Chapter 28 The House of Ashbrin
The House of Ashbrin
Ayla lingered in front of the fire until her hair was finally dry and the tea was long gone. Niel had not returned. She wondered if she ought to find the prisoner, but she was exhausted in mind and body, and Niel had promised not to kill the man that day.
She dressed slowly in thick clothes and decided to see about borrowing a new book.
She’d already finished two of the ones she’d taken, a romantic history about a marriage between a noble lady and one of the immortal Hulder, back in the days of Old Enar, and an account about a man who survived a shipwreck off the shore of Jet Isle.
Ayla had also determined that a third book was not to her liking.
It had been a knight’s adventure so implausible Ayla thought it was likely only to be enjoyed by young boys who’d seen even less of the world than she had.
That still left two more books to try. But now that she’d become reacquainted with the pleasure of words, she didn’t want to risk them running low.
It surely had nothing to do with wondering what Niel was doing.
She gathered the books she was done with in her arms and descended to the floor below, legs shaking the whole way, pausing twice to lean against the wall and rest. At last, after what had felt like a monumental trek, she braced herself in front of Ditmar’s door.
Steadying her shoulders, Ayla knocked and waited.
A moment passed. What if Niel was down in the dungeon, finishing the job?
What if he’d already killed the other knight, despite having agreed not to do so yet?
He'd broken one oath. What was to stop him from breaking another?
She took a step uncomfortably away from the door just before it swung open.
Kerr, Niel’s blonde captain, gave her a polite nod.
“Lady Blackfell. Do you need something?”
“Is Niel in?” She shifted the books in her arms. Kerr tilted his head to the side as he observed her.
“You didn’t know? He moved rooms.”
“What?”
“Two doors over,” Kerr said, pointing down the right side of the hall. Ayla turned to follow his finger, frowning. The room Kerr was pointing at was comfortably appointed, but a small, simple room, not a lord’s suite. Ditmar had kept it for visiting nobility.
“Since when?”
“Dunno. Three, four days.”
“Four days,” she echoed. That was when she’d gotten sick. But it couldn’t be because of that—because of her. Because she’d told him that she hated Ditmar’s rooms.
No. Perhaps he was just sick of them himself, after his own convalescence in the lord’s bedchamber.
“Did you want me to give him the books?” Kerr asked. His tone was polite, but short, as if he wished she’d leave.
“They were from this room.”
Kerr reached for them, and she relinquished the books.
“About the prisoner,” Ayla said abruptly. “Would it not be best? If his lordship kept the codes?”
Kerr snorted.
“He’s got a hatred of Ashbrins a mile deep, lady. No talking sense into him about it.”
“But if the other side knows he’s killing prisoners, won’t they just do the same?”
“For all they know, everyone who entered died,” Kerr told her. “Are the books all you came for?” He’d tucked them under one arm and had another hand on the door as if eager to close it.
“But wouldn’t an Ashbrin knight be worth a fine ransom?”
Kerr huffed a breath.
“Mayhap, lady,” he told her, and started to close the door.
She dipped in a shallow curtsey, and made her way back upstairs without any new books.
Stripping down to her wool shift, she sank back into bed and stared at the few remaining books she had left.
Not feeling any of them call to her, Ayla picked up the one on the top of the stack.
Why had Niel changed rooms? She opened the book and tried to put the thought from her mind.
He was a contradiction of violence and kindness. She didn’t know how to parse that tangle.
Her nose was still buried in the book when someone knocked on the door.
It swung open before she could answer. The first thing she saw entering wasn’t a man, but the legs of a table.
Ayla blinked and lowered her book as Niel squeezed in through the doorway, maneuvering the table they’d eaten lunch at.
He silently set it down in front of the hearth, then left, barely sparing a glance at her.
Now that she noticed, it was beginning to grow dark outside.
He was back soon after, with chairs—two of them, which was a little surprising given how the afternoon had gone.
She marked her page with a bit of ribbon, folded her hands on her lap, and watched.
Soon the knight was back with two bowls of stew.
He set one on the table, then hesitated, looking at her. She raised an eyebrow at him.
He squeezed his broad frame around the table and approached the bed, bowl in hand.
“I’ll eat at the table,” she said.
He didn’t nod; he just turned and set the bowl down, then took the further chair, leaving her the one directly in front of the fire.
Ayla pulled herself out of bed, wishing she’d dressed in something less intimate than a slip, or at least worn stays beneath it, so it wouldn’t drape so revealingly over her chest. She pulled a cloak out of her wardrobe, feeling the knight’s eyes on her all the while, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Settling slowly into her chair, she delicately sniffed the heavy, dark stew, and picked up the spoon that had been balanced in the bowl.
“Care to explain what all that was about today?” Ayla asked.
She didn’t feel terrified of him, as she had out in the cold. The wild look wasn’t in his eyes now, and the sword wasn’t drawn; he seemed calm. Repentant. Not that she could forget what he’d almost done.
She’d seen him kill before, of course. But that felt different from an execution.
The knight cast his gaze down to his bowl, dug his spoon in, and began to silently eat.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, as she tried the broth. It was rich with wine, flour, and bone. Someone among the soldiers was a half-decent cook. “This is silly. You’re trying to keep your oath, aren’t you?”
His eyes caught on hers for a moment. He took another bite of his stew.
A minute passed, both of them eating. She couldn’t stand the silence.
It wasn’t bearable. Another minute. Their spoons clinked against the sides of the bowl as they dug in.
Below them she could hear the sound of one of the soldiers laughing as another yelled, his words muffled. The fire popped.
“Shouldn’t I, as the person you made the oath to, get a say in your punishment?” she asked abruptly.
He frowned, chewing. She could see his expression shifting, like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t letting the words out.
“I can choose any punishment I want, can’t I? Up to the one you set? Isn’t that how a knight’s oath works?”
He didn’t nod, or shake his head no. He just kept staring.
“Then if I told you to… say… skip your dinner as punishment, you could talk to me again?”
Eyes still on her, he set down his spoon and pushed his bowl forward across the table.
She let him sit that way for a minute as she tasted another bite of her stew, but he made no move to break or back down.
He was still staring at her. It was hard not to feel guilty, depriving a man of his supper, even knowing that he’d almost killed someone earlier that day.
She only made it through one more bite before she buckled.
“Go on, eat. And talk, too. Please. You aren’t breaking your oath.
” He looked at her silently, as stubborn as ever.
“Truly,” Ayla added. “You said you wouldn’t yell in anger: only if you had to be heard, or warn me of danger, or the like.
Correct? Well, weren’t you? I was out in the snow, without real clothes on. ”
He sighed, and leaned back in his chair.
“Well. Fine. If you don’t want to talk, don’t, I suppose,” Ayla muttered. “But there’s no oath holding you to it, in my view. I release you.”
“What were you thinking?” Niel immediately growled.
“Me?” She'd expected an apology, not a reprimand.
“You could have caught your death.”
“Well, your prisoner was about to,” she said sarcastically.
“He’s my concern. Not yours.” He dragged his bowl back to him and dug a spoon in.
“As a general rule, I prefer wounded, disarmed men not be executed in my courtyard. What did he do to you?”
Niel silently chewed, his eyes hard on her.
“He’s an Ashbrin,” he said flatly, when he’d swallowed.
“Well, that explains it,” Ayla said with quiet scorn. Did Niel really believe just being a member of a particular noble house was enough justification for execution? “What did you mean, it was the second time you’d tried?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
She nodded silently, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from showing too much expression on her face. She’d been about to trust this man, to think the best of him. Worse, a part of her still wanted to.
“Right,” Ayla whispered. “How foolish of me. I suppose I’d better look the other way from here on, hadn’t I? What did you mean, Niel?”
“There was a tournament last spring,” he muttered. “We fought on opposite sides of a melee. I used a murderstrike—that's where you flip your sword over and use the hilt like a mace, to bash someone's head in. I dented his helmet and broke his skull. Nearly killed him.”
She stared at him in horror.
“What, on purpose?”
“Healer got there before he died.”
She stared at him, jaw open and eyes wide. What he was talking about was before the start of the war. Before he’d turned on the crown. He’d gone to a tournament, a friendly competition, and he’d tried to kill another knight, in cold blood, in front of a crowd.
“Why?”
“I saw an opportunity. I took it.”
She had to put her spoon down and look away for a moment, chin trembling at this casual, cold discussion of violence.
“Because he’s an Ashbrin,” she managed to say at last.
“He’s the heir to Ashbrin.”