Brennen
Tension creeps into my shoulders as I lift the cover of Harold’s journal.
A volume that shouldn’t exist, and not only because it’s illegal.
It’s a crime punishable by death, and even though it could contain information that could help, I can’t shake the feeling that I should throw it in the fire, as well as turn Harold in for hiding it.
And yet, even though that’s what duty is calling me to do, I don’t.
Harold is a good man. And it’s clear, based on the aged parchment and fading ink along with the multiple different styles of handwriting, that the book really has been passed down through generations.
If these were Marsaili’s words, written by her own hand, I would do everything I could to hold onto them, too.
I flip the page to where the list of spells begins. Simple runes I haven’t seen before, with instructions on how to use them.
For a good turnip harvest: Coat the end of a rowan branch in honey, and carve three spirals into the dirt, moving counterclockwise.
To cure a fever: Steep nettles in hot water beneath the moon until the water turns cold. With a healthy hand, use the tea to draw a circle on each temple and the center of the forehead.
My shoulders relax as I turn the pages, carefully reading each one.
If nothing else, I can feel relief that the magic inside the book, if it even works, is harmless.
To relieve hunger. For fair weather. Harold hadn’t lied when he said the spells were only to help them survive.
There’s nothing in here that even hints at taking power or harming others.
It’s still illegal, but these spells will not help a rebellion form. They do not reveal ways to gain real magic.
I flip the page.
The Epoch is approaching, but with magic becoming scarce, I’m not sure how we will survive it.
It’s foretold this one will be worse than the last, and if so, how will we bear it?
My grandfather told me stories of the monster who hunted him last time, and it still haunts my nightmares—its gaping, bloody maw and bright yellow eyes imprinted on my mind forever.
It is cruelty in its most evil form—to take our magic and leave us to fend for ourselves against the creatures that will come. For how can you leave your kingdom so defenseless?
“What is this man talking about?” I mutter under my breath. The words are senseless. Take our magic? The Fates are the ones who give us our magic. Is it just the ramblings of a madman? Perhaps someone sick in the mind, hallucinating or fabricating memories?
I start the passage over and am looking for hints of sanity in the words when the valley goes unnaturally still, only for a moment, before the wind picks up and the river changes. I jump to my feet, the change so abrupt, I’m afraid it is about to flood the valley.
The blue dragon roars overhead as the water turns a ruddy brown, swirling and thrashing, the current so unnatural, I’m certain nature alone couldn’t have created it.
Whatever this is, it’s caused by magic.
I turn to the Washwoman. “What’s happening?
” I ask, but she doesn't seem to hear me. Her eyes are wide, and in them, there’s fear—sharp, genuine fear—but what I don’t see is surprise.
She drops to her knees, her movements unnatural and stiff as if she’s straining against her movements, and places her hands in the water.
Running to kneel in front of her, I reach out to grab her face to force her to look at me, but stop just shy of touching her skin.
I cannae risk it.
“Washwoman,” I say, crouching down, but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes have gone glassy. “Bea!”
Her lips open, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, a melody floats from her mouth. It’s different from the song she sings while washing. This sounds like a pub song, but there’s no joy in it. She rocks, her eyes rolling back in her head.
There's friendship in bushels and tales long been said.
Let's trade our stories before we fall dead.
Can happen in moments, the blink of an eye.
The river will find you when it’s time to die.
A song cannae tell you the time it will end.
As long as you live, a new one can begin.
We knew you were coming. We’ve waited all night.
Held off on the last verse until you arrived.
I grab her arms and shake her, making sure to only touch where clothes cover her skin. Heat flares in my palm, but I hardly register it as, in my periphery, I notice something floating from upstream—red fabric that slowly drifts toward Bea.
Her eyes remain glassy, a single tear slowly rolling down her flushed, freckled cheek.
“Bea?”
She sucks in a sudden breath, blinking rapidly as her eyes come back into focus.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her eyes slide straight past me to the dress, and she’s so focused on it, it’s almost as if she doesn’t know I’m there. Her hands tremble. “Please,” she whispers. “Make her stop this.”
I shake my head, confused. “Stop what?”
With a snap, her back bends, almost as if shoved forward by invisible hands, and she cries out in pain. Her breaths grow rapid as she washes the dress, her face creased with despair when she lets it go.
“What was that?” I ask, my heart rate picking up.
I look around, searching for anything that could have caused her to behave so strangely, but nothing else is amiss.
I shift back a fraction, checking my dàn of warning.
It remains silent, but it doesnae do much to settle me. What I just witnessed was unnatural.
Was it the monster inside her trying to break free? The thought has my hand drifting toward my dagger.
She curls her legs beneath her, shoulders hunched. She looks defeated—more so than I’ve ever seen her, even after being attacked by Billy.
“Tell the Cutter to make it stop. I can’t take it anymore. My curse was bad enough. I’ve done nothing to deserve it changing now.”
My confusion only grows. “Changing what? What are you talking about?”
Bea meets my eyes, something akin to betrayal in them. “Don’t pretend as if you don’t know. You’re her right hand, are you not?”
The words sound like an insult more than an honor. “I’m her loyal soldier. Nothing more.”
She scoffs, but I don’t let it bother me. Something is wrong with her. Sweat beads her brow, and her skin is ashen.
“Cailleach tells me only what I need to know for my mission. If your punishment has changed, I wasnae made aware of it,” I continue.
She doesn't answer, but it's clear based on the hurt in her eyes and the angry set of her jaw that she doesn't believe me.
“What’s changed?” I probe.
Bea sniffles, looking toward the After, and I follow her gaze.
“The Cutter used to only show me deaths. But now she’s showing me people’s lives.
Forcing me to watch their joy before they—” Her voice falters.
“I feel like I’m going mad. I’m used to seeing death.
It has become my entire life, but this? Making me watch their final moments of happiness—mothers kissing their children, lovers embracing—only to wash their clothes moments later? It’s torture.”
Her voice cracks, genuine pain etched into every syllable.
On instinct, I reach out to comfort her, but she scrambles back.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, holding her stained hands in front of her. “The dàn. I don’t know if… Just, don’t.”
“Okay, I willnae touch you,” I say, my mind spinning. Is this the proof I’ve been searching for that she doesn’t want to take my magic? That even as she sits here unable to contain her fear, she had the forethought to stop me?
She relaxes slightly, lowering her hands.
“Will you ask her to stop? Please? She must respect you, to make you An àrd.” The request causes my chest to tighten.
She hasn’t asked anything of me since I’ve been here.
Not for a morsel of food or a warm blanket.
A fire or torch. She’s too proud, I think, but here she is, practically begging me to stop whatever just happened.
“I don’t want to see their lives anymore.” She starts to rock, her eyes haunted.
“Make her stop,” she says, struggling to breathe. Panic overtakes her, and my body moves before I think. I step forward, reaching out a hand to help her—and I hate myself for it.
This is not where my loyalties lie.
“Breathe, lass. I dinnae think the Cutter is trying to torture you,” I say, grabbing her arm over her sleeve. “There’d be no reason for her to change the curse.” Not when she’s too busy trying to figure out how to kill her. Not when the terms of her punishment were settled over a century ago.
“Of course she is! Can’t you see? That’s why she sent you! Nothing will ever be enough to satisfy that woman. She wants me to suffer? You want me to suffer? Well congratulations. I’m suffering. I’ve been fucking suffering!”
Her words churn in my stomach. Have I not proved I am an honorable man? That my intent is not to cause her pain or harm, but to enact swift, warranted justice?
“I dinnae want you to suffer,” I say, like it’s nothing, keeping all emotion from my tone, but it feels vulnerable. Like an admission I shouldn’t be voicing aloud.
She looks up, dark clouds reflecting in her tear-filled eyes. The wind gusts, and thunder cracks in the distance. A storm is coming.
“If that’s the truth,” she looks up, meeting my gaze and taking a steadying breath, “then make her stop. That, or do your damned job, and find out how to kill me.”