The Sweet Far Thing

“There is no time. We must go now.”

I think of Ann and Felicity inside the realms. “I have to—”

He hands me a strip of soggy fabric from Kartik’s cloak. It has been branded with the Rakshana insignia. Fowlson.

“Take me,” I say, for if I can get to Kartik, he can help me with my friends.

I follow Ithal through the rain to where Freya waits. My legs are weak, and I stumble once or twice. Ithal’s eyes are so ringed in shadow they seem hollow.

“Where have you been?” I ask again. “Mother Elena has been terribly worried.”

“The men came for me.”

“Miller’s men? You must tell Inspector Kent! He will not let it stand,” I say, helping myself onto Freya’s back.

“Later. We must go to him now.”

He swings himself onto the horse, behind me, and I feel the coldness of him at my back. With a small kick to the horse’s flanks, we are off. Rain lashes my cheeks and soaks my hair as we gallop into the woods, turning left at the lake. The horse stops suddenly, spooked. She whinnies loudly, pacing before the edge of the water, sensing something.

“Freya, kele!” Ithal commands.

The horse will not go on. Instead, she pats her right hoof on the ground and sniffs at the water’s edge, as if searching for something she has lost.

The Gypsy gives a sharp tug on the reins, and Freya turns away, picking up speed until she is in a full gallop that makes my heart pound in rhythm with the strike of her hooves against the road. I can feel the night’s breath on my neck. Only small flashes of lightning brighten the path ahead of us.

We turn off at the graveyard. The sky’s an angry throb of light and sound. Freya weaves between the headstones. Her hooves catch in the mud, and she pitches me dangerously close to the sharp edge of one. I scream and cling to Ithal’s shirt as he rights her, guiding the horse onto a grassy path, which she takes at a more cautious clip.

“Where are we going?” I shout.

The storm is coming down heavier than before. It blinds me and I have to tuck my head to keep the water from my eyes. Ithal answers, but I can’t hear over the pounding of the rain.

“What did you say?” I ask.

It sounds like humming or praying. No, he’s chanting. Words fly past as fast as rain on wind, filling me with an icy dread.

“A sacrifice, a sacrifice, a sacrifice…”

The piece of cloth turns to snakes in my hand. I scream and the snakes turn to ashes. Just ahead, mounds of earth sit on either side of an open grave. Ithal steers Freya straight for it, gathering speed. I jab him with my elbows, but he doesn’t stop. With all my might, I pitch myself from the horse’s back. I land hard against the wet earth just as Freya screams and tumbles into the open grave. I do not hear her hit bottom.

I struggle to my feet, feeling my muscles pinch as I do. My legs will bear my weight, but they ache, and my shoulder and left arm are in agony. Trembling, I peer around the headstone, and the ground is as solid as can be.

I choke back a sobbing laugh, and will myself to wake again in my bed, but I don’t. “You’ll wake soon, Gemma,” I tell myself as I hobble through the dark graveyard. “Just sing something to help you through. I had a l-lass in Lincoln-sh-shire, sold mussels from a pail…”

I pass a headstone. Beloved Wife. “S-sold m-mussels f-from a-a…”

Thunder breaks. It makes my teeth chatter. “F-from a p-p-pail…”

Something blocks my path. A flash of lightning splits the sky, illuminating Ithal. Where his eyes should be, there are two deep black pits.

“Sacrifice…,” he says.

I cannot move, cannot think. My legs are frozen in fear. I try to summon the magic, but I’m exhausted and afraid, and it will not come. A voice booms inside my head: Run. Run, Gemma.

Fast as I can, I bolt away from him, running through a labyrinth of headstones as the sky explodes in thunder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ithal vanish behind a marble angel and reappear on the other side. He is gaining ground. My nightgown is sodden. It slaps against my already weak legs, slowing my gait with its weight. I pull frantically at it, hoisting it to my knees to run faster. Ithal moves steadily behind me. By the time I reach the lake, each breath feels like a razor’s edge slicing through my lungs.

At last, I see it: Rising above the trees is the silhouette of Spence with its ornate, twisted spires. There’s something odd about it. I can’t say what. All I can do is run. Strong moonlight pushes the clouds apart.

The roof is empty. The gargoyles are gone. They are gone, and I feel the earth slipping from beneath me. Ithal is coming faster, closing the gap between us, and I stumble on. My lungs feel as if they will explode.