“Mercy. You’re burning up again, Ayla,” Niel told her quietly. “You need rest.” He lifted her easily into his arms. She didn’t struggle, but her heart felt heavy as he laid her down onto the mattress.
She almost preferred when she thought it was pure, mindless violence. Because she had loathed the idea, but it had not shattered her the way the thought of his pain did.
He hadn’t answered her, not truly, but he’d said enough. She could guess at the rest. At why he feared to be stripped and hated to be helpless.
“Would you sit with me a while longer tonight?” she asked as he tugged the blankets over her. His dark eyes met hers with a surprised look. Niel swallowed. And then, he nodded.
A Declaration
The next day, an hour before noon, marked the first time Ayla had gone on the curtain wall since Niel sent the servants away. There, on the outer rim, she had a clear view of the town-turned-warcamp below.
It meant the men there, her husband included, could get a clear view ofher.
It had seemed to so deeply bother Niel that his abuser went with reputation untarnished, and here she was, letting Ditmar do the same. Letting the army camped outside think she was a woman in dire need of rescue. And men had, perhaps, even died for that belief, if any part of the escape tunnel attack had been driven by her safety.
She feared what Ditmar would do to her family, but she had spent three years in silence, and now the silence had grown too heavy to maintain.
Ayla’s heart felt cold and sluggish as she climbed the stairs, hands pulling her blood-red cloak tight around her shoulders.She’d braided her hair in a crown around her head, and the wind chilled the back of her neck, making her regret it. She drew a shallow breath, feeling like her lungs would not fully inflate, and stepped to the edge of the wall. The nearest of Niel’s sentries stood twenty feet to her left, another some thirty feet to her right.
She tried to ignore them as she surveyed the ground below. Smoke came from the houses of the town’s chimneys, and from a few fires between the rows of orderly army tents beyond. The snow there looked filthy, shoveled down to the frozen ground and trampled on by thousands of warriors. The Enarian sentries patrolled rather than standing guard, walking in pairs of two. She spotted one set heading along the outside of the town, coming more or less in her direction.
Ayla stared hard, willing them to look her way. As they drew closer she could see one was a common foot soldier, a man with leather armor over layers of padding, with a spear in hand. His companion wore full plate armor covered by a tunic with a gold sun in splendor, the sigil of the Paladins of the Morning Sun. This was the female equivalent of a knight. The paladin carried a morning star polearm, a long staff that ended with a spiked metal ball. She rested the weapon over her shoulder as she strode beside the soldier.
Catching her breath, Ayla drew out her handkerchief and waved it. The paladin saw it before the soldier, and pointed. The soldier shielded his eyes and stared up at Ayla. As the only woman left in the castle, they would know immediately she was the captive Lady of Blackfell.
The paladin spoke, too far away for Ayla to hear. The soldier nodded and trotted off. The paladin drew closer, until she stood nearly below Ayla. The female warrior adopted a steady stance, feet planted shoulder-width and the butt of the morning star resting on the ground beside her, and looked up at Ayla.
It took minutes for Ditmar to appear, flanked by the large knight she knew was Niel’s older brother, General Corin. The one who used to beat him. It was easy to recognize him; their faces bore such resemblance they might almost have been twins. No wonder Ditmar had been fooled. Others came, too, warriors she did not recognize, and townsfolk that she did.
“Ayla!” her husband yelled, pushing his way forward frantically, as if he were a loving husband in terror for her safety. And probably the last part was true, she had to admit. He would not like the idea of another man touching her, and would have little faith in a traitor’s good behavior.
“Ditmar,” she called down coldly.
Sarella emerged from the crowd, clasping her wife's hand, her eyes wavering as she took in the sight of Ayla standing on the castle wall.
“Are you hurt?” Ditmar called. “Have they sullied you?”
“Lady,” one of Niel’s men said, approaching her at a jog, his voice too low for the people far below to hear. “We aren’t supposed to talk to them without his lordship here.”
She ignored him.
“No,” Ayla called back. She paused, and drew a deep breath. Niel’s soldier paused uncertainly, but didn’t grab her. The crowd below seemed to be growing. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest now she thought it might burst. “They haven’t hurt me. In fact, it is the first time in our three years of marriage,” Ayla said, pitching her voice loud enough to carry, “that I am without bruises.”
There was commotion in the crowd below. People looked at each other with confused faces, trying to make sense of this statement, perhaps wondering if she had said it backwards or they had heard it wrong.
But Sarella grinned savagely, and raised a fist in the air.
The soldier on the wall beside Ayla left at a jog. She watched the crowd below erupt into discussion. At last Ditmar threw up his hand towards Ayla and turned to General Corin.
“There will be a man behind her, with a bow pointed at her back,” Ditmar scoffed, loudly, so they would all hear him above their chatter.
“No,” Ayla called down. “To the contrary. I am treated more kindly as a hostage than Ieverwas as your wife.”
“She’s lying,” Ditmar said. “I do not know what he has done to force her to say this. Ayla, love, Iwillrescue you. Be strong.”
“You may send men to take back your castle, Ditmar, but do not send them to take backme.”
There was talk in the crowd again, a rumble that Ayla could not pick out any words from.
