Chapter Six

Jaren sat on a tree stump on the shore, directly across the lake from where the islanders had released what appeared to be flowers into the water. He had promised his father he wouldn’t wander, and he hadn’t intended to. But every time he went gathering, the mournful memory-song rose up in him, and he felt the strangest urge to come back here. The first time, the island had been quiet, with no visible signs of life. There was no reason to return.

But as soon as he’d set out this morning to forage for nettles and dandelions, the only edible plants available this early in the spring, he found himself on the trail again, the one leading to the lake. He had still been more than a mile away when he heard the singing. In that moment, he finally understood where he’d heard the song that had haunted him for days. He had rushed through the woods to get here, ignoring his father’s warning. The eerie, distant tune had been real, as real as the person who sang it.

This song, however, was nothing like that. It was joyful, making his foot tap against the mossy roots despite himself. Despite the fact that he was beginning to wonder if the stories of Endla were true.

Last night, he had met some of the other villagers at Bricklebury’s only pub for a drink. He was still considered an outsider, but he was an outsider with three pretty, eligible sisters, and that was apparently enough to earn him an invitation.

Casually, Jaren had asked one of the other young men about the lake. Lake Luma, they called it. The empty lake.

“It’s not exactly empty,” one of the villagers said. His name was Lars, and he was tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair that seemed to have a personality of its own. “It’s full of poison.” He lowered his voice an octave. “Magic poison.”

“Magic,” Jaren repeated, hiding his chuckle behind his pint.

“Laugh all you want,” a young woman with unruly eyebrows spat. “It won’t make it any less true.”

Jaren ducked his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. I just don’t believe in magic.”

The woman’s brows dipped into two angry slashes and she stormed off, in search of better company. Jaren grimaced at Lars. “Whoops.”

Lars leaned closer, cupping his mouth behind his hand, though he had to shout to be heard above the boisterous conversation filling the small pub. His red hair tipped toward Jaren, as if it, too, were in on the secret. “Maggie’s father was killed by the lake.”

“But if everyone knows it’s poisonous, why would he go in?”

Lars had explained that the islanders were like the sirens of old pirate shanties, calling to the villagers late at night in voices too beautiful to resist. But though the song seemed to haunt him, Jaren didn’t think anything could tempt him into that water. Not after Lars had described Maggie’s father’s death in gruesome detail.

Now he watched as the Endlans danced together, their haunting voices their only instrument. They wove through the trees, flashing horns and antlers, feathers and fur, as if they had become creatures of the Forest instead of people.

He straightened as one of the girls detached herself from the group. From here, she was little more than a pale smudge against the trees. She wasn’t wearing horns like some of the other girls, but there was something on her head, whiter even than her hair.

She walked to the edge of the lakeshore, and for a moment Jaren was afraid shemight actually walk into the water. But she paused at the edge, bending down to release something she held in her cupped hands.

He rose from the stump and made his own way to the water’s edge. He was directly across the lake from her, and it was easy to pretend that this clear blue water wasn’t full of poison, that the girl on the other shore was just an ordinary girl, like his sisters. She watched the object she’d released float for a few moments before it sank beneath the surface. She stood, smoothing her dress, and looked up.

Too late, Jaren realized he had left the safety of the trees. He was as exposed as the girl; there was no chance she didn’t see him. For a moment, the superstitions of the villagers pricked at his conscience. What if she started to sing? Would he be strong enough to resist?

He shook off the idea almost as fast as it struck him. Even if he wanted to go to Endla—and he truly had no desire to—there was no boat available for him to cross.

Besides, the girl wasn’t singing. She wasn’t doing anything but staring back. He couldn’t make out her features from this distance, and he doubted she could see his. They were just two ageless, faceless people, watching each other over a lake full of poison.

So when the girl raised her hand in a wave, Jaren figured there could be no harm in waving back.

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