The Flame in the Mist (8 page)

Nocturna flicked the rats to the ground and grabbed Jemma by the collar. “So, you thought you could escape, did you, my sly vixen? Oh, you put on a fine show earlier—changed, indeed!” She fingered Jemma’s throat. “Where is the Stone? Tell me!”

“I’ll never give it to you. Never!”

“Yes, you will, Mord take you,” Nocturna said, gripping her harder, “if I have to kill you to get it.”

“Much good it’ll do you if I’m dead!”

Nocturna’s grip loosened slightly. Seizing her chance, Jemma grabbed Nocturna’s wrist with her free hand, pulled it to her mouth, and gnashed into it. Nocturna screamed, pulled away, and dropped the lamp. Glass shattered. The light flared, then burned out.

“Why, you—”

Jemma and the rats pelted back along the corridor toward Rook’s caws. He was soaked, and flapped with less fervor now, but four dark shapes slithered in front of Jemma, crashing
her to the ground. The Stone was jolted from her hand and slid across the floor, out of reach. Two of the weasels clamped their jaws around her ankles; the other two made a beeline for the rats.

“Noodle, Pie, run!”

“Caw! Caw!”
Rook beat his wings with renewed vigor from the next window.

“Rattusses,
run
!”

One of the weasels had Noodle by the leg. Noodle whipped around, bit its nose, and wriggled free. But Pie was caught, squealing in agony. Noodle clawed the weasel’s face, but it held fast.

“No-o-o!”
Jemma grabbed the two weasels at her ankles and squeezed their necks. They hissed, their mouths falling open. She hurled them against the wall and leapt onto Pie’s attacker, pressing her fingers into its jaws and forcing them apart. Pie plopped to the ground.

“Quickly, Noodle, Pie,
go
!” The weasel snapped its needlelike teeth, shredding Jemma’s fingers. She held on to it—but the other three were snaking toward the rats. Jemma kicked them, giving Pie just enough time to drag her blood-soaked body into a crevice, pulling one limp leg behind her, with Noodle nosing her on.

Jemma’s Stone glowed from a dark rain puddle on the floor, several feet from her. She crawled toward it, fingers and ankles raw from weasel bites.

“
Jem
-mah! Don’t think you can be victorious over me.”

Jemma looked up. Nocturna, lampless, was stumbling along the corridor. Had she seen the Stone? The weasels had, and were slinking toward it. Jemma sprawled forward and
slapped her palm onto it. But Nocturna’s foot crunched down on her knuckles, just where the weasel had bitten. Pain leapt up her arm. Rook cackled and flapped.

Nocturna towered over Jemma and stretched down one hand, palm upward.

“Now,” she said. “I want it,
now
.”

“You’ll have to fight me for it!”

“Then fight we shall—”

“CAW!”

Nocturna turned. “Oh, my poor Rook!” She stepped toward him.

Jemma’s fingers closed around her Stone. The pain in her hands and ankles ebbed slightly.

“You cruel witch!” Nocturna grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. “How could you do this to my helpless bird?”

“
I’m
cruel? What about all those skeletons? Those children!”

“Untie him!”

“
You
untie him—”

“Untie him, I said!” Nocturna shoved Jemma toward the window. “No—wait! First, give me my Stone.”

“
My
Stone, you mean!” Jemma clenched both her fists, the Stone hot in her right hand. The pain subsided a little more. Energy inched through her. She tried to wrench free, but Nocturna’s hand was twisted in her hair, holding fast.

“Mord take you, Jemma!” Her face purple with rage, Nocturna plunged her free hand into Jemma’s pockets. “Where is it? Give … it … to … me!”

“Never!”

Nocturna’s groping hand found the knotted fabric around Jemma’s waist.

“
Aha!
And what do we have there, my wicked one? Some rag left for you by that Marsh woman, no doubt.” She yanked the pouch around to Jemma’s front with one hand, still clutching her hair in the other. “Hidden the Stone in there, have you?” Jemma kicked and bit, but Nocturna kicked back as she ripped at the pouch’s knots with her nails. The knots loosened, spilling the food packages and knife onto the floor. “So, you planned your escape well, Jemma. And what’s this?”

She pulled out the book, then dropped it with a yell of pain. Her hand rose up in livid blisters: the book had burned her. Furious, she kicked it into the shadows.

Jemma clutched her Stone. Its Power inched through her.

“What evil have you done to me, you ingrate?” Nocturna snarled. “I’ll make you pay!” She twisted Jemma’s hair more tightly and thrust her blistered hand into the now-empty pouch. “Where
is
it? It must be here!”

“It’s
mine
, and you’ll never lay your hands on it again!” Jemma’s scalp felt as if it was about to be ripped from her head. But her Stone’s Power was building in her. It was almost enough to wrench Nocturna’s fingers from her hair—

Nocturna’s nails tore at the lilac fabric, shredding it.

“No—don’t!” Jemma said, trying to push Nocturna’s hand away.

“And why not?” A sneer spread across Nocturna’s mouth, then she wrenched the shawl from Jemma’s waist, held it out of her reach, and let it fall. It fluttered to the flagstones like a mortally wounded butterfly. Nocturna ground it with her heel. Jemma gripped the Stone as hard as she could, but her
attention was caught, and her strength dwindled with every twist of Nocturna’s foot on the shawl.
It’s just a bit of fabric!
she thought, frantically trying to regain control.
Why should it matter so much?

“I’m losing my patience,
Jem-
mah.” Nocturna moved her face up to Jemma’s, her sneer folding back into a snarl, like a hyena about to devour its prey. “Do I have to call upon a little help, perhaps, for you to be persuaded?” She threw her head back and laughed, then said, slowly,
“Morda-morda-mordalay …”
The stone around her neck began to glow blood-red, and as it did, Jemma’s Stone cooled in her hand.

No, don’t desert me now, please!
she begged silently.
Please … help.…
But her faith was draining, and all help seemed to have gone. The book was splayed open on the ground, ordinary and old. She was lost. Defeated.

“Nocturna, Jemma!” Nox’s voice boomed through the shadows. “What in Mord’s name is going on?” Lamplight flickered. Nocturna turned toward it, and Jemma saw her chance. She thrust a fisted hand past Rook and out of the window, hurling her Stone into the stormy morning air.

Nocturna and Nox marched Jemma down the Corridor of Dungeons. At the end they stopped. Nocturna shoved her through an iron-barred door, clanged it shut, and locked it.

“You have little more than five hours to tell us where the Stone is, my fine wench,” Nocturna snarled, nursing her wounded hand, “else things will be the worse for you. And don’t think you can get the better of Drudge again. I shall be keeping the keys from now on.” She turned and stormed away.

Nox gripped the bars of the door, his face haggard. “Jemma,” he sighed. “I don’t want to see you in here, but you give us no option. Just tell us where the Stone is—come join us! We can have fun again, be a truly happy family, with no more secrets—just your Powers, combined with ours—”

“Never!”

“Please, think about it. Please! Pretend, even, and at least continue to live with us as you have been—”

“Pretend? Like you, you mean, pretending I was weak and sickly to keep me inside, and imagining I’m your twin sister?”

Nox’s face turned ashen. “Oh, Jemma, Jemma,” he said,
“if you knew what a cruel thing you say! Yes, it’s true that you remind me of my twin. Malaena … But she died when we were four. It’s you
—you
, Jemma—whom I care for now.” A tear glinted in the corner of his left eye.

Jemma felt a stab of guilt, then fury took over again. “And do you expect me to believe that your lovely birthday Ceremony wouldn’t kill me if I wasn’t really on your side? Just like all those others you murdered! I saw their bones. I know what you’ve done, you and Nocturna—”

“No, no! We haven’t … not for years—”

“Why? Because you were afraid I’d find out, and be so disgusted with you all that you’d lose the chance of … of
converting
me?”

“Yes—no … I mean, I would never hurt you, Flamehead! You belong here, you do! Why—the Mark … your birthmark … It shows you
are
one of us!”

Jemma’s words stuck in her mouth; her head spun. The Mark? He and Nocturna had mentioned that earlier. It couldn’t mean she was one of them, could it? Surely it was just a coincidence! Cruelty felt wrong to her. Helping those bats—that was what had felt right. Yet she had been unkind to Nox, just seconds ago. Did that mean—?

“I see you are wavering,” Nox said. “I knew it! My dear Jemma …”

Rage seized her again.
His
dear Jemma? Whoever she really was, he and Nocturna had ended that life. Ripped her from it. And for what?

Nox was smiling now. “Oh, Flamehead, think of how marvelous everything will be when you are truly one of us.…”

“Ruling over all of Anglavia?” Jemma clenched her fists.
“And … and … with just the occasional sacrifice of some insignificant little creature or other?”

“Yes—yes! It’s not too late! Come to our side. Nocturna would not harm an Agromond ally!”

“And that,” Jemma said slowly, “is something I can never be.”

Nox’s eyes hardened, and his expression twisted, sending chills through Jemma’s bones. “After all these years of my love, my nurturance!” he said. “Very well, Jemma. Have it your way. But know that you have just sealed your fate.” He turned and stalked away.

Jemma shook like syrupwater jelly. Fear brought pain back into her weasel-bitten fingers and ankles. What did he mean, she had sealed her fate? Then it hit her: without her Stone and her Powers, they had no reason to keep her alive. She had let her tongue run away with her—just what Marsh always warned her against!—and the Ceremony tomorrow would probably be the death of her. What if she
had
pretended, as Nox suggested, in order to save herself? No, no—she couldn’t live here, in this dismal, evil place! Not now. Not without Marsh. She would rather die.

She looked around the stone cell, less than six feet square, with its mildewed walls and single wooden bench. How often had she played in the dungeons with Digby—in this very cell, even, pretending to be imprisoned, and he her rescuer? What a cruel irony that was now! She kicked at the door, and shook the bars.

Clang!

The bell sounded deeper in the bowels of the castle. Another toll followed, then two more. Four in the morning. Only five hours until the Ceremony. Jemma slumped onto the
bench and buried her face in her hands. Remember courage? The Light Game? Marsh’s advice was powerless to ease the terror gripping her bones, let alone dissolve solid walls and steel.

“I’m sorry, Marsh,” she whispered, tears trickling between her fingers. “I tried.” She lay on the bench and closed her eyes, and felt her life dribbling away like the damp on the dungeon walls.

Black swirled around her. “I am not your sweet thirteen!” she screamed. “I hate you! I hate your Mark! May the Sun burn you up!” Then came a dim light, and a woman shimmered through it, draped in the lilac shawl—the same woman Jemma had dreamed earlier, her face now full of sorrow. “Don’t give up!” the woman pleaded. “Please …”

Darkness closed in again
.

“Jmmmaaaagh!” A voice wheezed through the gloom. She was suffocating, cold water splashing over her—

Jemma woke, gasping for breath. Fabric filled her nostrils. Fabric, and dust, and a faint floral scent … The lilac shawl! She snatched it off her face, sneezed, and opened her eyes. The shawl was in her hand, tattered after Nocturna’s assault on it, and Noodle was lying on her chest. He was dusty and covered in scratches.

“My poor Noodle! That horrid weasel … Thank goodness you’re all right. And you brought the shawl … but where’s Pie?”

More water splashed onto her. “Jmmmaaaagh!”

Jemma jumped. Drudge was standing outside the dungeon, wearing a long cloak she had never seen before. He held a half-empty tumbler in one hand, Pie in the other.

“Drudge! Don’t hurt her!” She leapt to her feet and went to the bars.

Pie sat quietly in Drudge’s palm. The vicious wounds inflicted on her by the weasel in the corridor were now mere scabs. Drudge placed the tumbler on the cross-bars of the door, then ran his free hand over Pie, inches from her fur.

The scabs vanished.

Pie leapt onto Jemma’s shoulders, nudged her cheek, then scampered to the ground and onto the bench next to Noodle, who was scrabbling at the wall.

“Drudge … you just healed her!”

Drudge nodded, then stretched his hand toward Noodle. Noodle’s fur shimmered; his scratches closed over. Amazed, Jemma turned back and looked at the old man. He was wheezing heavily.

“Efff … fort,” he explained. His eyes were watery and clouded over, with a faraway look in them that made Jemma feel strange, as if he, like her, dreamed of distant places. A large bump was peeking through his wispy hair, like a mountaintop through clouds.

“Drudge, I’m sorry about hitting you with the chamber pot,” she said, remorse prickling her skin.

“Guilt, baaad.” He looked at Jemma’s torn fingers and shook his head. “Weazzl baaad!”

“How did you know the weasels did that?”

Drudge smiled and tapped his forehead. Then he took her hands in his. At any time before, Jemma would have pulled away, but now she was transfixed. Warmth spread through her body; the soreness in her fingers subsided. He released them. The wounds had completely healed, and the weasel bites on her ankles were also free of pain.

“Drudge! How did you
do
that?”

“You … let me,” he said.

Jemma thought of all the times she had been disgusted by the old man, and felt ashamed. Perhaps she really
was
bad, having such horrid thoughts about him.