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“I understand,” I say. “We shall decide on an illusion and concentrate on only that one goal. Agreed?”
Kartik nods.
“Agreed,” Gorgon hisses.
I board the ship. I place one hand on Gorgon’s thick, scaly neck and the other on Kartik’s arm. The magic stretches between the three of us. I feel as if it is a wave I sit upon and I am not sucked under by it. We are united by purpose and we share the burden equally. I imagine the Viking ship we rode in the Winterlands—the tall sails, the oars. I imagine Kartik and myself as phantoms in tattered cloaks. Our hearts beat in rhythm. When I open my eyes, we have accomplished our task. Kartik and I appear as wraiths. Gorgon is like a statue, her snakes as still as marble.
“Gorgon?” I ask warily.
“I am well, Most High. You have done well.”
“We have done well,” I say, and the satisfaction is no less for sharing it. “Let’s see what the Winterlands may be hiding.”
Gorgon guides us along the river where it winds through a canyon of black rock. Gray-green brume rises from the water. It thins as we move along, and as it does, I can see more of this strange land than I’ve seen before. Ragged flags marked with red stick up from the tops of the craggy mountains. They snap in the brisk wind, and it sounds like rifles firing. Hollows have been carved into the black rock. Gorgon glides close to one. Skulls are stacked dozens high. My heart gallops faster and faster. I want to turn back, but I must know what is happening.
A school of silver fish floats upon the water, dead.
“Perhaps it is nothing,” I say, uncertain.
“Perhaps,” she hisses. “And perhaps it is something very wrong indeed. I fear some terrible magic is at work.”
A crow circles overhead, a thick black thumbprint in the sky.
“Follow it,” I say to Gorgon.
A roaring fills my ears. We’ve come to a canyon where majestic falls border us on both sides. The water churns and we are buffeted. Kartik and I hold fast to each other and to Gorgon. Sharp rocks poke above the water and I am afraid we shall be dashed upon them, but Gorgon steers us clear, and we pass safely out of the canyon and into a shallow tidal pool glazed with ice. It is littered with bones and the carcasses of small dead animals. The cold wind cannot blow away the smell of death and decay. Small fires burn around the periphery. Smoke billows from them, thick and harsh, and I feel the burn of it in the back of my throat. A mix of ash and snow drifts down. It sticks to my skin. In the distance, an arch in the cliffs yields to the black sands of the plains.
Gorgon edges closer, and I could choke on my fear. For there behind the fires is an army of Winterlands creatures—skeletal trackers in tattered black robes, Poppy Warriors, pale creatures with skin like chalk and eyes ringed in black. So many creatures. I had not realized. This appears to be their camp, shielded as it is by the cliffs. They sit with the dead, who appear dazed and unseeing.
“Stop!” a creature to my left says, and I feel Kartik’s hand hovering near his dagger. The creature is as gray as death. He pulls back rotting lips to reveal yellow nubs of teeth. His eyelids are lined in red, but his eyes are the milky blue of Pippa’s. “Have you come for the ritual?”
Kartik nods. I pray our illusion will hold.
Six trackers emerge at the arch. “Follow!” the hideous beasts call. The creatures rise, and the dead shuffle behind as if sleepwalking. With a last glance at Gorgon’s stony face, Kartik and I join the others.
The trackers thunder over the plains and we follow. The ground crunches like shells beneath my feet. I think I see a leg bone poking up through the grit and quickly look away. Calm, Gemma. Calm. Keep the illusion.
We come to a narrow pass. Pale, skinless creatures emerge from behind the rocks and from crevices, blinking against the dim light of the churning gray sky. The creature beside us snarls and gnashes his teeth at one of the pale things, which slips back under the rock until all I can see are its blinking eyes.
The crows circle overhead, crying. They lead us out of the chasm and my pulse quickens, for we are on the heath. And there before us is the Tree of All Souls.
The Winterlands creatures gather on the plains. Kartik squeezes my hand, and I can feel his terror joined to mine. Three of the dead are brought forth—a woman and two men. Beside me, Kartik draws a short breath. Just behind the creatures, on a magnificent steed, is Amar.
“The more we sacrifice, the greater our power grows,” he thunders as the dead are made to kneel before the Tree of All Souls.
“Do you give yourselves willingly to the greater glory? Will you be sacrificed for our cause?” Amar asks them.
“We will,” they answer numbly.
“These souls are ready,” Kartik’s brother says.
The vines move like whips, wrapping around the necks of the victims, pulling them up into the tree’s expanse like puppets. Amar draws a sword from a sheath at his side. He rides out, then turns, running hard for the dead like a knight in a joust.
On the heath, the Winterlands creatures watch; some cower while others chant their approval: “Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”
As we watch in horror, Amar’s sword comes down on the dead. Kartik starts, and I hold fast to his arm. Their blood drips, and the roots accept it greedily. With a terrible scream, the souls of the victims are drawn into the enormous ash tree. Before our eyes, it grows even taller. Its mighty boughs stretch out in every direction like giant claws. The sky bleeds red.
Amar and the trackers place their hands to the tree’s twisted trunk, drinking in what power there is, while the army of creatures looks on.
