17. Brennen
brENNEN
Iapproach the boy's house with new eyes.
Mismatched drapes cover the windows, holes spotted throughout. The front garden is overgrown, and the trim is weathered and rotting. It could use a new roof, the patches haphazardly slapped on, peeling away in strips.
I pause at the front entrance and am raising my hand to knock when I hear it. A crash. Bottles shattering and a cry of pain.
“Bloody stupid boy, going to see the Washwoman! And you, for allowing it!” There’s another crash and a scream—this time, a woman's.
I kick in the door in one swift motion. A large, pale man, his face near purple with anger, stands over a crying woman lying on the ground, holding her cheek. A bruise already darkens the skin around her eye, and in her lap is Billy, trying to shield her with his body.
The man turns to me. “Who the fuck are you?” He starts towards me, but I get to him first, slamming his back against the wall, my forearm pressed against his throat.
“Who the bloody fuck are you, hurting a woman and child?” I push harder against his airway, and his face turns red. My dàn for strength flares along my ribs, and it takes all my restraint not to keep pushing until I crush his windpipe.
“They're my family,” he spits out. “Is my job—”
“It’s your job to love and provide for them.” Disgust laces my every word. It’s no wonder the boy learned such cruel behavior.
A baby wails from a bassinet I didnae notice, and I see red. I awaken my dàn of dread, and the man pales, sweat breaking out on his bald head.
“Gather your things,” I say to the woman, shifting to block her husband from view. “Anything you might need.”
“If you think for a second—” the man starts, but I push harder. He grabs my arm, panicking as I cut off his oxygen completely, but he’s nothing more than a gnat. An inconvenient pest.
I ignore him, glancing over my shoulder at the woman.
“Do you want to be free of this life?” I ask. She hesitates for only a second. Her throat bobs,` but she squeezes her trembling hands together, meets her husbands furious gaze, and nods. “Yes.”
A wave of admiration washes through me. It takes a brave woman to look her attacker in the eye and say she’s done.
The relief that swells in my chest dulls the anger enough to allow me to make a plan. “Fetch me your handfasting tie.”
Her husband arches against me. “You have no authority—”
“I am a servant of Cailleach, An àrd. I have the authority to end your marriage and your life. One of the two will be ending today. I will allow you to choose which.” He opens his mouth to argue, and I activate my dàn of dread once more. His face pales, and he swallows.
“Bastard,” he says under his breath, his voice shaking, but I ignore him, taking the still-tied handfasting ribbon from the woman. There is no ceremony as I hand my dagger to her.
“Cut through it.”
On trembling legs, she follows my instructions, and I take the severed rope from her.
“As it was written in the threads, so has it ended,” I say, sealing it with my dàn of truth.
It’s not often I get to use this part of the dan’s ability, the sealing of vows, but I’m especially grateful for it as the rope turns black in my hands.
I hand it back to the woman. “In case anyone questions if your union is truly over.”
Billy darts around me, grabbing a rucksack and throwing a book and a toy horse inside, and I wonder if he chooses only those items because he’s wearing the only clothes he owns.
“Come on, Ma!” he says, pulling at her arm.
The man suddenly leans to the side, kicking out with his feet and kneeing me in the groin.
The pain is instant, breathtaking, but I don’t let it stop me.
I take a quick step back, and the moment he moves to strike me, I slam his arm against the wall. His hand opens, and I spear the razor-sharp tip of my dagger through his palm, bones crunching as the blade embeds into the wood, nearly to the hilt.
If it is only fear and pain that will stop him from coming after them, so be it.
The man howls as I back away. Blood trickles down his arm and onto the floor, a drip, drip, drip that makes me sick to my stomach almost as much as this man himself.
“Dinnae try that again,” I say, turning my back on him.
“You stabbed me,” he says. “You fucking stabbed me!”
I ignore him. “Are you ready?” I ask the woman. She nods, tucking the bundled-up baby tightly against her chest.
“I'll find you!” he shouts. “I'll always find you!”
I usher them outside and turn around, leveling the man with an icy glare.
“If you even think about going after them, this blade—” I stalk to him and yank it from his hand, “severs your spine. Understood?”
The man doesn't answer, cowering instead, holding his bloody hand to his chest.
I push away from him, sheathing my dagger. I don't bother to look back, certain the coward won't follow.
Closing the door behind me, I take the few belongings they packed.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Anna,” she says softly, and I have to force my face to remain impassive.
She has the same name as my mother, and yet she’s living a life so verra different from the one Ma lived.
One where she was cherished and loved. A memory of her working in the garden flits through my mind, her laugh as clear as the tinkling of a bell.
“You're safe now,” I promise, placing a hand on her shoulder, but the fear remains etched in every line of the woman’s face.
“We have nothing. Nowhere to go. No other family,” she says, pulling the bairn closer to her chest. I study her for a moment, this woman who has endured so much.
Deep bruises mark the deep tan skin of her arms, her chest. And yet, there isn’t a single mark on her children. Somehow, she protected them.
“I know where to take you,” I say, leading them toward the tavern in a stiff silence.
I’m grateful when I push through the door to see it’s nearly empty, the only other patron an older gentleman who appears lost in thought, sitting in the back near the fire. Theo smirks as I walk in, closing what looks to be a sketchbook.
“Back so soon? Tell me. Did the Washwoman kill all those who looked…” his words trail off as Anna and Billy enter behind me. “What’s happened?” he asks, stalking forward to peek out the door into the courtyard beyond.
“That bastard of a man who called himself her husband is what happened. Did you know?” I ask.
Theo ignores me. “Edgar hurts you?” he asks, incredulous. Anna looks away, and I hate the shame I see in her hunched shoulders. She’s making herself small. Something I’m sure she’s learned to do to survive.
“What do you need?” Theo asks.
“A room for them, for as long as they need, and for you to keep that sorry excuse of a man far, far away from here.” I remove the pouch from my pocket, the coins inside jangling in the silent tavern. “I'll arrange something more permanent when I can,” I say.
“How can I repay you—” Anna starts, but I stop her.
“It's nothing.” I turn and sit at a stool, ending the conversation as Theo gathers their things, grabs a key, and heads to show them to their room. I'm lost in thought when he appears again, placing a generous serving of ale in front of me.
“Keep your money.” Theo tosses my bag in front of me.
“She’s not the first woman I’ve helped in a situation like this, and she won’t be the last.” He pulls the collar of his shirt to the side, showing a dàn of empathy on his chest. “They’re drawn to me.
It will get worse as the Epoch approaches.
Already, men are staying longer. Drinking more. ”
He nods toward the gentleman in the back, and it’s then that I notice his glassy stare. “Fighting even more than that.” He sighs. “Too many men are able to hide their true selves. Until life gets hard, at least. It’s disgusting, if you ask me.”
It's more than disgusting. It's evil, but I don't correct him, partly because of the respect budding from his confession of helping women such as Anna before, and partly because my dàn of truth has remained silent. Theo hasn’t lied to me once since I arrived.
Anna and her children will be safe here.
I lean back to assess him, once again getting the feeling he would be far better suited as a solider than a barkeep. He looks physically fit, and is obviously smart, coming up with the spiked cellars to protect the village from the Epoch.
Though he doesnae have the hardened look of a warrior. There’s a kindness in his brown eyes I find I’m not used to. A gentleness, likely from his dàn of empathy.
He tilts his head. “Why did you return to their house, anyway? Did you see something when you dropped the boy off? Harold said he was delivered safely some time ago.”
“No. The father wasn’t home when I returned the boy.” I take a long drink of ale. “He lost his shoe,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face. “The Washwoman mended it.” Even just saying the words sounds strange. The murderess of the River of Death, mending clothing for a child.
Theo doesn’t say anything, wiping the counters with a wet rag.
“I mean, the lad was beating her bloody, throwing stones like she was nothing but a mound of peat,” I continue. “And she didn't fight back. Not a bit. Then the boy fell in the river, and she tried to save him, and—” I shake my head.
“So the Washwoman isn't quite living up to the horrors of her legend. Is that what you're saying?” Theo raises his eyebrows.
“She’s certainly different than I expected, but it doesnae change what she did. The people she killed.”
“Aye. It doesn't,” Theo says softly, almost as if he feels sorrow for the monster. “Though a century of being bound to that freezing river could change anyone, I think.”
“She deserves every minute of that century and more,” I say, and I mean it. “But the rest. I don't… I don't like that the boy knew such violence. That he seemed to view her as less than human.”
“Well, she's not human at all, is she?” Theo walks around the bar, pouring his own drink and sitting next to me. “She’s immortal. Cursed. The ghost of the river Bàsail. They fear her, and so they hate her.”
“I hate her. I loathe her. But I would give her a swift death. I believe even the monsters among us deserve that.”
Theo studies my face for a moment, assessing my sincerity, I think. But he’ll find no reason to doubt me. I mean every word. Cruelty disgusts me, and I have no use for it. Let the wicked fall with a single, efficient arc of the sword, and let it be done.
“It seems as if you dinnae like suffering,” he observes, and I nearly laugh.
“Who does?”
“Those who’ve had suffering inflicted upon them. Sadists. There's no lack of suffering in the world, and someone always causes it.”
“I've experienced enough. I don’t relish in anyone else being able to say the same.”
He takes a second, pretending to clean an already spotless glass. “You’d truly kill her then, if you could?” he finally asks.
The answer is automatic. “Of course I would.”
He nods, not judging, but not agreeing either.
“Wouldn’t you?” I ask. Once again, I can’t shake the feeling Theo knows more about the Washwoman than he’s letting on.
He shakes his head, an odd look crossing his face. “No. I dinnae think I would. But I can't blame you for wanting to. For you, it’s personal. She's never hurt anyone I've cared about.”
I stiffen. “How could you know—”
Theo holds up a hand. “You seem like a good man, Brennen. I think you want to do what’s right. Wouldn’t relish in taking a life. There's only one thing that turns good men into killers.”
“What’s that?” I ask, finishing my drink in two large gulps.
He tilts his head, finally putting the glass down. “Love.”
I spin my glass around.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asks.
My heart squeezes as I picture Marsaili’s teasing smile.
Hear her melodic laugh. There’s a flash of anger, and I swallow tightly.
The unexpected reminder of the woman I loved is like being thrown into a fire, and I stand, not answering him.
This wound is mine, and mine alone. I do not wish to share it.
And I refuse to reopen it. Not when I fear it would bleed me dry.
“Thank you for helping them,” I say, tossing several more coins on the table than needed to cover the ale. “I’ll let you know when I find them other lodging.”
“I'm sorry. I didnae mean to pry,” Theo says, and I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Let me know if the husband shows up,” I say, my palm burning as I stalk back to Sable to return to the woman who stole everything from me.