Page 4 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

For the first time in a century, I get my wish.

My dragon has landed.

2

BRENNEN

It takes six hundred and ninety-seven steps to reach the dead.

Each Samhain, I count them.

Every time I make the ascent—cursing the village elders for choosing a hilltop in the sky to bury those we’ve lost—I wonder, o’ all places, why here? The first few climbs, I thought we must bury our dead on these hills to bring their souls closer to Solas, but that cannae be it. The only goddesses that care for them now are below.

My muscles burn with exertion as I continue upward, the need for vengeance that has made a home inside my ribcage the only thing carrying me forward. The trek is harder than any training exercise, and each time I make it, I wonder about those who do not have the youth or stamina to take the journey.

It’s the real reason the cemetery rests in this place, I think. You must earn your mourning here, and then one day, as time passes and your body tires, you’re forced to let it go.

Except, even when my body fails me, I will not.

Not in this life, or the next.

Grief is all I have left, and I willnae surrender it.

The fog grows thicker the higher I go, but my dàn of sight warms on my shoulder, cutting through the thick mist and darkness as I crest the dreary hilltop. Smirr chills my bones, and the wind blows my hair into my eyes, but I dinnae bother to push it back as I reach out to touch the gate.

It’s cold beneath my fingers, but it does nothing to cool the white-hot rage that burns through my blood each time I set my eyes on the stones within it.

“Sìth dhaibhsan a tha a’ gabhail fois an seo,” I whisper. Peace to those who rest here.

My voice is hard, my heart racing as I wrap my fingers around the iron with a bone-breaking grip.

The metal joints shriek like the wail of a banshee as I push it open, echoing through the plot of land that holds nearly seventy graves; some so old, they’re crumbling to dust, and others so new, they shine even in the barest moonlight. The smell of peat rises from beneath my boots as I make my way toward the back of the cemetery, stepping over uneven patches of earth and lichen-covered stones.

Cold stings my nose, and white puffs of air float from my lungs as I turn toward the grave of the woman I make this journey for.

Marsaili Lennox.

My vision tunnels as I read the name of my geallta—my betrothed—the memory of her gasping for air as blood gurgled from her throat drowning out my pounding heartbeat.

I will never forget that sound.

I crouch and, using my sleeve, wipe away the dirt clinging to the sides of the gravestone until it's unblemished. The tightness in my chest grows as I open my sporran and unpack the contents within.

The ritual is familiar now, but I dinnae find comfort in it. Not when five Samhains have passed, and the goddess of death has refused to hear my plea.

With shaking hands, I stack six smooth rocks into a cairn—one for each year since Marsaili’s throat was slit in the dead of night. In front of it, I place the other items: yew, juniper, heather, rowan bark, and a thick white ribbon that once adorned my love’s long blonde hair. My breaths go shallow as I push my fingers into the cold ground above her grave, grab a handful of dirt, and sprinkle it on top.

The last of the sun disappears beneath the rolling hills, and I place my hand upon the pile, drawing magic from my dàn of warmth and concentrating it into my palm.

I swallow. “As the veil thins on this blessed night of Samhain, A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, goddess of death, hear my plea,” I pray. The desperation lacing every syllable sounds like begging, but I dinnae care.

If begging gets me the revenge I crave—no, the revenge I demand—then so be it. If I must tear the world apart stone by stone, root by root, clawing my way below until I am banging at Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s gate, then that is what I will do.

Smoke drifts from beneath my fingers as the heat in my hand grows almost unbearable, and the pile ignites, orange flames licking at my skin.

Closing my eyes, I picture Marsaili’s face. I drop my voice low, the darkness in my tone demanding the goddess listen. “A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, hear me. I have searched loch and moor, but the monster who killed my geallta remains hidden.” A wave of fury surges through my blood, and I pause, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “She lurks in the shadows, out of reach of my vengeance. Vengeance that is owed to me. Set me on the path to find her. Allow me to give Marsaili the justice she is due.”

The fire crackles, sparks flying into the sky and disappearing among the stars as I wait for the goddess to answer. I dinnae ken what I wait for—a pull, showing me where to go, the knowledge of where to search—but nothing happens.