Page 71 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Before I can form a single thought, I’m fighting against the surge like there was never another option. My dàn ignite on their own. Courage first, burning along my spine, then endurance. Speed. Strength.

I fight against the current until I reach the stone Bea’s chain is embedded in. Rising to the surface, I take a deep breath and dive back down, following the chain until my lungs burn. I have to come up for air, but hold tight to the metal, refusing to let go. My grip slips, and for a heartbeat, I lose the chain. Terror claws its way up my throat as I dive toward it, my arms flailing around wildly until I find the metal links again. The weight of it pulls at me, and water fills my mouth as I struggle against the muddy surge, my lungs seizing from the cold.

My rational mind tells me to go back, that Bea cannot die and I can, but my body refuses to listen, fighting and pulling until finally, my fingers brush skin. Relief slams into me, more violent than the current dragging me under. Gritting my teeth, I wrap my arms around Bea and pull her to the surface. She's limp in my arms—dead weight. If not for my dàn of strength and endurance, I'm certain I would fail in making it back to shore.

I'm coughing up water by the time we make it to dry land, Bea’s chain barely long enough to reach outside the flooded valley, and I wonder how many times this has happened before. I lay her down, searching for signs of life. Her face is pale as un-dyed cotton, her lips blue. Her chest does not rise and fall with breaths.

Unwanted panic rises in my chest. This should feel like a victory. It is, after all, what I came here for. But it doesnae.

It feels wrong.

“Washwoman,” I say, shaking her. “Bea!” She doesn't answer, and I press two fingers against the side of her neck, feeling for a heartbeat, but there is none.

It isn’t possible. The Washwoman cannae be killed.

And yet, she is dead.

29

BRENNEN

Iwait for relief. For the knot in my throat to loosen and the storm inside me to settle.

It doesnae come.

But before I can process any of it, the Washwoman stutters, water bubbling from her mouth. Her eyes open unnaturally wide as she rolls to her side and retches, violent heaves of muddy river water pouring from her mouth, just like Harold’s granda described it in the journal.

It’s then that relief crashes over me. The self-loathing that follows directly behind it is immediate and so intense, I nearly vomit. My palm burns, white-hot, and guilt eats away at my insides like I swallowed acid. The last thing I should feel is relief when the oath sworn in my blood hasnae been completed.

I look away, unable to bear the way her ashen skin and bloodshot eyes make my heart stutter. The need to check her for injuries overwhelms me, and my gaze trails along her exposed skin, searching for blood or bruises. She seems uninjured, and I relax a fraction—until I see it.

My stomach drops. There, located on Bea’s leg, is my dàn of memory.

“Bloody hell,” I say, standing up to look at my arms. “Mallachd ort!” My dàn for truth is gone, too.

A flash of fury works its way through me, but this time it’s not aimed at Bea. She'd been unconscious, drowning in the river. It’s impossible she did this intentionally.

It’s myself I’m angry with.

Not even angry. I’m enraged.

Because this wasn’t deceit or treason on Bea’s behalf. It was my mistake. One that caused me to lose one of the most important dàn I possessed.

“What happened?” she croaks as her vomiting ceases, rolling to her back and squinting against the fat raindrops landing on her face. Her breaths are still shallow, but some color has returned to her face, though she continues to shiver, and bubbles of froth cling to her lips.

“The glen flooded. It swept you out.” She looks at me blankly, as if she doesnae understand. “You drowned…” I say, gesturing to the river.

“Drowned… The water⁠—”

Her eyes go wide, and she stands abruptly, scrambling back into the water, hands plunged in the river.

“What are you doing?” I shout, but she continues forward, two steps, three, then stills.

A sob bursts from her throat, and she collapses, the water coming up to just below her breasts.

“Thank the goddess,” she whispers under her breath. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Shock ripples through me, followed by disbelief. “You're thanking the goddess for drowning you?”