Moya marveled at how normal she seemed, how informal and friendly. The infamous Tetlin Witch could have been a friend of hers, and she would have blended in effortlessly with Seph and the others.

  “This might not seem significant or important to you. Most people don’t give much thought to death. But imagine you’re happily living your life, and you go out to pick flowers or fetch a bucket of water and—bam! You die. Maybe a wild animal takes you. Perhaps you fall through ice. It could be a thousand things, some truly ridiculous, like slipping on a stone and cracking your head. The problem is, no one knew you left. No one knows where you went. They don’t find your body. You aren’t buried, and never get your stone. Next thing you know, you’re here.” She gestured at the trees with the lantern, which clanked as the handle slapped its cap. “In the case of slipping on a wet rock, you have no idea what happened. It’s possible, likely even, that you don’t realize you died. You’re lost and alone. Maybe for the first time.”

  “Can’t a person just”—Tekchin looked around the ground as they walked—“I dunno, pick up a rock, any rock?”

  “No. The dead, their spirits, can’t touch any part of Elan.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” Moya said. “How can they have the stone they were buried with?”

  “The spirit that you encountered in the swamp, he wore clothes, yes?”

  Moya and Tekchin nodded.

  “But they weren’t real, were they?”

  Moya remembered how the arrow had passed through Meeks, clothes and all, and she shook her head.

  “Those were the clothes he died in, and as I said, you take ideas and memories with you. It doesn’t take long for the spirits to reach Phyre. That’s why it’s so important to bury loved ones with a stone as soon as possible. When they reach the river’s end and feel a stone, they know they’ve died. It’s like practicing something repeatedly until, even in an emergency, you know how to react. Funerals are that way.”

  Moya imagined what it might be like to find herself holding a stone in her hand. If all else had changed, if she were cut off from the rest of the world, that stone—imaginary or not—would provide an explanation of what had happened and what to do. More than that, the stone would be a loving goodbye that could provide needed comfort at the worst possible moment. Alone, completely alone, and scared, Moya thought she’d squeeze tears out of that little imaginary rock.

  I didn’t give my mother a stone, and no one else did, either. After leaving the funeral, she just assumed someone else would take care of it. Maybe they thought it wasn’t their place, and she would come back and do it herself. After all, it was her responsibility. My mother had nothing to hold on to. How terrible was that! And she thought I’d done it on purpose, out of spite. But that wasn’t it. My mother was almost barred from an afterlife because of my oversight.

  “The ones who arrive without stones are usually those who died suddenly,” Muriel said. “They don’t have time to process the event. So they stand here, confused. I make a point of coming down this way frequently to check. A lot of times I hear crying. Men, women, children, they all do that because they don’t understand anything anymore. Others, the more adventurous ones, the ones destined for Nifrel, come right up to my house. We sit and talk. Some take only a minute to figure it out. Others sit for days until they finally pick a stone. I don’t know why, but different stones speak to different people; that’s why I have so many on hand—to make it easier. The stone remains where it is, but one that looks just like it appears in their hand and off they go down this trail. So sure, the swamp and this island aren’t pretty, but if I weren’t here, if I didn’t do this, what would happen to all of them? Being around as long as I’ve been, it’s hard to find something you can do that still matters.”

  Down they went in a long spiral that enveloped them in a deep canyon of dripping willows, thorny brush, and wispy grass. The air began to warm a bit as they descended, but with the warmth came a smell, an unpleasant stench that spoke of putrid waters, burnt hair, and rotting things. Moya couldn’t see it, but she could hear a flushing-pour splattering somewhere in the dark, a rain-induced waterfall. Then without warning, they reached the bottom.

  The trail came to an end in a dismal boggy pool surrounded by sedge, swamp grass, and lethargic cattails. The pool was little more than a puddle, just five or six feet around, and it was filled with a murky, muddy slop that stained the grass surrounding it.

  Muriel put her basket and lantern down beside the pool and waited. The rest of them displayed puzzled looks.

  Tressa was the first to ask. “Where’s the entrance?”

  “Right here,” the witch said, pointing at the muddy puddle.

  This did no more to answer the question for any of them than had she danced a jig. Muriel didn’t appear perturbed, or even surprised. Instead, she calmly opened the basket and pulled feathers from the fowl. The bird struggled and squawked violently, but Muriel held it firmly. Then she tied a bit of string around its neck from which dangled one of the little stones with a hole through the center. Without further delay, the witch yanked the duck out of the basket and dropped it into the mucky sludge.

  Even in the dark with only the lantern for light, it was easy to see the brilliant white duck as it struggled to use its webbed feet to paddle to the shore, yet it made little progress. The fowl flashed its wings and beat them in a great, fluttering effort to clear itself of the viscous slime. Instead, the duck slipped deeper and deeper into the muck.

  “Oh, Grand Mother!” Moya whispered as they all watched the duck squawking and struggling for its life. Despite its best efforts, it slowly descended deeper and deeper until only its long neck and head were above the surface. Then, tilting up in an effort to catch a last breath of air, the bird was gone, swallowed whole by the puddle.

  After it disappeared, everyone continued to stare at the pool until the witch turned around and said, “That is the entrance to Phyre.”

  “No culling way!” Moya said, her eyes wide. She began shaking her head and went so far as to take a step back. Remembering Tressa’s stupid song, she thought, Wasn’t all that crap about sinking and cackling made up to scare kids or something? This is . . . this is . . .

  Muriel placed the feathers inside her basket, adding them to the stones already there. Then she set the container on a stool. “Those going should take a stone and a feather. The stone will help you reach Phyre, help you sink. If it is possible to return, you’ll come back out this way. This mud is cold, and it’ll keep your bodies preserved beneath the surface, at least for a few days, I think. I don’t actually know. It’s not like this has ever been attempted before. When you return, hopefully they’ll be similar to how you left them.”

  “What are the feathers for?” Tressa asked.

  Muriel took one out and held it up, twirling the little white tuft. “Just as a stone is a symbol of weight, of descending, the feather is a symbol of lightness, of rising up, of restoration and redemption. You won’t have the real feathers with you, just the idea, but that’s the point. In Phyre, my neighbors tell me, ideas can be real. Mind you, I’ve never been there, and they could be lying to me, but I don’t see why.”

  Muriel replaced the feather in the basket and stood up, waiting.

  No one came near her.

  Moya was shaking her head. “There’s no way.” She looked at Roan and Gifford. “No way.”

  “What were you expecting?” Muriel asked, her casual, friendly attitude seemed decidedly less appealing in light of the duck’s disappearing act.

  “A cave or maybe a hole, but that’s—that’s—”

  “Disgusting,” Gifford provided.

  “Yes, exactly!”

  “It’s a gateway,” Muriel said, “an entrance; and all roads to Phyre are the same.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just—no. You want people to drown themselves in muck? That’s nuts,” Moya said.

  “I don’t want anyone to do anything. You’re the ones who came to me. Only the dead can enter. What difference does it matter how you die?” Muriel said this so calmly that it made Moya furious. What she heard instead was, What’s the problem, honey? Can’t make a cake without cracking a few eggs, right?

  They were all staring at the pool, and as they watched, slime bubbled up and popped, splattering sludge, burping after its meal.

  “No—see—no.” Moya was shaking her head again, but more likely she hadn’t stopped shaking it since the duck went down. She wore an all-encompassing frown, as if every square inch of her face was thrown into the effort. “Sorry about wasting your duck and all, but there’s no way. There’s just no way!”

  “It does look quite unpleasant,” Gifford said, displaying a grimace all his own.

  “I didn’t think any of you would actually go through with this,” Tesh said in a remarkably happy tone. “Though I’ll admit you had me worried for a while.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . .” Moya was still backing away. She bumped into Brin, who was standing behind her, and jumped at the contact. “Tressa, you couldn’t have been thinking it’d be like this, could you?”

  Tressa didn’t answer. She just stared at the pool.

  “So, what are we going to do, then?” Tesh asked. “There’s no sense standing here if—”

  “We just going to go back?” Gifford asked Roan. The question sounded more hopeful than disappointed.

  “I—ah,” Roan muttered. “I suppose we—”

  “Malcolm wouldn’t send us here if it wasn’t necessary,” Tressa said, a tenacious resolve anchoring her voice with a curious weight.

  Moya said, “Malcolm can fill a pig for all I care.”

  “To be fair,” Rain said, “how could you tell anyone about this?”

  “He’s right,” Tekchin added. “You really have to see it.”

  “That’s why I brought the duck,” Muriel explained. “Well, that and the feathers.”

  “We have to trust him,” Tressa said doggedly, and she took a step forward.

  “Tressa?” Moya called nervously.

  “It’s the same as it was with Raithe,” Tressa said, “only worse.” Moya realized with growing concern that she wasn’t talking to any of them. This was her own personal debate. “He knew.”

  “Tressa, what are you doing?”

  To everyone’s relief, the woman turned around, but the respite was short-lived when they saw the look in her eyes. She bent down and took items from the basket. When she stood, determination took hold of Tressa just as tightly as she gripped the feather in one hand and a stone in the other. “He did this for me. Don’t you see? To everyone else, I no longer existed. But not to Malcolm. He gave me this chance. Now it’s up to me to take it. He said it wouldn’t be easy. Said it would be harder than even what Raithe had suffered. Don’t you see? This is my chance. My one way out. If I don’t take it, what am I? What good is living the way I do? I might . . . I might as well be dead.” She took a backward step closer to the pool.

  “Tressa, don’t you dare,” Moya said.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Moya, to all of you, but that’s why he picked me. When you want to build a wall, it’s best to ask a mason. And when you need to deceive good people, you ask me. I’ll—I’ll wait a little while, in case any of you change your mind,” Tressa said, mostly to Gifford and Roan. “Then, if you don’t come, I’ll go for Suri by myself. I’ll understand if you don’t. You all have lives. It’s just me that doesn’t.”

  “Tressa!” Moya lunged forward, but she was too far away, and Tressa was at the edge of the puddle.

  Brin screamed as Tressa threw herself into the pool. She landed with a terrible plop! Given the force of her fall, and because she weighed more than the duck, she was immediately swallowed up to her waist.

  “Tressa!” Moya shouted, then turned to the onlookers, her eyes frantic. “Give me rope! Give me rope!”

  There was none to give.

  Moya searched the trees. Jumping up, she tore at vines, ripping them free. Tesh and Tekchin helped her, and together they threw one end to Tressa. By then the woman had sunk down to her shoulders.

  “Grab the vine!” Moya ordered.

  Tressa shook her head in fluttering jerks. She held her mouth stiff, eyes staring straight out, puffing rapidly through her nose. She was terrified.

  Brin fell to her knees, covering her mouth with both hands. “Tressa . . . oh, Blessed Grand Mother . . . Tressa.”

  As the dark surface of the pool inched up her neck, a smile shattered the stone hardness of her face. “Malcolm is a god.”

  She gasped one last time for air. Then as they all watched, just as with the duck, Tressa was swallowed up.

  “Tressa, you stupid bitch!” Moya was on her hands and knees, sobbing at the edge of the pool, vines still gripped in her fingers. “Why did you do that? Why?”

  She wasn’t the only one crying. Brin, Roan, and Gifford were in tears as well. Maybe they all were. Moya couldn’t tell. She couldn’t see anything clearly. But she was the loudest, no disputing that. Moya was facedown, pounding the grass with both fists, holding the sod responsible for everything. When that didn’t help, she began ripping it up by the handfuls. “Tressa, why did you do that?”

  No one said anything for a long moment, as their inharmonious mournful hitch of tears replaced the natural sounds of the pond. But maybe, Moya thought, having not remembered hearing a cricket or frog since arriving on the island, in this place perhaps sorrow is the indigenous song of night.

  Just as the sobs fell to whimpers, Moya wiped her face with the edge of her cloak. That’s when she heard Gifford.

  “Woan?”

  Roan took a step toward the pool.

  “Roan?” Moya echoed Gifford. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t let Tressa go alone.” She said it apologetically, with tears running down her cheeks.

  Everyone’s heads snapped up.

  Gifford took two stones and two feathers from Muriel’s basket and moved to Roan’s side. “I’ll go with you.”

  Roan shook her head. “No. You don’t believe in Malcolm. I can see it in your face. You’re worried, scared, terrified—you just can’t say any of those words.”

  “I don’t need to believe in him. I believe in you, Woan. And Twessa is my fwiend.”

  “Roan, Gifford,” Tesh said, “Tressa is dead. You can’t do anything more for her.”

  “She used to call you the freak,” Moya said. “Remember that?”

  Gifford nodded. “I know, but it was diffewent when she said it. Twessa knew she was a fweak, too.”

  He turned to face Roan, who looked up at him with glassy eyes, her lips trembling. “I’d die without you,” he told her. “I wasn’t alive until we touched, when you twusted me. Woan, I can’t live without it now. I won’t. I can’t.” He sucked in a halting breath. “If you leave me, I’ll die . . . might as well go to-ge-thah.”

  “Roan, Gifford, no.” Moya was shaking her head again, but this time with a slow helpless rhythm.

  “Maybe what Twessa said about Malcolm is twue,” Gifford said. “If not”—he looked at Roan with tears slipping down his cheeks—“I’ve got no we-gwets. Well, just one. I haven’t kissed you.”

  With trembling lips and tear-filled eyes, Roan pushed up on her toes. She put a hand to either side of his face and pulled Gifford to her, kissing him for the first time.

  When she let him go, Gifford smiled. “Okay, then,” he said. “No we-gwets at all now.”

  “I love you, Gifford.”

  “I love you, too, Woan. I always have. And I always will.”

  They looked at the pool.

  “Okay,” Gifford said with a firm nod and held out the stones and feathers. “To-get-ha then.”

  Roan took one of each.

  “Don’t, please don’t,” Moya said, but her voice had fallen to a feeble whisper.

  The rest of them watched in mute disbelief as Roan and Gifford took each other’s hands and waded into the pool. Slowly they began to sink, embracing once more. “Tell Frost and Flood I said goodbye,” Roan told Rain in an unsteady voice, then let out a short squeal as the slime surged up to their shoulders. And as the muck reached up to their chins, Gifford and Roan kissed once more, then slipped below the surface.

  “Tet! Tet! Tet! TET!” Moya screamed, beating the grass again. She was still on her hands and knees, but her forehead was in the dirt as she struggled to breathe. Moya sobbed horribly, then gasped and sniffled. She looked up and caught sight of Muriel still standing next to the basket. “Sorry. I’m sorry, okay? But I’m really, really unhappy right now.”

  Muriel said nothing. She had one hand up to her lips, and Moya was surprised to see tears on her cheeks, too. Crying, it appeared, was contagious, and this was one disease the Tetlin Witch wasn’t immune to.

  “Tet!” Moya slapped the ground with both hands, then got up and began looking around.

  “What are you searching for, Moya?” Muriel asked.

  “As if you don’t know,” Moya shot back.

  Muriel reached into her basket, plucked out a stone, and handed it to her.

  Moya snatched the stone away then looked at Tekchin, finding it hard to believe what she was about to say, knowing he would find it even harder to hear. “Look, you’re gonna live another couple of thousand years or so, and I would have died in a measly thirty, give or take, and that’s if I was lucky. Wouldn’t even be worth the effort, really. If you did stick around, you’d have to watch me get old. And then you’d have to watch me die anyway. You must have thought about that.”

  “I have,” Tekchin said. There was no shock, no concern in his voice. The Galantian didn’t even look sad. Everyone else was crying, even Tesh and Rain, but Tekchin was dry as a desert and not the least bit worried. His two-word reply was just as flippant as anything he ever said.

  “Okay, then.” It hurt her to see Tekchin take it so easily. She’d wanted him to take it well, but there was such a thing as being too brave. “So, you’re all set then—with this?”