Page 5 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Èist rium!” Listen to me! I shout, wondering if I’m too high in the sky for the goddess to hear me down below, and I stand. “A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis!”

The name echoes out into the night, soaring in every direction, my roar rumbling through the vast hills. “Hear my plea! I will have my vengeance. Set me on the right path! Send me to the one who killed my Marsaili!”

I stand there, arms wide, chest heaving. A curlew calls in the distance, and a cloud passes over the moon.

I hold my breath, but there are no whispers. No signs. And for a moment, I wonder if once again, I have come here for nothing. If another year will pass and leave me no closer to finding the monster I hunt.

But before I can even exhale, wind crashes through the cemetery, a gust so violent it throws me to my knees. It’s cool against my skin, but the hope it ignites in my chest is hotter than flames, evaporating the chill in an instant. The fire goes out, smoke curling from a pool of burning embers as the wind ceases as suddenly as it appeared.

There’s a long moment when the hillside seems to hold its breath alongside me. The stars do not wink, and the curlews halt their cries. A soft, silver glow rises within the ash, glinting in the night, beckoning to me like a will-o’-the-wisp.

With shaking hands, I reach out and grab it. The heat of it blisters my skin, but I dinnae let go. The magic from my dàn of healing will remedy the burns quickly enough.

Holding my breath, I turn the item over—a dagger, ancient as the earth I kneel upon. I wipe away the soot and ash, examining the iridescent blade. My heart pounds as the magic inside it prickles against my skin, and I realize the blade isn’t metal at all, but forged from dragon scales, and the brass hilt is carved into the shape of a raven.

I almost drop the weapon. One spoken of, but never seen.

Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s own dagger.

The blade of binding.

The wind and cold and smir fade as my fingers wrap around the ornate handle.

I lift the blade into the moonlight, examining it. My eyes reflect back at me from the metal, the same green I share with each of my brothers and sisters. With little Saoirse, only five years old, who I practically raised after my parents died in a wagon accident only weeks after her birth.

The thought of her bright eyes and dimples makes me hesitate—possibly the only thing that could do so. She’s the reason I’m still alive. Born only months after I lost Marsaili, she’s the reason I didnae choose to follow my love into the After when she was taken from me.

She needed me then, but does she still? I picture my siblings’ faces. Their hands, dirty from digging in the soil outside our home, from harvesting wheat and potatoes.

If I should make this bargain, this unbreakable vow with the goddess of death, and fail, it wouldnae only cost me my life, but my verra soul, along with any chance of ever being reunited with my family in the After. I would belong to Ban-dia a’ Bhàis for eternity, never able to go to peace, trapped as her servant of death. But as I twist the dagger in the moonlight, determination builds inside me, steadying my resolve.

I vowed long ago I would have justice for Marsaili. That promise was already unbreakable to me. Let it be written in my blood and bound in a vow with Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s blade.

I am not afraid, because I willnae fail.

As I once caressed Marsaili’s cheek, I trace the letters of her name on her grave, then drag the dagger across my skin, carving straight through the skin that I’m certain, had Marsaili not been taken from me, would have one day been stained with the dàn of the Anam-Cara.

A symbol that would have confirmed what I already knew. That on the Beltane when the moon stills—the night lovers hold their breath to learn if their hearts were woven as one—matching dàn would have appeared on our palms, marking us as soul-fated, a binding chosen by the goddess of love herself.

I look down at that skin, bright red blood welling from the deep cut, and I cannae help but think about how fitting it is. Let my flesh be as marred as my heart. If I cannae have my Anam-Cara, let this be the mark that honors her.

The pool of blood in my palm grows until it drips from my fingers, and I drop the dagger, placing my weeping hand on Marsaili’s tombstone. Deep green vines erupt from the earth as I begin to speak, wrapping around the weapon.

“Chan eil thu air do dhìochuimhneachadh.” You are not forgotten.

Blood trickles across the arched top, and I watch as a single line drips down the front of the stone, trailing over her name until it reaches the earth.

“Air mo bheatha, nì mi dìoghaltas dhut.” On my life, I will avenge you.

The blood begins to steam, then bubble, the grave growing as hot as a glowing coal, and I know with complete certainty that this is it. That there will be no going back from the next words that leave my mouth. “A’ Bhan-dìa a’ Bhàis, gabh ri mo gheall. Ron ath Shamhain, sgriosaidh mi ge bith cò a ghoid bhuam thu—no leig m’anam a bhith air a chall.” A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, accept my bargain. By Samhain next, I will destroy the one who stole you from me—or let my soul be lost.

There’s a snap in my chest. A hum that settles inside my lungs and squeezes my heart as my bargain is offered and accepted in blood and intention. The vines surrounding the dagger twist, pulling it down into the soft ground as the cut on my palm erupts with agony, traveling through skin and muscle and sinew to settle into my bones. For a moment, I cannae breathe. I nearly retch, the intensity of the magic changing my verra marrow intolerable, but I grit my teeth, refusing to cower to it.

Instead, I welcome it, bask in it, because this pain means something.

Finally, I will have my revenge.

I picture Marsaili’s face in my mind—soft lips, brown eyes and blonde hair, a narrow nose—until the pain finally fades. Only then do I pull my hand back to examine the wound. The cut still bleeds, but the skin around it has turned darker than the night, and faint black lines snake through my palm like poison in my veins.