Page 33 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I slow my horse as Dalbàsail comes into view. I'd ridden straight past on my way to the river, eager to set eyes on the monster for myself, but I realize now it had been a mistake. Rage could fuel me, but it could also blind me.

I need to know exactly who I’m dealing with.

My dàn of sight sharpens the break in the trees where a crumbling stone and iron gate sits open in the distance. I ride straight through it, finding an older man gardening in front of the closest house. He tilts his hat as I approach, revealing receding grey hair and sunspots on his face. I hop off Sable and take her reins, grabbing a few sugar cubes from my sporran and patting her mane as I feed them to her. The man stands, taking off a pair of faded canvas gloves and lifting his chin.

“We dinnae allow trouble here,” he says, eyes fixed on my bleeding forehead. I raise my hands.

“I’d only like to trouble you for a place for a meal, and maybe some bandages to clean up the aftermath of my fight with a tree branch,” I say, keeping my tone light.

The man takes a moment to assess me, and I take special care to not let my dàn of dread activate. After a few long breaths, his shoulders lower, and he nods.

“Those woods do like to fight. Especially if you dinnae ken your way through them.”

“So I learned,” I say, touching the cut, already scabbed over from my dàn of healing. “Is there a tavern in town? I don't need lodging, just somewhere to fill my stomach.”

“Wouldn't turn down an ale, would you?” he asks, raising a bushy grey eyebrow.

I give the old man a warm smile. Something about him reminds me of my da, and I have the overwhelming urge to oblige him. “I think I could be convinced.”

“Follow me, then. I was just about to go get one myself. You can leave your horse. It’s not far,” he says, raising a hand as he turns to leave his garden. “My great-grandson, William, will tend to her. I’m Harold, by the way.”

He whistles, and a young red-headed boy pops out from behind a small bush. He's young, maybe eight or nine, and is staring at Sable as if she's the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.

“You’re good with horses, then, lad?” I ask, and he nods, excitedly rolling up his sleeve to show a dàn of beasts just below his elbow.

“I take care of all of the dogs, plus the donkeys and gran’s cow. That's what I want to do when I'm older. Take care of animals.”

I smile at the boy. Sable will take to him easily.

“Right then. I'll be back, girl,” I say, dropping the reins and catching up to the old man in just a few long strides. I have to slow down my pace so he can keep up with me, but I don't mind. I’m confident enough the Washwoman willnae figure out how to escape in the next few hours, and having a local's favor might help the other villagers feel more comfortable opening up to me.

The town is bright, with abundant wildflowers and colorful gardens, far less cold and dreary than the river. I take in the stone cottages with thatched roofs as we walk the cobblestone street, noting a spiked iron door in the ground between two houses.

“A cellar?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Aye. We have a few of them around the village.”

“Are they warded?” I ask, and he scoffs.

“One of them is.” He nods to another tucked about ten dragon-lengths toward the fence surrounding the village. “That one there. We were short on rent this year. Had a poor harvest, and the Cutter took the other wards away. But they’re stocked with food and water. Enough for the entire town for a week, if everyone can make it to the one they’re assigned to. Should be enough to get us through the surge,” he says.

“Whose idea was that?” I ask, impressed. The first few days of the Epoch are by far the most deadly, when the monsters that descend upon the realm first appear, flooding the land and mad from starvation.

“You’re about to meet him,” Harold says, pushing open the sturdy wooden door to the tavern. It’s packed, men and women, old and young, gathered in the dim light. A few weary eyes find mine as I enter, but they see my company and move on. A trusting sort, it seems, that they have no fear of a stranger simply because he's with one of their own.

Harold leads me along the bar, the finished wood worn away, leaving splinters sticking out at odd angles, until we come to two empty stools. The barkeep wastes no time, filling a short tumbler with ale and plopping it down in front of Harold, foam splashing over the rim and down the sides of the warped metal.

“Here’s the mastermind,” Harold says, nodding toward the barkeep—a thin but muscular man around my age and height who would be better suited to serve the Fates than ale in a dark tavern.

“Another stray, I see,” the man says. There's no malice to his words, but it makes me wonder how often strange visitors pass through here.

Harold leans toward me, the wrinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced as he gives me a mischievous smile. “I've become somewhat of a guardian myself," he says, and I stiffen. I’d purposefully left my sword and dagger in my tent, and I’m not wearing my uniform.

“I dinnae ken what—” he waves me off.

“You’re a Dìdeanair bound to the Fates if I've ever seen one. And it's no matter. We're not a pocket of ceatharnaich holding secret meetings out in the forest. We have nothing to hide here. I tend to spend a lot of time in my garden. I grow all the vegetables for the tavern there,” he says with pride. “And seeing how I’m outside all the time and the first house you come upon as you enter the village, I've taken it on as my own personal mission to get a sense of the visitors before they can make trouble. The ones I like, I bring here,” he says, inclining his head for the barkeep to pour another ale.

“And the ones you don't?” I ask, oddly charmed by the old man’s honesty.