This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2013 by Kit Grindstaff
Jacket art copyright © 2013 by Chris Rahn
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grindstaff, Kit.
The flame in the mist / Kit Grindstaff. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Jemma finds herself in a race for her life when she discovers an ancient prophecy that reveals the truth about her past and an unimaginably great and dangerous destiny—to defeat the evil Agromonds and restore peace and sunlight to Anglavia.
eISBN: 978-0-307-97914-8
[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Prophecy—Fiction. 3. Fate and fatalism—Fiction.
4. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.G88448F1 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012004546
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment
and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Jemima and Oliver,
who make my world a brighter place
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: The Sometime Long Ago Root of Revenge
Part One: Agromond Castle Chapter One: Mord Dawn
Chapter Two: Scagavay
Chapter Three: Port in a Storm
Chapter Four: Deception
Chapter Five: The Conversation
Chapter Six: Goodbye, Marsh
Chapter Seven: Alarm
Chapter Eight: Birthright
Chapter Nine: Behind the Third Door
Chapter Ten: The Littlest Dungeon
Chapter Eleven: Rite of Passage
Part Two: Agromond Forest Chapter Twelve: In the Shadows
Chapter Thirteen: The Hollow
Chapter Fourteen: Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen: Wild Woman
Chapter Sixteen: The Dead of Night
Chapter Seventeen: Lair
Chapter Eighteen: The Aukron
Chapter Nineteen: Bryn
Chapter Twenty: Identity
Chapter Twenty-One: At the Edge
Part Three: Roots Chapter Twenty-Two: The Storehouse
Chapter Twenty-Three: Fire-Branded
Chapter Twenty-Four: Darkness Gathering
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Dark Place
Chapter Twenty-Six: Rally
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Final Hours
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Light Games
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Clock
Chapter Thirty: Bloodlines
Chapter Thirty-One: Threads
Chapter Thirty-Two: Jamem’s Gift
Chapter Thirty-Three: Training
Part Four: Return Chapter Thirty-Four: Called
Chapter Thirty-Five: Mord Defenses
Chapter Thirty-Six: Preparing
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Closing In
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back in the Fold
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Secrets in Vellum
Chapter Forty: The Eve of Destruction
Chapter Forty-One: Feo
Chapter Forty-Two: Turning Tides
Chapter Forty-Three: The Darkest Hour
Chapter Forty-Four: Saeweldar
Chapter Forty-Five: Dawn
Chapter Forty-Six: Let There Be Sun
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue:
The Sometime Long Ago
Root of Revenge
“Help me—help!” A weary voice from outside. A fist, hammering on the door.
The boy turned from the fire and the potion he was stirring. Who would call at this hour, before dawn had yet dusted the town rooves? He ran to the door and flung it open.
A girl stood on the step. She was wild-haired and filthy, silken robes hanging in rags from her small frame. She could not have seen more than twelve winters, perhaps thirteen. The same as he.
“Help me, I beg of thee,” said she, breathless as a hunted fawn, “for I know not where else to turn.…” In her black eyes, he saw the horrors she had witnessed: the killings, the terrors of her flight—
He clamped down his thoughts to prevent himself from seeing more, and reached out his hand. As she took it, he noticed the Stone hanging around her neck, its blue-green blaze promising magic. But the gold crest embroidered on the shoulder pouch she carried made his heart freeze.
The Agromond crest. The girl was an Agromond.
She saw him looking, and turned the pouch around to hide the crest. “I have no more use for my family’s evil ways,” she whispered. “That part of my life have I left at the castle. Would that thou believ’st me!”
Everything about the girl told him she spoke the truth. Her eyes. Her aura. The softness of her touch.
“I believe you,” he said. “Come. Warm yourself by our hearth.”
The instant she stepped over the threshold, Visions tumbled through his head. He saw all that her Gifts would now bring to the service of healing and Light, instead of to the Agromonds and their Darkness. And he also saw the terrible events that would unfold because of her betrayal of her family. Greater poverty. Greater misery. The Mist spreading, covering the sun. The Agromonds, meting out their fury on the Anglavian people for generations to come.
Then far, far in the future, another girl flickered into his mind’s eye. One with fiery-colored hair like his own. One through whom the Agromonds would attempt to take out their greatest revenge, and achieve their greatest gain. Yet she would also be a danger to them—
His Vision clouded. He could not see the outcome. But he wished fervently that there was something he could do to help her. For he knew in his bones that she would be the only hope for peace and prosperity to reign once more.
“The Fire One,” he murmured as he settled his beautiful, ragged guest by the hearth. “Thus shall this future one be known.”
He glanced out of the window and saw tendrils of Mist snaking through the streets, contaminating the light of dawn.
CHAPTER ONE
Mord Dawn
“No!” Jemma’s eyelids sprang open. That dream again. Always the same urgency, the same terror, the children’s voices calling her, Jemma—help us, help! This time, though, something had changed. She strained to remember what was different, but the fragmented details flew around her head like startled sparrows, too fast to catch.
Gradually, her heartbeat slowed, and she sat up, blinking her small, stone-walled room into focus. Though it wasn’t yet light, she had eyesight like an owl’s and could easily see the carved chest opposite her bed, the rickety chair under the window. On the wardrobe door hung the gray woolen dress, stiff and obedient, that Marsh had ironed the night before. Beneath it, a pair of black leather shoes sat on the floor like two lurking beetles. Her best clothes, reminding her: it was Mord-day, the day of her family’s weekly Offerings to their dark Ancestors. As if that weren’t bad enough, today’s Ceremony was to be special, to prepare for her thirteenth birthday tomorrow. She groaned, and slid out of bed.
The air was colder than usual, and she went to the window to
close it. “Vile Mist,” she muttered, gazing out at the swirling gray. “I wish you would go away!” Wind swayed the pine tops. Sweet thirteen, it seemed to whisper. Thirte-e-en … Something needled her memory, other whispers from her dream: You’re mine—all mine! She slammed the window shut.
“I am a Fire Warrioress, the fiercest in the land!” she gasped. “Evil, evil, go away, cast out by my hand!” The secret incantation she’d made up when she was six and had first seen her flame-red hair in the mirror usually bolstered her, but today the words felt empty and powerless. She gulped down her unease, then noticed a scrabbling sound moving up the chair and onto the window-sill. Four ruby dots glinted at her; two whiskered snouts twitched in the dim, dawn light.
“Hello, Noodle, hello, Pie.” Jemma picked up the rats and held them to her chest. “You’re as nervous as I am today, aren’t you?”
Noodle and Pie quivered, and Jemma held them tighter, feeling their tiny heartbeats flutter in her hands. She kissed their heads, remembering the first time they’d appeared two years ago, when she’d been feeling particularly gloomy. Golden-haired rats, unlike any she’d ever seen—they were special, that was obvious. They had cheered her up then, and had been cheering her up ever since.
Noodle licked her nose, his gaze flickering to the door. Footsteps approached.
“Marsh, already?” said Jemma. “That’s odd. It can’t be eight o’clock yet.”
The rats scampered down Jemma’s nightshirt, hopped to the floor, and skittered under the chest. The door creaked open and the lamp-lit face of a small, middle-aged woman peered in.
“Marsh!” Jemma’s heart lifted as always to see her erstwhile nurse. “You’re early!”
“Shhh!” Marsh shot a glance over her shoulder, then bustled into the room, closed the door, and put her lamp on the chest. She gave Jemma an uncharacteristically quick hug, her plump cheek warm against Jemma’s, then took both her hands. “Listen, pet, careful-like. You must come to my room, tonight. No matter what.”
“Tonight? But you know how tired the Ceremonies make me—”
“Jus’ do it, Jem. It’s important.”
Nerves paddled Jemma’s stomach. Normally, she loved sneaking up to Marsh’s tower room after dark and listening to her stories, but clearly this was different. What could be so pressing? Outside, wind whistled through the pines. “Thirteen,” she murmured. “It’s something to do with my birthday, isn’t it? Something— Oh!” All at once, images crashed into her head.
“What is it, Jem?” Marsh fixed Jemma’s gaze. “That dream you keep havin’?”
“Yes. No. I mean, yes. There’s the Mist as usual, and the screams, but there’s more to it … a woman’s voice, singing in the background … so beautiful! I’ve dreamed about it before, I think, but never remembered till today. Then … a man. Young. Dressed like in olden times, but ragged and desperate-looking, and … he’s coming through the Mist to get me!” More images came, faster and clearer. “The screams are getting louder … everything’s going dark—and the Mist! So thick, and sticky! It’s sort of hissing, saying, Sweet Thirteen! You’re mine! Sweet Thirteen! Marsh, it was horrible! I felt as though the Mist wanted to swallow me!”
Marsh paled. “Shush now, pet,” she said, gathering Jemma into her short arms. “Shush. It’s all right. There’s reasons this is happenin’ now.… I’ll explain tonight.”
“What reasons? Tell me now—please!”
“T’ain’t safe now, Jem.” Marsh pulled back. “Walls have ears, remember? So later, when they’s all in bed. An’ more’n ever, don’t let none of ’em know. I’ve noticed your words comin’ looser an’ more heated recently. You must mind your tongue, I mean it. Think before you speak, an’ before you act.”
Jemma nodded, her head swimming with Mist, the man, and screams.
Clang! The first toll of eight.
“I must be off.” Marsh squeezed Jemma’s hands. “Now, remember the Light Game. It can’t help if you don’t think of usin’ it. I’ll see you tonight. Without fail, mind—”
Clang!
“I’ll be there, Marsh.”
“Good girl.” Marsh patted Jemma on the cheek and slipped from the room, closing the door behind her as the West Tower bell continued its doleful countdown to breakfast time.
As usual, Jemma was first to arrive in the Repast Room. On every other morning of the week she had the onerous task of helping Drudge in the kitchen. He was more ancient than anyone could remember, and Jemma found him revolting. But today, as on every Mord-day, she was spared from her duties, and so the long oak table was already laid, the candelabra lit, and a steaming tureen of porridge set by Jemma’s place, next to a pot of mauve tea.
She walked to the table and sat with her back to the fire. Across the room, beyond leaded window-panes, gray tree silhouettes hugged the crag outside. What would they look like, she wondered, if the Mist wasn’t there, and the forest surrounding Agromond Castle was like the places that Marsh described in her stories? Places flooded with sunshine, where rivers sparkled with sky-blue reflections, and green fields shone in clear, golden light. Hundreds of years ago, Marsh said, even Anglavia had been like that. Before the Mist came and shrouded everything—
“Dreaming again, Jem-mah?” Jemma’s older sister, Shade, strutted into the room. Her hair hung like curtains on either side of her face.
“Yes, dreaming again?” Feo loped in behind his twin. “Do share, Jemma.”
“Thinking about her fantastic Offering, I expect,” Shade sneered. She took her place opposite Jemma and flicked back her hair, revealing the red, diamond-shaped birthmark on her left cheek.
Jemma gritted her teeth. Shade and Feo, no doubt, had been practicing their Offerings as usual—unlike her. She’d have to face her mother’s fury. Again. “I’ll be fine,” she muttered.
“Of course you will.” Feo grinned, the birthmark on his face—like Shade’s, but smaller—elongating. He slumped his long limbs into the chair next to his twin and shoved his cup toward Jemma. “Tea, sister, if you don’t mind.”
Jemma poured them each a cup of Drudge’s special brew, and swigged hers in a single gulp. Usually, its citrus scent calmed her, but today it had no effect, and the caustic look Shade was giving her only made her anxiety worse. Then another scent invaded her nostrils: their mother’s Eau de Magot perfume, gusting in through the door.
“Good morrow, children.” Nocturna Agromond swept into the room, trailing her crimson Mord-day robes. Four black weasels slithered close behind. Her ever-present Rook was perched on her right shoulder, feathers fluttering. “And how are we all today?”
“Wonderful, Mama,” said Shade and Feo.
“Yes. Wonderful,” Jemma mumbled.
“Go-o-o-od.” Nocturna settled into her carved chair at the end of the table, her black eyes flashing at Jemma. Jemma’s stomach shrank. Over the past year or two she had felt increasingly as though her mother was watching her, waiting for some misstep. She forced a smile, and tried not to think of the Ceremony ahead.
The castle bell tolled once: eight-thirty.
“Good morrow, all.” Nox Agromond strode in, sweeping his dark hair back with one hand, his Mord-day cloak breezing behind him. “I trust you slept well, Nocturna my dear?”
“Like the dead, Nox.” Nocturna’s familiar joke raised a titter from Shade and Feo.
“Splendid.” Nox sat at his end of the table, and winked at Jemma. She winked back.
“So, let us begin.” Nocturna said. “Jemma dear, do serve, if you would?”
Always me, Jemma thought as she ladled out the porridge. Never the twins. It’s not fair.
The family munched in customary silence. Jemma ate her bowlful slowly, gradually uncovering the Agromond crest: a black Mordsprite, wings folded, ringed by hemlock and the family motto: Agromondus Supremus. Agromonds rule. She stared at the letters and reordered them in her head to see how many words she could make: grand, groan, mouse, demons …
“A groat for your thoughts,
Jemma.” Nocturna’s deep velvet voice wafted down the table.
“I expect she’s planning her Offering, Mama.” Shade turned to Jemma. Got you again, her smirk seemed to say. “It had better not be like last week’s, Jem-mah. I’m rather bored of you turning dust into butterflies and silly little things like that.”
“And I’m rather bored of you needling me, Shade!”
“Well, never mind,” Shade scoffed. “It won’t matter after tomorrow.”
“Shade!” Nox and Nocturna spoke together, their eyes snapping to Shade of one accord.
Jemma’s nerves jangled. “After tomorrow?” she said. “Why won’t it matter?”
“I … um …” Shade’s birthmark darkened. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”
“Apologize to your sister, Shade,” Nox said, scowling at her. “Such tiresome jealousy!”
“Sorry, Jem-mah.” Shade looked daggers at her.
“Well,” Nocturna said, rapping her fingernails on the table. “We still await our special delivery, do we not? Where is that, what’s his name, Goodbellows?”
“Goodfellow, my dear. He’s sending his boy. He should be here at any moment.” Nox turned to the door. “Ah, here he is now. Enter, boy.”
Digby? Here, on a Mord-day? Jemma’s heart skipped a beat.
“Beggin’ your pardons, sir, ma’am.” Digby ambled in. “Mr. Drudge asked me to bring this up to you. Wolfsbane, cut fresh today, as requested.” He placed a small packet next to Nox’s elbow, and caught Jemma’s eye. She looked down, trying not to smile. None of her family knew about her friendship with him. Like her nighttime visits to Marsh’s room, it was her secret, and she looked forward to Tuesdays, when Digby and his father delivered groceries to the castle.
“Thank you, boy.” Nox tucked the packet inside his waistcoat.
“Good day to you all.” Digby glanced at Jemma again, his blue eyes making her heart skip, then tipped his cap, and left.
Nocturna blotted her mouth with her napkin. “Scruffy young ruffian! Imagine, dressing like a scarecrow to come here. He should have worn his Mord-day best.”
The Flame in the Mist Page 1
