Page 9 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

My song floats through the valley, a whisper on the water, and I stiffen.

Because I am not the one singing it.

There’s no stab of pain. No name on the wind or death in my mind.

Just a melody, growing louder as it creeps along the rocks and wraps around my ankles. It slips up my spine, gooseflesh blooming across my skin.

I lift my head, turning toward the river’s end. The melody soars, and then, I see her.

A woman, half submerged in the water, her black dress floating around her in a way that reminds me of the curling black fingers of the After. Her hair is so long, the ends meet the water, bright white strands that contrast her berry lips and light brown eyes.

“Who are you?” I ask, and her lips curve into a smile. She begins the song again, a melody that is mine.

Come follow the river. Do not be afraid.

Her mistress will find you by the end of the day.

You cannot escape her, be you goddess or maid.

So follow my river. Do not be afraid.

Come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.

I’ll wash you. I’ll cleanse you. Then she’ll hold you close.

The river will carry your soul down below.

So come now, my darling. Down the river you’ll go.

“Stop—” I say, frightened, but she raises her hands above her head, swaying to the haunting melody. The words of my song change, and I freeze.

He follows the river. He’s coming for you.

He’s angry, he’s eager, for what he has to do.

Be wary his sword, and be wary the truth.

He follows the river. He’s coming for you.

The final words of the melody trail away, echoing through the now silent glen.

I look back to my dragon on the ridge, but she seems no more aware of the woman’s presence than my own.

“Who are you?” I ask again, my voice shaking. “And who is he?”

She trails her fingers through the water, almost as if tickling it. She laughs, turning her head, and it’s only then that I notice her staggering beauty. She’s ethereal in a way that is not of this earth, with skin that glows with a soft luminescence, and eyes that aren’t brown like I’d thought, but pure gold. Her lips are full and her cheekbones high, with an angle to her jaw that somehow softens the sharp planes of her face.

“You’re a goddess,” I whisper, scrambling to my feet as the realization crashes over me.

She tilts her head. “I am many things. If you wish, you may think of me as the Muse of Love and Madness.” She spins in a circle and tips her head up toward the moon before stopping suddenly, her smile fading away. She narrows her eyes, an abrupt shift in demeanor. “That is not the question you should be asking. Do you know who you are?”

“I am the Washwoman,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even.

“Ahhh, but is that all you are?” She taps her chin, her eyes glinting with something I can’t quite place. Malice?

No. It’s just as she said—madness.

She tsks. “Why do you look so afraid? You and I are not so different, you know. Do you not remember what it feels like to be driven mad?”