The Sweet Far Thing (48 page)

“Gemma…,” Ann gasps.

A fierce wind shakes the bodies in the trees, rattling them like leaves. Their eyes snap open, black as pitch and ringed in blood. A dreadful chorus of high-pitched shrieks and moans and low, angry growls of suddenly wakened beasts rises in the forest, clamors in our ears. Underneath it all, I hear a terrible refrain scratching itself into my soul:
“Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”

“Gemma, what did you do?” Ann wails.

“Turn back!” I shout.

We’ve gone no more than a few steps when the path disappears under our feet.

“Which way?” Mercy shrieks, running in circles.

Wendy stumbles forward, feeling the empty space with frantic arms. “Don’t leave me, Mercy!”

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“I don’t know!” I shout. Circe said to stay to the river, but she said nothing about this. Either she lied or she doesn’t know. Either way, we’re alone, without aid.

Suddenly, a voice drifts through the din, calm and clear. “This way. Quickly…”

A path of light appears in the frozen grass and ice.

“Come on! This way!” I call. Brandishing the torch, I hurry through the trees, following the thin ribbon of light. Bodies kick and grab at us, and it is all I can do not to scream. A man reaches for Pippa, and Felicity’s sword is swift. His severed hand flies, and he howls in outrage.

I would howl myself but it’s as if I have been struck dumb with fear.

“Go!” I croak, finding a small sliver of voice at last. I push my friends on and run after, staring only at their backs, not daring to look left or right at the hideous things that swing from the trees.

At last we reach the edge of the gruesome woods. The din quiets to a gasp and then to nothing, as if they have all drifted back into the same sleep.

We take stock for a moment, leaning on each other, sucking cold air into our lungs.

“What were those things?” Pippa manages to say between breaths.

“Don’t know.” I wheeze. “Might have been the dead. Souls lured here before.”

Mercy shakes her head. “Weren’t like us. Didn’ ’ave no souls left. Least I ’ope not.”

Bessie points ahead. “’Ow will we get through that, then?”

Blocking the way is a wall of black rock and ice as tall as it is wide. There’s no going around it as far as I can tell.

The wind whispers again. “Look closer….”

At the base of the enormous cliff is a tunnel hung with blood-streaked rags.

“Follow…,” the wind urges.

“Did you hear that?” I ask to be sure.

Felicity nods. “It said to follow.”

“Follow it where?” Ann peers doubtfully into the dark tunnel.

No one charges ahead. No one will be the first to push aside the foul rags and step into that narrow crevasse.

“We’ve come this far,” Pippa says. “Would you stop now? Mae? Bessie?”

Mae pulls back. Bessie shifts from one foot to the other.

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“Bit dark, innit?” Mae says.

“I think we should turn back,” Wendy whispers. “Mr. Darcy will be hungry.”

“Will you shut it about that bunny?” Bessie barks. She nods at me. “Was your idea, wuddn’t it? Findin’

this tree? You’re the one wot’s supposed to lead.”

The fetid wind blows the rags toward us. The tunnel is like a starless night. There’s no telling what could be waiting for us in there, and we’ve already experienced one hideous surprise. But Bessie’s right. I should go first.

“Right,” I say. “We go on. Stay close behind me. If I give the word, run back hard as you can.”

Wendy has found her way back to me and still clings to my sleeve. “Is it terrible dark, miss?”

It is funny that she should be afraid of the dark when she cannot see it, but I suppose that is the sort of fear one feels deep in the soul.

“Don’t worry, Wendy. I shall go first. Mercy will lead you in, won’t you?”

Mercy nods and takes Wendy’s hand. “Aye. Hold tight to me, luv.”

My heart hammers against my chest. I take a step inside. The tunnel is narrow. I can’t stand to my full height, and have to move stooped. “Watch your heads,” I call back. My hands feel their way. The walls are cold and wet, and for a moment, I fear I am in the mouth of some giant beast, and then I’m shivering all over and near to screaming.

“Gemma?” Fee’s voice. In the pitch-darkness I cannot tell where she is. She sounds miles away, and yet, I know she can’t be.

“Y-yes,” I manage to say. “Keep coming.”

I pray we’ll be through it quickly, but the tunnel seems to go on forever. I hear a faint murmur under the rock. It sounds like a snake hissing, all
s
s, though I swear I hear
sacrifice
and, once,
save us.
I can’t hear the footfalls of my friends anymore, and I’m in a panic, when at last a dim shaft of light falls. There is an opening in sight. Relief floods through me as I tumble through the slender gap, followed by my friends.

Pip wipes at the muck on her sleeves. “Horrid tunnel. I felt the hot breath of some foul thing on my neck.”

“That was me,” Ann confesses.

“Where are we?” Felicity asks.

We’ve come out on a windswept heath surrounded by a circle of stony peaks. A light snow falls. The flakes cling to our lashes and hair. Wendy turns her face up to it as if it’s a blessing.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she murmurs.

Dark, heavy clouds sit above the cliffs. Sharp veins of light pulse against them, and thunder sounds.

Through the thin veil of snow, I see it: An ancient, weathered ash tree, as thick as ten men and as tall as a
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house, rises majestically from a small patch of green grass. Its many branches stretch out every which way. It is commanding; I cannot look away. And I know that this is the tree in my dreams. This is what Wilhelmina Wyatt wanted me to find.

“The Tree of All Souls,” I say in awe. “We’ve found it.”

The snow pelts my face, but I don’t care. The magic hums sweetly inside me as if called. The sound wraps itself around my every sinew; it pulses in my blood with a new refrain I cannot yet sing but long to.

“You have come at last,” it murmurs, as softly as a mother’s lullaby. “Come to me. You need only to touch and you will see….”

Shards of lightning cut the sky around us. The power of this place is strong, and I want to be part of it.

My friends feel it too. I can see it in their faces. We put our hands to the ancient bark. It is rough against my palms. My heartbeat quickens. I shake with this new power. Overcome, I fall.

She is before me, bathed in a gentle light, and I know her at a glance. The white hair. Blue eyes. The colorful dress. The world falls away until there is nothing but the two of us burning brightly in the wilderness.

Just Eugenia Spence and me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“I’VE WAITED SUCH A LONG TIME FOR YOU,” SHE SAYS. “I nearly gave up hope.”

“Mrs. Spence?” I say when I find my voice at last.

“Yes. And you are Gemma, Mary’s daughter.” She smiles. “You are the one I’d hoped for—the only one who can save us and the realms.”

“Me? How—”

“I will tell you everything, but our time together is brief. There is only so long I can appear to you in this form. Will you walk with me?”

When I look confused, she reaches out a pale hand. “Take my hand. Walk with me. I will show you.”

My hand inches toward hers and grazes the cold tips of her fingers. She takes hold with a firm grip.

We’re bathed in a brilliant white light. It burns away, and she and I stand together on the windswept
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plain. The snow, the lightning, my friends—that all exists outside of where I am now. Eugenia is more substantial here. Her cheeks are flushed; the color warms the blue of her eyes.

“I thought you were”—I swallow hard—“dead.”

“Not entirely,” she says sadly.

“The night of the fire,” I say. “What happened after you sealed the door?”

She steeples her hands as if praying. “I was taken by that foul beast here, to the Winterlands. All the creatures had come to see the exalted Eugenia Spence, high priestess of the Order, now a lowly captive of the Winterlands. They meant to break me, to corrupt me and use me to their wicked ends,” she says, her eyes flashing. “But my power was greater than they knew. I resisted, and as punishment, they imprisoned me inside the Tree of All Souls.”

“What is the Tree?” I ask.

She smiles. “The only spot within this forsaken land that also belongs to the realms, to the Order.”

“But how?”

“If you would understand the present, you must come to know the past.” She waves her hand in a wide arc, and the scenery changes. Before us, like the image in a pantomime, is a land newly born.

“Long before we slithered, pink and mewling, into this world, the realms existed. The magic was; it came from the land itself and it returned to the land, a never-ending cycle. All was in balance. There was only one inviolable rule: The dead who passed through this world could not remain here. They had to cross or become corrupted.

“But some of the dead could not relinquish their hold on the past. Afraid, angry, they ran, taking refuge in the most desolate part of the realms—the Winterlands. But it did not kill their longing for what they could not have. They wanted to return, and for that they would need the realms’ magic. Soon, the wanting turned to coveting. They would have it at all costs. You know of the rebellion and what happened here in the Winterlands, I trust?”

“The Winterlands creatures captured several initiates of the Order and sacrificed them here. The first blood sacrifice,” I answer.

“Yes, but that is not all of the story. You must see.” Eugenia moves her hands over my eyes. When I open them, I see the young priestesses, no older than I, cowering before a band of ghastly creatures.

One priestess has escaped; she hides behind a rock, watching.

“This dagger is rich in magic,” one of the frightened priestesses says, offering the jeweled piece. “It can be shaped to any purpose you would give it. Take it in exchange for our freedom.”

The Winterlands wraith snarls at her. “You mean to placate us with this?” He grabs the dagger away. “If it is powerful, then let us put its gifts to work for us now!”

The creatures surround the cowering priestesses. The hideous wraith raises the dagger and it descends again and again, until all that can be seen of the girls is one blood-smeared hand reaching toward the sky, and then, even that falls.

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Where their blood spills, the ground cracks open. A mighty tree rises, as barren and twisted as the creatures’ hearts—and full of magic. The creatures bow before it.

“At last, we have power of our own,” the wraith says.

“It is the sacrifice that made it so,” another hisses.

“What has been forged in blood demands blood. We will offer it souls in payment, and twist its power to our needs,” the wraith announces.

“But there was one saving grace,” Eugenia whispers, waving her hand again, and now I see the young priestess still behind the rock. While the creatures revel in their new power, she steals the dagger and runs quickly to the Order. She tells the tale, and the high priestesses listen, their faces grim. The runes are constructed, the veil between the worlds is closed, and the dagger passes from priestess to priestess through the generations.

“The Order protected the dagger from all harm. And we did not dare speak of the tree for fear someone might be tempted. Soon, its existence passed into myth.” Eugenia wipes away the image with a wave of her hand. “I was the last guardian of the dagger, but I don’t know what has become of it.”

“I’ve seen it in my visions, with one of your former students, Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt!” I blurt out.

“Mina appears in your visions?” Eugenia asks. Worry limns her face. “What does she show you?”

I shake my head. “I cannot make sense of most of it. But I’ve seen the dagger in her possession.”

Eugenia nods, thinking. “She was always attracted to it, to the darkness. I hope she is to be trusted….”

Her gaze is steely. “You must find the dagger. It is imperative.”

“Why?”

Now we are on a mountaintop. The wind licks at us. It threatens to turn my hair into a lion’s mane. Far below in the valley, I see my friends, as small as birds.

“I suspect that a rebellion brews once again—that old alliances are being forged between the tribes of the realms and the Winterlands creatures,” Eugenia says. “And that one of our own has made a wicked pact in exchange for power. I didn’t believe it possible before, and that naïveté cost me dearly,” she says, and I feel shamed for what my mother and Circe did. I want to tell her about Circe, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

“But I thought the Winterlands creatures were gone,” I say instead.

“They are here somewhere, make no mistake. They have a fearsome warrior to lead them—a former brother of the Rakshana.”

“Amar,” I gasp.

“His power is great. But so is yours.” She cups my chin in her cold hand. On the horizon, the inky sky pulses with strange, beautiful lights again. “You must be careful, Gemma. If the Order has been corrupted in some fashion, they could use your power against you.”

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Electricity wounds the sky, leaving momentary scars of light upon my eyes seconds after. “How so?”

“They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. You must be vigilant at all times. Trust no one. Be on your guard. For if you fall, we are lost forever.”