Page 11 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Ornate black doors loom before me, at least thirty feet tall and so heavy it takes four Dìdeanair to open each of them. I clear my throat and square my shoulders, not bothering to read my fellow guardians’ expressions as they bow their heads and step back. It would be pointless to search for meaning in their faces. They willnae ken why I was called here any more than I do.

The power I feel when the doors open hits me like a dour wind. My heart shudders and my skin prickles, the power only growing more immense as I step inside the torch-lit room where thousands of shimmering threads hang from the ceiling, their magic a living, breathing thing. The weight of it is so intense, I drop to one knee before I make the conscious decision to do so.

I close my eyes, fighting the pull to look up. Their magic calls to me. Testing me, but I dinnae give in. This is always the first test. Each time I have entered these chambers to be gifted dàn by Cailleach for rising in rank, they’ve sung to me. Begged me to look.

But no one has ever survived looking directly at the Cutter’s threads.

I wait a moment, taking a slow, steadying breath, then lift my gaze to meet Cailleach’s frost-blue eyes.

It’s a bold choice, and a calculated one. I want the Cutter to know she has nothing to fear from me. That I’m nothing more than her loyal servant, here to perform whatever task she requires of me.

And if it is my execution I’m here for, I would like to see it coming.

“Come forward,” Cailleach’s voice is as cold as ice, but that isn’t what causes my hair to stand on end. There has never been warmth to the Cutter. Of the three Fates, she’s always been the most open about who she really is—ruthless to her core. Dangerous, and not only because of the black dragon towering over her.

Athair. The real reason my lungs refuse to fully expand.

He’s massive, his head nearly reaching the vaulted ceilings—though I dinnae dare look up to see how close his horns are to reaching the threads in fear of accidentally looking at them—and his spiked tail wrapping around the throne from front to back.

I know of him, of course. I’ve seen Cailleach riding on his back through the sky, fire shooting from his mouth as he hunts, but I’ve never stood this close to the monstrous beast before.

The heat of his breath meets my face as I stand, so hot, sweat beads along my brow. I avert my eyes from him as well, struggling to find something I can look at. I’ve already made my statement to the Cutter. Continuing to stare at her would likely be taken as a challenge, and I’m certain Athair would take direct eye contact from me as an invitation to roast me where I stand.

I choose the safest option, training my eyes on the uneven floor created from ground-up bone and trying not to think about what, or who, I’m walking on. Athair’s fist-sized silver eyes follow me in my periphery, smoke curling from his nose as he sways his head back and forth, serpentine, his black, forked tongue flicking out as if he’s trying to taste my intentions.

I shift my gaze to Cailleach’s throne, an ornate spectacle built of bones, except, unlike the floor, the bones are not ground up, but whole. Seven skulls line the top in an arch, and I wonder who the unfortunate souls are that are forced to witness what happens in these chambers day after day.

Shaking away the thought, I continue to approach, focusing on the bones that make up her armrests.

Cailleach doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow when I stop mere feet away and once again drop to one knee, briefly bowing my head in respect. I swallow when I look back up and meet her gaze. Her long white hair is braided today as if prepared for battle, a rare departure from her normal unbound look, and her eyes are especially bright.

She’s a wee woman, pretty in the same way a brand new dagger is, and her red lips are the color of the blood its sharp blade would spill, a stark contrast to her long black gown. So dark, it seems to absorb the light around her.

“Are you happy, Brennen?” she asks without looking up from the thread twisted between her long fingers. I do not look directly at it as she caresses it like a beloved pet—attentive and tender, but in my periphery, I’m able to see the shifting colors. Shades of black and blue and purple I’ve never seen before.

My jaw loosens in surprise at her question, and despite my efforts to keep my face neutral, my eyebrows furrow.

“Of course,” I say, bowing my head again in an attempt to hide my shock. This woman has the fate of the universe in her jewel-encrusted hands, and yet she called on me to question my happiness? I dinnae believe for a moment that’s the reason I’m here, but I dinnae dare call her out on it.

“You've made quite the name for yourself as a Dìdeanair,” she says, appraising me. She tilts her head to the side, her eyes trailing up my arms to the dàn tattooed on my skin—my dedication dàn of the Cutter’s sigil and the naming dàn of truth she gifted me that day. Above it are the ones I earned through service—dàn that disappear beneath my armor.

“You know, I was quite pleased when your parents chose to dedicate you to me over my sisters on the day of your naming. As soon as I saw you, I knew you were special.”

I swallow, unsure where this is going. “Thank you.”

“I trust the dàn I gifted you that day has served you well?”

She nods to my dàn of truth—magic that alerts me to falsehoods and allows me to seal vows as true.

“It has,” I say, infusing as much gratitude into my voice as I can.

She smiles. “I think I knew, even then, you would use it well. That you were destined for great things.” She shifts in her chair, leaning back. “I’ve been watching you,” she continues, and my shoulders stiffen. “It’s remarkable you made An Treas so quickly. But I can see why. You’re an unusually hard worker. You request the most dangerous assignments, the most unforgiving journeys. And you have used your dàn well, protecting this kingdom."

A hint of satisfaction, dangerous and rare, mixes with the confusion settling in my stomach. Why am I here?

The Cutter taps her fingers on her chair. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the continent of Na Trì is facing a period of great danger.”

I place my hands behind my back. “With the Epoch approaching, it’s to be expected,” I say, mentally tallying the days remaining until the moons will once again align in a perfect arc as they do once a century, bringing along with it the monsters that will claw their way from below.