The Sweet Far Thing

“Yes.”



Miss McCleethy sighs. “We may shape the course of that struggle. But first we must secure our power inside the realms.”



“There will never be security here! Everywhere I turn, something new crawls up from the very rocks, grappling for this power! No one can remember where the magic came from or why; they only want to possess it! I am sick of it—sick to my very bones, do you hear?”



“Yes,” she says solemnly. “And yet, it is so very hard to let it go, isn’t it?”



She is right. Even now, knowing what I do, seeing what I have seen, I want it still.



Miss McCleethy grips my arm; her face is hard. “Gemma, you must safeguard the magic at all costs. That is our only concern. Many have fought and died to protect it over the years.”



I shake my head. “Where does it end?”



The men return from their lookout. Kartik’s face is grim. “They’ve been to the garden.”



“What do you mean?”



“It’s gone,” he says.



CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX



WE MAKE OUR WAY THROUGH A GARDEN THAT IS NO longer lush and familiar. The smell of scorched earth greets us. The trees have been burned to ash. The flowers have been trampled into mud. The silver arch that once led to the grotto has been battered and ripped from the ground. The swing I fashioned from silver thread hangs in tatters.



Tears bead in Miss McCleethy’s eyes. “I dreamed of seeing it again. But not like this.”



Fowlson puts his arm around her shoulders.



“What is happening?” Ann asks, cradling a handful of broken blossoms.



“Most High!” Gorgon slips into view on the river. She is alive and unharmed. I’ve never been happier to see her.



Fowlson takes a step backward. “Wot the ’ell is that?”



“A friend,” I say, running for the river. “Gorgon, can you tell us what is happening? What you’ve seen?”



The snakes of her hair hiss and writhe. “Madness,” Gorgon says. “All is madness.”



“It’s war, then?” Miss McCleethy says.



“War.” Gorgon spits the word. “That is what they call it to give the illusion of honor and law. It is chaos. Madness and blood and the hunger to win. It has always been thus and shall always be so.”



“Gorgon, we must get to the Tree of All Souls. We mean to take it down. Is there a safe passage to the Winterlands?”



“No place is safe now, Most High. But I shall take you down the river all the same.”



We set sail. The river does not sing softly today. It doesn’t sing at all. Some places have escaped the ravages of the Winterlands creatures. Other spots have not been as lucky. In those places, they’ve left terrible calling cards—spikes with bloodied flags, reminders that they will show no mercy.



When we pass the Caves of Sighs, several of the Hajin peek out from their hiding places. Asha waves to me from the shore.



“Gorgon, over there!” I call.



We pull to the shore and Gorgon lowers the plank so that Asha may board. “They ride everywhere,” Asha says. “I fear they have ridden to the forest folk.”



“What is that?” Kartik asks as we near the golden veil that protects the forest folk from view. Black clouds stretch across the river like a scar.



“Smoke,” I answer, and my heartbeat quickens.



We crouch low on the barge, holding our hands over our mouths and noses, and still we gag in the thick, dark air. Even the veil is choked; it scatters gold-flecked soot on our bodies. And then I see: The beautiful forest is aflame. The huts burn and smoke. The flames ravage the trees till they seem to bloom leaves of red and orange. Many of the forest folk are trapped. They scream, not sure where to turn. Mothers run for the water with crying children in their arms. The centaurs gallop for those left behind, scooping them up and heaving them onto their backs as they run for their lives.



“They can’t see,” Kartik says, coughing. “The smoke is too heavy. They are confused.”



“We have to help them!” I scream, trying to stand. The heat is fierce. It sends me gasping back to the floor of the ship.



“No, we must reach the Winterlands and chop down the tree!” Miss McCleethy shouts. “It’s our only hope.”



“We can’t leave them like this!” I yell, but even as I do, a wayward spark finds my skirt and I must beat at it frantically to put it out.



I hear a splash. It is Asha. She is off the ship and walking through the water toward the shore. Bodies are thick here, but she pays them no mind. “Here!” she calls, waving her arms so that she can be seen through the smoke. The forest folk run for her and the safety of the river.