The Sweet Far Thing
Page 129

Where their blood spills, the ground cracks open. A mighty tree rises, as barren and twisted as the creatures’ hearts—and full of magic. The creatures bow before it.
“At last, we have power of our own,” the wraith says.
“It is the sacrifice that made it so,” another hisses.
“What has been forged in blood demands blood. We will offer it souls in payment, and twist its power to our needs,” the wraith announces.
“But there was one saving grace,” Eugenia whispers, waving her hand again, and now I see the young priestess still behind the rock. While the creatures revel in their new power, she steals the dagger and runs quickly to the Order. She tells the tale, and the high priestesses listen, their faces grim. The runes are constructed, the veil between the worlds is closed, and the dagger passes from priestess to priestess through the generations.
“The Order protected the dagger from all harm. And we did not dare speak of the tree for fear someone might be tempted. Soon, its existence passed into myth.” Eugenia wipes away the image with a wave of her hand. “I was the last guardian of the dagger, but I don’t know what has become of it.”
“I’ve seen it in my visions, with one of your former students, Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt!” I blurt out.
“Mina appears in your visions?” Eugenia asks. Worry limns her face. “What does she show you?”
I shake my head. “I cannot make sense of most of it. But I’ve seen the dagger in her possession.”
Eugenia nods, thinking. “She was always attracted to it, to the darkness. I hope she is to be trusted….” Her gaze is steely. “You must find the dagger. It is imperative.”
“Why?”
Now we are on a mountaintop. The wind licks at us. It threatens to turn my hair into a lion’s mane. Far below in the valley, I see my friends, as small as birds.
“I suspect that a rebellion brews once again—that old alliances are being forged between the tribes of the realms and the Winterlands creatures,” Eugenia says. “And that one of our own has made a wicked pact in exchange for power. I didn’t believe it possible before, and that naïveté cost me dearly,” she says, and I feel shamed for what my mother and Circe did. I want to tell her about Circe, but I cannot bring myself to do it.
“But I thought the Winterlands creatures were gone,” I say instead.
“They are here somewhere, make no mistake. They have a fearsome warrior to lead them—a former brother of the Rakshana.”
“Amar,” I gasp.
“His power is great. But so is yours.” She cups my chin in her cold hand. On the horizon, the inky sky pulses with strange, beautiful lights again. “You must be careful, Gemma. If the Order has been corrupted in some fashion, they could use your power against you.”
Electricity wounds the sky, leaving momentary scars of light upon my eyes seconds after. “How so?”
“They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. You must be vigilant at all times. Trust no one. Be on your guard. For if you fall, we are lost forever.”
My heart’s beating has begun to match the storm’s frenzy. “What should I do?”
Light pulses again, and I see the hard determination in Eugenia’s eyes. “Without the dagger, they cannot bind my power to the tree. You must find it and bring it to me in the Winterlands.”
“What will you do with it?”
“What I must to make things right and restore peace,” she says, taking my hand. Suddenly, we stand at the edge of a lake where the mist clears. A ferry carrying three women emerges. An old woman with a timeworn face pushes the barge along the placid water with a long pole. Another woman, young and beautiful, raises a lamp to guide their passage. A third woman stands holding a cornucopia. They move along, taking no notice of us.
“Those women—I’ve seen their likenesses on the stones that guard the secret door. Who are they?”
“They have been called by many names—the Moirai, Parcae, Wyrd, Fates, the Norn, and the Badb. We have always known them as the Three. When a priestess’s death is imminent, she walks through the mists of time and is met at the crossing by the Three, where she is granted a final request and a choice.”
“A choice,” I repeat, not understanding at all.
“She may choose to travel on their barge to a world of beauty and honor. When she has crossed safely, her likeness will appear in the immortal stones as testament.”
“So all of those women depicted on the stones…”