7. Brennen
brENNEN
“To kill me?” she breathes, her hand settling on her sternum. “Why would you want to kill me?”
I ignore her, my arm jamming into her shoulder as I return to my things. The oath on my palm burns like fire, and I pointedly turn my back on her false shock. I willnae be fooled by the lies coming from her pretty mouth.
Yanking my tent from my rucksack, I toss it onto the rocks, the thud echoing through the glen, and try to pay no attention to the unease creeping through my blood.
I shouldn't be so on edge. Ban-dia a’ Bhàis has upheld her end of our bargain.
But the woman staring at my back is nothing like I expected—the cursed, decaying monster with lifeless grey skin and claws for fingers, or a hag with dagger teeth and long, greasy hair hanging in strings to her knees—and it’s thrown me off kilter.
I’d been prepared for both iterations and anything in between.
But this? The terrified woman with hair the color of rowan berries and a face so ethereal that, despite the split lip and bruised temple, it looks as if it was crafted from morning dew and starlight?
She is nothing like the stories mothers tell their children to scare them into behaving.
It had startled me when I first saw her appear through the trees, so wholly human, so fair and bonnie. Disgust churns in my stomach that I’d noted her freckles or gentle eyes at all. Her smooth skin, the color of a lily. But hadn’t the queen warned me of exactly this?
She will try to tempt you with her sorrow. Will tell you gorgeous, enchanting lies and prey on the kindness in your heart.
I keep the Cutter’s warning in the front of my mind as I unfold my tent.
It doesnae matter what the woman looks like. Beautiful things can kill you just as well as the ugly. Easier, even, because they surprise you. A bolt of lightning in the night. A gilded sword at your throat.
The Washwoman may appear weak and incapable of violence, but I willnae be fooled. She is a killer.
The evidence is right in front of me in her blood-stained palms. In the shackle around her ankle, so tight, her skin has begun to grow around it.
It looks agonizing, but there’s a reason she’s imprisoned this way.
I watch her as I get out the rest of my things, forming my plan.
Check the wards surrounding the river meant to keep her contained, should she somehow escape her shackles.
Examine her chain. Ride to Dalbàsail for supplies.
I’ll need to talk to the villagers to learn what they know of the Washwoman.
Someone must know why she cannae be killed, and I will do whatever it takes to find out.
She claims ignorance herself, and my dàn of truth did not warm, which means either she can somehow lie to me undetected, or she truly doesnae know. Either way, I will do whatever it takes to find out.
My family’s lives depend on it.
The thought settles like a stone in my stomach, and I force a wall of iron around my mind. I cannae afford to be distracted by Cailleach’s threat. Not when that distraction might be the verra thing that causes me to fail.
I scan the shore for anything that could be used as a weapon, as well as possible escape routes.
My dàn of warning hasn't alerted me of danger, but that doesnae mean much.
Just because she doesn't intend on attacking me now doesn't mean she won't. We're deep within a massive valley, rocky hills soaring around us, and while riding in on my horse hadn't been particularly difficult, climbing out by foot would be a challenge, especially without sturdy footwear.
And that’s if she could even get the chain off her leg.
The Washwoman stiffens as I approach, but I do not meet her gaze, keeping my eyes on her hands as I crouch next to the interlocked ovals of iron embedded in a slab of river rock.
She scoots away slightly, pulling her knees to her chest and sucking in a deep breath, as if afraid of what I'll find.
There are chips in the stone where it looks like she's tried to chisel away the shale over time, but the metal appears too firmly fixed in place to pull out, and the hum radiating from it tells me it’s been reinforced with magic.
I try to lift the stone, activating my dàn of strength, but even with it burning on my ribs, it barely budges. It must weigh at least thirty-five stones. Completely impossible for this tiny woman to lift or drag.
“Was this added after your escape?” I ask, wondering if it’s a century or six years old.
Her cheeks turn red, but she nods.
Good. Less of a chance it will break or fail.
“Hold out your ankle,” I order, and she finally meets my gaze, her expression hard as stone.
“Why? So you can make sure my shackle is tight enough? I promise you, it is.” Her words are angry, but her voice is tired.
My hands curl into fists, tight enough my fingers cramp. “Hold out. Your ankle. Now.”
She flinches, only hesitating for a moment before shifting to extend her foot to where I can see it. An echo of pain spreads through my own ankle as I look at the bloody, marred skin beneath the shackle.
The metal is as thick as my thumb and appears to be welded by dragon fire. There’s no lock to pick. No bolts to unscrew. Pulling as hard as I can, I test each link in the chain.
The Washwoman studies me as I work, her posture and expression the picture of neutral indifference, but there’s a slight tremble to her lips that betrays her composed exterior.
I dinnae allow it to bother me.
Let her be angry.
Let her be terrified, just as I’m sure Marsaili was at the end of her life.
I dinnae try to picture her face, but it comes to me nonetheless.
Her slender nose and blonde eyelashes. The wisps that framed her delicate face.
Something in my chest cracks, and I force the image away, focusing on the task at hand.
I pull harder, testing the last links, but the metal appears in pristine condition.
Satisfied the chain is stable, I grab her arm. “Stand up,” I order, but she resists.
“What could you possibly want now?" she asks, her voice exasperated.
I squeeze tighter, and she winces. “I dinnae enjoy repeating myself. It’d serve you well to learn that.” I drag her to her feet, and her knees almost buckle, but I hold her up until she stands on her own. “Arms out,” I bark, and this time, she listens.
Starting at her shoulders, I search her for weapons, keeping my hands confined to where clothing covers her skin. My hands slide down her arms to the cuffs of her long sleeves, then back to her armpits.
She sucks in a harsh breath as my touch lowers, grazing the sides of her breasts, then again as it slides beneath them. She shifts away from me, but I hold her in place, ignoring the way her body stiffens beneath my fingers.
When I look up, there are tears in her eyes.
If she were anyone else, any other woman, I’d stop. But she’s not, and in the end, I will do far worse to her than this.
I search the pockets of her mud-stained apron and step back.
“Satisfied?” she asks, her voice tight as if she's trying to hold back tears. Or at least, pretending to, because while her forehead is creased and her lips tremble, no tears have fallen.
I ignore her, refusing to acknowledge her show of distress. True or forced, I dinnae care. I didnae come here to have pity.
The wind picks up in a melodic gust, the trees surrounding the river bowing as if in deference to the magic it carries, and the Washwoman sucks in a sharp breath, her hand going to her sternum. She drops to her knees, the current pulling at her dress as she lowers her hands into the river.
It only takes a moment for something to float from upstream, and I squint, trying to make out what it is. It's some sort of fabric—a soft linen, stained a deep plum. My mouth goes dry as it floats directly into the Washwoman’s fingers, and she begins to scrub.
I shouldn’t look, but I cannae tear my eyes away.
It’s horrifying to watch. And yet, there’s something sacred about it. Beautiful and tragic in equal measure. I back away, the sudden need to give her space nearly overwhelming. Not because I feel sorry for her, but because standing this close to death feels wrong.
There’s a reason the River Bàsail is hidden from sight. Watching the Washwoman now, I dinnae think mortals are meant to witness this cleansing of souls. Not when it feels like an invitation for death to look my way.
The Washwoman begins to sing, a haunting, soft trill that turns my skin to gooseflesh.
Come follow the river. Do not be afraid.
Her mistress will find you by the end of the day.
You cannot escape her, be you goddess or maid.
So follow my river. Do not be afraid.
Come now my darling. Down the river you’ll go.
I’ll wash you. I’ll cleanse you. Then she’ll hold you close.
The river will carry your soul down below.
So come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.
She hums the tune as she continues to rub the dress along the stones, and as I watch her, I feel like I cannae breathe. The sorrow in the song is so potent it feels like a wound has opened in my own heart because of it.
My blood runs hot with anger, and I want to go to her. To rip the stone from her hands and force her to stop. Because this wicked woman has no right to touch these souls.
It is a punishment, yes, to be bound here forever.
But it’s also a gift to be the one to cleanse them, one that someone with a tainted heart doesnae deserve.
She finishes scrubbing, and a shiver runs down my spine as the garment trails from her fingers.
Sleep now, you’re ready. It’s your time to die.
The river will find you. Close your weary eyes.
Don’t worry. Don’t tarry. Don’t weep, and don’t cry.
So sleep now, you’re ready. It’s your time to die.
The last of the song fades into the valley, leaving behind a heavy silence. And then, she smiles. Only for a fraction of a second, but it is there, as unmistakable as the blood staining her hands.
Before I can blink, the smile is gone, the Washwoman’s mask of sorrow back firmly in place.
But if she thinks I dinnae notice, she’s mistaken.