10. Bea
BEA
“Can you believe he actually made me do that?” I ask Lolly, sketching with a stick in the mud.
“As if he cannot see how far my chain will go without making a whole spectacle of it.” I glance around at the stakes circling my river, and a spark of anger heats my belly.
I’d never thought this place could feel like even more of a prison, but the visual of my boundaries makes me feel like a trapped animal.
I force the thought away, looking down to my still-submerged ankle, the cold water easing the sting as I watch Lolly twist through the air. She banks to the left, and I pretend it's her agreement.
“Right? Surely he knows I don't have any magic. Does he think I can manipulate metal or something? Make my chain grow longer?” I scoff, and a rumble leaves the dragon’s chest.
“Exactly!” I say, dropping my stick down. I lean back on my elbows, watching her as righteous indignation washes through me. My stomach grumbles, and I look at the bramble berry bush to my left. It’s so far away, and I’m not ready to pull my ankle from the cold.
“Hey, Lolly. Have I ever told you about the time Ma taught me to make jam?” I ask. She doesn't answer.
“I'll take that as a no.” I smile at the memory, my mother's face once again popping into my mind. She had red hair, just like me, and somehow even more freckles, but it's her eyes I remember most. They’d been the clearest shade of blue I've ever seen.
“I told her I was old enough to do it myself,” I start.
“I'd watched her make jam start to finish a thousand times, so I went out and I picked the berries by myself. A whole basket full. It took hours, but I was so proud that I didn't eat a single one.” Lolly swoops over the ridge, but doesn’t land.
“How old was I? Hmm…” I tap my chin, following her path through the sky.
“Maybe five? Ma made the fire for me, and I put the berries on the stove with two cups of sugar. I was proud of that, too, that I remembered how much sugar to use without her having to tell me.” The horse whinnies somewhere behind me, and I turn.
Brennen’s bag catches my eye, just beyond the hollow log.
With a groan, I pull my ankle from the water, grab the longest stick I can find, and limp toward it.
“I watched them cook for an hour, hardly even blinking, then mashed and mixed them.”
Leaning forward, I reach out with the stick, trying to hook the strap of his satchel.
My shoulders ache, and sweat trickles down my back as I extend my arm as far as it will go.
I’m close. Only a few finger-widths from the bag.
The pain in my ankle is once again near unbearable, but I ignore it.
What if it contains one of the spell items?
It’s possible this is the closest I will get to Brennen’s belongings without him watching me, and I refuse to give up the opportunity to find what I need over a little pain.
“I was doing so well,” I continue, telling the story to distract myself from the throbbing joint, “and Ma said she was proud of me. She left me on my own while she was hanging laundry on the line. And guess what happened. I fell asleep!” I shake my head, widening my stance.
I move my grip to the very end of the stick, then lunge forward, trying to hook the bag with momentum.
“Right there by the fire. Burned the jam so bad, it was unsalvageable.” Just thinking about it makes my stomach rumble again, louder this time, and I glance back at the berry bush.
Focus, Bea. I scold myself. The berries will still be there when you’re done.
“Oh, Lolly, what I wouldn't give for some jam. Have you ever tried it?”
She disappears over the ridge.
“Guess my story’s over, then,” I grumble.
Footsteps approach from within the forest, and I fumble back, using my stick to disturb the ground around me so Brennen doesn’t suspect I was up to something.
I’m just settling back down to pretend to be drawing when he stalks from the trees, his movements efficient and precise, eyes sliding throughout the glen as if once again searching for threats. I fight to keep my voice even, out of breath from scrambling to cover my tracks. “Back so soon?”
“Washwoman,” he starts, likely to order me to complete some new ridiculous task, but I hold up a hand. I can't bear to be called that for however long this man will be my shadow. The constant reminder that the washer of souls is all I am, and all I will ever be.
“Bea,” I say. “Please. Call me Bea.”
Brennen’s jaw bunches, but he does not acknowledge my words.
Doesn’t move at all, as if hearing my name had been a shock.
Is it because he doesn’t want to humanize me?
It’s easy to end a life when you believe it belongs to a beast. A monster.
To not have to look your fellow man in the eye as you swipe your blade across their throat.
But why does he want to end my life at all?
I clear my throat. “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, are you going to tell me why you want to kill me?” I ask with a surge of bravery. It would certainly be easier to tolerate his presence here if I knew the reason, at least.
Brennen studies me for a moment. “Aye, Washwoman,” he says, drawing out the word, and I grit my teeth. “I’ll tell you.”
Shock ripples through my entire body. I hadn’t thought he’d agree so easily. Had been certain, in fact, he’d argue, or maybe not say anything at all.
He crouches in front of me. “I’ll tell you why I’m going to kill you if you tell me why you murdered the people of Vengach.”
My stomach plummets. I should’ve known better than to think he’d actually be amiable, willing to answer without torturing me first.
“Tell me,” he demands. I wait for him to catch me. To demand an answer, but it never comes.
“It’s none of your business,” I say, growing bolder by the second.
His jaw clenches. “The bloody hell it isnae. It’s why I was sent here. To make sure you cannae escape and go on a murderous rampage again.”
I close my eyes, “It was a long time ago.” I stagger to my bed, bracing myself for the echo of screams beginning to clang through my skull. It happens every time I think about that night. My mind’s way of protecting me from the horrors of what I did, I think.
Suddenly, I don’t have the energy to try to get him to leave or answer my questions.
The past days have been draining. The deaths and the goddess.
Kenna. Not to mention Brennen’s abrupt appearance.
I don’t want to think about any of it right now, let alone my past. I lie down on the matted grass and moss, rolling to my side, trying to block out his voice. Hoping the pain will ease.
It doesn’t work. Just as I knew they would, the screams grow louder. The sound of my hands ending innocent lives.
Brennen’s boots click against stone as he moves to stand in front of me. “It will be easier for both of us if you tell me on your own.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, the screams now a cacophony in my skull, pain radiating into my temples.
Brennen’s voice is closer when he speaks again, just behind my head.
His breath is warm on my neck, and I shiver.
“Dinnae force me to pull the answer from you in other ways,” he says, his voice dropping.
There’s a threat there, sharp and pointed, and I hear the word he doesn’t say—torture, as if the pain his questions bring isn’t torture enough.
I shake my head, covering my ears as the agony dives from my temples to burrow deep into my brain.
“What was your reason for slitting their throats?” he says louder, forcing me to hear his question.
“Stop.” The screams grow impossibly louder, unbearable, and my vision tunnels.
“Why did you end their lives? A mother. A Father. Daughters. A family that did nothing to harm you or anyone else?”
“Stop!” I beg, images now flashing through my mind that threaten to bring the bile in my empty stomach up my throat. The glint of a blade. Blood on my hands.
“Tell me,” he growls, his demand rumbling through my body.
Somewhere beneath the screams, I wonder if he’s holding his dagger. Maybe this time, he’ll use it. I hope he does. The pain of a blade is predictable. Sharp and grounding, and so much more tolerable than this phantom, magical agony skating through my flesh and blood and bone.
“Tell me why you murdered those people without reason,” he continues, unyielding.
“Tell me why you burned them alive. Slit their throats.” The fury in his low tone grows, pushing into my skin until it is hard to breathe.
I can feel the tension in his muscles, even with my back turned.
Blood trickles from my nostrils, the pain growing so unbearable, I explode.
“Stop!” I scream. I wipe my nose, then sit, turning to him. I straighten my spine, forcing my voice to steady. “No matter how you ask, I won’t tell you, so if you’re going to hurt me, just get on with it,” I say.
His mouth closes, jaw going tight. His eyes are so dark, so utterly furious, I’m certain he will make me regret defying him. I brace for a kick or a shove.
For whatever form of torture he thinks will break me.
It never comes.
Shock ripples through me as he turns, stalking back toward his supplies.
“I told you I wouldnae harm you,” he says through gritted teeth.
“But you wish to kill me?” I ask, my words raspy with disbelief.
He pauses, and his voice drops. “It’s no a wish. I will kill you. But when I do, it will be swift.”
My throat tightens at his words. Not if. When.
He speaks of ending my life as if he’s discussing the culling of a beast, a predator stalking a village, rabid and starving. Like my death is necessary to keep others safe.
That’s not how I’d like to go to my rest, either. Not because of the Fates, and not because of this guardian.
When I die, it will be because I completed the spell. Because I paid my penance through my own dedication, and set myself free.
His footsteps retreat, and even though his threat of killing me still circles through my mind, I relax a fraction. He’s keeping his word not to harm me. For now, at least.
But everyone has their limits.
I know that better than most.
I lie back down and close my eyes, but even as the screams and pain fade away, sleep evades me.
All I can focus on is the furious rage threatening to choke me. I tunnel inside myself, hoping that if I become smaller, less of his anger will be able to penetrate.
Lolly appears over the ridge again, crying out—the only thing that could make me open my eyes. She dives down, her call desperate. She swoops again and again, her long neck swiveling from side to side as if searching for something.
The scrape of metal tells me the Dìdeanair has drawn his weapon, and I laugh. Does he think he can take on a massive dragon with a single sword?
“Did the queens not tell you about my other guardian?” I ask, and the shockwave of fury I feel from him takes my breath away. I consider this for a moment. Why wouldn't the Fates warn him?
“You can put your sword away,” I say. She can't see me—us.” I sit, picking up nearby stones and beginning to make a cairn. “At least, I'm pretty certain.”
“It's never landed here?” Brennen’s words are sharp, calculating, and I wonder how long he’s been in the Queen’s army. For all I know, he was born and raised in it, based on the way he speaks and holds himself.
“She. And never.” It’s not technically a lie.
Lolly landed on the ridge, not within the valley, and even then it was only once.
“I think she’s meant to eat me should I escape again.
So, An àrd,” I say with a slight curtsey of mock respect, Brennen’s nervous energy giving me a surge of courage.
Of life. “If the Fates have placed her here to keep me from running, what do they need you for?”