Page 37 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Aye, I do. How can you not see it?”

She rolls her eyes. The stones fall. Then again. And again, my anger growing with every attempt. Why is she doing this, when it most certainly won’t work?

“Is this not the very definition of madness?" I ask, stalking toward her. Because I cannae take it anymore. The sound of stones falling making my blood boil. “Doing something over and over, expecting a different outcome?”

“Maybe I'm mad, then,” she says, and I pause. Could that really be it? That a century with nothing to do has driven her to insanity? Perhaps, but I dinnae think so. She’s smarter than this. Clever, and I willnae underestimate her. It has to be something more.

“Why do you build the cairns?” I ask, needing to know. Not just because it could potentially be vital information, but also because I want to understand her, if only so I can fully destroy her. She doesnae answer. “Why do you not get new rocks? And why are there so many of them?”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

I press my lips together, and she sighs.

“Because I’m bored,” she says, finally turning to me. “You could let me look through your packs and see if there's something more suitable I could use to entertain myself?”

Pressure builds in my chest. She knows what's in my bags—weapons. Things she could use to harm me or someone else.

“I'll take that as a no,” she mutters in answer to my silence. The cairn falls, and she starts over, seemingly unbothered. Again, it tumbles, and the cycle continues, building and falling until I cannae take it anymore. I stand, desperate to get away, but as I walk to my tent, the clink of stones grows slower, and I find myself subconsciously counting. Fourteen. Fifteen. She pauses, and I stop, turning my head. Sixteen. The Washwoman rises to her knees. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

I hold my breath as she picks up the last rock, turning to meet my gaze. Without even looking at the stack, she places the twentieth stone on top with ease, defiance sparking in her eyes when it holds.

“You were saying?” she asks. I clench my jaw, refusing to answer. I willnae give her any more satisfaction than she's already feeling by proving me wrong.

“No? All right, then,” she says, and then she drops to her knees, kicks over the cairn, and begins again.

14

BRENNEN

The sound of clattering stones haunts my dreams, an unending loop of torment until dawn finally breaks through the glen. I try to sleep despite the light streaming into my tent—I need rest to keep my mind alert, but it’s no use. With a sigh, I rise, dressing and eating a quick breakfast of fruit and dried meat. I’ll likely return to the tavern for a hot meal later, but for now, it’s enough.

I barely spare the Washwoman a glance as I begin my loop around the valley, checking each ward to ensure I can feel the buzz of magic beneath it. I take a moment to study the last one, a carving stained a deep red. It hums beneath my touch, spreading through my fingers into my palm, making my vow ache.

“Curious,” I say to myself, turning back toward camp, and then I hear it.

“An diabhal dubh ort! An diabhal dubh ort!” The black devil on you!

It’s the voice of a child, and fear spikes inside me. Forgetting the last ward, I sprint back to the Washwoman. If she is harming a child… I cannae even finish the thought.

But as I stumble toward the river, the glimpse I get through the trees isnae what I thought. The Washwoman isn’t attacking the child. She’s cowering as he attacks her.

“An diabhal dubh ort!”

The words the boy hurls at the Washwoman sound wrong coming from such a young mouth. He looks so innocent, all blonde curls and apple cheeks, but his insults would make grown men blush. And yet he has no difficulty speaking them, again and again, hatred bursting from every syllable.

I can almost excuse the child’s behavior, knowing he was likely spurred on by an insult or a dare from an older boy, along with a century of rumors about the Washwoman and her crimes.

That is, until they fully come into view. White-hot rage shoots through my veins at the sight, unwanted as it is, and my body moves before my mind can catch up.

The Washwoman’s on the bank, curled into the smallest ball possible. Blood trickles from a gash on her arm, and bruises bloom along her skin from where the boy has hit her with rocks. Thrown not just in her direction.

At her.

Fist-size stones that hit her flesh with sickening thuds over and over. And yet the Washwoman doesnae fight back.

Her head is covered with her stained hands, and even without seeing her face, I can tell she's crying from the way her shoulders shake. How could she not be? The pain would be unbearable. Before I have time to process any of it, I jump off Sable, a growl leaving my throat.

“Stop,” I hiss, and even I'm surprised at the fury in my tone. My dàn of dread flares on my neck, and the boy's eyes go wide, the rocks falling from his hands.