Page 118 of Ironling
“I’ve ensured my best information gatherers are close to their company. For now, it will be best to play hostess. Let them train in the courtyard and drink in the taverns. The more comfortable they are, the more mistakes they will make. Can Lord Padraic be strung along?”
“That’s the question. I believe so. But still, have someone near him always, in case he needs to be detained. That will at least allow us to get ahead of his coup.”
Captain Aodhan nodded; they were in agreement, even if neither liked the plan.
“I hate to see you threatened like this, my lady. If it was within my power, the baron would be exploring the accommodations of the dungeon.”
“Thank you, captain. I’d like nothing better. But for now, for the safety of the people, we’ll play his game. We just have to play it better.”
Placing his fist over his heart, Aodhan said, “I will not fail you, my lady. You are safe within your own castle, and your people are loyal. They won’t soon forget this treachery.”
Hand over her own heart, Aislinn replied, “Thank you, captain. Your faith and loyalty mean a great deal to me.” She would’ve buckled long ago without good people around her like Captain Aodhan.
The captain bowed, and with a few more words, departed.
He left Aislinn with a heavy but determined heart.
They had a plan. She wouldn’t have to give in to Bayard—she would beat him at his own game. She only had to stall for time, rally the other vassals, and when her father returned, she’d enjoy seeing Bayard whine from a prison cell.
That was the plan, at least. And plans had a way of going awry.
Later that afternoon, Aislinn finally got her message from her father.
Fia came flying into the room, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair and her chest heaving for breath. Catching herself on the desk, she practically threw the letter at Aislinn, proclaiming, “It has your father’s seal!”
Heart jumping to her throat, Aislinn tore at the rough paper.
The message, the very words, didn’t make sense, not on her first read.
Her second brought a little clarity—and horror.
The third…
The third broke her heart.
Kit,
I write to you from a sickbed on the Pyrrossi border. We followed intelligence from Kinvar that those who took Sorcha were hiding out in a border village. We tracked them down and hung them. Before we could source supplies for the return journey, we were waylaid near a town called Salona.
There were signs that the town had cases of sweating sickness, but our spirits were high and we ignored them.
Fates, how stupid I’ve been.
Half the company has contracted the disease. Most have survived after a few days of serious illness, but recovery is long and arduous. We have isolated ourselves and are taking care of our own, but none will be able to travel north for at least another fortnight.
I’m so sorry, kit. In my confinement to bed, I realize how much of this is all my folly. I should have gone after Jerrod. I should have waited to undertake this mission in spring—if at all. I should—
There are so many things I should have done.
Do whatever you must to make safe the city. Write to the king and queen. Summon an army. Do what I cannot.
You were always the best of us, kit. Your mother and me. I thank the fates that it is you who protects our people.
Should I survive this, I will make every haste to return to Dundúran—and every effort to earn your forgiveness.
All my love,
Your Father
