Chapter 2

2

Five Months Later

A islinn could only hide away in her study for so long. She knew this, and yet each day, she hoped she might have another half-hour of solitude before someone found her, needing her direction for this or her opinion for that. It was a fruitless hope, of course.

As heiress of the Darrowlands, one of the largest and richest demesnes in the kingdom of Eirea, her time was no longer her own.

That didn't mean Aislinn had come around to the new reality, though. In fact, as three crisp raps struck her study door in quick succession, a sure sign that it was the formidable chatelain Brenna who'd found her, her first thought was, I need to find a new hideaway.

Setting down her pen with a heavy sigh, Aislinn scrubbed her palms over her face, only remembering afterwards to check that they were free of ink.

"Come in," she called, although Brenna was already closing the door behind her.

A sturdy woman who brooked no nonsense, Brenna commanded the staff of Dundúran Castle with ruthless efficiency. All bowed to her will and worked hard in her wake. No one wanted to displease her, including Aislinn. Her dark hair was threaded with silver and scraped back into an unforgiving plait, and her starched, straight skirts hung stiffly as she crossed the room to Aislinn.

The chatelain's face was grave, but that wasn't necessarily cause for alarm. Brenna had come to Dundúran many years ago with Aislinn's mother, and since Lady Róisín's death when Aislinn was twelve, the woman seemed to find joy in nothing.

Aislinn could hardly blame her. The death of Lady Róisín had fractured the Darrow family in ways that were still felt even seventeen years later.

Brenna's eyes, gray like steel and just as sharp, assessed Aislinn at her desk, surrounded by her books and charts and drafting tools. Aislinn had long since given up trying to make Brenna understand her desire to engineer experiments and undertake projects, so she no longer felt the burn of embarrassment at having Brenna in her most sacred place. For her part, Brenna seemed to have given up on trying to mold Aislinn into the graceful image of a perfect Eirean noblewoman. In short, her mother.

At least, that was until several months past, when the honor and duty of being the Darrowlands' heiress passed to Aislinn.

She purposefully turned her thoughts away from that rutted path. She'd spent many hours already worrying herself sick over it—there was nothing for it now. The matter was settled, the deed done.

And…she knew better than to let her emotions get the better of her in front of Brenna.

The chatelain moved aside the heavy set of keys dangling from her girdle to reach into a deep pocket of her plain gray frock. She pulled out a folded parchment with a red wax seal to hand to Aislinn.

Aislinn always did appreciate Brenna's way of cutting straight through niceties to get to the point.

"From the Ward," Brenna said as explanation.

Heart jumping to her throat, Aislinn took the letter, turning it over in her hands. Indeed, she ran her fingertip over the official seal of the Ward, a pestle and mortar set within three rings.

It didn't look like the other letters from her brother Jerrod, but then, odious as he could be, her brother wasn't entirely stupid. He'd been known to change tactics when he recognized his strategy wasn't working toward getting him his aim.

Aislinn stood and pocketed the letter, feeling its weight in the folds of her well-worn cornflower blue kirtle.

Brenna's eyes lingered where the letter had disappeared. "It'll be from Jerrod," she said.

"Yes." Aislinn didn't wish to discuss it further, nor read it in front of Brenna. She'd never been close with her brother, but he was still her brother, and his actions, and consequences of them, had directly changed the course of Aislinn's life. It was a burden she was still unknotting in her own mind, so she didn't wish for an audience.

"Thank you for bringing it to me."

"The messenger arrived just now in a rush. Not the usual courier from the Ward, either. He insisted it be brought to your father immediately."

"He'll have made trouble, then," Aislinn grumbled. Even after everything he'd done and brought upon himself, Jerrod just couldn't help being an ass, apparently. "Thank you, Brenna. I'll see that my father gets this."

"Very good. In the meantime, Hugh wishes to go over the week's meals with you, four guild-masters have sent their tokens asking for an audience, and there are still arrangements to make to prepare for the vassals' arrival tomorrow for the council meeting."

Aislinn chewed her cheek, her annoyance threatening to get the better of her. There was never an end to the things that needed doing. Many of the domestic duties fell to Brenna, and Aislinn was grateful for it, as it meant Aislinn had some hope of keeping up with everything that required her attention.

Although Jerrod had been heir until his disgrace, he'd also been fairly useless. Aislinn had no choice but to act as the lady of the castle, for although she didn't take to the duties naturally, they still needed doing to ensure the wellbeing of all within Dundúran and the Darrowlands. With the official title of heiress came substantially more responsibility—especially since she intended to dedicate herself to it, unlike her brother.

"I'll attend to Hugh and the guild-masters' requests while I look for my father."

"And the preparations? The vassals will begin arriving tomorrow morning."

"See to what you can, I trust your judgment." When Brenna opened her mouth to protest, Aislinn said, "Bring me whatever definitely needs my attention at dinner."

That seemed to mollify the chatelain, and with a curt bob of her head, the older woman left.

Aislinn paced the length of her study, avoiding the piles of books and papers. She needed to organize the space, but she never had the time. Any who entered surely thought it utter chaos, a complete mess, but Aislinn knew where everything was.

Although alone again, she knew it was only a matter of time before someone else came knocking, needing her for something else. Legs restless, she took up her own set of keys and slipped out the door.

She looked both ways before silently taking a side stairwell that led straight down to the kitchen and gardens. The proximity to the little getaway was why she'd chosen the room for her study. It was far smaller than her father's study, and he often told her she should move to something larger, what with all her books and notes and models. Aislinn liked the little space, though, liked feeling surrounded by books.

The day was bright and clear, the heat of late summer ebbing into the pleasant temperance of early autumn. A few kitchen staff were out tending the garden or picking crops for the evening meal, and a handful of guards clanked in their mail as they made their rounds. Her blue skirts swished pleasantly against her ankles as she stole for a hideaway she knew no one would disturb.

Her mother's rose garden had sat fallow for over a decade. The plants had gone feral, the thorns and brambles overtaking most of the blooms. Aislinn had to fight to push the key into the lock of the little gate, pricking several fingers in her struggle.

The gate creaked vociferously as she opened it just enough to slide inside and wailed as it closed behind her.

Blowing a lock of blonde hair out of her face, Aislinn assessed the garden.

It was just as overgrown as she'd thought, the grass of the once neat lawn standing nearly knee-height, hiding the flagstone walkways and marble benches. Gopher holes dotted the space, forcing Aislinn to pick her steps carefully as she delved deeper inside. Her mother's prized roses, vivid red and satiny yellow and peachy orange, bloomed in a chaotic spattering, nearly choked by the foliage.

The air was thick inside the walls of the garden, and as Aislinn settled onto a weather-beaten stone bench, she breathed in the verdant green of it. Although warm and a bit hard to breathe, the air nevertheless carried a hint of roses and lush greenness that she always associated with her mother.

The memory tickled that old wound inside her, the grief of losing her mother so young an ever-present hollowness that nothing filled. She liked to pretend that her reading and learning and projects would somehow ease the ache, but they never did. At most, they distracted her.

Losing their mother so young had forever altered Aislinn and Jerrod. She'd been twelve, Jerrod nine. Before then, the siblings had gotten on, and the castle was full of bustle, the whole demesne gravitating to the beautiful young noble family and their lively court. It was a love match between her parents, their natures and minds complementing in a way that Aislinn still marveled over.

Lady Róisín had been the kind of noblewoman all aspired to be. Graceful, gracious, and beatific, she was a patron of the arts, a fierce negotiator, and funded schools throughout the Darrowlands. Aislinn remembered holding onto her mother's skirts as she dealt with their vassals and yeomen, in awe of how easily she handled others, meeting their questions and requests and demands with the patience, charity, or firmness they required.

From a young age, Aislinn realized that she wasn't like her mother and indeed, didn't think like most others at all. The social graces and nuances effortlessly practiced by her mother and other nobles often eluded her, especially when she was younger, and she rarely understood or played along with games or politics. She didn't see the point in not just saying what she meant and couldn't comprehend why so many spoke in half-truths or even lies. Sometimes it felt as though she tried to work the delicate weave of social interactions with a hammer. Her mind much preferred to turn over how things worked, the mechanics and intricacies of parts that made a whole function.

Her mother and father had always been patient with her. Lord Merrick indulged her learning and ideas. Lady Róisín had taught her etiquette and diction, manners and negotiation. When one method didn't work, her mother tried another tack until she was sure Aislinn knew how to read someone or a situation—even if she didn't understand them.

"You don't always have to understand them or agree," her mother told her, "what's important is learning enough to act appropriately in accordance."

With her mother, Aislinn hadn't felt so different, or at least that what differences she did have weren't to be hidden or ashamed of. "Your mind is different, it's true. But that's what makes it so beautiful."

Her mother's words imprinted upon Aislinn's heart, a small thing to hold onto in the dark days after her passing.

Aislinn hadn't remembered much about her mother's confinement and delivery of Jerrod, she'd been too young herself. Just that there had been long stretches of days when she wasn't allowed to see her mother, and when she was, she found a diminished woman, her skin wan and her eyes dull. It'd taken a long while for the mother she knew to rekindle inside.

All the physicians had warned Lady Róisín that she mustn't risk becoming pregnant again. And so, with two children already, the Darrows had been content.

Until Róisín fell pregnant once more. It'd surprised everyone—Aislinn's parents hadn't been trying for another, and Róisín was already in the later years for women to bear. All but Róisín had met the news with dread; they remembered the physicians' dire warnings. A determined woman, though, Róisín soothed their worries. She delegated her duties. She followed all the physicians' instructions. Her pregnancy was normal, eventless.

Until it wasn't. Two months too soon, she had her labor pains. They lost the baby first, and in that first tumultuous night, Aislinn sat huddled outside her mother's chamber with the ugly thought that she was glad it was the baby and not her mother, at least. That of the two, she wanted her mother more.

But by the following night, Róisín hadn't improved. And by the next, she'd worsened.

By the third night, there was no strength in her.

Her father had taken her by the hand and Jerrod with the other and led them to see their mother one last time.

Jerrod had cried and refused to look.

Aislinn bent to kiss her mother's clammy cheek, hearing for herself how reedy her breath had gone. Róisín's eyes flickered behind her lids, but otherwise she lay motionless, a corpse with a little breath left inside it.

For a long time after, Aislinn hated everyone. She hated the baby for trying to grow inside Róisín. She resented her father for getting Róisín with child in the first place. She despised Jerrod for his incessant wailing. And she hated Róisín for not intervening in the early days when she could have.

Their family had shattered that night, and they buried their heart with Róisín.

It'd taken a long while to find happiness again. At first, Aislinn was ashamed of any small joy she experienced, thinking how Róisín would never feel anything again. As she grew from a youth to a woman, though, she began to understand that her mother would never want her to dwell in grief. And so Aislinn persevered, and she tried to help her father and Jerrod do the same.

Her father found a channel for his grief in the form of attacking the insidious slave trade that had grown in the chaotic years of the Eirean wars of succession. Although the fighting had ceased with the betrothal of the half-Pyrrossi, half-Eirean Prince Marius to the Eirean Crown Princess Ygraine thirty years before, the slavers had only grown bolder.

His crusade meant Merrick Darrow was often away from Dundúran and the Darrowlands. Aislinn contented herself that at least he was doing something good with his grief.

The same couldn't be said for Jerrod.

She could admit, in hindsight, that Jerrod's fate might have been avoided. Her love for him had never been a deep well—he was the type of boy who teased to make himself feel superior, and she was often the target of such teasing. This only worsened when their mother perished and their father sought solace far from home. He became a braggart, a drunkard, a womanizer. He strained Aislinn's patience, yet she'd always held hope that someday, he would come around. He was young—soon he'd learn the way of the world and accept his place as a Darrow and heir.

Instead, Jerrod went and did something unforgivable.

Her own brother arranged for Aislinn's dearest friend Sorcha Brádaigh to be kidnapped by slavers and sold to brutal orcs. All because Sorcha refused his childish attentions and lecherous overtures. Honestly, at the time, Aislinn had thought Sorcha fairly polite in her rejection, her careful refusal soft compared to Aislinn's sharp reprimand for Jerrod afterwards.

It still left her breathless to think her own brother could do that to someone, condemn them to a fate worse than death. Aislinn never presumed to understand most, but she'd thought, after living her life beside her brother, she understood Jerrod. She thought she knew his weaknesses and the bounds of his spitefulness. To be so utterly wrong…and that he spat in the face of everything their father worked for…

It seemed their father's efforts had only educated Jerrod in how to find slavers and orchestrate a kidnapping deep within the Darrowlands—somewhere that was supposed to be safe, far away from the rough, ugly reality of the slave trade.

Luckily, Sorcha had met a valiant half-orc named Orek who freed her and brought her safely home. Sorcha's return revealed Jerrod's treachery, and their father allowed Sorcha to decide Jerrod's punishment, as was only fair. She chose banishment to the Ward, an ancient fortress converted into a house of healing overseen by warden monks. She also asked that Aislinn be made heiress, Jerrod's inheritance stripped away.

And so it was. Aislinn was to be the next Liege Darrow.

She would oversee the Darrowlands and rule where her father had one day. She would atone for her brother's sins.

Which was how, on a pleasant late-summer afternoon, Aislinn found herself hiding away in her mother's overgrown rose garden, turning a letter from the Ward between her fingers nervously.

Jerrod hadn't taken to the Ward. Neither she nor their father thought he would, but after weeks and then months, they'd both hoped he would come to accept that this was his lot now. That if he was ever to atone and earn forgiveness, he first had to confront the ugliness inside him.

Unfortunately, Aislinn came to find that Jerrod's spiteful stubbornness ran deeper than she'd ever thought.

For months, he wrote her. Begging, pleading, threatening. He wanted out of the Ward. He didn't like the wardens or the quiet life of self-sacrifice. He was bored. He was unhappy. If she was truly his sister, she would appeal to their father. If she truly loved him, she would help bring him home. He wouldn't even demand his birthright as heir back. He would let her remain heiress and do whatever she wanted with the Darrowlands—if only she'd help him.

Help me, Aislinn. Please. I've never asked for anything from you but this. Please.

Perhaps she might be moved—if he didn't also write to their father.

Merrick Darrow was too disgusted with his son to even consider reading the letters, so Aislinn did. In them, Jerrod was all humbleness and atonement. He spoke of how sorry he was, how the wardens had taught him to care for others and therefore himself. He thanked their father for sending him here, that he hoped someday to return a changed man.

It saddened her to know that her letters were a closer representation of Jerrod's true feelings and self.

Pulling in a deep breath of sweet-smelling air, Aislinn broke the seal.

Unfolding the parchment, her fears thickened to find the missive wasn't in Jerrod's frantic scrawl. Her eyes devoured the message, her stomach sinking to the ground with every word.

My good Liege Darrow,

It pains me to write to you with such news. This morning, upon checking his quarters, it was found that your son Jerrod is missing. The grounds were searched thoroughly and the few wardens and patients he spoke with were interviewed. We understand from what little was said by him that he has run away. He took his belongings and several provisions from our stores. It is unknown where he has gone.

Please accept our deepest apologies. He was not taking to life within the Ward, and it is not wholly unexpected that he would think to run away.

I have sent inquiries to the surrounding villages and several wardens I know of serving outside the Ward. We here will send along any information on his whereabouts we can find.

Once more, you have our utmost apologies.

Colm, Head Warden to Her Majesty Queen Ygraine II Monaghan

Aislinn read the letter twice, just to be sure.

By the third time, her eyes began to blur with tears. Panic clutched her throat, and she put a palm to her cheek to feel how it burned.

Since she was young, Aislinn had had trouble not only reading the emotions of others, but hers as well. They bubbled inside her, sometimes so potent she could taste them on the back of her tongue. As she grew, she was better able to deal with them, to understand when they were getting to be too much and she needed to either seclude herself or redirect her attention.

It was when the emotions were left without an escape, a kettle left to boil too long, that she erupted. She couldn't control or stop it, everything pouring out of her in a forceful purge that left her empty, shaking, and terrified.

She feared her fits so much that she had put great effort into learning to control them. At first her parents and then Aislinn had rigorously controlled her environment, introducing change slowly—trusted staff were kept for years, familiar meals were served, and surprises were limited. In doing so, and working to learn about what could bring about a fit, she'd gone years without feeling so much as a stirring of those thrashing emotions that threatened to overwhelm and overpower.

But the Warden's letter, his news—

Aislinn drew another breath, the air wobbling in her sticky throat.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and suddenly the verdant air was too thick. She gasped and slid to her knees, the tears coming fast and hot as frustration and grief bubbled over.

How dare he?

How could he do this?

The tears coming easier than her breathing, Aislinn grabbed great fistfuls of the overgrown grass and began to rip. Soil splattered onto her skirts and into her loose hair, but she went back for another fistful.

Her feckless brother was out there somewhere, doing fates knew what!

What would he do?

What will I tell father?

Aislinn bit down on a sob until her cheek bled. Fates, she'd have to tell her father.

Every spear of grass within reach was plucked or shorn from its place until Aislinn was left panting and shaking.

She sat back on her haunches and wiped her damp cheek with the back of her dirty hand.

Get hold of yourself, she told herself sharply. This accomplishes nothing.

In increments, she was able to pull back all that wanted to spill and unspool. She liked to imagine it like a fisherman pulling back their nets. Everything back on the boat, where it should be.

As the moments passed, Aislinn was able to compose herself. When she stood up to brush the dirt from her kirtle, her knees barely wobbled.

She waited until the heat had left her face and hoped her eyes wouldn't be too puffy and red. Brenna would know the signs, and the last thing she wanted was Brenna's overbearing concern.

She looked around the garden instead, hollowed out from her tears. And as she looked, a new project laid itself out before her mind's eye.

I should fix mother's garden.