32. Rowan

32

ROWAN

R owan hesitated on the dock leading up to the Crone's cottage. Faith was new to her, and she struggled to figure out who she could trust with what information. Although she and Conor had tested their theory and proved it held true, she wanted validation and wisdom from the Crone.

The sun was high in the sky, casting blinding light on the lake's surface and warming the cold winter air.

"Are you going to come in or just lurk on the dock like a lost soul?" the Crone asked, cracking the cottage door open.

Rowan smiled at her. "I was hoping you could help me figure out a little mystery."

"Come in," she said, propping the door open with her hip.

Rowan brushed by her into the small cottage. Sarai looked up from her basket of supplies and smiled weakly.

"How's Raya?" Rowan asked.

"She's all right. I'm just getting some things to tend to her lashes," Sarai said.

"How's your research?" Rowan asked.

Sarai's eyes darted to the Crone. "It's been informative."

Rowan was afraid to hope. It was likely safer to be away from Conor, but it also felt impossible. He'd admitted to being a monster, and she had no idea how to rectify the god she saw now with the careless, icy monster he'd been for centuries. She was unsure if she could forgive him for killing all those Maidens and was afraid what it said about her if she could accept that side of him.

Rowan hugged Sarai. She wanted to say so much but couldn't in front of the Crone.

"I think I have figured out something vital," Rowan whispered. She pulled back from her friend and turned to look at the Crone. "I think I've found a way to keep myself from being devoured and keep the world in balance."

The Crone looked wary but unsurprised. "Leave us, Sarai. You must tend to Raya."

"I should be here to help—" Sarai started.

The Crone held up a hand, and both Sarai and Rowan knew from years of experience there was no use arguing. Sarai left in a huff, and Rowan stood awkwardly in the center of the cottage, waiting for the Crone to speak.

Instead, the maddening woman simply gestured to the empty chair and went to make tea. Rowan wrung her hands in her lap as the Crone portioned out the tea and then set a teacup in front of her.

While Rowan loved tea, she was chronically impatient, taking a sip that burned her tongue so badly she hardly tasted the follow-up sip. That was who she was at heart—a girl who couldn't stop touching something too hot, no matter how it burned.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about Conor every time she felt overwhelmed and unmoored. She loved him, and he loved her, but it wasn't the way she expected it to be. When people spoke about love, they made it sound simple. Now that she felt it, it was tangled with the reality of who he was and that, at any moment, the delicate trust between them could easily be broken, and it would cost more than just her heart.

"You've gone and fallen for the Wolf." There was no accusation in the Crone's tone. She was simply stating a fact.

"I'm not certain it's so simple as that," Rowan argued.

"Isn't it? You have the desperate look in your eyes that all the women in the village do when they come to me to help them with some ill-fated love affair," the Crone said with a soft smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Rowan sighed. "Regardless, that's not why I'm here."

"Did you know his blight is still spreading into Ashand Orchards?"

Rowan shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. The Dark Wood is completely healed. Why would he spread it more?"

"Because you've shifted things in favor of the Wolf. It seems it's your destiny to do so."

"That's not true! He—" Rowan stopped herself. The Crone had perked up with interest and she didn't want to share any of Conor's weaknesses.

"Look how you protect him now," the Crone sighed. "There will come a time when you have to choose, Rowan. I thought that you, of all people, would be the first to be wary of the whims of the god of death."

Rowan bit her tongue to keep from snapping. Talking to the Crone was a bit like playing chess with Conor. She needed to think about each move before she made it so that she didn't tip her hand.

She took a long sip of her tea. "How do the gods never die?"

The Crone thought for a moment. "I suppose at some point they were just like us. The oldest of the records we have from the first Crone indicates that the Wolf was once mortal. Belief is what gave him and the Mother power. When you can offer something that people need when they need it, their belief in you is what gives you power."

That lined up with the story Conor had told Rowan.

"So, in theory, they could die?" Rowan pressed.

The Crone frowned. "I suppose. But they've lived quite a long time. I don't imagine that would be a wise plan, girl. The Wolf is known for his viciousness."

Rowan frowned at the Crone. She couldn't tell if she was playing dumb or if she truly didn't know that the Mother had asked Rowan to kill the Wolf. It was possible that she thought Rowan had come up with the idea herself, but the Crone had always been an intermediary between worlds. It was hard to believe that the Mother would keep her in the dark.

Rowan wanted confirmation because a new idea was forming in her mind. What Orla had overheard from the elders was correct. If Conor had once been mortal, then the Mother must have been as well. If belief gave them power, then lack of belief stripped them of it. What Rowan needed to know was how the power was transferred to a new god and what the Mother intended to do now.

"I didn't say I was trying to kill him," Rowan huffed. "I doubt keeping myself as ignorant as the rest of the world has would be wise either."

The Crone pursed her lips and gave a slight nod. It was the most encouragement she'd offer. "Many years ago, there was a prophecy that has since fallen by the wayside. I often wondered how that happened. How could something so important fall out of our contemporary scripture?" She sipped her tea and then continued, "It seemed too convenient that the one who wrote it—my grandmother—died so soon after. The same day she wrote that prophecy, in fact. The elder whom she shared it with also passed very soon after. Typically new writings are given much time and attention. The elders ask the Mother for her inspiration to interpret and spread it. They spend months with the text. But with all of the original participants conveniently dead, the scripture was buried among a stack of newer ones."

Rowan took another long sip of her tea and fiddled with her cup and saucer.

"I discovered the writing years later and couldn't believe it had been missed, but at that time, I was new, and the elders did not yet respect me as they should have. I was forced to study it myself. To try to discern its meaning on my own," the Crone said.

"What's the prophecy?" Rowan asked.

"The prophecy said that someday a great wave would rise in the north, and the balance between worlds would shift. When that happened, a new power would emerge to help reestablish the power between the Mother and the Wolf."

Rowan shrugged. "That doesn't sound so bad. It sounds like a contingency for the new religion."

She brought a hand to her brow. For some reason, the tea seemed to be making her much too hot. The Crone's winter herbs were often warming, but Rowan suddenly felt like she was boiling.

"It doesn't, does it?" The Crone sighed. "I think that you are that power."

Rowan's eyes went wide. She went over her last few conversations with the Crone. She remembered how suspiciously the woman regarded her at her first ceremony and what she'd said to Rowan months before about not knowing what she was. She remembered the books of prophecies scattered on the table the last time she'd visited the cottage.

The room went fuzzy, and Rowan squinted, trying to focus. "Me?" she mumbled. "But I'm just a Red Maiden, a spirit singer." The words sounded slow and strange in her ears.

"The prophecy says the change-maker would be ‘ the one who gives up her name .' It's only a matter of time before you give your heart to the Wolf in a more permanent way—before he figures out what you can be to him. I cannot let that happen. The problem, as I see it, is that your love for the Wolf seems to shift the balance toward death, and that's not something I can abide. As the arbiter of this bargain, I must intervene. There are older gods—more vicious than these—who would bring this world to its knees. If the Wolf lets them out, it will be our undoing."

"He won't." Rowan's voice sounded strangely hoarse. Her heart beat an uneven, fluttering pattern in her chest. She tried to take a breath and sputtered into the pungent tea. She knew that scent.

"Mother's Mercy," Rowan mumbled. It was a wild herb that, when taken in small doses, helped with sleep. It was used for those with insomnia or patients who needed wounds mended. But in a large dose, it would put her to sleep permanently. No pain—just death.

The betrayal cut her deep. Sarai had left her alone. After Cade, Rowan wasn't sure she could survive another betrayal, even if the herb didn't kill her.

"How could you?" she slurred.

The Crone's eyes glazed over. "I didn't want to, girl. All you had to do was your job, but he's drawn you in, and I cannot risk our world if he grows more powerful. My only job is to hold the bargain. If you make him too strong, death will wipe out all life." She shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I had to make an impossible choice between you and our entire village and I could not see another way forward with how dire things are."

She brought her hand to Rowan's cheek, but Rowan swatted it away lazily. Her limbs were already getting heavy. She dragged herself from the chair, knocking over the teacup with a clatter.

"Don't struggle. It will make it worse," the Crone shouted after her, but Rowan tore down the dock with leaden legs and ran to the edge of the Dark Wood.

"Help," she rasped. "Help me, please ." The words were a weak singsong verse.

She fell to her knees, and the cold ground bit through her dress.

Rowan opened her mouth and sang. The Dark Wood rustled and groaned as she fell forward to her hands. She didn't know why she was still singing. It was simply an instinct.

The rustling of the wood grew louder. She looked up and found a strange-looking plant—red and leafy—next to a Mother's Mercy vine.

The vine stretched toward her, and she cowered as it wrapped around her wrist. There was a sharp pain as it sliced into her skin, but it passed quickly, and Rowan was distracted by the leafy red plant that bloomed, pushing toward her hand.

"I don't understand," Rowan mumbled.

The plant grew taller until it was level with her mouth. The Dark Wood wanted her to eat it. She didn't recognize the plant, but she was already dying. She didn't see what harm it could do.

She pulled off several leaves clumsily. Her coordination was terrible, but she managed to shove them in her mouth and chew. She fell to the ground and rolled onto her back, looking up at the blue sky as she swallowed the red herb.

Rowan's heartbeat was sluggish. Her mind wandered to Conor. She wished he was with her. They'd finally come to a tentative understanding, and now something else was going to take her from this world. Rowan wished he'd find her, kiss her, take care of her. She wasn't sure she truly knew who he was, but she wished for the time to figure it out.

The Mother's Mercy vine itched at her wrist, but she didn't have the energy to scratch it. She blinked up at the sky as blackness funneled her vision down to pinpricks, and she faded into sleep.