19. Brennen
brENNEN
Idon't bother to spare a look behind me as I leave my tent and make my way along the river, sticking to dry land until I’m out of the Washwoman’s sight.
The water is more shallow upstream, and I find a line of slick moss and algae-covered rocks.
I hesitate for a moment, afraid I’m about to confirm what I already know.
That the magic given to me by the dàn of steadiness truly is gone, but waiting to prove it will change nothing.
With a deep breath, I step onto the slippery rocks.
My foot slides before I’m even fully on the stone, and I’m forced to throw out my arms to keep myself from plummeting into the water. I pause, trying to find my center, then take another tentative step. I don’t slip this time, but it still takes significant effort to maintain my balance.
“Mallachd ort!,” I curse, a mixture of unease and anger churning in my stomach.
That was my dàn. One I earned through years of service to the Cutter. Years of sacrifice and pain and dedication.
And she took it with a single touch. It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, my ankle is bare, and my balance is shite.
I cannae bear to try again. Not when I feel like a bairn learning to walk.
Foolish. I had been so incredibly foolish to not just let her fall.
Why had I helped her? Because she’d sewn Billy’s shoe?
One singular act of kindness doesn’t mean anything.
That is, if she even did it out of kindness.
What if she’d somehow made him slip so she could put on a show of selflessly trying save him?
I pin the Washwoman with a furious glare as I make my way back into the tent, refusing to allow myself to pause when she looks…confused. Regretful, even.
It’s all an act, even if it’s a convincing one.
I sit down at the writing desk I procured in the village and pull out a jar of ink.
The quill shakes in my hand, ink splashing and staining my skin as I dip it too forcefully into the bottle. I don’t bother cleaning it up as I grab a piece of parchment.
Cailleach,
I write to you as your humble servant, wishing to share an update on the Washwoman. I’m concerned she may have magical abilities unknown to us. She—
I pause, unsure what more I should say. My hand hovers over the parchment, but my fingers refuse to write the words.
She took my dàn. There's no denying its lack of presence on my ankle. But how?
One moment, she was falling. I’d caught her on instinct, and then my mark was simply gone.
I had touched her, not the other way around.
In fact, she's made no effort to touch me since I’ve been here.
If she knew touching me would give her magic, magic that could potentially help her to escape, surely she would have tried by now?
Or is she trickier than she seems, biding her time while she waits for my defenses to drop before striking?
Cailleach could give the dàn back. Imprint another on my skin with ease.
She has that power. But will she lose faith in me if I ask her to?
Would she doubt me if I needed her assistance this soon into my post?
And more importantly, would she consider this a failure?
This assignment is everything I’ve been working toward.
My only opportunity to find justice for Marsaili.
And it’s not only my revenge that hangs in the balance. It's my family's lives.
Cillian, Cian, Saoirse, Aiden.
Cailleach’s voice as she stroked their threads echoes like a drum, and my heart nearly stops. I crumple up the paper and toss it to the side. I need a moment to think. To clear my mind.
I pull out my block of wood and knife, my breaths slowing as I whittle away tiny pieces. The robin is taking shape, its beak dainty and wings spread wide, as if soaring above the loch near home.
I’ve been working on this carving since I arrived here. The need to get it perfect has been a constant ache in my chest.
Marsaili loved robins—how they symbolized those we’ve lost visiting us from beyond. How ironic that I search for her in every robin I see now. I never find her, and so I try to make her, but I can never seem to get it right. Somewhere along the way, I ruin it.
A cut too deep, too long, and I have to begin again.
Maybe it’s impossible to create a tribute to the woman I loved while the woman who killed her rests only feet away.
I angrily scrape off a sliver near the tail, deeper than I’d intended, and sigh, setting the bird down before I can ruin this carving, too.
I will not allow the murderess to ruin anything else.
And I will not allow her actions to harm my family.
Pulling out a fresh piece of parchment, I begin again.
Cailleach,
I write, as you instructed, to let you know I have found the Washwoman.
She is still firmly imprisoned. The magic of the curse, as well as her chain, holds strong, and as you stated, the villagers are fearful of her.
She is as vile and cunning as you warned.
I will remain vigilant and am eager to report back as I learn more.
Your humble servant,
Brennen
I seal the parchment with wax, then pull on my shirt. I don't have to look back at the Washwoman as I leave to confirm she remains where she belongs. I can feel her there. Feel the heat of her gaze between my shoulder blades like a hand pressing against my skin.
I stop, turning to face her.
She’s no longer looking at me, but is staring upstream, waiting for clothing. She grabs a kilt and tunic, her movements slow and tired. Even from here, through the fog and smir, I can see the bruises on her face and neck from the boy’s attack.
I turn to whistle for Sable and my foot slips on the wet earth, not enough to send me falling, but enough to remind me of everything she’s taken from me. Not just my dàn, but Marsaili. The life we were going to have together.
The thought plagues me as I ride, refusing to leave my mind, but as the tavern comes into view, it scatters like dust in the wind.
The building is full, men and women huddled outside the door, heads bowed together with fear in their eyes.
Something is verra wrong.