Page 14 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Cailleach’s answering smile is cruel. “Precisely. And for more than a hundred years, she did not cause any trouble. But as you know, she escaped, fleeing to your village where she went on a murderous rampage. She was caught and is now not only bound with magic to that shore, but physically as well. An endless punishment. One, possibly worse than death.”

“I see,” I nod, but something tickles at my brain, the beginnings of a thought I cannot fully form. The Fates: the Weaver, the Measurer, and the Cutter. The ones who create the verra fabric of the universe, and yet, the answer eludes them. The thought makes me uneasy.

“Why hide her?”

Cailleach tilts her head. “The villages around the river know of her, but are prohibited by magic to speak of her whereabouts once they leave. As is anyone who stumbles upon her. She is a ghost lurking in the dark. A cautionary tale. A warning to those who would choose to defy my sisters and me. A threat is far more poignant when it haunts your nightmares. When you don’t know where the monster hides, don't you think?”

I look back to the throne as another thread floats from above, black ash falling from Cailleach’s fingers.

“You're being reassigned to the River Bàsail,” she continues before I can answer.

I still, my breath freezing in my lungs. “The River… What?”

“The River Bàsail. That is where you will find her.” She meets my stare, her eyes boring into mine. “‘Chan eil thu air do dhìochuimhneachadh. Air mo bheatha, nì mi dìoghaltas dhut.’ Are those not your own words?”

The pledge I’ve made a hundred times as I stood on the cold ground in the clouds of Vengach floats from her mouth. The same one I turned into an unbreakable oath with Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s blade.

My jaw opens in shock.

“Surely that isn’t surprise I see on your face. I am the Cutter. The most powerful of the Fates. There is nothing that happens in my kingdom I am not aware of.”

“Of course, my queen,” I say, dipping my head in reverence, though what she said isn’t the full truth. The Fates may be able to catch glimpses of a thread, moments in a person’s life, but they aren’t able to see all that will happen. Only the goddess of death can do that. The Cutter doesnae know a life is about to end until the thread floats into her fingers.

I dinnae dare correct her, a smile teasing my lips. Because this is it. Ban-dia a’ Bhàis has set me on the path to the Washwoman. To the River Bàsail. This is why I couldnae find her. The place she was sentenced to isn’t on any map. Only the villages surrounding her know where she hides, bound to a river I didnae ken existed until this moment.

The Cutter did not call me here to question my vow for vengeance. She called me here to use it.

My heart races, my muscles tensing as my hands curl into fists, and the vow on my palm burns.

“You said she couldnae be killed,” I say, leaving my question unspoken.

Athair growls, and Cailleach’s eyes narrow. “I am confident you will find a way to rectify that.” She leans forward, placing a hand on her chest. “I can feel the depth of your hatred. The need for vengeance inside your heart. You risked your soul to make an unbreakable vow to kill her, after all. I am certain you will find a way to do it.”

She leans back in her chair. “You are to find out what she did to alter her thread. Any information that may be helpful. I want to know if she can change other threads. If she has. And after you have gathered all the information you can, you will find a way to kill her. Until that time comes, you will ensure she stays secure. As I said, women are going missing,” she repeats, and it finally, fully clicks.

I swallow. “And you need me to make sure The Washwoman isnae one of them before you learn everything you need to know.”

She nods. “We do not know where these women are. They can’t be dead. I did not cut their threads. My sisters and I are unsure if their disappearances are the workings of ceatharnaich groups, or something else. But it doesn’t matter. It is of the utmost importance that the Washwoman does not escape. You remember what happened last time.”

Cold rage sears my lungs at the reminder, and that night flashes through my mind. Marsaili’s blood. Her sister’s scream when she’d learned the rest of her family hadn’t survived.

“Aye. I remember.”

“You’ll be promoted immediately to An Àrd, of course, should you accept. Not only that, but I will also reward Vengach with extra weaponry and four additional wards at the location of their choosing.”

My jaw drops. A promotion would mean a stone house for my siblings, rather than the hut they live in now. A monthly allotment of money for food and clothing. Schooling for the young ones.

A mercenary for them for the Epoch.

With the funds, as well as the weapons and wards, my village will have a real chance of safety.

Cailleach leans against the arm of her chair, picking at the edge of what appears to be a femur. “It’s quite the jump from An Treas to An Àrd. But it is justified. The Washwoman is vile. Wicked and dangerous. She should not be underestimated. She will try to tempt you with her sorrow. Will tell you gorgeous, enchanting lies and prey on the kindness in your heart. She⁠—”

“I accept,” I say before she can even finish her warning. “I won’t let you down.”

Cailleach nods, closing her eyes. Fire erupts along my ribs and spine, my arms and neck, as new dàn are inked into my arms, legs, and torso. My back. One by one, the blank markings ignite—and even though I don’t know what gifts I’ve been blessed with yet, their magic tunnels into my bones. I do not remember it at my naming, but I remember it when I was promoted to An Dàrna and An Treas. In an instant, I feel different—stronger. My sight grows sharper, and my mind more awake.

“I know you won't.” Cailleach smiles, but as she opens her eyes, I do not see kindness in them. She waves a hand above her head, and several threads float through the air, dancing and twisting until they fall into her long, claw-like fingers. I have to fight not to look. To count them. “But just in case you need an extra push to remain vigilant, I think I will keep these close by. Such long, beautiful strings,” she says. She plucks one, and it sings, clearer than a melody from a harp. “My sister doesn’t like when things do not go according to plan, you know. It’d be a shame if she decided to change her measurements because you were unsuccessful in your mission.”