The Sweet Far Thing (86 page)

At the East Wing, we abandon caution and stumble in. We stand on the half-finished turret, hidden by the ragged stone. Across the lawn, I see the riders fanning out, blocking all hope of escape. They call to the Poppy Warrior who guards the secret door.

“They are inside,” he shouts gleefully.

“Then they are trapped,” one of the trackers whispers fiercely. He rides toward the kitchen door we opened earlier. He’ll find us soon. And he’ll bring the others. We are well and truly stuck.

“Gemma,” Felicity says, her eyes wild with fear.

There is scratching at the entrance to the East Wing. They wait on the other side of that door.

Kartik takes hold of my hand, squeezing it. Fowlson joins hands with Miss McCleethy.

“I won’t let it get you, Sahirah,” he says.

I hear Ann’s breath catching on her fear.

“Wish I had my sword,” Felicity whispers. Then she adds a soft prayer under her breath: “Pippa, Pippa, Pippa…”

“Take my hands,” I say.

Kartik is puzzled. “What—”

“Take my hands and don’t let go!”

“Do not employ the magic now, Miss Doyle. It isn’t wise,” Miss McCleethy says.

“We’ve no choice,” I answer. “I shall try to summon the door.”

“But you’ve not been able to do it these months,” Ann says.

“It’s time to try again,” I answer.

The shrieks from the lawn shudder through us. “What if you can’t?” Felicity whispers.

I shake my head. “I can’t think about that. I shall need everyone’s help. Put your hands on mine,” I say.

When I feel the weight of them, I close my eyes and concentrate, marrying my need to my purpose.

“Think of a door of light.”

I hear the scratching at the East Wing doors. The caws overhead as the crows beat near. They’ve found us.
Purpose, Gemma. The door of light, the door of light, the door of light.

Soon, the familiar tingle begins. It is but a halting trickle at first but it grows to a hum and then a racing
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whoosh that makes every part of me come alive. The force of it blows my hair back from my face with its warm breath.

When I look, the door of light is there, waiting.

“You did it, Gemma,” Felicity says, looking relieved.

“No time for congratulations,” I say. “Go!”

I open the door and we race through nearly in a clump just as the trackers break through the East Wing doors. They howl and it makes my blood turn cold.

“Gemma!” Ann shouts.

“Close now!” I call on the magic once again, and thank goodness, it doesn’t fail me. As the door of light disappears, the last thing I see is the rider in his long, tattered robe, his teeth bared in a chilling snarl. “Rot in hell, you miserable beast,” I pant.

“It’s already
in
hell. We have to keep hell from getting any closer,” Kartik says, pulling me on.

We run into the realms as fast as we can. “We don’t have long. They’ll get through the other way. We must go to the garden and find Gorgon,” I say, trying to catch my breath. My lungs are on fire.

“Wait!” Kartik says. “We don’t know what we’ll find there. Perhaps I should run ahead to see.”

“Agreed,” I say. I would carry on, but there is truth to what he says, and I can scarcely breathe. Corsets were not meant for running.

“I’ll go wif you, mate,” Fowlson says, looking around in wonder.

Grudgingly, Kartik nods, and the two of them run ahead.

Exhausted and peevish, we sit and wait, hiding under the cover of a large rock. Ann hasn’t left the comfort of Felicity’s side. It is tenuous comfort but she craves it. Weary from the chase, I settle myself on the ground and stare out at the bleeding horizon.

“Why did you not tell us you’d seen such things?” McCleethy says, gasping for breath. But it is a rhetorical question. She knows why. Her dark hair is half free of its bindings. It blows wild in the gusty wind. “We created order out of chaos. We made beauty and shaped history. We kept the magic of the realms safe in our grasp. How has it come to this?”

“You’ve not kept it safe. You’ve kept it to yourselves.”

She shakes her head to dismiss the thought. “Gemma, you may still use the power for much good. With us to help you—”

“And what, pray, have you done to better the lot of others?” I ask. “You call each other sisters, but are we not all sisters? The seamstress ruining her eyesight to keep her children in porridge? The suffragists fighting for the vote? The girls younger than I who would ask for a living wage, whose working conditions are so deplorable they were locked in a burning factory? They could make use of your precious help.”

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She holds her head high. “We would have done so. In time.”

I snort in disgust. “It is daunting to be a woman in
any
world. What good does our power do us when it must be kept secret?”

“You would prefer bold voices to illusion?”

“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 NOlonger 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.”

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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.

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“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.

Under the heavy layer of smoke, they are able to find their small boats. They board them and paddle out to the river and away from the ruins of their once beautiful homeland.

Philon rides to the edge of the water, and Gorgon brings us closer. “The Winterlands creatures came.

They rode fast and hard.”

“How great is their army?” Kartik asks.

“Perhaps a thousand strong,” Philon answers. “And they have a warrior with the strength of ten.”

Kartik kicks the ground. “Amar.”

Fowlson narrows his eyes. “Amar’s fightin’ for those creatures? I’ll cut ’im apart.”

“No,” Kartik says.

“’E’s not one of us anymore, brother. Let ’im go,” Fowlson says, and it is almost kind.

Asha pulls a body from the river. The creature is injured; she vomits water as we pull her onto Gorgon’s ship. It’s Neela.

“Let me alone,” she croaks, seeing Asha’s hands on her arms. The creature shifts from her dusky lilac form to Asha to me to Creostus and back to herself effortlessly. It’s as if her body cannot control the function.

Asha’s voice is firm. “You were the one who killed the centaur, weren’t you?”

Neela coughs up water. “I do not know what you say. You lie.”

Philon’s eyes gleam in understanding.

Asha will not let go. “You put the Hajins’ poppies in his hand so that we would be blamed.”

This time, Neela does not try to deny it. “What of it?”

“Why did you do it?” Philon demands. The blaze from the forest flickers shadows across the high planes
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of that extraordinary face.

“We needed a reason to go to war. You would not have gone without it.”

“So you invented a purpose?”

“I did not invent it! The purpose has always been! How long have we lived without magic of our own?

How long would you let them deny us? They hold it all. And the filthy Untouchables were put above us!

But you would not strike. You have always been weak, Philon.”

Philon’s eyes flash. “You wish it so deeply you would kill one of our own?”

Neela struggles to sit. “There is no progress without cost,” she says defiantly.

“The cost is too great, Neela.”

“One centaur for the rule of the realms? It is a small price to pay.”

“We might have been alert to true danger rather than chasing shadows. And now we are without a home. Our people dead. Our integrity ruined. Before, we had that at least.”

Neela shows no remorse. “I did what was necessary.”

“Yes,” Philon says grimly. “As I must now.”

Neela shakes and shivers; her lips turn as light as the skin of grapes.

“She’s suffered a terrible shock,” I say. “Someone must stay with her.”

“Let her die,” Philon says.

“No,” I say. “We can’t allow that.”

“I shall stay with her,” Asha says, volunteering.

“What if the Hajin kills Neela?” one of the centaurs asks.

Philon’s answer is as cool as those glacier-like eyes. “Then that is the price she pays for her crimes.”

I look to Asha for some reassurance that she will not harm Neela, but her face betrays no emotion.