The Sweet Far Thing

I’m done for. If I tell them what I know, they will accuse me of disloyalty. If I lie and they discover it for themselves later, it will be much worse.



“I did go to the Temple alone,” I say. “But it was not to see the Hajin. I saw another. Circe.”



“Gemma…,” Ann whispers.



Philon’s eyes widen. “The deceiver? She is dead. Killed by your hand.”



“No,” I say. “She is still alive. Imprisoned in the well of eternity. I needed to see her, to ask her about the Winterlands and—”



A ripple moves through the crowd. They press closer. Felicity stares at me in horror.



Neela is up, her voice slicked with fury, her mouth twisted in a deranged smile. “I told you, Philon! I told you she could not be trusted! That she would betray us as the others did. But you would not listen. And now, now Creostus is dead. He is dead….” She buries her face in her hands.



“So this one of the Order is housed in the Temple. With the Hajin,” Philon says.



“No. That’s not quite how it is. And she isn’t of the Order. They would have nothing to do with her—”



“But you would?” a centaur growls.



Neela addresses the crowd. There are no tears in her eyes. “Would you take the word of one who has lied? You see that even her own friends did not know of her deception. The Order priestess and the deceiver have conspired with the Hajin to take the power! Perhaps Creostus knew too much, and this is why he was murdered! Philon! Will you not demand justice?”



The centaurs, the forest folk, the Gorgon—all turn their faces toward Philon, who closes those catlike eyes and breathes deeply. When the eyes open again, there is something hard and determined in them, and I am afraid.



“I have given you the benefit of the doubt, Priestess. I have defended you to my people. And in return, you have given us nothing. Now I will side with my people, and we will do whatever is necessary to protect ourselves. Nyim nyatt e volaret.”



The centaurs lift their fallen brother above their heads, then carry his dead body on their shoulders.



“Philon, please…,” I start.



The creature turns its back to me. One by one, like doors slamming, the forest folk turn as well, shunning me. Only Neela acknowledges my presence. As she follows her people from the grotto, she turns back and spits in my face.



Felicity takes me roughly aside. “You’ve been talking to Circe?”



“I needed answers. I needed to know about the Winterlands,” I say. “She was the only one who could tell me what I—what we—needed to know.”



“We?” Felicity looks daggers at me. Ann takes her hand. “Circe doesn’t offer anything without a price. What did you give her?” Felicity demands.



When I do not answer, Ann does. “Magic.”



Felicity’s laugh is brutal. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Gemma.”



“I needed answers! She got us safely through the Winterlands, didn’t she?” I say, only then realizing how paltry a defense it is.



“She likely killed Wilhelmina Wyatt herself! Did you consider that?” Fee barks, and a terrible coldness snakes through me. I told Circe about Eugenia, about the tree. What if…



“It wasn’t like that,” I say, less sure.



“You’re a fool,” Felicity scoffs.



I give her a shove. “You know so very much about how to run things; maybe you should be the one to hold all the magic!”



“I wish I were the one,” she growls through gritted teeth. “I’d make an alliance with Pip and my friends, not consort with the enemy.”



“Certain of Pip, are you? Where is she, then?”



Felicity’s slap is hard and sudden. I feel the sting to my toes. She’s cut my lip. I taste the blood with my tongue, and I’m flooded with magic. At once, Felicity’s hand is on her sword, and I fling it away like a toy.



“I’m not the enemy,” she says quietly.



My body trembles. It takes every bit of strength I have to push the magic down. It leaves me with a sick, shaking sensation, as if I haven’t slept for days. Fee and I stand facing each other, neither of us willing to apologize. My stomach lurches. I turn and vomit into a bush. Felicity marches ahead on the path to the Borderlands.



“You shouldn’t have said that about Pip,” Ann chides, offering me her handkerchief.



I push it away. “You shouldn’t tell me what to do.”



Ann’s wounded expression is only momentary. Her well-trained mask settles over her true feelings. I’ve won the round, but I hate myself for it.