Chapter 12 Breaking Bread
Breaking Bread
Nobody answered the door to Ditmar’s sitting room when she knocked. Ayla waited a long minute, then slowly opened the door and peered inside. The sickening feeling she always had walking into the room rose up her throat. Even though Ditmar was gone, she had as good a reason as ever to be afraid.
Hearthfire bathed the room in golden-red light, turning the painted walls bloodier than the images on them already were.
The chairs and furs that normally sat in front of the fire had been moved to the side, replaced by a small table with two chairs on opposite sides, set with the fine dinner trappings that usually graced the dais table in the great hall: a Blackfell-blue silk tablecloth and silk napkins, the silver wine goblets and the matching pitcher between them.
A fat blue candlestick sat in the center on a silver wax-catcher, its wick unlit.
“Hello?” she called, peering into the shadowed doorways at the end of the room that led to Ditmar’s study and his bedchamber. She was greeted only by the crackling sound of the fire as a log shifted.
Her skin prickled. What sort of games was this knight playing?
Saying he was his brother, and tricking Ditmar from the castle.
Saying he was ransoming her, then changing his mind.
Where was he now? Gathering some bit of terrible evidence to show her before ordering her execution?
Or waiting to jump out at her the moment she relaxed?
She’d taken the time to change and comb her hair out, hands trembling all the while.
Perhaps he’d gotten impatient and left. She waited another minute, pulling her cream wool cloak tight around her shoulders.
At last she took a seat at the table, the one facing towards the room’s front door, and let the right side of her body thaw in the blaze of the hearth fire directly beside her.
Presently the door opened. She pushed back the chair and stood quickly, heart pounding, as the traitor knight filled the doorway.
He nearly had to stoop to pass through it.
His hand rested on his sword hilt, and his dark eyes seemed to glitter with malice as he studied Ayla closely.
As she’d come to expect of him, he wore an assortment of knives in addition to the sword, like he expected battle at any moment.
He approached without a word, until he stood practically on top of her, leering down at her. His dark hair was pulled half-back.
Had he eaten the food yesterday? His lips looked a little paler than usual.
But they were still full, and softer than the first time she’d seen them, as if a few days inside the walls of the castle had given his skin a much-needed rest from the brutal mountain winds.
She was staring at his lips quite hard, certainly harder than she’d meant to.
She tried to tear her gaze away, found herself peering into his dark, quizzical eyes, and immediately jerked her eyes back down.
The silence stretched onward until it became untenable. But the knight made no move to speak. He did not shift his weight. He might as well have been a statue, frozen four inches from her.
“Hello…?” she finally whispered.
“That's my seat,” the knight informed her immediately, as if he’d been waiting for her to say something first.
She jolted to the side, away from both him and the chair.
“I didn’t realize,” Ayla apologized, twisting her hands into her skirts. The seats looked identical to her. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to sit at all. No, of course she wasn’t, she realized—she was a hostage, not the lady of the castle. But there had been two place settings, so she’d thought...
“Well?” he asked, without looking at her. The knight sat and picked up the silver pitcher. He poured a stream of ruby wine into the goblet across from him. “Sit down, woman.”
Some day I will stop jumping at every thought and act as calm as this man. He must be made of stone. Maybe they carved children out of the Kettalist itself up in Mount Eyron. He was certainly big enough.
She did as she was told silently, and avoided meeting his face again.
The knight was silent, too, as he stopped pouring wine into her cup and poured it into his own.
He set the pitcher down on the table and leaned back.
She felt him staring at her, but she kept her eyes carefully fixed on the bright blue table trappings, not wanting to get lost staring at him again.
The firelight danced along the silver pitcher.
“Drink,” he said at last.
She picked up her cup and took a sip. The wine was tart and smooth in her mouth.
His posture seemed to relax slightly, and he reached out to lift his own goblet.
Given her situation, she ought to remain sober, so she could think quickly.
But the knight was handsome, and cruel, and horrible, and scaring her so badly she thought Megh might have to carry her out of the room on a stretcher… Ayla drank again, deeply.
“You must be wondering what happened,” the knight said, his voice low and rumbling.
She choked on her wine and set the cup down hurriedly.
He knew. He knew it was her. “Your husband yelled until he was red in the face, so I shot an arrow at him. Regrettably, I missed. He ran back to town with his tail tucked.”
Her mind spun, trying to figure out how he’d gotten from poisoning attempt to Ditmar’s rage, until she realized he wasn’t talking about the stilder seeds at all. The knight was staring at her, and she found herself staring back, trying to read any expression in his square-jawed face.
Perhaps Megh had tripped on the stairs carrying the food. Perhaps nobody had eaten it, or ever known. Perhaps she’d failed so thoroughly at her first attempt at violence that it had gone completely unnoticed by the world.
She felt relieved.
“Did he?” her words came out like a squeak. “What did you, erm. What did you tell him?”
“That I wasn’t interested in the horses any longer, but that if he wanted you back, I’d take Hannes of Ashbrin.”
“The margrave?” she said, voice rising despite herself.
The March of Ashbrin was one of the greatest houses of Enar, ranking just below the Dutchies of Mount Eyron—before, of course, the treason happened, which rather tarnished its standing—and Emelzen; a margrave was closer to royalty than even a count was.
She was a merchant’s daughter who’d been sold to a petty lord after her father accidentally incurred Ditmar’s wrath.
Lord Niel raised an eyebrow slowly.
“No,” he said flatly. “Hannes is only the margrave’s brother. Still, you won’t be leaving the castle anytime soon.”
She frowned as the knight reached forward and grabbed the unlit pillar of candle.
Leaning to the side, he reached into the hearth and tipped the wick against the embers at the edge of the fire, his hand so close to the flames she couldn’t help but wince.
He straightened a moment later, looking unbothered, and set the lit candle back in the middle of the table, the wax stained with smoke at the top.
Ayla couldn’t help but notice the size of his hands, or the scars on them.
If this wasn’t about the poisoning, what merciful reason could he possibly have to invite her to dinner? He wasn’t courting her. And she knew she wasn’t good company; he’d probably have a more enjoyable meal with his men.
“Are you mocking me?” she asked quietly, forgetting she was meant to be a dull-witted, glaze-eyed fool.
“Mocking you?” he echoed, his black eyebrows knotting towards each other. The knight’s head tilted slightly to the left, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers.
“You saw my husband does not want me, so you thought to make a joke of it by asking for a man worth far more than I am,” she suggested.
Ayla wasn’t sure how much sense this theory made, but nothing about his actions added up in any merchant’s ledger-math that she knew how to do.
It seemed as likely as anything else that this whole situation was a joke at her expense.
The knight didn’t smile. She saw a muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he were gritting his teeth. Then he spoke, his voice cold and the words sharp.
“I do not mock you, Lady Blackfell. The code of war demands I offer a ransom. My own honor demands I set one he will never pay.”
She heard the hinges of the door squeak open behind her and turned to look. Megh eased her way through and walked slowly towards the table, her eyes focused on the tray in her hands, on which two bowls and a small platter balanced precariously. The bowls clinked with each step.
“Here—” Ayla started to say, standing to help, but the knight shook his head, and she sank back into her seat.
“In any case,” Niel continued, as Megh balanced the tray on the edge of the table and placed a bowl of white broth in front of the knight, then Ayla.
The smell of ginger, almond, and leek wafted to Ayla’s nose.
“You’re wrong. Hannes is worth less than cow shit, which at least makes good manure.
Though maybe his body will too.” His voice was emotionless.
Ayla saw Megh blink, the maid’s eyes flashing briefly to her own as Megh reached forward to set a small platter of rolls and butter between the two of them.
Ayla stared hard at Megh, silently begging for help she knew the maid was unable to give.
Megh winced in response. Then, with a curtsy, she backed up and quickly left the room.
Ayla picked up her spoon in a trembling hand. Before she could sink it into the bowl the knight’s hand came into view. He lifted her bowl, then switched it with his own.
“But why follow the code of war at all?” she asked. “After all, you’re…” she trailed off.
“A traitor?” He suggested. “If you want the truth, Lady Blackfell, my enemies broke their oaths long before I ever did.”