“Why now?” Niel’s brother, the General Corin called up. “If you are truly saying this of your own free will, why wait so long?”
She stared down at him with a burning anger, and wondered if he knew about what Hannes had done.
“My husband threatened to ruin and punish my family if I ever spoke of it,” Ayla said. “But I do not think it is right for someone stronger to beat someone he is supposed to protect. And I am tired of living in terror. I would not see more soldiers die to rescue me, when I am the safest I have been in years.”
Corin didn’t flinch. He nodded, and turned to Ditmar. When the Lord of Blackfell tried to step forward again, Corin caught his wrist and said something Ayla could not hear.
“These arelies,” Ditmar shouted. “How could you believe—”
“Ayla,” a voice called behind her. She turned to see Niel running towards her from the castle door, his face sharp with worry. “Come away from the wall.”
She frowned at him.
“You’d stop me from renouncing him?”
He reached her and spared only a half second’s look at the crowd below.
“I’d stop you from branding yourself a traitor alongside me,” Niel said quietly. His dark hair was loose, and the wind plucked at it as she stared fixedly down at her. “At least make clear you are loyal to the Queen. There isnoreason to risk your safety. I’m going to kill him, anyways, so you’ll never have to—”
“You see,” Ditmar called. “Even now, he is putting words in her ears.”
“Niel,” Corin interrupted. “Enough of this. Surrender, and I’ll make sure—”
“Fuck off,” Niel yelled back. He turned back to Ayla. “At least tell them you’re loyal to Enar,” he begged quietly. “There is no need to make an enemy of the rest of them.”
For a moment his hand was around hers, beneath the lip of the wall and out of sight of the crowd below, squeezing her palm. He had never done that before. She felt unexpected warmth fill her chest, bracing her. And then he turned and stepped away towards the door, his dark cloak streaming behind him in the wind.
“Niel,” Corin called again, as his brother retreated. “Niel, listen—”
“You had no choice.” That was Ditmar, his voice pleading. “I know this, Ayla. I will save you.”
She was tempted to tell him to fuck off, as Niel had done to Corin, but it was not her nature.
“You can fool the crowd,” Ayla called instead, “but you know what you’ve done. I renounce you, Ditmar. From this day, I am your wife no longer.”
She turned and saw Niel was waiting for her outside the door to the castle, watching her. That was good, because her legs threatened to buckle with every step. Terror was ready and waiting to replace the exhilaration of speaking truth. Ayla wastwo heartbeats from crumbling to the ground in a mess of tears and panic.
Except then he was beside her, and Niel grabbed her by the arm, gaping at her with a wonder-struck expression on his face.
“I should not have,” she said, her voice wobbling terribly.
“No,” Niel said, and he sounded breathless. “No, you shouldnot, but Maker, Ayla, you were glorious.”
Small Comforts
Aweek later, the Kettalist continued to hurl storms their way, as though the Maker was determined to blanket all the northland in quilts of white.
She had the kitchen to herself.
Since the servants left, the soldiers had been working hard to keep the castle running and protected. She’d asked Niel and Kerr to let her contribute, and had been turned soundly away from sentry duty. The kitchen, though:that,they had agreed to let her help with, even if Niel had made another comment about not poisoning him “again.” She’d ignored it.
Ayla hummed to herself as she rolled out a length of dough, though her arms ached pleasantly from all the unfamiliar exertion. She’d braided her hair up on her head and put one of Sarella’s aprons over her fine dress. She couldn’t entirely forget her anxiety over how the siege would end, for itwouldend, in one way or another. But despite the constant tension in her shoulders, it was peaceful in the kitchen. The oven fire crackledas Ayla cut the dough into squares and stuffed each with a scoop of the spiced chestnut and lentil filling from the bowl beside her. The apron was streaked and dirty from how often she had to wipe her hands on it, filling spilling out as she tried to seal the dough. But she was beginning to get the feel for it.
Again. She was beginning to get the feel for itagain. Memories lingered just beneath the surface of her mind, like fish beneath the frozen surface of a lake. Winter days in her family home, standing beside her mother and their maid, her hands repeating this same familiar task.
The new hand pies went on a pair of flat metal sheets. Ayla brushed her hands clean again, then grabbed a rag and reached for the metal handle of the oven door. The kitchen was by far the warmest room of the castle, but it was still cool if you were more than a few feet from the fire, and she welcomed the heat of the door on her palm. It was better still when she pried the door open and a flood of dry heat washed over her skin. Ayla sighed happily in the blast of warmth and dragged the first two trays of finished pastries out, then slid in the one she’d just prepared.
The cooked pies were golden-brown and smelled just like she remembered. Twenty finished and fire-hot, plenty for her purposes, and she’d be back before the next trays needed to come out. Moving fast, not giving them a chance to cool, she began to free the pastries with a knife and dump them into the set of cloth bundles she’d set out on the counter. Ayla hissed and shook her fingers out as she worked, scattering her soft skin with a hundred tiny, instantly forgotten burns. She tied the bundles tightly, put them in a basket with a heavy cloth over top, and settled her cloak back over her shoulders.
