“No title. Just Niel. Please,” he said quietly.
Ayla blinked and slowly nodded.
“Well.Niel.I’ll bring water, too. In case you’d like to wash up.”
She was as good as her word, and he thanked the stars she left him alone to wash, and wasn’t there to watch as he crawled along the floor back to the bed, his energy completely spent. He fell back into another fevered dream, but did not sweat. When he finally woke, only a little of the weakness remained. It was mid-morning of the next day, judging by the angle of the shadows out the window. Ayla was not there. And he was desperately hungry for real food.
He brushed his hair, which was knotted but clean after last night’s washing, and shaved the itchy beginnings of a beard away, and put his boots on for the first time in days. His swords and knives were as familiar as limbs, but he stared at the armor for a long while, then left it, not yet feeling up to the extra weight.
The fire in the sitting room was out, and had been for some time. It felt odd to walk the halls of the castle, not knowing what had happened in his absence.
Kerr was in the kitchen, slicing an apple with a beltknife while a huge pot of stew bubbled over the fire.
“Is that good to eat?” Niel asked, his stomach growling.
Kerr glanced over his shoulder, apple slice dangling from his mouth, and jumped from his chair.
“My lord. You’re awake.”
“No need to talk about it,” Niel said awkwardly. “I see the castle hasn’t fallen.”
“It’s been blessedly quiet,” Kerr admitted.
“Anything of note?” He wandered to the stew, led by his nose, and located a bowl. Sitting opposite Kerr, he hesitated for a moment, then dug his spoon in. His own men weren’t going to poison him. And after the last few days… he didn’t think Ayla was, either.
“The grippe took Cademond.”
“Badly?” Niel asked.
There was a moment’s awkward silence, Kerr’s face grim.
“Yes, badly. I mean that he died. Just before noon yesterday.”
“Fuck,” Niel frowned down at the soup, then forced himself to meet Kerr’s eyes. “Anyone else—?”
“No. He’d never really recovered.”
Both men sat in silence for a long moment. The soldier had been in poor health since the forced march Niel had taken them on through the Kettalist’s early blizzards. If he’d retreated sooner from Ironcliff, Cademond would be alive, and many other men besides. Niel had failed them.
But if he'd been smarter, he wouldn’t be here. In Blackfell. With Ayla.
The guilt was heavy and sour, despite that fact.
“It snowed. A lot,” Kerr said, breaking the silence. “Nearly up to the waist. Too much for the fuckers to trouble us, I guess. They must be having fun in those tents. We spent all of yesterday shoveling. A handful of others are ill now, but none so severely. Larkin’s better, finally, and he says your Ashbrin knight is healing, too—oh. And one of the kitchen servants must have had the castle keys all along.”
Niel, chewing a piece of smoked beef, raised an eyebrow.
“We found it in here, the day they left,” Kerr added.
Niel followed the point of Kerr’s finger to the stack of plates against a far wall. He sighed, doubting very much it was the servants who’d left it there. Not that she’d ever admit to it.
He really ought to stop letting Ayla surprise him, but she seemed quite good at it.
“Armory’s nice, now that we can get in there. We’ve got a few hundred more arrows to work with. Some swords you might like to take a look at,” Kerr continued.
“He’s in the dungeon, then?” The vegetables in the stew were a little under cooked, but still edible.
“Aye. You want to talk to him now?”
