The Sweet Far Thing

Kartik did not lie. The Winterlands army is vast and terrifying. At the fore ride the trackers in billowing black capes that flap open to reveal the souls trapped inside. Even from this distance I can see the glint of their jagged teeth. They tower over the others, nearly seven feet tall. The Poppy Warriors in their matted chain mail transform into enormous black crows and circle over the fields. They caw with a chilling persistence; more and more of them rise till one patch of the sky is a blur of black and the air crackles with their cries. I pray they will not fly in this direction and spy our hiding place. Behind them is an army of corrupted spirits—the dead walking. Their eyes are hollow and unseeing or the disquieting blue-white of Pippa’s. They follow without question. And in the center is the tree, taller, mightier than the last time I saw it. Its limbs stretch out in all directions. I swear that I can see the souls slipping under its bark like blood. And I know that in its dark heart hides Eugenia Spence.



Drummers bang out a thundering rhythm.



“How will we fight them?” Ann asks, and I feel her fear within my own heart.



“Look, down there,” Felicity says. One of the Poppy Warriors pulls Wendy along with him. She stumbles, exhausted, but she is intact. Eating those berries damned her to a life here, but it must have saved her from being a fitting sacrifice. The Poppy Warrior licks her cheek, and Wendy recoils. I hate to think of her chained to such a horrible beast.



The drums stop, and the silence is almost more terrifying.



“Wot are they about?” Fowlson asks, his knife already in his hand.



“I don’t know,” I say.



The tree speaks. Have you brought the sacrifice?



“She is here somewhere,” a tracker answers.



I have waited so long for you, the tree murmurs in that voice that first drew me in. Do you know me? Do you know what we could be together? That we could rule this world and the other? Join me….



The words wrap themselves around me.



Gemma…come to me….



It is my mother. My mother stands on that field in her blue dress, her arms waiting to hold me.



“Mother,” I whisper.



Kartik pulls my face to his. “That is not your mother, Gemma. You know that.”



“Yes. I know.” I look back, and the image flickers like a picture made of gas and flame.



“They can make us see what they want us to see, believe anything,” a Hajin woman with deep brown eyes reminds me.



“How will we fight them?” a centaur asks. “Let us have some of the priestess’s magic!”



“No,” Philon says, watching me. “If she draws upon the magic now, the tree will surely sense it, and I fear what that will mean.”



Fowlson has a hard look. “We’ve got to get to that tree, mates. Chop it down.”



“Yes, that is our purpose,” Felicity says. She’s got her sword and she means to use it.



A small argument breaks out among our contingent. No one can agree on a plan. Down on the plain, I see those hideous wraiths, the tree that carries Eugenia’s soul. But I also feel my mother, Circe, Miss McCleethy, Pippa, Amar…so many names. So much lost.



“Centuries of fighting, and for what?” I say. “Today it ends. I can’t live in fear any longer. I’ve cursed this power. I’ve both enjoyed and misused it. And I’ve hidden it away. Now I must try to wield it correctly, to marry it to a purpose and hope that that is enough.”



A centaur starts to speak, but Philon silences him with a single finger held high.



“Dr. Van Ripple told me that an illusion works because people want to believe in it. Very well, then. Let’s give them what they want,” I say.



Philon’s eyes narrow. “What is your plan?”



“They are looking for the chosen one. What if she is everywhere at once? What if I can cast my image on the ledge of this mountain and farther afield? They’ll see me at every turn. And how will they make a sacrifice of someone who does not exist?”



Philon rubs a hand thoughtfully across those thin lips. “Clever but risky, Priestess. And what if we are discovered?”



“We only need enough time to confuse them while we draw closer to the tree and take it down.”



“And what of the dagger?” Felicity asks.



“Leave that to me,” I say.



“How do we know that chopping down the tree will end this?” a centaur asks.



“We don’t,” I say. “But it’s the best we have if everyone is in agreement.”



There are nods and ayes all around.



“Mr. Fowlson, Felicity, you will lead the charge. Ann,” I say, looking at her brave face, “try to get Wendy away from that beastly Poppy Warrior.”