The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

“It’s done,” I tell him. “Gorgon, steer us toward the Winterlands.”

Fowlson hurries to my side. “Wait! What do you mean? Where’s Sahirah?”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

I’m afraid he might scream. Howl. Curse us. Hit something. Instead, he sinks silently to the floor of the ship, his head in his hands, which is somehow so much worse.

“What can we do?” I whisper to Kartik.

“Let him be.”

Gorgon guides us along the river. Small fires burn upon the water. They blaze brightly in their smoking bowers. The flames leap and crackle, threatening us with their heat. The wind blows, peppering us with a choking ash. It is like entering the mouth of hell.

Lightning pulses behind the twisting, churning red clouds over the Winterlands.

“We are near,” Gorgon says.

Ann gasps, puts a hand to her mouth. She’s staring at the water, where the lifeless body of some unfortunate soul floats past, facedown. It bobs there for a moment, a grim reminder of our task, and then the current carries it away. But it will stay in my memory forever. The rest of us fall silent. We are crossing out of the Borderlands. We are entering the Winterlands, and there is no turning back.

Gorgon eases into the pool where we first met the army of the dead. Upon the tops of the craggy cliffs, blazes have been set. I do not want to know who set them or what might be used as fuel. The forest folk and the Hajin have pulled their boats ashore. Philon turns those cool eyes to the cliffs, searching for something.

“Which is the way to the tree?” the creature asks, shouldering a shimmering ax.

“There is a passage that way,” I say.

“Where is the teacher?” Philon asks.

“We lost Miss McCleethy to the Borderlands,” I say.

Fowlson has taken off his belt. He sharpens his knife against the leather in faster and faster strokes.

“I fear that is just the beginning,” Philon answers.

Weapons in hand, our ragged band sets off for the narrow passage that leads to the heart of the Winterlands. I plead with Gorgon one last time.

“I wish you would join us. We could sorely use you.”

“I cannot be trusted,” she insists.

I lean closer to her than I ever have before, as if I might embrace her. One of the snakes rubs over my wrist, and I do not pull away. It flicks its tongue and moves on. “I trust you.”

“Because you do not know me.”

“Gorgon, please…”

Pain shows in her eyes and she closes them to hide it. “I cannot, Most High. I shall await your return.”

“If I return,” I say. “We are outnumbered, and my magic is unreliable.”

“If you fall, we are all lost. Destroy the tree. That is the only way.”

“Will she come with us?” Ann asks when I catch up to them.

“No,” I say.

Philon glances at the unmerciful landscape—the clouds streaked with red, the unforgiving passageway ahead. Harsh, cold winds kick gritty sand into our faces. “Pity. We could use her warrior strength now.”

We crowd into the narrow canyon. A slick, pale creature slides its slimy hand from behind a rock, and I have to place a hand over Ann’s mouth to silence the scream there.

“Just keep walking,” I whisper.

Kartik squeezes back down the ranks. “Gemma, I don’t think we should come out as we did before. We’re exposed then. There’s a small tunnel that leads to a ledge behind the cliffs. It’s narrow, not easy, but from there, we can watch them, protected.”

“Agreed,” I say. “Lead the way.”

We creep along a crumbling ledge with a severe drop into nothingness. It makes my blood pound, so I keep my eyes trained on Philon’s ax glimmering just ahead. At last, we push out of the tunnel, and Kartik is right: There is a spot behind the cliff where we might hide.

“Do you hear that?” Kartik asks.

In the distance is the sound of drums. They echo off the mountains.

“I shall see,” Kartik says. He scrambles up the craggy mountain as if born to it. He pokes his head above the cliff ’s edge, then hurries down again. “They’re gathering on the heath.”

“How many?” Philon asks.

Kartik’s face is grim. “Too many to count.”

The pounding of the drums resonates in my bones. It fills my head till I think I shall go mad. It is easier not to see their numbers, not to look on the horror of them and know. But I must know. I must know. Gripping tightly to the rock, I pull myself up and peek over the rough crags that protect us for now.