The Sweet Far Thing

“They fear change,” Philon answers. “They serve without question.”



“They are cowards! They have always been slaves to the Order—diseased filth! I should rid the realms of them if I could,” Creostus bellows.



“Creostus,” Philon says, rebuking the centaur and offering him the pipe. He sneers and bats it away. Unperturbed, Philon smokes more, till the room is filled with a strong, spicy perfume that dizzies me. “There are many tribes within the realms, Priestess. You will never bring them all into accord.”



“How do we know that you even told the Untouchables about this meeting?” Fee says accusingly.



Philon blows a stream of smoke into her face. She coughs, then raises her head for more.



“You have only my word,” Philon answers.



Lean and restless, Creostus paces the length of the room. “Why should we share with those vermin the Untouchables? Filth of the Order. Diseased cowards. They deserve their lot.”



Neela sits beside Philon and runs her fingers through the creature’s silky hair. “Let her prove her loyalty to us. Tell her to take us to the Temple now.”



“I won’t join hands without speaking to Asha,” I say. The smoke has loosened my tongue.



Creostus growls in anger. He kicks a table with his hoof, smashing it to pieces. “Another stalling tactic, Philon. When will you realize you cannot make bargains with these witches?”



“They will take the magic and keep us out,” Neela hisses.



Creostus looks as if he would stomp us into dust. “We should be looking after ourselves!”



Neela glares at me. “She will betray us as the others did. How do we know she is not in league with the Order now?”



“Nyim syatt!” Philon’s voice thunders in the hut till it shakes. All are cowed. Creostus lowers his head. Philon releases a great cloud of smoke and turns those catlike eyes to me. “You promised to share the power with us, Priestess. Do you revoke your word?”



“No, of course not,” I say, but I am no longer certain. I fear I trusted too soon and promised too much. “I only ask for a little more time to better understand the realms and my duties.”



Neela sneers. “She asks for time to plot against us.”



Creostus takes a position near me. He is large and intimidating.



“I can offer a temporary share of the magic,” I say, feeling that I must placate them. “A gift as a symbol of good faith.”



“A gift?” Creostus snarls, bringing his face to mine. “That is not the same as to own! To be gifted is not to own! Would we beg for magic from you as we did from the Order?”



“I am not of the Order!” I say, trembling.



Philon’s gaze is cool. “So you say. But it gets harder and harder to tell the difference.”



“I…I meant only to help.”



“We do not want your help,” Neela spits. “We want our fair share. We want to govern ourselves at last.”



Philon holds my gaze. “We would have more than a taste, Priestess. Do what you must. We shall give you time—”



Neela pounces. “But, Philon—”



“We shall give you time,” Philon repeats, glaring hard at Neela. She slinks off to Creostus’s side, glowering at us all. “But I will not find myself without and wanting this time, Priestess. I have a duty to my people. Soon, we shall meet again—as friends or as enemies.”



“You certainly don’t mean to join with those horrid creatures, do you?” Felicity asks as we make our way through the tall trees toward the shore and Gorgon.



“What can I do? I gave them my word.” And now I’m sorry for it. My thoughts are as cloudy as the horizon, and my movements are slow. I breathe in the firm odor of the trees to rid my head of Philon’s spicy smoke.



“Did they really spirit away mortals?” Ann asks. It’s the sort of macabre fact she loves to collect.



“Horrible,” Felicity says, yawning. “They don’t deserve a share of the magic. They’ll only misuse it.”



I’m in a terrible spot. If I don’t join hands with Philon, I make enemies of the forest folk and the tribes that support them. If I share the magic with them, they might prove untrustworthy.



“Gemma.”



I’ve not heard that soft voice in a long time. My heart falls through the floor of me. Standing on the path in her blue gown is my mother. She opens her arms wide.



“Gemma, darling.”



“Mother?” I whisper. “Is that you?”