Page 140 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Because these aren’t a woman’s clothes at all, but a man’s.

63

BRENNEN

Irun up the stairs, dagger in hand, desperate to get to Anna. The moment with Bea had sobered me. Shock at seeing her. Utter relief that she’d spoken to me.

I’d wasted time touching her, but I cannae make myself regret it. It had been necessary to bring her back to me. To ease her guilt and pain and show she is worthy of so much more than she believes. Respect. Affection.

Love.

I dinnae allow myself to dwell on the word.

I'm about to kick open the first door in the hall when chaos erupts downstairs. The beating of dragon's wings shakes the building, and the floor trembles beneath my feet. I turn toward the stairs.

Panic surges through my blood. Why would a dragon be landing so close?

Shouting drowns out the pounding of my heart, but even through the mayhem, I hear it.

A name.

Cailleach.

It can’t be her. Surely my dàn of warning would have alerted me if she were here. Except… I lift my tunic.

The mark is gone.

“Mallachd ort!” I curse, racing down the stairs, dagger in hand. Of all the dàn I could have lost, why did it have to be the only one that could have saved me from the surprise of the Cutter’s arrival?

I’m not sure what to expect when I stumble back into the main room of the tavern. Chaos, certainly. A scene of some sort, but what I find is so much worse.

“Let go of me, you bastards!” Harold shouts, but the guardians restraining him kick the back of the old man’s knees and yank him outside into a crowd of villagers and Dìdeanair. At the edge of them stands a man I think I recognize. One who shouldnae be here. Is it Hamish? It’s hard to tell with his head turned. The door closes, blocking him from my sight.

“What’s happening?” Theo shouts, running out of the back room, but I dinnae answer, darting outside. The man I’d been watching is gone, but there’s no time to feel relief. Not when I’m met with a sight so much worse than that wretched man returning.

My blood runs cold as Athair lowers his head, peering at Harold with dark, fist-sized eyeballs. The Cutter sits atop him, her lips tipped down in disgust.

“Search him,” she demands, and with a sickening thud, they throw Harold to the ground. His forehead hits the dirt, his thin skin breaking open, and blood trickles down his face. They ignore his obvious injury, patting him down and searching his pockets, and fear grips my heart. Had he done as I’d instructed? Did he burn the books I warned him would bring a fate like this?

“It's not on him,” one of the men says.

I keep my expression neutral despite my relief, but the feeling is short-lived.

Jamie, the guardian who’d been so keen to find ceatharnaich, steps forward, holding out a book. “That’s because I have it. I found this in his home.”

“How dare you enter my house?” Harold shouts.

“Silence!” The Cutter holds her jeweled hand up, and the square goes quiet. “Give me the book,” she orders, flipping her hand over.

A lump forms in my throat as Jamie approaches, handing over the small book containing the ripped-out pieces from Harold’s journal.

Cailleach’s eyes flare with rage as she reads the words describing how to end any life. Thank the goddess I’d taken the dragon scale from the book. It’s tucked safely away in my tent at the river.

This is all my fault, I realize. I led Jamie right to Harold’s doorstep. But if that’s true, why is Cailleach going after him? Why isn’t she coming after me?

“A traitor.” Cailleach stares Harold down, but he doesn’t cower. He holds her stare, head held high. “All my sisters and I do for this kingdom, and it is never enough. Bring him to me,” she snaps, and Phillip and Jamie pull him to his feet, pushing him forward. Athair’s head twists from side to side as he approaches, ready to make the kill.

“You are sentenced to death.” She says bluntly, and it takes every bit of my training to remain silent and keep my face impassive. Speaking out now cannot save Harold, but it would give Cailleach a reason to kill my family. Horror settles heavily on my shoulders, but I remain still, fighting the nausea threatening to bring the contents of my stomach up. There is no changing this.