20. Brennen
brENNEN
Harold leans grimly by the front door with a younger man I don't recognize, his long face somehow even more wrinkled than usual, and I push my way toward him, villagers parting for me before I even have to ask.
He stands up straight when he sees me. “Brennen, there you are. You've heard, then?”
“Heard what?” I ask, endless possibilities running through my mind.
His lips press into a grim line, his eyebrows furrowing. “Another woman has gone missing,” he says. Dread slips down my throat, hot and oily.
“You’re certain?” I ask, hoping it’s only a rumor, because if not, the disappearances are picking up at an alarming rate. The last one was only a few days ago.
“Aye,” he says grimly. “The third in the last fortnight that’s disappeared from a village within a two day’s ride. And there are whispers of another in Braestill.”
I run a hand across my scruff, trying to think of any similarities Braestill might have with the other places the women have disappeared from. “Has it been reported to the Fates?” I ask.
“Of course it has.” He leans back, his brows drawing together as if affronted I asked.
I lift my hands. “I’m just doing my job, Harold.”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye. I know. But it has me—has all of us—on edge. And understandably so. What if our daughters are next? Our sisters and mothers?”
The question hits me like a throwing knife in the center of my chest, and I take a deep breath. “Of course.” I nod. “I didnae mean to imply anything. Only that the Fates need to know so they can stop it. So what you’re afraid of doesn’t happen.”
He nods. “Aye. They’ve been told,” he says, more calmly this time.
“Good. Did they have any answers for what might be happening?” I ask, and Harold laughs.
“You think the Fates discuss their threads with any of us?”
Frustration prickles along my skin. How am I to solve these disappearances with no information to go on? “What do we know, then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from becoming harsh. It’s not Harold’s fault the Fates keep their secrets close.
“She was from Donsgraff, a three-hour ride away. Her husband came looking for her. Said she came through here days ago.”
“Her husband?”
“Aye. Angry fellow. Theo took care of him.” He leans closer, his voice dropping low. “But it seems he’s back. Insisting she never left this village.”
My stomach drops at the implication. “I don't understand. He thinks she’s hiding here? Or that someone has her?”
“No. He thinks she's dead.” He says it so bluntly, I physically recoil, scanning the room.
“Why? Did he find blood? A body?” My mind races, trying to decipher what Harold’s telling me.
“No. But she was here, and now she’s gone.” He sighs, pulling me inside and to the bar. “You want to know what I think?”
I turn my palms up, gesturing for him to continue, and he leans forward, his voice dropping low.
“I think the Washwoman got her.”
“Excuse me!” Theo calls out, climbing up on the bar.
“We're closing for the afternoon! Everyone, go home. Check on your families, and for anything that might appear different. Signs of a struggle. Blood. Anything that could be helpful. If something seems amiss, report back immediately.” He hops down, his eyes locking on mine.
“Brennen. A word?” He inclines his head toward the back of the bar.
The patrons grumble, but no one argues as they gather their things and begin to file out, and I take a seat as Theo ushers out the last of them.
He grabs a bottle, along with two glasses.
“Is that a robin?” he asks, and I look down at my hands. I hadn’t realized I’d even grabbed my carving, but there it is, twisted in my fingers. I pocket it.
“Aye,” I say. Sharp. Definitive. I have no interest in discussing the carving with him, and I want him to know it.
“My ma loved robins,” he says, lifting the bottle to pour me a drink, but I raise a hand, stopping him. I want to keep a clear head. I’m unsettled by the missing women. From losing my dàn, not to mention the letter to the Cutter sitting heavy as a stone in my pocket.
“Suit yourself,” he says, putting one of the glasses back behind the bar. I take the letter out and set it on the counter, tapping it a few times on the rough wood.
“You have someone who handles the post here, I assume?”
Theo holds out a hand. “He comes through every four to five days. I’ll see it gets delivered.”
“It's important,” I say, handing it over. Theo nods, pouring his own ale and moving around the bar to sit next to me. “What did you want to speak about?” I ask.
He takes a sip. “A few things, really," he says, tenting his hands together. “First, I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize?” I furrow my brow.
“I overstepped, asking about— When we were talking about loss. It was none of my business. Sometimes, I find myself trying to figure out what makes people work. Why people do what they do. I think it’s my dàn, and it's not intentional. I tend to get too involved. I’m only trying to help, but it doesnae matter. I overstepped.”
I wave a hand. “It's fine. I—” I clear my throat. “Is there something else?”
Theo’s jaw ticks, and he grips his ale with both hands.
He pauses, as if carefully weighing what he wants to say.
“The woman who's missing from Donsgraff…” He sighs, putting his mug down and crossing his arms. “I didnae want to tell her husband…
I mean, I don't trust him. There's something off about the man.” He rubs the back of his neck, nervous.
“What are you saying, Theo?” I ask, leaning forward.
He meets my eyes, lifting his chin, but I can’t tell if it’s in challenge or an attempt to show sincerity. “I know where she went.”
My body goes rigid. “Where?”
He meets my eyes, and it’s then I see the flicker of hesitation.
“Where did she go, Theo?” I ask. My dàn of dread flares of its own accord, and Theo’s face goes white.
“She went to the river.” His voice shakes when he speaks, and I force the dàn to dim, even though my hands clench into fists.
“How do you know?” I ask.
He looks away for a brief moment, but when he meets my gaze again, there’s a resolve in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He squares his shoulders. “Because I’m the one who sent her there.”
I stand on instinct, hand flying to the hilt of my sword as the stool crashes to the ground behind me.
“You sent an innocent woman, alone, to a murderer?” I bite out.
He holds his hands up. “Brennen.” I stiffen at his casual use of my name.
“She came here asking about the Washwoman. Her face was bloodied. Her eye black and swelling shut. Her lip was split, and she kept looking over her shoulder as if she thought someone was chasing her. The woman was terrified. She wanted to know if the rumors were true. If the Washwoman could answer a question. I told her it was, and I told her how to get there.”
I do not miss that he believes parts of the Washwoman’s tale after all—that she can answer your questions. How many questions have I asked that she’s refused to entertain, just another part of her legend twisted over time?
He swallows, and I force myself to wait, sensing this isn't the end of the story.
“I made her promise to come back after she saw her.
Said I would help her. I told you when you brought Anna here, this isn't the first time I've helped a woman in a situation like this, and it won't be the last. I already told you, people in need of help seem to be drawn to me. I’d say this is half tavern and lodging, half safe house, at this point.”
“And it's getting worse with the Epoch approaching,” I finish for him.
He nods grimly. “She promised she'd come back, and I was preparing a room for her when her husband tore in here, furious. Hamish, he said his name was. I wouldn’t tell him where she went, and he was in an absolute rage when he left. Bloody drunk, screaming at me and my patrons. He broke a chair, and I had to threaten him to get him to leave. The woman never came back.”
I clench my teeth against my anger. Violence is bad enough, but when it’s against a woman? I can almost forget my moral compass. “Do you think he found her?”
“I dinnae ken anything about either of them. But Brennen, I don't want that man here.”
I look over my shoulder.
“No. Not here, in the Tavern. Here in the Dalbàsail. He keeps coming back, drunk and ranting. Breaking things. He willnae listen to me. But maybe he’ll listen to a Dìdeanair.”
I pick up the stool from the floor and sit back down. “Aye. What does he look like?”
“Tall, with dark hair. Heavy build. Bloodshot eyes and a ruddy face. There’s a scar from some sort of burn on his hand.”
I nod, grabbing Theo’s ale and taking a swig. If he minds, he doesn’t say anything. “You’re asking me to find him and convince him to leave?”
“If you would.”
“I'll talk to him,” I say, wanting to get both sides of the story. “And if I get the sense you're right about his character, then I'll handle it.”
“Thank you,” he says, relief flooding his features.
I nod. “Does anyone else know you sent her to the Washwoman?”
Theo shakes his head. “No. I thought it best to only share it with you. The town fears her enough. Maybe you can find her. But Brennen, I don’t think the Washwoman hurt her.”
My dàn of truth remains silent, and my intuition tells me to trust him. But how can it be a coincidence? The woman goes to the river, and now, she’s gone.
“That makes one of us,” I say. And this time, my dàn flares.
I’m lying to myself.
The thought sends a wave of fury through my blood. I know what this woman has done. I witnessed it myself as Marsaili bled out in my arms.
A woman leaves to find her and doesn’t return—disappears without a trace. There cannae be no connection.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, my hands clenched and muscles tight as I stalk toward the exit.
“Brennen,” Theo calls as I’m pushing my way through the door. “What are you going to do?”
I turn back to him, assessing. It’s clear he’s afraid for the Washwoman. That he truly doesnae believe she had any part in this.
A plan begins to formulate in my mind, and I hold Theo’s stare. “Whatever I have to.”