13. Brennen
brENNEN
The Washwoman’s bright red hair comes into view as I approach the river, Sable’s saddlebags full of not only supplies, but the components of a writing desk Theo kindly procured for me.
I keep my eye on her as I unpack it, thick pieces of wood that clatter as I lay them out. She doesn't acknowledge me, too focused on a small pile of twenty or so stones. She sits on a flat part of the riverbed and is stacking them into a cairn, humming some sort of sing-song.
With a remarkably steady hand, she adds a tenth stone, then an eleventh. The tower starts to wobble, and she presses her lips together, as if her breath might be the thing to knock it over. It topples to the ground anyway, one of the stones tumbling into the river.
She reaches forward, whispering something under her breath as she plucks it back out, lines up the stones, and begins again.
What is she doing? What are the cairns for? I’d noticed them when I’d explored the valley, but hadn’t given it much thought. They're everywhere, some just piles that have fallen over since they were built, others standing strong.
I grab the two pieces of wood that make up the main writing surface of my desk, fitting the pegs and holes back together like the carpenter showed me, and wait for the Washwoman to look at me. To acknowledge me in any way, because surely she senses my presence by now.
But she simply begins again, stacking the stones in a different order. I stare at her as I hammer one leg on, then another. Is it some kind of ritual? A sort of magic I don't understand?
Harold’s words circle in my mind. His description of the Washwoman—a slight woman with black hair.
Cairns often hold magic—or, they can. Is it possible she's found a way to shape shift?
To change her appearance? But that doesn't feel right.
Even if she could, her chain is strong. My eyes flick back to it, and I lean forward, searching the links for weaknesses.
The metal looks no different from when I checked it before, but maybe I should check it daily, along with the wards.
“If you're waiting for something interesting to happen,” she says, her voice breaking through the silence, “you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” She continues to stack, not bothering to look at me. Once again, the cairn falls.
The image of the cairn of stones marking the entrance to Vengach flits through my mind, Marsaili leaning against it the day we shared our first kiss, but it’s quickly replaced by the image of her lifeless body.
I close my eyes against the stab of pain in my chest that accompanies the image, a vice that wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes until I’m nearly breathless.
“What are you doing?” I ask, the words leaving my throat without my permission. I don't want to talk to her. Would rather spend my time gathering information and completing my vow, but in this moment, I need to find a way to make her stop. I dinnae want those pictures in my mind.
“I'm stacking stones,” she says, biting her lip as she balances one on top precariously. “I thought that would be obvious.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to let her know exactly how much her insolence infuriates me. Looking back down at the desk, I click together the final pieces, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye. Her stack falls again, and she narrows her eyes, rearranging the stones.
“Stop,” I snap, but she ignores me, continuing her building.
I storm into my tent, bringing the desk inside and setting it in the corner. Surely if I give her a few more moments, she’ll get it out of her system. I wait five minutes. Ten. But when I emerge again, she’s still there, stacking.
Anger surges in my blood as they fall, and she begins again.
And again.
And again.
And every single time they tumble to the ground, clunking and rattling.
“What in the Fates’ names are you doing that for?” I finally ask.
“Why do you care so much that I am stacking stones?” she retorts, not bothering to look up at me.
The fury that rises within me is so intense, I’m unable to give a name to it. I activate my dàn of dread, and she stills, hand hovering over the cairn.
“Stop,” I say, my voice a lethal whisper.
She finally meets my gaze. “No.” She punctuates the word by placing another stone on top with a shaking hand.
I grit my teeth. Braver men than her—men I have fought alongside in battle—have had stronger reactions to me using my dàn around them before. How is she barely affected?
“Stop using your dàn on me. It won’t work,” she says as if reading my mind.
I do not deactivate the dàn. Even if she pretends it doesnae bother her, it has to.
The stack tumbles to the ground, and she begins again.
“Why are you stacking those bloody rocks?” I hiss, my frustration growing and growing until it’s intolerable.
Not only because she willnae listen to me.
Willnae obey my orders. But because it willnae work.
Will she spend the rest of the night endlessly stacking when for them to remain standing is impossible?
“What else would you suggest I do?” she asks, tilting her head and placing another rock on the structure. It falls, and she sighs, beginning again. “It's too cloudy to see any constellations.”
“You have too many rocks. And they're too close to the same size. Too rounded. They’ll just keep falling.”
“You don't know that,” she says, beginning again.
“Aye, I do. How can you not see it?”
She rolls her eyes. The stones fall. Then again. And again, my anger growing with every attempt. Why is she doing this, when it most certainly won’t work?
“Is this not the very definition of madness?" I ask, stalking toward her. Because I cannae take it anymore. The sound of stones falling making my blood boil. “Doing something over and over, expecting a different outcome?”
“Maybe I'm mad, then,” she says, and I pause. Could that really be it? That a century with nothing to do has driven her to insanity? Perhaps, but I dinnae think so. She’s smarter than this. Clever, and I willnae underestimate her. It has to be something more.
“Why do you build the cairns?” I ask, needing to know. Not just because it could potentially be vital information, but also because I want to understand her, if only so I can fully destroy her. She doesnae answer. “Why do you not get new rocks? And why are there so many of them?”
“Why does it bother you so much?”
I press my lips together, and she sighs.
“Because I’m bored,” she says, finally turning to me. “You could let me look through your packs and see if there's something more suitable I could use to entertain myself?”
Pressure builds in my chest. She knows what's in my bags—weapons. Things she could use to harm me or someone else.
“I'll take that as a no,” she mutters in answer to my silence.
The cairn falls, and she starts over, seemingly unbothered.
Again, it tumbles, and the cycle continues, building and falling until I cannae take it anymore.
I stand, desperate to get away, but as I walk to my tent, the clink of stones grows slower, and I find myself subconsciously counting.
Fourteen. Fifteen. She pauses, and I stop, turning my head.
Sixteen. The Washwoman rises to her knees. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
I hold my breath as she picks up the last rock, turning to meet my gaze. Without even looking at the stack, she places the twentieth stone on top with ease, defiance sparking in her eyes when it holds.
“You were saying?” she asks. I clench my jaw, refusing to answer. I willnae give her any more satisfaction than she's already feeling by proving me wrong.
“No? All right, then,” she says, and then she drops to her knees, kicks over the cairn, and begins again.