Page 3 of Song of the Dark Wood

Rowan could get over her apprehension of walking into the Dark Wood alone, but it was hard to contend with not knowing what to expect from a god whose job it was to accept the souls of the dead into the Underlands and, according to scriptures, devour her. Her lessons suggested devouring was likely sexual and would probably lead to her death. It had been decades since a Red Maiden had lived beyond five years of service, yet everyone acted like it was so simple.Ferry the souls of the departed. Keep the Wolf happy.Rowan wasn’t even permitted to hold a man’s hand, so despite extensive tutoring in things the Wolf might like, she felt woefully unprepared.

Suddenly, Sarai darted out of the tree line, her hunter-green cloak flying out behind her as she ran. “Mother! Rowan! Youmust come. The Dark Wood is dying. The elders have gathered outside the Temple of the Mother.”

Rowan fell into step behind the Crone and Sarai as Cade sidled up next to her.

“That can’t be good,” Cade said.

Rowan tried not to speak to Cade in front of people who couldn’t see him, so she just shrugged, practically jogging to keep pace with the Crone and Sarai.

As the trees thinned and Ballybrine came into view, Rowan pulled up the hood of her cloak. Even the view of her full face was secret until she became the acting Red Maiden. It had taken Rowan a while to grow accustomed to walking around in her hooded cloak. The sheer panel in the hood cast the world in red and blocked most of her peripheral vision, but she’d trained her hearing to make up for it. The scriptures claimed her cloak marked her as a sacred vessel, but she knew it was really meant to ease consciences. Red Maidens were usually discovered when they were young, and it was hard to look at the face of an adorable five-year-old while promising her virtue and life to the god of death.

The scent of wood smoke from the wealthier homes and the earthy, pungent peat smoke from poorer parts of town filled the air. People rushed from their homes toward the Temple of the Mother, colorful doors slamming shut behind them. The bright paint corresponded to sails and ships so that families could be notified when one of their own was returning or lost at sea.

Ballybrine was constantly at war with nature. A team of huntsmen tended to the overgrowth weekly, but trees and ferns still pushed over the forest boundaries like they’d reclaim their territory if given the chance. The town was cut into the wilderness at the southern tip of Eireione, its isolation intentional as it had long been a haven for practitioners of the old religion. Refugees arrived weekly by the shipload from partsof the world where the new religion spread like wildfire, leaving violence in its wake. The Dark Wood lurked to the east, the Borderwood to the north, and the Huntsman’s Hollows to the west. To the south, there was nothing but the sea, which was prone to sudden, dangerous storms.

Still, Rowan loved her untamed home. Both the forest and the sea reflected the wildness in her heart that sometimes felt like the only thing that truly belonged to her.

Cade nudged her, knocking her from her daydreaming. “This looks interesting,” he said, nodding to the townspeople scrambling up ahead.

“You don’t know what it is?” Rowan asked.

The Crone turned and raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sarai just smiled—she couldn’t see or hear Cade but liked to keep up to date on his antics.

“Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I know every bad thing that happens around here,” Cade huffed.

They cut through the dirt-packed side streets to the main cobblestone road that led to the square, where a steady buzz rose from just outside the temple.

Rowan paused, trying to adjust to the cacophony of the village. Her magic meant she could hear human energy. The symphony of living noise was grating and hard to turn down. Even after years of training, she struggled. It was part of the reason she preferred the quiet melody of the forest, or even the ominous symphony of the Dark Wood.

As soon as they arrived in front of the Temple of the Mother, Rowan knew something was very wrong. She froze, her gaze resting on the spirit of Dylan McCray, a prominent fisherman who’d been lost at sea during a storm the week before. She was certain Orla must have already led him through the Dark Wood. Once a spirit crossed, they weren’t meant to come back.

“What is it?” the Crone asked, sensing her unease.

“There are more spirits here than there should be,” Rowan whispered.

The Crone patted her shoulder. “Run along and find Orla. We will figure this out.”

Rowan nodded, making her way through the crowd. The townsfolk shifted nervously as she passed, giving her a wide berth, her very presence a reminder that the dead were close. Most preferred to think of the departed contained to the Underlands—a neat thing, tucked away behind solid stone grave markers in the cemetery.

But spirits preferred action. They liked to be where the people were, which was part of the reason the weekly Gratitude and Grieving Ceremony was held in such a public forum.

Rowan hurried toward Maiden’s Tower, the tall, white, ivy-wrapped home she shared with Orla, who was five years her senior, and the youngest spirit singer, Aeoife, who was just ten. Taking the stairs two at a time with Cade on her heels, Rowan shoved her hood back from her face.

“You shouldn’t come. You frighten Orla,” Rowan said.

“I’ll stay quiet. I swear,” Cade insisted.

Rowan eyed him skeptically as they reached the landing.

“I don’t understand why she doesn’t like me. I’ve always been nice to her, and Aeoife likes me just fine,” Cade complained.

“Behave yourself, or I’ll banish you until the morning,” Rowan said firmly. Learning to banish unwanted spirits was one of the first things she’d been taught, and although she often threatened Cade, she’d only ever acted on it three times.

“I’ll be a perfect little angel,” he said in mock offense.

They rounded the last staircase, stepping onto the floor that housed the three maidens’ bedrooms and one vacant room meant for the yet-to-be-found spirit singer, who should have been born five years after Rowan and before Aeoife.

Orla’s door flew open. “Rowan, thank the Mother! I was worried. Come quick!” Her gaze flitted over Cade, but she said nothing.

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