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“No, you’re wrong,” I say. “She was only a girl.”
Mae will not see it any other way. She grabs handfuls of rotting berries and swallows them, calling Pippa’s name like a prayer after each one. She holds fast to her belief; she doesn’t want to know that she’s been misled, that she’s abandoned here, alone, with no one to guide her but her own heart.
Bessie runs after me. “Can I come?”
I nod. She’s a brawler, and we might have need of one.
I catch up to Felicity.
“Fee…,” I start.
She wipes her nose on her sleeve, turning her head away from me. “Don’t.”
I should leave her to it, but I can’t. “She was gone for some time. You were the only force that kept her from turning completely. That’s magic. Perhaps the most powerful I’ve seen.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
GORGON HASN’T WAITED FOR US TO RETURN. SHE HAS sailed after us, and now she waits for us on the river. Kartik takes one look at Felicity’s tear-streaked face and lets well enough alone. He and Bessie size each other up, and she moves onto the boat without a word.
“It’s done,” I tell him. “Gorgon, steer us toward the Winterlands.”
Fowlson hurries to my side. “Wait! What do you mean? Where’s Sahirah?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
I’m afraid he might scream. Howl. Curse us. Hit something. Instead, he sinks silently to the floor of the ship, his head in his hands, which is somehow so much worse.
“What can we do?” I whisper to Kartik.
“Let him be.”
Gorgon guides us along the river. Small fires burn upon the water. They blaze brightly in their smoking bowers. The flames leap and crackle, threatening us with their heat. The wind blows, peppering us with a choking ash. It is like entering the mouth of hell.
Lightning pulses behind the twisting, churning red clouds over the Winterlands.
“We are near,” Gorgon says.
Ann gasps, puts a hand to her mouth. She’s staring at the water, where the lifeless body of some unfortunate soul floats past, facedown. It bobs there for a moment, a grim reminder of our task, and then the current carries it away. But it will stay in my memory forever. The rest of us fall silent. We are crossing out of the Borderlands. We are entering the Winterlands, and there is no turning back.
Gorgon eases into the pool where we first met the army of the dead. Upon the tops of the craggy cliffs, blazes have been set. I do not want to know who set them or what might be used as fuel. The forest folk and the Hajin have pulled their boats ashore. Philon turns those cool eyes to the cliffs, searching for something.
“Which is the way to the tree?” the creature asks, shouldering a shimmering ax.
“There is a passage that way,” I say.
“Where is the teacher?” Philon asks.
“We lost Miss McCleethy to the Borderlands,” I say.
Fowlson has taken off his belt. He sharpens his knife against the leather in faster and faster strokes.
“I fear that is just the beginning,” Philon answers.
Weapons in hand, our ragged band sets off for the narrow passage that leads to the heart of the Winterlands. I plead with Gorgon one last time.
“I wish you would join us. We could sorely use you.”
“I cannot be trusted,” she insists.
