Page 12 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I’m told you’ve done well eliminating any ceatharnaich groups forming.”

“Aye. There have only been a few small pockets, as there always are before the Epoch. They were dealt with accordingly.”

My shoulders relax, my pulse returning to near normal. This line of questioning doesnae surprise me. I’ve spent the past two years gathering intel on these rebel groups.

Cailleach tents her fingers, shaking her head. “It is good to hear that. Because the threads have warned us of a threat to our continent even worse than the Epoch. And I think you should be the Dìdeanair to help me face it.”

She gestures to the strings hanging all around her, but I keep my eyes focused ahead.

Pride blooms in my chest, but unease prickles along my skin. The Epoch is known for its casualties. The thousands of men and women who will be culled by the monsters who descend upon the kingdom, seeking their share of flesh.

“Worse?” I can’t think of anything more dangerous to the people of Na Trì than the Epoch. The verra idea makes my stomach hollow.

Cailleach nods.

“How may I be of service?” I ask, keeping my face neutral to hide my concern, and she lifts a finger, indicating she’d like me to stand. A wicked glint of pride sparks in her eyes as she watches me climb to my feet.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the women disappearing throughout the kingdom.”

“Aye. I have. Is there news?”

She resumes clicking her nails on the arm of her throne, and my skin burns as her gaze lands on my palm.

“You take frequent trips to Vengach. Why?” she asks, and I stiffen at the abrupt change of subject. I keep my eyes focused on her face as a thread floats from the ceiling, and without looking, she grabs it, sliding her fingers along its length. She pauses for a moment, narrowing her eyes, and in my periphery, I see her move her fingers up and down several times, then pinch. A sick smile twists her lips up.

I pause, the sight of her so casually ending a life making my stomach drop.

“Speak freely,” she says with a flippant wave of her hand. Her voice is light as if she’s encouraging me, but the hooks of her magic dig into my flesh, pulling the answer from my throat.

“It’s my home,” I say as the length of thread below her fingertips turns black and scatters into ash. “I like to visit when I’m not on assignment.”

“Is that the only reason?” she asks, her voice light, as if we’re discussing the weather.

I swallow. “I go to visit my geallta’s grave.” My chest tightens at the admission.

She places a hand over her heart. “Ah, yes. Your sweet Marsaili.”

I recoil at the sound of her name, so wrong coming from the Cutter’s cold mouth.

“Murdered, along with five others. Her family. Am I correct?” She reaches out to pet Athair’s spiked crown, her hand so small compared to the beast’s head, and a deep rumble leaves his chest as he nuzzles against her.

My jaw ticks at the levity of her tone when talking about the death of the woman I love, but I remain silent. There is no reason to speak. Cailleach knows the answer, and she is no stranger to death. She’s the one who sealed their fates, though I do not blame her. She may have cut their threads, but it wasn’t her hands that ended their lives.

It’s not even the Measurer’s fault. She may measure out our lives, but that is when the cause of death isn’t at the hands of another human. It is the one thing out of her control—murder. The thread simply would have floated to Cailleach’s hands at the time her life was ending, and she would have had no choice but to sever it.

“Yes,” I say, adrenaline coursing through my blood.

“Tell me about how they died,” the Cutter demands, her voice morphing into stone.

I stiffen, my heart racing as my mind fights to keep up with her line of questioning. It takes me a second to process her command—that she wishes for me to relive their deaths.

Athair stands when I don’t immediately answer. He lowers his head, smoke curling from his nostrils.

I grit my teeth as the magical hooks tug again. “It happened in the night. Her family was found dead inside their home, but Marsaili… She tried to flee. I was on my way to report to my post. I was to be gone for two months. I’d waited till the last possible moment, because she hadn’t wanted me to go.” I swallow down the memory of Marsaili asking me to stay a little longer. We'd only been betrothed mere weeks, and she hadn't been ready for me to leave yet.

If only I’d listened.

“I was just over the hill when I felt it. A tug in my chest, demanding I turn back. I couldnae explain it, but I had no choice but to listen. She’d tried to get to me, I think.” It takes every bit of my training to keep my voice detached, but my blood runs hot. “I found her lying in the grass outside her burning house, her throat torn open. She took her last breath in my arms. I was too late to save her, or the rest of her family.”