Chapter 14 Consequences
Consequences
Sarella was alone in the kitchens at late morning when Ayla slipped inside, her long-empty porridge bowl in hand. The cook’s back was to the door as she slowly grated enough carrots to feed… well, a castle full of soldiers.
Ayla walked to the washbins on the left and set the bowl down. The sound of ceramic clinking on stone was loud enough to make Sarella turn over her shoulder and glance Ayla’s way.
“Did you hear?” Ayla asked, her voice wavering. “About the army…”
Sarella nodded once, stiffly, and turned back around.
Ayla had stepped out onto the wall for one terrifying moment on her way to the kitchen.
The size of the army had made her stomach flip.
Never mind they were there to liberate Blackfell, and her along with it.
The sight of a besieging army camped outside one’s door for any reason was terrifying.
People were going to die, one way or another.
And she really wasn't sure she wanted to be liberated. Not if it meant being tossed back to Ditmar.
“I’m sure we’ll be safe,” Ayla said, trying to sound reassuring.
“Why are you here, my lady?” She’d never heard that cold tone from Sarella before. The maid’s back was turned again, her hands moving rapidly as she talked. The shush of carrots against the grating blade was ceaseless and fast. “You know I’m not permitted to give you anything.”
“To return the dish,” Ayla said, blinking and drawing back a step in surprise. “And, well, to see how you fared… are you mad at me?” She didn’t know what she could have done. Perhaps Sarella was in a bad mood about something else, but she’d never been so frosty to Ayla before.
Sarella picked up the large ceramic bowl she’d been grating the carrots in. She swept across the kitchen, her face grim and flat, emptied the bowl into a large pot, and swept back to where the mountain of carrots sat. She set the bowl down so hard Ayla was shocked it didn’t crack.
Biting her lip, Ayla closed the distance between them until she was a foot to the cook’s left.
“You are,” Ayla said quietly. “Please. Why?”
Sarella slammed the grater down onto the counter and threw her head back, looking up at the ceiling with her jaw tight and her nostrils flaring. Then she turned to look at Ayla with eyes that burned.
“Poison,” Sarella hissed. “Poison, my lady?”
“I… me?… Anyone could have…” she fumbled.
“Don’t do that,” Sarella snapped, gesturing at her with a half-grated purple carrot. “Don’t you dare pretend. I know it was you, lady. I thought I saw—but I didn’t think you could possibly be so, so, selfish, so I told myself I'd seen wrong.”
“Selfish?” Ayla whispered sharply, glancing nervously over her shoulder in case Nyven or Isalde, the kitchen girl, were about. But they were the only two in the room. “What are you talking about? I did it for you.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“You think I want to go back to Ditmar? You think he’ll look well on you choosing to stay behind? I thought it would protect you. All of you. If Ditmar knew we'd fought back.”
“And did you think,” Sarella practically growled, the carrot shaking from rage in her hand and still pointed at Ayla’s chest, “that if you poisoned his food he might execute his cooks?”
“But he—” Ayla’s mouth went dry. “No,” her voice wavered and choked. Suddenly the emptiness of the kitchen seemed ominous. “He… Nyven…?”
Sarella glared at her for a long moment.
Ayla’s stomach dropped out. Mercy. She couldn't have gotten Nyven killed.
It wasn't possible. A flood rose up in Ayla's mind, a rushing sound that swamped all thought.
She grabbed the counter to keep herself upright as her legs began to buckle.
He'd always been so friendly to her. He'd stayed for her.
“Taking a rest,” Sarella admitted reluctantly. “He doesn’t feel well today.”
“Isalde?” She could barely breathe.
“In the cellar. But he could have, that’s the point. Maker love you, lady, but did you have to throw us under the millwheel?” Sarella grumbled.
Ayla exhaled hard. Sarella tossed the carrot back onto the counter.
“I was going to confess, if it came to it,” Ayla whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, except, well, him…”
“And if we were already dead before you heard?” Sarella whispered. She didn’t look angry so much now as exhausted and scared. “And did you think what would happen if he decided to kill you instead when you confessed? Noble rights don’t extend if you try to kill him!”
Ayla blinked away the water in her eyes and bowed her head.
She’d known the poisoning was a risk, and she’d known he might want vengeance against the kitchen if he survived.
The fact that the knight could have killed her didn’t trouble her, not that she liked the idea.
It had been her risk, and her consequences.
But the idea he could have executed them before she had a chance to step in had not occurred to her.
Sarella was right. She was a useless protector.
And she’d spent the whole day after hiding in her room out of terrified habit, where she’d never even know what was going on in the kitchen.
Ayla believed now the knight wasn’t the type, that he wouldn’t have slaughtered them in anger.
But she had gambled their lives on that hunch.
And what if she'd succeeded in killing the knight, and his soldiers had revenged him by slaughtering everyone who remained in the castle?
“Forgive me,” she whispered as her stomach twisted. “I thought I was helping matters. Truly, Sarella… I never meant to put your life at risk. Or anyone else’s.”
“Apart from the traitor knight,” Sarella muttered.
“Yes,” Ayla admitted weakly, though the nickname now seemed flat, like it could not possibly encompass the growling man who’d dragged her out of bed before dawn that morning just to break his fast. Why did her heart ache at that thought? “Apart from him. I didn't think it through.”
“Promise me you won’t do something that foolish again,” Sarella whispered.
“I promise,” Ayla breathed, and wiped at her eye with the back of one hand. “If I’d even thought… I’d never risk you. I thought I was doing the opposite. I won’t do anything at all.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” Sarella muttered, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Here, lady. Don’t cry. We’re all fine. There’s no use spilling tears over it.”
“No, but…” Ayla muttered. Ditmar was always telling her she was a fool, that she ought to know her place and keep her mouth shut. Perhaps there was something to that.
“Enough,” Sarella said, and furtively swiped at her own eyes with her carrot-stained fingers. “No tears. Where is that girl? Mercy, how hard can it be to fetch a bundle of thyme?”
“Here,” Isalde said breathlessly, emerging from the cellar stairs.
“You shouldn’t be dawdling,” Sarella told her.
“I was organizing. You always complain about it.”
“Now?” Sarella said incredulously, planting her hands on her hips. “Use your head, girl. We’re short-handed enough as is. This is not the time.”
“Do you need help?” Ayla asked. She was beginning to feel like the most useless, incompetent scrap of a woman.
“I’m sure the knight wouldn’t stand for that. But you can keep us company, lady,” Sarella said.
With a sigh, Ayla sat, her mind churning like a cartwheel stuck in mud. She was going to have to find another way to get rid of the knight. One that didn’t involve poison. One that risked nobody but herself.