The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 245

“I know, but I’ll not have you wandering in the mists. Too dangerous.”

She smiles at me. “You’ve done very well, indeed, Gemma.” She turns to the Three. “I accept.”

Circe steps onto the barge.

The crone nods to me. “You have made your choice. There is no turning back now. Whatever shall happen you must accept.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then we wish you luck. We’ll not meet again.”

I step onto the muddy, mist-shrouded shore as the maiden pushes the pole against the bottom of the river and drifts off into the fog and Circe retreats into the shadows. I move slowly till my legs remember how to walk quickly, and then I am running, running with all my strength, pushing through the mist with greedy, determined steps until it feels as if I am flying. I feel the hardness of branches at my back, a sharp pain in my side. I press a hand to it, and when I pull my hand away, it’s soaked in blood.

I’m back where I was on the frozen ground of the Winterlands.

“Kartik. Kartik!” My voice is raw and weak. What little magic I have left is ebbing.

His eyes are wide with alarm. “Gemma! You mustn’t move. If your blood falls on the ground of the Winterlands—”

“I know.” With a great effort, I plunge the dagger in to its hilt and fall back, trying to get away from the tree’s muddle of roots. I keep my hand to the wound and blood trickles over my hand. The tree sways precariously. The Winterlands creatures shriek to see its mortal wound. With an enormous crack, it splits open and the magic inside bleeds out.

“Step away!” Gorgon calls, but not soon enough.

Every bit of the tree’s power flows into Kartik. His body receives the magic like one hundred blows. He falls to the ground, and I fear it has killed him.

“Kartik!” I scream.

He staggers slowly to his feet, but he is no longer Kartik. He is something else entirely, a being etched in shadow and light, his eyes shifting from brown to a terrifying blue-white. He is so bright it hurts my eyes to look. All of the tree’s power—the Winterlands magic—now lives inside him, and I do not know what this means.

“Kartik!” I reach for him, and my blood drops into the frozen soil.

“It begins again!” a tracker cries to the shouts of the others.

The injured tree’s roots come alive. They twist themselves round my ankles and climb up my shins. I scream and try to move away, but I am being devoured.

“We didn’t kill it,” I gasp. “Why?”

“It cannot be killed,” Amar thunders. “It can only be changed.”

Felicity and Ann race to pull the roots free while Fowlson hacks at them, but the new shoots are strong.

“I told you that you would bring her to us, Brother. That you would be the death of her,” Amar says sadly.

Kartik glows with power. “You told me to follow my heart,” he says to Amar, and some shred of Amar, whatever remains of him, hears it.

“So I did, Brother. Will you give me peace?”

“I will.”

As swiftly as a tiger, Kartik grabs Amar’s sword. Amar raises his arms, and Kartik pushes it through. Amar gives a great howl. The light is piercing, and then he is no more. Kartik puts his hands to my side. The magic flares to life, and we are both bright with light, dark with shadow. His strength flows into me till the Winterlands magic mixes with the Temple magic. And for one brief moment, we are a perfect union. I can feel him inside me, me inside him. I can hear his thoughts; I know what is in his heart, what he means to do.

“No,” I say. I try to break away but he holds fast to me.

“Yes, it’s the only way.”

“I won’t let you!”

Kartik pulls me closer. “The debt must be paid. And you are needed in the world. I’ve waited my whole life to feel a sense of purpose. To know my place. I feel it now.”

I shake my head. Tears burn my cold cheeks. “Don’t.”

He smiles sadly. “Now I know my destiny.”

“What is it?”

“This.”

He draws me to him in a kiss. His lips are warm. He pulls me tighter in his embrace. The roots sigh and release their hold on my waist and the wound in my side is healed.

“Kartik,” I cry, kissing his cheeks. “It’s let me go.”

“That is good,” he says. He makes a small cry. His back arches, and every muscle in his body tightens.

“Stay back!” Gorgon shouts, her eyes cool.

“Blimey,” Bessie says in awe.