too weak to hurt her, she expected. It was just a room, and the things inside it were just furniture, and memories could not harm her. She squeezed her eyes shut, firmed her resolve, andstepped over the threshold. The window’s shutters were closed, keeping the room dark.
“The knight you captured,” she started as she walked in.
She stopped two steps into the room, the thick, swampy fear of her memories dulled under the weight of her annoyance. The room was cold. There was no flame in the hearth, just cooling embers from the overnight fire. The knight lay in the bed, the furs and quilted down blankets pulled up only to his hips, revealing he still had plate armor on his torso. His eyes were shut, and did not open at her approach.
“Honestly,” Ayla muttered. She set the tray down on Ditmar’s side table, in reach of Lord Niel. The knight still hadn’t stirred. Crouching in front of the hearth, she dragged the basket of kindling closer to her and coaxed the embers back into a tiny flicker of flame.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” the knight croaked from behind her.
“And you shouldn’t be lying in the freezing cold,” she countered, as she nurtured the flame and finally balanced a thin log across it. “Don’t tell me you sleep in your armor.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then take it off.”
“Not falling for that.”
“What?” She added a hunk of Kettalist fir and stood, dusting her hands. The flames seared gold for a moment as the fire ate into the vein of the fir. Warmth flared into the room, and light, illuminating the violent hunting tapestries on Ditmar’s walls and the ornate black-wood furniture.
“You’re going to stab me,” the knight said, his low voice weak. “Why bother with poison when a knife will do fine.”
“I have never stabbed, and will never stab, anyone,” Ayla informed him. “I’ll get one of your men to help you.” She turned towards the door.
“No.”
“It’ll only be a moment.”
“No. Please,” he said, and struggled upright. She stared at him, warring inside herself. She wanted to leave the room, and not step foot back into it. But the man was sitting up now, braced on one hand. His long dark hair was mussed and falling around his pained face, exhaustion under his eyes. He stared right at her, as pitiful as a puppy. A sheen of sweat coated his brow despite the cold.
“There’s no shame in being sick, you know.”
“I cannot be weak around them.”
“I’m sure they'll still respect you.”
