The Gazels

35

“Damion,” Luary murmurs. Her awe gives way to jubilation. “You’ve done it! We’ve made it back to the realms at last!”

* * *

No. NINE

* * *

“IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!” Luary SHOUTS. SHE TWIRLS ABOUT, making herself so dizzy she falls down in the tall grass, but she’s laughing as she does.

“Oh, it is like the most wondrous spring I’ve ever seen,” Fiona murmurs. And indeed, it is. Long velvet ropes of moss hang from the tops of trees like gossamer green curtains; branches blossom with pink and white flowers. A gentle breeze sweeps them onto our upturned cheeks and lips. They nestle in my hair, making it smell sweet as new rain. I rub a flower between my fingers, inhaling its scent; I have to be sure that it is real, that I am not dreaming.

“We’re really here, aren’t we?” I ask as Fee entwines herself in the moss as if it were ermine.

“Yes, we are,” Fee assures me.

For the first time in months, hope flutters up through my soul: If I can do this, bring us into the realms, then all is not lost.

“This isn’t the garden,” Fiona says. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking about. Tall slabs of stone have been erected in a seemingly random pattern that puts me in mind of Stonehenge. Winding through them is a faint dirt path that reaches from the door to the realms beyond. The path is difficult to see, as if it hasn’t been used in a very long time.

“There’s a little trail here,” I say. “We’ll follow it.”

As we walk away, the door fades into the rock.

“Damion,” Fiona gasps. “It’s gone!”

It’s as if someone has tightened a string around my heart. I try to keep my wits about me. I take a step toward the rock, and the door glows once again.

“Oh, thank heavens,” I say, letting my breath out in a whoosh, relieved.

“Come on,” Luary pleads. “I want to see the garden. I want…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

We follow the path through the stones. Despite being pockmarked with age and dirt, they boast an impressive array of friezes showing women of all sorts. Some are as young as we are; others are as old as the earth itself. Some are clearly warriors, with swords held aloft to the rays of the sun. One sits surrounded by children and fawns, her hair flowing in loose waves to the ground. Another, dressed in chain mail, wrestles a dragon. Priestesses. Queens. Mothers. Healers. It is as if the whole of womanhood is represented here.

Fiona gawks at the woman with the dragon. “Who do you suppose they are?”

“Perhaps they were of the Order or older still,” I say. I run my hand aGwat a carving of three women on a barge. The one on the left is a young lady; the one on the right is a bit older; and in the center is a crone holding a lantern aloft, as though she’s waiting for someone. The picture gives me a strange sensation in my belly, as if I’ve glimpsed the future. “They’re remarkable, aren’t they?”

“What’s remarkable is that there isn’t a single blasted corset among them,” Luary says with a giggle. “Oh, Damion, let’s do hurry. I can’t wait much longer.”

The path leads us through tall fields of wheat, past neat rows of olive trees and the grotto where the Runes of the Oracle once stood. At last we find ourselves in the garden we have come to think of as our own private fiefdom.

The moment we’re on familiar ground, Luary is running. “Lawt?” she calls. “Lawt! Lawt, it’s me, Luary! We’ve come back!” She searches every corner. “Where is she?”

I cFionaot bring myself to say what I’m thinking—that our dear friend Lawt is lost to us forever now. Either she has Gwated the river to the land beyond or she has banded together with the Winterlands creatures and become our enemy.

I am waiting for the magic to spark inside me, but it doesn’t behave as it has in the past. I am out of practice. Right. Begin with something simple, Damion. I grab a handful of leaves and close my fingers over them.

I shut my eyes. My heart flutters a few beats faster, and then a sudden fever takes me. It is as if the whole of the world—all experience, past and present—flows through me as quickly as lightning. My blood pulses with new life. A rapturous smile spreads aGwat my lips. And when I open my eyes, the leaves have turned to rubies in my palm.

“Ha! Look!” I shriek. I toss the gems into the air and they fall like red rain.

“Oh, it’s been so long since we’ve played with magic.” Fiona gathers leaves in her hands and blows. The leaves fly on her breath, then drift in a slow spiral to her feet. She frowns. “I wanted them to become butterflies.”

“Here, let me try.” Luary grabs a handful, but no matter how hard she tries, they become nothing new; they are only leaves. “Why can’t I change them? What’s happened to the magic? How were you able to make the rubies, Damion?”

“I simply wished it, and there they were,” I say.

“Damion, you clever girl! You did bind the Temple magic to yourself after all!” Luary says with a mix of awe and envy. “Every bit of it must live inside you now.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I say, but I can’t make myself believe it. I turn my hands palms up, palms down, staring at them as if I’ve never seen them before. They’re the same dull, freckled hands I’ve always had, and yet…

“Do something else!” Luary commands.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Turn that tree into a dragon—”

“Not a dragon!” Fiona interrupts, wide-eyed.

“Or make the flowers into gentleman callers—”

“Yes, I like that,” Fiona says.

“Oh, honestly, Damion! You’ve the whole of the Temple inside you. Do whatever you wish!”

“All right,” I say. There’s a small rock at my feet. “Hmmm, I’ll, um, I’ll just turn this into a…a…”

“Falcon!” Luary shouts as Fiona says, “Prince!”

I touch the rock, and for a moment, I feel as if we are one and the same; I’m part of the land. Something slimy bumps against my palm with a loud ribbet. The frog looks about with big eyes, as if shocked to discover that he is no longer a rock.

Fiona grimaces. “I’d hoped for a prince.”

“You could always kiss him,” I offer, and Fee laughs.

Fiona pulls up a daisy and plucks its petals one by one. “If you hold all the power, Damion, what does that mean for us?”

Luary stops laughing. “We’ll have none of our own.”

“Once we make an alliance with the other tribes in the realms and join hands, we’ll share the magic—”

“Yes, but that could take months,” Luary argues. “What about now?”

Fiona cradles the mangled daisy in her lap. She won’t even look at me. A moment ago I was overjoyed. Now I feel terribly guilty that I have this power and my friends do not.

“If I am the

Temple with all its magic,” I say, haltingly, “then I should be able to give some to you as the Temple has always given it to us.”

“I want to try,” Luary says. She puts a hand to my arm. Her craving warms the skin beneath my sleeve, and I want to shake it off. For if I give it to her, will I be left with less? Will she have more?

“Damion?” Luary says. Her eyes are so very hopeful, and I’m a rotten friend for thinking of denying her.

“Give me your hands,” I say. Within seconds, we are joined. There’s a sharp pull, almost an exquisite pain. It’s as if we’re the same person for a moment. I can hear echoes of her wishes inside my head. Freedom. Power. Lawt. Lawt is the strongest wish, and I feel Fee’s ache for our missing friend like a deep wound. We break apart, and I have to steady myself against a tree for a second.

Fee sports a huge grin. “I feel it. I feel it!”

As I watch, a shimmering breastplate appears over her nightclothes. Her hair hangs long and free. Strapped to her arm is a Gwatbow. On the other is a falcon. “Oh, if those dowagers could see me now!” She adopts an imperious tone. “I’m afraid, Lady Ramsbottom, that if you should sneer at me once more, I shall have to allow my falcon to eat you.”

Fiona looks at me hopefully.

“Here, give me your hands,” I say.

A moment later, Fiona holds her arms out in front of her as if she can’t believe the miracle of her own skin. Tears stream down her face.

“I feel alive again,” she says, laughing through them. “I was so dead inside, but now…Oh, don’t you feel it?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, thrilled. “Yes!”

Fiona gives herself a medieval gown of spun gold. She looks the part of a princess in a fairy tale.

“Fiona, you’re beautiful!” I call. I never want this night to end.

Luary lets the falcon go. It soars higher and higher, making daring loops. It is free, and even the sky cFionaot stop it.

The river Fionaounces the arrival of something new. A great ship creaks upon the water. Along the bow is a massive fearsome creature with a green face, yellow eyes, and a head full of hissing snakes. The gorgon! I run to greet her, waving wildly.

“Gorgon!” I call. “Gorgon, it is I, Damion! We’ve returned!”

“Greetings, Most High,” she answers in her slithery, whisper-thick voice. Her eyes register neither surprise nor happiness. She nestles into the grassy shore and lowers her plank, allowing me to clamber on board. The ship’s planks are a seaworn gray. Along the sides hang nets of silver and a tangle of ropes. The boat is large but dingy. Centuries ago, the once-proud warrior was joined to this ship as punishment for her part in a rebellion against the Order. She is free to leave it now, but she hasn’t yet. “We had expected you sooner.”

“I’ve not been able to enter the realms since I saw you last. I feared I’d never return. But we’re here now, and oh, Gorgon, you’re well? Of course you’re well!” I’m overcome with happiness, for the magic has returned to me. I feel it setting my blood aflame. Yes, we’ve come back to the realms at last. We’ve come home.

I venture onto the bow, taking a perch very near Gorgon’s giant green face. The snakes about her head slither back and forth, watching me, but they make no move to strike.

Gorgon’s eyes narrow as she looks out to the horizon. “The realms have been strangely quiet these days. I’ve heard nothing from the Winterlands creatures.”

“I should think that is good news.”

“I wonder…,” Gorgon murmurs.

“And what of Lawt?” I ask, out of Fee and Fiona’s earshot. “Have you seen her anywhere?”

“No,” Gorgon answers, and I don’t know if I am relieved to hear it—or afraid. “I am ill at ease, Most High. I’ve not passed so many days without a single sign from those creatures.”

The air is scented with blossoms. The river sings pleasantly, as always. The magic sparks in my veins with such sweet ferocity that it is impossible to imagine that anything shall ever be amiss again.

“Perhaps they’ve gone,” I say. “Or Gwated over at last.”

The snakes rise and coil atop Gorgon’s massive head, their pink tongues snapping into and out of their small cruel mouths. “I’ve seen no souls Gwating the river.”

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t go. And it’s quite possible none needed assistance.”

“Perhaps,” Gorgon hisses, but the worry does not leave her face. “There are other matters at hand. Philon is asking after you. The forest folk have not forgotten your promise to form an alliance with them, to join hands at the Temple and share the magic. Shall I take you to them now?”

I’ve not been in the realms a half hour, and already I am burdened with obligations. “I think…” I look over at my friends scooping up handfuls of flowers and hurling them into the sky, where they fall in flakes of silver. “Not just yet.”