Song of the Dark Wood, page 1
SONG OF THE DARK WOOD
SHEILA MASTERSON
BOOKS BY SHEILA MASTERSON
The Lost God Series
The Lost God #1
The Memory Curse #2
The Storm King #3
The Godless Kingdom #4
Standalones
Song of the Dark Wood
Copyright © 2024 by Sheila Masterson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The scanning, uploading, or distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Ebook ASIN: B0D1M81771
Paperback: 978-1-960416-13-1
Hardcover: 978-1-960416-14-8
Cover Design & Illustration: Andrea Laguer
Map Illustration: Andrés Aguirre Jurado
Scene Illustrations: Charlotte Slegers
Editing: Erin Larson-Burnett at EKB Books
Proofreading: Tabitha Chandler
CONTENTS
A Note From the Author
Prologue
1. Rowan
2. Rowan
3. Rowan
4. Rowan
5. Rowan
6. Rowan
7. Conor
8. Rowan
9. Rowan
10. Rowan
11. Conor
12. Conor
13. Rowan
14. Rowan
15. Rowan
16. Conor
17. Rowan
18. Rowan
19. Conor
20. Rowan
21. Rowan
22. Rowan
23. Conor
24. Rowan
25. Rowan
26. Conor
27. Rowan
28. Rowan
29. Conor
30. Rowan
31. Rowan
32. Rowan
33. Conor
34. Rowan
35. Rowan
36. Conor
Epilogue
Review It ebook
For Your To Be Read Pile
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To my grandmothers, Hanna and Marie:
Thank you for the legacy of what it means
to make your way as a fierce woman.
And to all those who cultivate wildness
in a world made to tame.
Go forth and be a menace.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
SONG OF THE DARK WOOD deals with some difficult subjects including violence, death, death of a child, lack of bodily autonomy, blood, sexual harassment by a religious elder, religious trauma, and explicit sex. I’ve attempted to treat all sensitive topics with the utmost care, but this content might still be challenging for some readers. Please take care of yourself.
-Sheila
“We live in the shadow of a forest full of secrets
haunted by footprints disappearing into freshly fallen leaves.
There is no hope for us here,
no hope but a woman in a cloak—
scarlet, like blood yet to be spilled
that somehow stains our hands already.
We are bound by what is promised
and cursed by what is taken.”
– excerpt from the scripture of the Mother
“The Mother sees to the living.
The Wolf sees to the dead.
The Crone sees to the bargain between them,
and souls are ferried by Red.”
– Ballybrine children’s rhyme
PROLOGUE
When she was five years old, Rowan Cleary whispered her name to the Dark Wood, and the Dark Wood whispered it back.
Her mother had warned her never to speak her name so close to a forest full of vicious monsters. Names held power. But Rowan had been found out as a spirit singer and given over to the elders by her family. Her life as she knew it was over.
Rowan’s power as a spirit singer meant that she would become the acting Red Maiden when she came of age. She would be forced to deliver on a bargain struck between two gods long before she was born. The Mother saw to the living. The Wolf saw to the dead. The Red Maiden was the bridge between two worlds, ferrying souls from the realm of the living, through the forest, to the realm of the dead.
It was reckless. She felt the wrongness in the magic of the Dark Wood, but still, it called to her—reaching out with icy fingers—beckoning her inside as if to say, “Come play with me, Rowan—little red one. Come play!”
One way or another, whatever lurked in the Dark Wood would get her. The rest of the world would know her as a Red Maiden and nothing else. So, she whispered her name and listened to the chilling echo of it in the darkness. It was the only rebellion she could muster at such a tender age.
She knew she would disappear in a matter of years, but at least the Dark Wood would remember her name.
1
ROWAN
There were things only the forest knew. A dark history woven into roots and soil and carried on the wind when the branches blew just right.
Now the trees seemed content to keep their secrets. In her twenty years, Rowan Cleary had never heard them so silent.
A cool breeze ruffled her red cloak, shaking leaves from the boughs above and along the mossy ground. The sun dipped low, shadows stretching as though the Dark Wood was reaching to claim her. Normally, a melody seemed to flow between her and the enchanted wood, but today it absorbed her whispers the moment they left her lips.
She’d stood on the edge of this forest so many times, her boots scraping but never quite crossing the invisible boundary, hands tenderly petting the leaves and branches like the hair of a well-loved doll.
There wasn’t room for Rowan to feel much of anything at home in Ballybrine. Here, she could purge herself of all poisonous thoughts—rage, fear, and secret longings dumped into the only place that would hold them without judgment.
“I’m only two months away from becoming the acting Red Maiden, and I already feel like I’m disappearing.”
The words wrenched from her lips. The secret stolen by grief.
Rowan rolled her shoulders, shaking off the stiffness of a day spent bent over her piano, practicing wielding her magical voice.
Turning her back to the Dark Wood, she looked at the lavender sky over Mother’s Lake. Her two blessed hours of freedom before evening prayer and dinner were nearly over.
Footsteps crunched to her left and Cade appeared at her shoulder. She hoped he hadn’t heard her. Though she trusted him implicitly, there were some things that were just between her and the woods.
“Are you really so eager to flirt with danger?” he asked, glancing at the Dark Wood.
Rowan rolled her eyes. “You’re awfully skittish for a demon. I’m on the Borderwood side. I never cross over.”
“I thought you were dreading meeting the Wolf, but you look like you’re ready to move in.”
Rowan bristled. “You may prefer the chaos of town like a good little demon, but I get tired of being gawked at. This clearing on the lake is perfect and I wanted to stop to see Sarai.”
She turned toward the little cottage on an island at the center of the lake, the home of the Crone and her daughter, Sarai, one of Rowan’s only friends.
Cade sighed. “Some days it feels like you drag me out here to punish me for your being found out.”
Rowan laughed and ruffled his hair. Fifteen years earlier, her mother had found her speaking to Cade one afternoon. Rowan hadn’t noticed until then that no one else ever spoke to him, and although he appeared to be a little boy her age, no parents came calling for him.
Instead of looking horrified, Rowan’s mother had looked relieved. Rowan was the youngest of five children and her parents were eternally struggling to put food on the table. A spirit singer was only born once every five years, and while it might have been a curse for Rowan, it was a blessing for the rest of her family. Her becoming a Red Maiden-in-waiting granted them one of the nicest homes in town, elevated them to the highest social status, and offered a substantial monthly stipend for the rest of their days—all for the simple price of her sacrifice.
It was a bitter tincture to swallow as she was sequestered to Maiden’s Tower, but Rowan couldn’t hate her parents. Their bodies had nearly been broken by years of manual labor and they had little to show for it. She and her siblings rarely went a day without the incessant cramping of an empty belly. Still, she was relieved when they skipped monthly visitation days. It was hard to see their freedom when her life was so sheltered and controlled.
Rowan sighed. “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t like it here.”
“I know, but I thought you’d want to talk.” Cade dragged the toe of his boot through the mud.
“About what?” Rowan asked, looking away. Her gaze caught on a little white snowdrop flower that had pushed up through the leaf detritus on the forest floor, bright and pure against the muted background.
“About becoming acting
Rowan tugged at the neckline of her dress, which suddenly felt too tight. “I have a plan.”
Cade’s grin widened and his eyes flashed momentarily red before returning to their usual hazel. “How can I help if I’m not in on the plan?”
“I have two months to work out the details. I’m going to ask the Wolf to strike a new bargain.”
Cade stared at her. “You’re going to ask—” He collapsed against a tree, clutching his stomach in a fit of laughter that sent a murder of crows in the canopy into panicked flight. “You’re going to ask the god of death, the Wolf—who is supposed to devour you—to strike a new bargain? Why would he change a deal that offers him a pretty young virgin every five years?”
Rowan’s shoulders sagged. “I suppose you have a better idea.”
All the humor drained from his face. “I don’t.”
“I have to try,” Rowan said. “I owe it to myself and to any future Maidens to change things.”
Cade sighed. “It’s a bad idea to make a deal with a god.”
“Is it a better idea to die?” Rowan snapped. “Look, if I do what I’m supposed to and serve out my term, I force every Maiden after me to deal with the same terrible circumstances. If I can get the Wolf to remake his deal, I might still be on the hook to ferry the souls once a week, but I could have a life, friends—maybe even a family.”
“And you can avoid the responsibility ever falling to Aeoife,” Cade finished.
Rowan nodded as a breeze ruffled the hairs that had escaped her braid.
“Row, I don’t want to discourage you, but don’t get your hopes up. The Wolf is centuries old. It’s hard to believe he’d make a deal with you that doesn’t benefit him more. There was a time when the people of Ballybrine tried to break with tradition and the Wolf tore through town and killed every child on three separate streets in retaliation. He doesn’t seem to like change.”
Rowan wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to settle its roiling.
Patting her shoulder, Cade gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m not trying to scare you. Just be very delicate about how you approach him.”
They fell into step, approaching the wooden walkway that led to Crone’s Cottage on the tiny island in Mother’s Lake.
The cottage door creaked open and the Crone made her way down the rickety planks to dry land, casting a worried glance at the Dark Wood. Despite her title, the Crone couldn’t have been older than mid-forties, and her brown skin showed little sign of aging other than the smile lines around her light gray eyes.
“You shouldn’t be close to the forest alone, girl,” the Crone scolded. Though she couldn’t see Cade, her eyes narrowed on the space beside Rowan as if she sensed him.
Rowan shrugged. The Crone had been saying the same thing to her since she anointed her as the next Red Maiden, but the woods were Rowan’s birthright, and she wouldn’t fear them the way everyone else did.
Of course, it wasn’t just fear that kept folks out of the forest. The Crone had whispered stories of a time before she was born when women used to wander into the woods for inspiration. They’d come back with brilliant poetry, political aspirations, or a new wildness stoked inside them. It wasn’t long before the elders condemned such wandering, certain that too many women with their own minds were a bigger threat to their way of life than the new religion rising in the north.
Wandering the woods seemed like harmless trouble to Rowan, but in their world, there was no such thing for women. Harmless trouble was reserved for men and boys. Whispers of such things spread like wildfire between women in the town square, laundress shops, and bakery lines. It was the only kindness the women of Ballybrine could offer each other—the truth of whose trouble was innocuous and whose was worth avoiding at all costs.
“I thought Sarai would be back by now,” Rowan said.
The Crone shook her head. “She’ll be along soon. The days grow shorter, but that girl loses herself when she’s gathering herbs in the Borderwood.”
Despite her posture hinting at disapproval, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The Crone seemed to admire her daughter’s wildness, which would serve her well as the next Crone. Crones kept ancient wisdom, cast spells, and held the heavy responsibility of ensuring the bargain between the Mother and the Wolf was upheld. Their power required courage and an appreciation for the magic of the natural world.
“What’s happening in the Dark Wood?” Rowan asked.
The Crone eyed her suspiciously. “What do you think is happening?”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Why won’t you just tell me?”
“Because I don’t know either, girl.”
Everything the Crone taught Rowan about magic made her feel closer to understanding her own power, especially since so much about her gifts was unknown and unspoken. Even the current Red Maiden, Orla, was forbidden from sharing her experiences with Rowan. Whatever happened between Orla and the Wolf was a mystery, but she must have been doing something right to have survived this long.
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! You must 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 parts of 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.
