The Sweet Far Thing
Page 51

“I am unbothered by the maternal instinct,” she purrs. With that, the snakes settle into rest. The gorgon closes her eyes and speaks no more.
The floating lights that live in the forest beckon for us to follow. They lead us through tall trees that smell of Christmas morning. The spiciness makes my nose run. At last we reach the thatched-roof huts of the village. A woman the color of twilight plods past carrying buckets of glistening rainbow-hued water. She catches my eye, and quick as you please, she changes in appearance till I am staring at my own reflection.
“Gemma!” Ann cries.
“How did you do that?” I ask. It is odd to have two of me.
She smiles—my smile on another face!—and transforms once more, becoming an exact replica of Felicity, with the same full mouth and pale blond hair. Felicity is not amused. She picks up a rock and palms it.
“Stop that this instant or you’ll be sorry.”
The woman slides into her twilight self. With a sharp cackle, she hoists her glistening pails and walks away.
Philon greets us at the edge of the village. The creature is neither man nor woman but something in between, with a long, lean body and skin of dusky purple. Today Philon wears a coat of fat spring leaves. Their deep hue brings out the green in its wide, almond-shaped eyes.
“So you’ve come at last, Priestess. I had begun to think you’d forgotten us.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” I mumble.
“I am glad to hear it, for we would hate to think you’d prove no kinder to us than the Order priestesses who came before you,” Philon says, exchanging glances with Creostus.
“I’ve come,” I say.
“Let’s not tarry here exchanging pleasantries,” Creostus snarls.
We follow Philon’s willowy, graceful form into the low thatched-roof hut where we first met. It is as I remember it: sumptuous pallets sit on a floor made of golden straw. The room holds four more centaurs and a half dozen forest folk. I do not see Asha or any of the Untouchables but perhaps they are on their way.
I take a seat on one of the pallets. “There was a woman who transformed into me before my eyes. How could she do that?”
“Ah. Neela.” Philon pours a red liquid into a silver chalice. “She is a shape-shifter.”
“Shape-shifter?” Ann repeats. She’s having difficulty balancing on the pallet. She topples into me twice before finding a level spot in the middle.
“We had the ability to change into other forms. It served us well in your world. We could become any mortal’s fantasy. Sometimes the mortals chose to follow us into this world, to become our playthings. It did not sit well with the Order and the Rakshana.” Philon tells the tale with no apparent regret or remorse whatsoever.
“You stole mortals from our world,” I say, horrified.
Philon sips from the chalice. “The mortals had a choice. They chose to come with us.”
“You enchanted them!”
A smirk pulls at the corners of Philon’s thin lips. “They chose to be enchanted.”
Philon has been our ally, but I find this knowledge disturbing, and I wonder just whom I’ve made promises to.
“That power died out in many of us from lack of use. But it has remained in some, such as Neela.”
As he says this, the twilight woman enters the tent. She looks from us to Philon and Creostus and says something to Philon in their language. Philon answers in kind, and with a suspicious glance in my direction, she takes her place beside Creostus. She places a hand on his back and rubs his soft fur. Philon crosses the room in two long strides and settles into a large chair made of palm fronds. As we watch, the creature lights a long, slender reed and draws deeply from it until its eyes are soft and glassy.
“We must discuss the future of the realms, Priestess. We gave aid to you when you needed it. Now we expect payment.”
“It is time to make the alliance,” Creostus thunders. “We would go to the Temple and lay hands together. The magic will belong to each of us then, and we will govern ourselves as we see fit.”
“But there are other considerations,” I say, the knowledge that they took mortals for their own amusement burdening my mind.
“What considerations?” Philon asks, cocking an eyebrow.
“The Untouchables,” I say. “Where are they? They should be here.”
“The Untouchables,” Neela spits. “Bah!”
Philon exhales and the room grows hazy. “I sent word. They did not come, as I knew they would not.”
“Why?” I ask.