The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 94

“The question is not why, Most High. The question is what. What will you do with this power?”

We’ve come to a narrow strait bordered by mossy rocks. The water shines with iridescent scales. A school of water nymphs emerges from under the current. They’re exotic creatures, half mermaid, with bald heads, webbed fingers, and eyes that show the depths of the oceans. Their song is so lovely it can bewitch any mortal, and once they have you in thrall, they take your skin.

I’ve had one encounter with those ladies and barely lived to tell it; I shan’t chance another.

“Gorgon,” I warn, moving to the nets that hang from the side of the ship.

“Yes, I see them,” Gorgon says.

But the nymphs make no move toward us. Instead, they dive under again, and I see the bow of their silvery backs as they swim away.

“That’s odd,” I say, watching them go.

“All is strange these days, Most High,” Gorgon answers, cryptic as ever.

I settle again at Gorgon’s neck. We’re nearing the Borderlands. The air is hazier here, and in the distance the sky is the color of lead.

“Gorgon, what do you know about the Winterlands?”

“Very little, and yet it is too much.”

“Do you know of something called the Tree of All Souls?”

Gorgon startles; the snakes hiss at the sudden movement.

“Where did you hear that name?” Gorgon asks.

“You do know of it! I want to know. Tell me!” I command, but Gorgon’s as still as stone. “Gorgon, you were once bound to tell only truth to the Order!”

Her lips pull back in a snarl. “Only moments ago, you reminded me of my freedom.”

“Please?”

She takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “It is only a myth passed down through the generations.”

“Which states…?” I prompt.

“It is said that hidden within the Winterlands is a place of enormous power, a tree which holds great magic much like that of the Temple.”

“But if that’s so,” I argue, “why haven’t the Winterlands creatures made use of it to take over the realms?”

“Perhaps they cannot retrieve its power. Perhaps they were stopped by the seal of the runes or the Temple.” Gorgon slides her yellow eyes toward me. “Or perhaps it does not exist at all. For none that I know have seen it.”

“But what if it does exist? Shouldn’t we venture into the Winterlands and find out for ourselves?”

“No,” Gorgon hisses, “it’s forbidden.”

“It was forbidden! But I hold all the magic now.”

“That is what worries me.”

We’ve reached the Borderlands. A light snow has begun to fall. Torches have been lit. They cast an eerie glow over the scene.

“You must forget about the Winterlands. No good can come of it.”

“How would you know? You’ve never seen it,” I say bitterly. “No one has.”

“None who can be trusted,” Gorgon answers, and at once, I think of Circe.

“Gemma!” Felicity yells from the shore. She’s in her chain mail, and Pippa wears her beautiful cape and they both shine like borrowed jewels.

Gorgon lowers the plank for me. “Most High, the sooner you can make the alliance and share the magic, the better.”

She stares intently at the sky toward the Winterlands.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

The snakes move restlessly. Gorgon’s placid face darkens. “Trouble.”

“Hooray! Our Gemma has returned,” Pippa says, half dragging me into the forest, where the girls have set up a game of croquet. They take turns with their mallets. Ann lounges on a blanket of silver threads. She plucks them like a harp and beautiful music drifts over to us. Wendy sits stroking Mr. Darcy’s fuzzy head.

“How were the horrid forest folk?” Felicity asks as she prepares to take her shot.

“Angry. Impatient. They think I will betray them,” I say, settling next to Wendy and Ann.

“Well, they will just have to wait until we’re ready, won’t they?” Felicity knocks her ball cleanly through the hoop.

“Bessie, when you were with the three girls in white on your way to the Winterlands, did they mention the Tree of All Souls?” I ask.

Bessie shakes her head. “They wasn’t the chatty sort.”

“And you’ve still not seen any Winterlands creatures?” I ask them all.

“Not a one,” Pippa says.

I want to be comforted by this, but a small voice deep inside reminds me that Pippa and the girls are still here, and beneath that glamour they wear, their cheeks are pale, their teeth sharp.