Page 9 of Ironling
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 besafe,far away from the rough, ugly reality of the slave trade.
Luckily, Sorcha had met a valiant half-orc named Orek whofreed 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 evenconsider 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 IIMonaghan
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.
