Young Writers Society

Don’t worry, Aisling, it’ll be a simple job, Duster had said. I’ll go in the back, crack the safe, get us out. You go in the front, take anything that you see, and make sure no one comes my way. Got it?

And yet, everything had gone so wrong. The pool of Lord and Lady Lanngolyn’s blood had spread from when Aisling found them, throats slit at their dining table. It was almost touching her boots now. It looked wrong, somehow, to have this violent stain in such an immaculately decorated room. Everything else– the chandeliers, the draperies, the portraits on the wall– was so perfectly put together that it looked like a petulant child had splashed red paint on a finished tableau.

Aisling was snapped out of her shock when three armored figures burst through the door at the far end of the room and froze when they spotted her standing over the two fresh corpses.

“What the hell...” said the first through the door. After a moment of shock, she drew her sword and pointed it at Aisling. “Freeze! You are under arrest for- For the murders-”

Aisling was in motion as soon as they had entered the room, moving for the closest viable exit. The door the guards had come through was out, obviously, three armored soldiers were in the way. The door behind Aisling, the one she had entered through, wouldn’t work either. She could get out of the room that way but it was too far from an exit to the building and would lead to a prolonged chase at best. That left the windows, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling leaving ample space for Aisling to smash through them. The two story drop wasn’t ideal, but she had survived worse.

Before she could reach the window a heavy weight crashed into Aisling from the side, knocking her to the floor. She tasted blood as a gauntleted hand pressed her head down to keep her from rising, not that she could stand with the guard’s full, armored weight on top of her.

“It wasn’t me!” Aisling said, pinned to the ground with her cheek pressed against the cold stone. “I found them like this!”

“You are under arrest,” the woman said. “For the murders of Lord Alwick and Lady Cordelia Lanngolyn.” Aisling writhed and kicked as the other two guards forced her arms behind her back. She was bruised in a dozen places from her collision with the armored woman, but she continued to struggle until she felt manacles click into place around her wrists. With the restraints in place, the woman stood, dragging Aisling to her feet. “Therin, inform the rest of the household staff that milord and milady are... are dead. Anna, help me bring this one to the dungeons.”

Aisling’s heart was racing. They had her... but they didn’t have Duster. She latched onto that spark of hope, as well as an undying ember of defiance within her. “To the hells with all of you,” she spat as the guards led her away.

* * *

Aisling squinted against the light as the door to her cell opened. The torchlight was faint and flickering, but she had been in darkness for... how long had it been? Hours, at least. Aisling groaned as she pulled herself into a sitting position. With her arms chained above her and her back against a clammy stone wall, she was unable to sit comfortably and she was already starting to cramp. Two guards came through the door, their armor emblazoned with the Lanngolyn crest. Behind them came a small man with neat, dark hair and neat, dark clothes. His appearance was not unappealing, but he had the kind of face that would be immediately forgotten if it was spotted in a crowd.As the door was bolted shut behind him, the man turned to the guard to his right and said, “This is how you’re keeping her? Let’s get those chains off.” He turned to Aisling. “So sorry about that. You must be thirsty. Can we get her some water? Or would you prefer wine?”

As her manacles clicked open Aisling pulled herself to her feet, stretching her legs and flexing her wrists. “Since I’m going to be killed anyway, can we just skip to that part?” she said.

The man’s friendly countenance grew serious. “We’re not here to kill you. I’m just going to ask you a few questions if that’s-”

“I didn’t kill the Lanngolyns,” Aisling said. “They were dead when I got here. Don’t know who did it, and I don’t much care. I broke in to rob them, unsuccessfully, I might add. Not the noblest of intentions, but a bit less severe than killing two nobles. Will there be anything else?” Aisling bared her teeth in a mock smile.

“My name is Peter,” said the man. “That seems like a good place to start. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“I don’t think I will.”

Peter sighed. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

“No, but you’re not really here to help me, are you?” said Aisling. “You want me to confess to the murders so you can have a nice, tidy hanging. Then a shiny new lordling will replace the two dead ones upstairs and it will be like none of this ever happened.”

“I just want to help you. I’m on your side.”

“No, you’re not. Anything else? I’ve got a long day of staring at a door to look forward to.”

Peter looked pained at this. “Were you working with anyone?”

Duster, Aisling thought. They don’t know about Duster. “No,” she said. “No, I work alone.”

The next day was uneventful. It was impossible to measure the passage of time here, but Aisling received two meals of bread, cheese, and water, which she figured was all the Lanngolyn would spare for a prisoner they were hoping to hang. The food wasn’t terrible, all things considered. She’d eaten far worse for the year she had lived on the streets. Once, a carriage she had been paid to escort through the Great Sand Sea had run out of food and they had been reduced to eating cacti. Bread and cheese wasn’t so bad.

In the darkness, Aisling drifted in and out of sleep, but her thoughts remained with Duster. He’s still out there. We’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this, he’ll figure something out.

Aisling’s thoughts drifted to the first time they met. She had been a waifish girl at the time, freshly orphaned and wearing tattered, stolen clothes. She had picked Duster out from the crowd as someone with money. He didn’t ooze wealth the way some people did. His clothes were nice enough, but not extravagant and he didn’t wear jewelry, but his easy confidence, the surety in his gait, the knowing smirk were rarely found on a poor person.

“Sir!” Aisling had called out to him. “Sir! Could you spare me a few coins? A copper or two will do.”

Duster approached her with a bemused expression. “Hold on, I think I have some change...” he said. His accent was so crisp that it almost sounded practiced, which Aisling took as confirmation that he had money.

When Aisling had moved to collect his coin, she pretended to trip, falling against him and slipping his wallet from his pocket. “So sorry, sir!” she gushed. “So sorry! And thank you.”

“Duster will do,” he had said. “What’s your name, young one?”

Aisling had paused. People didn’t usually take interest in her after tossing her money and patting themselves on the back for their good deed. “Aisling.”

“You have quick hands, Aisling, and a good eye for finding marks.” With that, he held up a hand with the necklace she had stolen earlier that day. How had he gotten that out of her pocket without her noticing?

“I- um, that was- that was my mothers!” Aisling had lied.

“No it wasn’t.” Duster knelt down so the two were at eye level. “That’s fine. That wasn’t my wallet. Now, Ash, how would you like to make some real money?”

From there, they were off. Dust and Ash had traveled together for years, Dust guiding Aisling through elaborate cons and heists, teaching her how to walk without stepping on any loose boards and how to jump from one rooftop to another without being seen. He was like a father to her. An enigmatic, criminal father.

Once Aisling had grown up a bit, she had begun to strike out on her own. She loved Duster, but he had a rule: no one gets hurt. He abhorred violence, calling it the weapon of fools, and refused to let Ash learn how to fight. Aisling had no love for combat, but she was not clever enough to outsmart or outtalk everyone around her. And sometimes throwing a punch was exactly what she needed. On her own, Aisling found she had some skill with a sword, and when she wasn’t traveling with Dust, she took up mercenary work from time to time. But Ash and Duster always returned to each other. They had both gotten each other out of difficult scrapes a hundred times over. He would get her out of this.

The second time the door opened, a large, muscular woman with sandy hair entered alone. She wore no armor, but Aisling thought she saw steel glint at her waist. She wore a sunburst amulet prominently displayed around her neck. That was the symbol for... Lathander? Amaunator? One of the justice gods. All sorts of agents of the law from constables to judges wore symbols like that.

Aisling adjusted her position as the woman entered. “Look, I already told-” She was cut off as the woman’s fist slammed into her stomach, driving the wind from her lungs.

“You speak when I’ve asked you a question,” said the woman. “Understand?”

“You throw a good punch,” Aisling admitted. “Want to let me out of these chains? Make things a bit more even?”

The second blow struck Aisling in the face, cracking her head against the stone behind her and causing sparks to dance before her eyes. I traded Peter for an interrogator, she thought. Well, shit.

“Let’s start with an easy one,” said the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Go to hell,” said Aisling, spitting a bit of blood at her interrogator’s feet.

Wordlessly, the interrogator drew a long dagger from her belt and drove it into Aisling’s

stomach. She dimly registered a chink of metal on stone as the end of the knife protruding from her back hit the wall behind her. Shock hit Aisling before the pain. This kind of injury would kill her if not treated immediately. This woman wasn’t asking questions, she was going to kill her; what was happening? The interrogator withdrew her knife from Ash’s stomach, now coated to the hilt in blood. She pulled out a dirty rag and began methodically cleaning the blade.

In seconds, Aisling was covered in blood. She could feel a tear inside of her as dark blood streamed out of her, causing her head to swim and dark spots to dance before her eyes. Through a haze of pain and panic, she scrambled to find curses to hurl at the woman who had killed her, but couldn’t manage to get anything through the blood rising in her throat.

As Aisling coughed, blood streaming from her mouth as well as her throat now, the interrogator sheathed her knife and pressed a hand against Aisling’s wound. Warm sunlight blossomed from her skin and Aisling felt her organs begin to magically stitch themselves back together. The blood receded from her throat and her skin sealed itself back up leaving a scar and lingering pain.

“I hope you have a better understanding of what I’m able to do to you,” said the interrogator without an ounce of passion. “How close I can bring you to death. Now, here is how this is going to work: I am going to cut you and then I am going to ask you a question. If you don’t answer fast enough, I’m going to cut you again. And again. Understood?”

Heart still pounding, Aisling gave a slight nod.

With a small smile, the interrogator said, “Good.” Then, she drew the dagger in a long, slow line just under Aisling’s collarbone. This was a shallow cut, but it still stung. Aisling gritted her teeth to prevent herself from screaming.

“Are you ready to tell me who you are?” asked the interrogator.

“Aisling,” she said. “Fuck. My name is Aisling. No last name.”

“Good,” said the interrogator. “Let’s continue, Aisling.”

Time passed in a haze. By the end of it, Aisling’s chest, stomach, and back were striped with wounds, some dripping blood, some healed to scars. In the end, she had confessed to everything. She had remained silent with some questions longer than others, but in the end she had confessed. She had given up her name, told the interrogator why she had broken in to the Lanngolyns’ keep, confessed to a dozen of her past crimes, even confessed to the murder of Lord and Lady Lanngolyn after it had become clear there wouldn’t be an end to the torture until she claimed guilt. But Aisling hadn’t given up Duster, clinging to that last secret like a lifeline. He was still out there. Soon, he would sneak past the guards, pick the lock to her cell, and the two of them would disappear into the night like they always had.

The night passed uneventfully.

And the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

Duster wasn’t coming for her. Perhaps he had been caught after all, perhaps he had given up trying and left. Either way, Aisling was on her own and she had nothing. No tools, no friends, no plans beyond a desperate attempt to flee before her inevitable execution, and that would never work. She was going to die here.

Aisling was snapped out of her grim reverie by a guard entering her cell carrying a pair of manacles. Wordlessly, he attached chains to her wrists and secured her to the wall. Once, Aisling would have struggled but now she couldn’t see the point. If she overpowered this guard, she was still locked in here. Fighting now would win her nothing.

“What are these for?” Aisling rattled her newly-affixed chains.

“Lord Lanngolyn wishes to visit you,” said the guard.

“What? The Lanngolyns are dead,” said Aisling.

“No, not the old lord,” he said. “The new one, his cousin, Keldon.

Aisling chuckled. “So they replaced him already. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Lord Keldon arrived the day after his cousin was murdered,” said the guard. “He was appointed the new Lord Lanngolyn three days ago.”

“Efficient,” said Aisling. It crossed her mind that this Keldon Lanngolyn could very well have orchestrated the death of the lord and lady, perhaps even setting up her capture. She didn’t know how he would have predicted she would be in the building to be caught, but she no longer cared. She was a dead woman either way. All that was left was waiting.

Within a few minutes, the door opened revealing a handsome, dark haired man dressed in the elegant clothes of a lord in the colors of House Lanngolyn. When Aisling saw his face, his grey eyes, his lips usually twisted into a crooked grin, her heart leapt. Duster. But that made no sense, Keldon had been living in the keep the entire time she was in the dungeon; if Duster’s plan was to impersonate this noble, why hadn’t he done anything sooner? How could he have had this prepared? Impersonating a lord for so long required paperwork, clothes, and people willing to vouch for you. There was no way he could have set this up unless he had known something like this would happen. The world tilted around Aisling as realization hit her. This had always been the plan. Duster’s plans for her and the Lanngolyns wasn’t a heist, it was a setup. Kill the Lanngolyns, frame Aisling, gain all the wealth and influence he could want. He even could have orchestrated Aisling being found next to the bodies because he had been the one who told her to be there.

Duster gripped her chin, forcing Aisling to look at him. He looked back without a trace of recognition. He always was a good actor, Aisling thought. Through the rush of blood in her ears, Aisling heard Duster say, “This is her?” Except that voice was not Duster’s. It was deeper, more authoritative, firm and without guile. Aisling had heard him change his voice for cons before. Had he used a fake voice the entire time they had known each other? Or was he changing his voice now? Or both?

Duster stood, turning back to the guard. “There will be a public hanging tomorrow. Give her her last meal.” With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

Aisling’s chains were removed and her meal was placed on the ground. As soon as the door closed, her stunned silence turned to white hot rage. Duster had done this, he had done all of this to her. They had meant everything to each other for years, and now he had betrayed her and left her for dead, no, sentenced her to death. She let out a long scream of anger and misery, giving voice to the pain she felt. She threw the food against the walls and punched the door until her fists were bloody, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” The words were hollow, but Aisling didn’t care. This made no sense. How could he do this to her? She was going to die tomorrow, but once Duster joined her, there was not a corner of the nine hells where he could hide from her.

Aisling paused to catch her breath, wiping the tears from her cheeks when she saw a beam of light from a crack in the door glinting off of... the bread? That wasn’t right. She ripped the bread apart revealing two wires. Lock picks. Had someone planted them there on purpose? Must be. Who? Not important right now.

Aisling breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. She would only get one chance at this. She wrapped scraps of her shirt around her fists as makeshift bandages, steadied her hands, and inserted the wires into the lock. After a moment’s delay, the door clicked open and Aisling burst out.

There was only one guard at the door. When he saw her standing in the door, bloody, scarred, and just barely unbroken, he panicked. He fumbled for his sword, but Aisling was quicker. She crossed the room in an instant, pulling a dagger from his belt and driving it under his chin. She slid his sword out of its scabbard as he crumpled to the ground and silently moved down the corridor.

Peaking around the door, she spotted another guard standing by the door leading outside. She hadn’t been seen, she could check for another exit. No, there was no time. Aisling rushed the second guard. This one was faster, drawing her sword in time to block Aisling’s swing.

“The prisoner is escaping!” she cried, thrusting her sword at Aisling, who blocked it with her dagger, cursing under her breath.

“Did you really have to say that?” Aisling cut off the guard’s arm at the elbow before finishing her off and making for the door.

The door lead to an open courtyard protected by a tall metal fence. That was a lot of open ground to cover, she would almost certainly be spotted with the guards alerted like that, but there was nothing for it. If she didn’t move, she would be caught. Pausing only a moment to catch her breath, Aisling broke into a dead sprint, heading for the gate. As she drew closer, two shapes she had assumed were pillars resolved themselves into Lanngolyn household guards flanking the exit.

Aisling cursed again and slowed her approach. With shouts of “stop!” and “lower your weapons!” The pair moved cautiously toward her. After a moment of hesitation, one guard lowered his spear and charged at her with a cry. Aisling sidestepped his initial thrust and returned one of her own. His armor was relatively light, and the point of Aisling’s sword cut straight through it and his chest beneath. She released her sword as the guard fell back, turned, and hurled her dagger at the second guard, dropping him before he could reach her.

“Stop!” a voice rang out across the courtyard. Framed in the doorway of Lanngolyn Keep stood Duster. Throughout the entire time she had known him, Duster had been unphasable, always composed and ready with a clever remark. Looking at Aisling, her chest heaving, blood on her hands, bodies at her feat, he was aghast. He had never seen her kill before, did not know that she had taken lives when they spent time apart.

She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill onto her cheeks. You did this to me, she thought, wishing she could scream it in his face. You made me what I am and then discarded me. And now I’m the bad guy? I’ll have no more tears for you.

Aisling turned and disappeared into the night.