Page 27 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

When we left two days later, the man was still there. Still alive. He’d cried out for us to help him, the sound so weak, and I’d covered my ears, unable to bear it. But my father had stopped and pulled a dagger from his waist.

“Dinnae look,” he told me, climbing out of the wagon, but I hadn’t listened. I watched as he approached the man, looking him in the eye. Giving him dignity.

“Do you want me to end it for you?” he asked.

“Please,” the man begged.

Begged.

His pain and suffering had been so intense, he had begged my da to end his life.

So, with a nod and a prayer, my father swiftly pressed his dagger through the man’s heart, remaining by his side until the light left his eyes.

And as I watched, I swore to myself I would be more like Da. That I would never again stand for acts of cruelty like the one the poor man had suffered through. And for twenty-eight years, I have kept that promise.

I close my eyes, pushing the image from my mind. At some point during my remembering, I’d stopped moving. I’m not sure what exactly triggered the memory. What I put the Washwoman through was nothing like what had happened to that man. Her suffering was simply the unavoidable cost of protecting myself, along with anyone else who may stumble into her valley of death.

Straightening my spine, I turn back toward the water, climbing up until I can look down upon it with a bird’s-eye view. The river appears around a crooked, sloped bend, dropping down a series of small waterfalls that empty into churning white foam. The water clears as it flows over the stony bed, creating shallow stretches that vary from shin to waist deep. The Washwoman still sits with her ankle dangled in one of the shallower areas, drawing in the mud, but on either side of her are sections of deeper water where it’s difficult to see the bottom.

It’s stunning, almost as if it was plucked from a storybook. Marsaili would have loved how peaceful it is. The harsh beauty of it.

The thought comes, sudden and unwelcome, and I shove it down. Thinking of her will only distract me, so I focus back on the environment around me, noting every detail.

The Washwoman twists, looking up at the sky. I follow her gaze, but am unable to see anything through the thick canopy of trees. When I turn back to her, I realize she’s talking to herself. Muttering like a madwoman. I activate my dàn of hearing only to pick up ramblings about making jam.

Frustration builds within me. How can she speak so casually of a luxury such as jam after what she did? I force my gaze away from the Washwoman, focusing again on her surroundings. I need to learn the land if I’m to make sure she truly cannae escape.

Small cairns dot the shore, what must be nearly a hundred of them, ranging from no higher than a hand width to stacks taller than my waist. The banks vary from wide, stony shorelines with clusters of marsh violets and patches of grass, heather, and moss to steeper, rockier areas, and the current seems to grow stronger as the river narrows closer to the After. I lean forward, peering into the darkness. It’s the same black mist that surrounds the boundaries of the kingdom, where land falls away into nothing, and far below lie shadows so black, they could only have been created by the goddess of death herself.

I close my eyes, straining to hear the water as it trickles down, but I cannot tell how far it goes before it stops.

The sight is comforting. There is an order to it. A firm boundary, and that is something I understand. Something I respect. I take another moment to enjoy it, noting the sun's position in the sky. It will dip below the horizon in a few short hours, and I still need to set up my tent.

I’d hoped to make it into town today to procure a writing desk, but I no longer have enough time before the sun will set, and I dinnae wish to return to the monster in the dark. With a sigh, I try to temper my frustration, shifting my focus back to the task at hand.

I refuse to let my mind stray as I pick my way down the rocky terrain back toward the base of the glen, crossing the river upstream to locate the warding dàn in the trees on the other side. I complete the circle, all twelve symbols clearly visible in the trunks of the thickest, sturdiest trees. The wards hold firm, and it bolsters my confidence, though only slightly.

Because I still do not know how she escaped six years ago.

10

BEA

“Can you believe he actually made me do that?” I ask Lolly, sketching with a stick in the mud. “As if he cannot see how far my chain will go without making a whole spectacle of it.” I glance around at the stakes circling my river, and a spark of anger heats my belly. I’d never thought this place could feel like even more of a prison, but the visual of my boundaries makes me feel like a trapped animal.

I force the thought away, looking down to my still-submerged ankle, the cold water easing the sting as I watch Lolly twist through the air. She banks to the left, and I pretend it's her agreement.

“Right? Surely he knows I don't have any magic. Does he think I can manipulate metal or something? Make my chain grow longer?” I scoff, and a rumble leaves the dragon’s chest.

“Exactly!” I say, dropping my stick down. I lean back on my elbows, watching her as righteous indignation washes through me. My stomach grumbles, and I look at the bramble berry bush to my left. It’s so far away, and I’m not ready to pull my ankle from the cold.

“Hey, Lolly. Have I ever told you about the time Ma taught me to make jam?” I ask. She doesn't answer.

“I'll take that as a no.” I smile at the memory, my mother's face once again popping into my mind. She had red hair, just like me, and somehow even more freckles, but it's her eyes I remember most. They’d been the clearest shade of blue I've ever seen.

“I told her I was old enough to do it myself,” I start. “I'd watched her make jam start to finish a thousand times, so I went out and I picked the berries by myself. A whole basket full. It took hours, but I was so proud that I didn't eat a single one.” Lolly swoops over the ridge, but doesn’t land.

“How old was I? Hmm…” I tap my chin, following her path through the sky. “Maybe five? Ma made the fire for me, and I put the berries on the stove with two cups of sugar. I was proud of that, too, that I remembered how much sugar to use without her having to tell me.” The horse whinnies somewhere behind me, and I turn. Brennen’s bag catches my eye, just beyond the hollow log. With a groan, I pull my ankle from the water, grab the longest stick I can find, and limp toward it. “I watched them cook for an hour, hardly even blinking, then mashed and mixed them.”