The Poison Season
Mara Rutherford
Prologue
The wolf was not thinking of hunger as it chased its quarry through the dark woods, having feasted earlier that day on a large roe deer. It was driven by a sense of purpose, one that had infected its brain late last winter, when it had picked its way carefully across the ice to the wooded island that seemed so still and peaceful—and likely full of prey.
The wolf was not from this mountain. It had been born on another, not so far from here. The alpha had driven it from the pack, already aware that it would be competition someday. But the wolf hadn’t known that; it had only known that it was alone for the first time in its life. Alone, and hungry, and wanting...
There were no other wolves on this mountain. It had searched everywhere, but something about this Forest was not welcoming to wolves, or any other large predators, for that matter. It wasn’t a lack of prey; it was something in the Forest itself. A warning of some kind, that this place wasn’t for the likes of the wolf. But it was tired and hungry and searching, and so it had found itself on the island, padding about on silent feet, past the sleeping cottages and their unwitting inhabitants, which would have made a lovely meal. But the Forest told it, “No, they’re not for you, either.” And it had found itself in a pine grove in the island’s center.
The wolf had snuffled at the base of the trees, picking up the scent of old blood and new growth, deep below the Forest floor. The roots of the trees, which had been replenished in a ceremony not long before the first snowfall, were always alive, even when the rest of the island slept. Feeling safe and quiet for the first time in many months, the wolf lay down amid the roots and slept a long, dreamless sleep.
When the wolf awoke the next morning, it felt changed. It was no longer hungry or tired or lonely. It was as if the Forest itself had sustained the wolf in the night, and now the Forest bid it farewell, told it to go away from the island, before the lake thawed and it would be trapped. The Forest only asked one thing in return: that the wolf nourish the Forest the way it had nourished the wolf. And now the wolf, which was still young and still learning, would finally fulfill its duty.
As the island came into view, the wolf released a long, doleful howl and drove its quarry onward.
Chapter One
The Watchers stood on the lakeshore, peering through the heavy mist that hung low on the water this time of year, when winter was just thawing into spring. Across the lake, the outsiders’ voices were as hollow and mournful as a loon’s cry.
Sound had always traveled strangely on Endla.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Sage whispered against Leelo’s ear, sending a chill down her spine.
Leelo shook her head. It was impossible to tell through the fog. They’d only been Watchers for a few weeks, and so far they’d had no interaction with the villagers across the water. They shouldn’t even be here. They wouldn’t be here if it were spring. Winter had made them complacent.
She stretched and looked out at the few remaining ice floes, scattered like the reflections of clouds on the water’s glassy surface. The majority of the lake was too deep to freeze, and only the rare fool was bold enough to attempt the crossing. The carcasses of young migratory birds served as the occasional reminder—should anyone need it—of the lake’s magic. They washed up on the shore with their feathers and flesh eaten away by a poison so strong it could sink a wooden boat long before it would ever make it across.
“Maybe we’ll be lucky this year,” Leelo murmured, more to herself than Sage. “Maybe no one will come.”
Sage snorted. “They always come, cousin.” She tugged on Leelo’s blond braid and rose. “Come on. Our shift is over, and they’re not going anywhere for now. Let’s find Isola.”
They hadn’t seen their friend much over the winter, but Isola, who was a year older, had been finishing up her own mandatory year as Watcher. Now that Leelo had done it herself, she wouldn’t blame Isola if she spent an entire month hibernating. Watching was both boring and exhausting all at once.
Leelo followed Sage into the trees, the soles of her shearling-lined boots quickly becoming mired in the mud and dead leaves left behind by the melting snow. She hated this time of year. Everything was dirty and drab, even their clothing. She wouldn’t wear the bright, beautiful dresses her mother made until the spring festival.
Sage stopped to pluck a branch of red holly berries from a bush, quietly murmuring a prayer of thanks to the woods that provided so bountifully for Endla. As Watchers, it was their duty to protect their home from the merciless outsiders who had destroyed all but this, the last of the Wandering Forests. “We have to finish making our crowns. You haven’t even chosen a theme yet.”
Leelo sighed. “I still have time.”
She had always loved the spring festival, but now she clung to the days like a child at her mother’s skirt. The sooner it was spring, the sooner her little brother, Tate, would be leaving, unless by some miracle his magic emerged before then. Whenever she thought of Tate out there among the outsiders, she wanted to cry. Because if she wouldn’t be there to care for him, who would?
They left the main trail and made their way to Isola’s cottage, where Sage knocked briskly on the door. Nearly a minute passed before it opened a few inches, revealing Isola’s sleep-swollen face and tangled hair.