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Fowlson puts his arm around her shoulders.
“What is happening?” Ann asks, cradling a handful of broken blossoms.
“Most High!” Gorgon slips into view on the river. She is alive and unharmed. I’ve never been happier to see her.
Fowlson takes a step backward. “Wot the ’ell is that?”
“A friend,” I say, running for the river. “Gorgon, can you tell us what is happening? What you’ve seen?”
The snakes of her hair hiss and writhe. “Madness,” Gorgon says. “All is madness.”
“It’s war, then?” Miss McCleethy says.
“War.” Gorgon spits the word. “That is what they call it to give the illusion of honor and law. It is chaos. Madness and blood and the hunger to win. It has always been thus and shall always be so.”
“Gorgon, we must get to the Tree of All Souls. We mean to take it down. Is there a safe passage to the Winterlands?”
“No place is safe now, Most High. But I shall take you down the river all the same.”
We set sail. The river does not sing softly today. It doesn’t sing at all. Some places have escaped the ravages of the Winterlands creatures. Other spots have not been as lucky. In those places, they’ve left terrible calling cards—spikes with bloodied flags, reminders that they will show no mercy.
When we pass the Caves of Sighs, several of the Hajin peek out from their hiding places. Asha waves to me from the shore.
“Gorgon, over there!” I call.
We pull to the shore and Gorgon lowers the plank so that Asha may board. “They ride everywhere,” Asha says. “I fear they have ridden to the forest folk.”
“What is that?” Kartik asks as we near the golden veil that protects the forest folk from view. Black clouds stretch across the river like a scar.
“Smoke,” I answer, and my heartbeat quickens.
We crouch low on the barge, holding our hands over our mouths and noses, and still we gag in the thick, dark air. Even the veil is choked; it scatters gold-flecked soot on our bodies. And then I see: The beautiful forest is aflame. The huts burn and smoke. The flames ravage the trees till they seem to bloom leaves of red and orange. Many of the forest folk are trapped. They scream, not sure where to turn. Mothers run for the water with crying children in their arms. The centaurs gallop for those left behind, scooping them up and heaving them onto their backs as they run for their lives.
“They can’t see,” Kartik says, coughing. “The smoke is too heavy. They are confused.”
“We have to help them!” I scream, trying to stand. The heat is fierce. It sends me gasping back to the floor of the ship.
“No, we must reach the Winterlands and chop down the tree!” Miss McCleethy shouts. “It’s our only hope.”
“We can’t leave them like this!” I yell, but even as I do, a wayward spark finds my skirt and I must beat at it frantically to put it out.
I hear a splash. It is Asha. She is off the ship and walking through the water toward the shore. Bodies are thick here, but she pays them no mind. “Here!” she calls, waving her arms so that she can be seen through the smoke. The forest folk run for her and the safety of the river.
Under the heavy layer of smoke, they are able to find their small boats. They board them and paddle out to the river and away from the ruins of their once beautiful homeland.
Philon rides to the edge of the water, and Gorgon brings us closer. “The Winterlands creatures came. They rode fast and hard.”
“How great is their army?” Kartik asks.
“Perhaps a thousand strong,” Philon answers. “And they have a warrior with the strength of ten.”
Kartik kicks the ground. “Amar.”
Fowlson narrows his eyes. “Amar’s fightin’ for those creatures? I’ll cut ’im apart.”
“No,” Kartik says.
“’E’s not one of us anymore, brother. Let ’im go,” Fowlson says, and it is almost kind.
