The Flame in the Mist

by Kit Grindstaff

  “Then I shall learn!”

  “Indeed. But it took Ida many years. You will require time. And patience.”

  Jemma gritted her teeth; patience was not one of her gifts, she knew. “I shall learn,” she repeated. “Starting tomorrow!”

  “Wait!” Sapphire stood. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves! Lumo, training is all very well, but we must also think of Jemma’s safety. We cannot talk of such ventures while Majem’s other book is still missing! You know she said it was vital for the Fire One to have it—”

  “Majem wrote another book?” said Jemma.

  “Yes.” Sapphire started pacing by the fire. “A single small volume, written by hand. She talked of it to her son, Ruddeg, on her death-bed. She was frantic, telling him it was lost, and must be found, for it contained the key to overcoming the Agromonds and fulfilling the Prophecy. Lumo, I would be loathe to give my blessing to any of this until The Forgotten Song is found.…”

  “The Forgotten Song,” Jemma murmured, the words nibbling her memory.

  “Sapphire,” said Lumo, “Majem was old when she died, and as you know, becoming addle-headed. Ruddeg never knew whether she was telling the truth about the book or hallucinating. How many generation of Solvays have searched for it high and low? Yet none have found it. We cannot hold Jemma back for something that may not even exist—”

  “But Lumo, please! She’s only just arrived home.…” Sapphire stopped pacing, her face wan in the firelight.

  “Father, Mother!” Jemma grabbed her mother’s arm. “The Forgotten Song does exist! There’s a dedication to me in my copy of From Darknesse to Light, and it’s mentioned there. I saw it for the first time last night—it looked as though it was written in light. Majem wrote it when she was in her thirtieth year, so a long time before she’d grown old. She said …” Jemma knit her brows, trying to recall the words. “The Forgotten Song would come to me when I needed it, that was it. I must have faith in that, and trust it.”

  “But it’s such thin assurance!” Sapphire said. “Words, written in light—”

  “Sapphire, you of all people, to doubt such a thing!” Lumo put his arm around her. “I know. You are feeling that all of this is happening too fast, too soon. Wanting to wait before watching our daughter embark on such a momentous mission. I confess, I find it hard too. But we must both commend her for her courage, and learn to trust.”

  Trusssst … Jemma thought of Drudge, and smiled.

  “But … but … what if they come looking for her …?”

  “Mother,” said Jemma, “you said yourself this morning that they won’t go far out of the Mist. The sun protects us all. But I’ve just thought of something else: they think my Powers are gone! It’s perfect—I can train and practice in peace!”

  Sapphire sighed and leaned into Lumo’s shoulder. “Very well then; trust I must. We shall commence your training tomorrow. So let us all get a good night’s sleep now.”

  Well, baby brother, Jemma thought as they walked toward the inn, I’m ready to take my first steps toward fulfilling this Prophecy. Nothing will bring you back, but I’ll do my best to make things right, and show you that your waiting six days to be born wasn’t a wasted gift after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Training

  The Mist swirled and whirled, spinning Jemma upward. I have you now! it hissed. You’re mine—all mine! Noodle and Pie were whipped up into the vortex above her, their tiny limbs spreadeagled. She grabbed one in each hand and held fast. Strange words began pouring from her mouth, words she hadn’t heard in days—“Leth gith bal celde”—followed by new ones: “Cebvasya ag wonn oge …” She shot a lifeline of Light down to earth, felt the tug as it anchored to the ground, and the rush as she plummeted earthward.

  “Leth gith bal celd-e-e …” Her voice trailed into the void.

  “Mother of Majem!” Jemma sprang upright, jolting Noodle and Pie out of sleep. “I’m so tired of these dreams—every day since I started training! And now, those words again. What do they mean?” She dragged back her sheets and rolled out of bed, pulled on Digby’s old clothes—even her mother agreed they suited her better than Bethany’s cast-off frock—then stumbled down to the kitchen, the rats scampering close behind.

  Marsh was stirring a large pot, and turned as Jemma ran in. “Another dream, eh?” She put her spoon on the stove. Noodle and Pie clambered up and started licking it.

  “It was worse than ever! We were being sucked upward—me and the rats—and I kept saying these weird words. Thank goodness you taught me about the grounding cord yesterday!”

  “Seems your dreams is testin’ you, givin’ you the chance to practice what you’ve learned. When you’re in the thick of danger, see, there in’t no time to think. Everythin’ has to come quick as lightnin’. So goin’ over an’ over it in your dreams is gettin’ it into your bones. That’s good.”

  Jemma groaned and flopped into a chair. “But I wake up more tired than before I went to bed!” The strange words still echoed in her head: Leth gith bal celde …

  “You’re learnin’ fast, though, Jem. Faster’n your folks an’ me did. You’ve come a long way in less than a week. Your ma tells me you been doin’ wonders with the Light Game, controllin’ it at will now. An’ that healin’ you did yesterday on little Boris Trufold’s bloated arm …” Marsh shook her head in wonderment. “It’ll all stand you in good stead, you’ll see.

  “Now, let’s have us some breakfast. There’s nothin’ like some good nosh to— Oy, scarper, you little rascals!” She laughed, swiping at Noodle and Pie with her stump. They leapt onto Jemma’s lap and proceeded to clean their porridge-smeared muzzles.

  “These words,” Jemma said, “were a kind of chant. I’ve heard some of them before: Leth gith bal celde. I thought they were anagrams, but I’ve tried working them out at least fifty times. They’re just nonsense. Last night, there were different ones. Oh, I wish I could remember them!”

  “Breathe deep, Jem. It might help.”

  Jemma inhaled, the cinnamon smell of porridge calming her a little. “Leth gith bal celde.… Wait—Cebvasya ag wonn oge—that was it! What could it mean?”

  “No use askin’ me.” Marsh put a bowl of porridge on the table, then a second, and sat down. “I never was that good with words. They sound sort of Celdorian, though, or Russo.”

  “Good morning!” Sapphire walked in, followed by Lumo, and kissed Jemma on the cheek. “Ah, dreams again, I see.”

  “With strange-soundin’ words,” said Marsh.

  “Which I can’t understand!” Jemma thumped her fist on the table. “I feel so stupid!”

  Her father sat beside her. “Remember what we’ve told you, Jemma,” he said. “Self-blame can be the harshest enemy. It undermines you. If you’re serious about returning to the castle someday, you must overcome such weaknesses, for the Mist will detect the slightest whiff of them and waste no opportunity to weaken you further.”

  Jemma poked at her porridge with her spoon. “Stupid Mist,” she muttered. But it wasn’t the Mist that was annoying her. It was the fact that despite her progress in other ways, her father was right. She was still impatient. Impetuous. Still jumped to conclusions. (“Never assume anything,” he kept saying.) And she still got angry with herself when things didn’t come easily to her. “I just want to know what those words mean,” she muttered, trying to perk up.

  “You’ll work ’em out in time, pet.” Marsh nudged Jemma’s bowl toward her. “Now eat up. We’ve plenty of work cut out for us this mornin’.”

  * * *

  The second and third weeks rolled by. Jemma settled into her routine: mornings, Mist training with Marsh; afternoons, healing and Light Arts with her parents—all of which she enjoyed—and twice a week, what her father called “thought alignment,” which she dreaded. It was no fun being reminded about her faults. All three of them stressed that she must keep mindful of what might attack at any moment, especially Mordsprites. “They move so quickly,” her father sa
id, “that you may not even have time to put up a shield of Light against them. They’re like dark thoughts: once they catch you unawares, they’ve got you in their clutches.” The best defense was positive thoughts and feelings, which created a force field that Mordsprites hated as much as the Agromonds and their followers hated sunlight—but positive thoughts and feelings, he added, would not be so easy to access in the Mist.

  It was all exhausting. But Jemma loved evening time, which she often spent with Bethany, Moll, and their brothers. They would wander to the wheat fields and grazing grounds around Oakstead—they were thriving now that the Mist had retreated yet another half mile or so—and her new friends taught her games like tag, hopscotch, skittles, and knucklebones. By the end of the third week, Jemma felt she’d known them for years.

  On her fourth Sunday in Oakstead, a surprise came: Digby. He’d left Hazebury the previous evening and had ridden all night on his new pony—the one Jemma’s parents had given him—finding a long way around Blackwater via the Elm River Pass, to avoid being recognized by any Blackwater hoodlums. Together, he and Jemma strolled for hours by the brook. He was amazed by the sunlight and the cloud-patched blue sky, and wished his family could see it. The idea that the Agromonds and their cronies could be scared of such a thing seemed mad to him. “I’m glad, though,” he said, “if it keeps ’em away from you, an’ keeps you safe.” He was horrified when she told him about Jamem, and didn’t like the thought of her training at all—to even think of confronting the Agromonds was far too dangerous, he said, Prophecy or not. That had annoyed her, but then he’d grinned, which made her heart flip, and ruffled her hair—it had grown to a thumb’s length already, and her mother had leveled out its unruly spikes. He liked it, he told her; she no longer looked like a boy. At one point, sitting by the brook, he held Jemma’s hand—just for a moment, but her heart turned several somersaults anyway, and continued fluttering for the rest of the day.

  The only blight was the news he brought from the villages. When they were eating dinner in the inn’s kitchen with Jemma’s parents and Marsh, Lumo asked him how things were in Hazebury. Not good, he said. The Agromonds had cut everyone’s rations, including his family’s. People were hungrier than ever. In some places there’d even been protests, which had been swiftly squashed by Inquisitors.

  “You’d think nervousness an’ unrest was a disease,” he said, “the way it’s spreadin’.”

  Digby left the next morning. But although Jemma felt sad watching him gallop away, the distance between them seemed less now that he’d visited, and she felt sure he’d be back soon.

  Four more days passed. Then, on Thursday evening, came another surprise. Jemma, Ollie, and Will were splashing each other in the fountain, when two figures walked through the town gates, dragging a very tired-looking cow behind them.

  “Talon! Alyss!” Jemma ran to them and hugged them both. “And you brought Horn with you!” Although Alyss was clearly still weak, she looked so much better now, with flesh on her bones and color in her cheeks.

  They brought more disturbing news from Blackwater. People were angry that they hadn’t been given the extra rations Nox had promised. Stealing and random assaults had gone through the roof. As soon as Alyss had felt strong enough, she and Talon had fled, leaving in the dead of Monday night to avoid spies and Inquisitors. They’d walked for almost three days—Alyss often riding on Horn’s back—and fed on berries and milk. They were worn out, but after the growing unrest they’d witnessed, coming out of the Mist was nothing short of a miracle. No word of the renewed sunshine at Oakstead had reached Blackwater. Thank goodness, Jemma said. If people there knew, the Agromonds would soon find out, and realize she hadn’t lost her Powers after all.

  “Well, grisly goblins, Jemma, I think it’s amazin’—I love it!” Talon squeaked. “An’ if you can get rid of the Mist like that … well, look out, Agromonds!”

  Jemma laughed, then took Talon and Alyss by the hand and pulled them toward the Heathshire Arms. “I’ve told my parents all about you. Come and meet everyone! Ollie, Will—run and tell your folks to add to tonight’s dinner!”

  What a week. First Digby’s visit, and now Talon and Alyss were here. The echoes of growing mayhem throughout Anglavia faded in Jemma’s mind. In Oakstead, at least, life was looking up.

  * * *

  In the middle of the following week, Marsh announced that it was time to challenge Jemma’s abilities further by venturing deeper into the Mist, where it was thicker. By now, Jemma could easily expand the clear space around her by a good thirty feet, but Marsh had warned her against doing so once they were away from Oakstead and heading toward Hazebury. Instead, she had been teaching Jemma to blank her thoughts so that the Mist couldn’t read them.

  “This far from the castle, it don’t see you as a threat, see,” she explained as they rode, “so you can clear the Mist all you like an’ it don’t pay you much mind. But the closer we get to them, the more the Mist’ll be on guard. That’s its job. You go clearin’ it, an’ it’ll know you’re the enemy. But when your mind’s blank, it can’t see you. It’s like you’re invisible to it, not there.”

  “It’s the Mist that ought not be there,” Jemma grumbled. In the four-and-a-half weeks since she had arrived in Oakstead, she’d grown accustomed to the sun’s increasing presence. She loved it. Life in the thick of the Mist was a thing of the past. But coming back into it she felt the pall of it again, dampening her spirits. Accursed Agromonds!

  “Blank, Jemma! You’re alertin’ it.”

  Jemma imagined drawing a veil across her mind, dissolving every thought. Only a few days ago this had seemed impossible, but had quickly become easier. The Mist swirled around her as if she was no more danger to the Agromonds than a shrub.

  Several miles later, Marsh pulled Flashwing to a halt. Jemma drew Grayboy alongside.

  “This’ll do,” said Marsh. “How is it, coming this deep into the Mist again?”

  “It definitely felt more threatening as we got farther from Oakstead. But when I blank, it’s almost as if the Mist decides it likes me. Doesn’t it affect you, Marsh?”

  “Used to. But I trained to overcome it since I was ’bout your age, Jem. Obsessed, I was.” Marsh smiled. “Looks like you’re gettin’ the hang of it too. That’s good! So, let’s up the stakes a bit.”

  They dismounted and tethered the horses to a nearby tree, then walked off the track and into a clearing surrounded by gorse bushes.

  “Marsh, the Mist must know I hate it, so why doesn’t it attack me?”

  “It don’t care what you think of it, Jem. It’s used to people hatin’ it—to you hatin’ it. It’s made of hate, so it’s like it don’t even notice it. Its sole purpose is to defend them.” Marsh fixed Jemma’s gaze. “The Agromonds.”

  Earlier, when the Mist was thinner, Jemma hadn’t reacted at the mention of their name. Now, anger flared through her. The Mist leapt into the clear halo around her, pressing into her.

  “Deep breath, Jem. Calm yourself.… That’s it. Now, still your mind.… Blank … Good girl.”

  “Ouff!” Jemma shook herself off. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “See? That’s what we got to prepare you for. The slightest thought you ’ave against them, the Mist’ll sense quick as a flash. Then, if you don’t know how to stop it, it’ll muddle you, an’ make anythin’ bad feel bigger in your mind till you think you’re goin’ stark ravin’ mad. The more you struggle, the worser it’ll get, like you was a fly in a web. You got to keep alert, learn to be stronger than it, an’ trick it. Now, let’s try the next level. You remember what I taught you, for practicin’?”

  “Blank, then intensify, to get the Mist to suspect me, then counter—think of something I love, to confuse it—and blank again.”

  “That’s it. But don’t worry, we’ll start easy, an’ I’ll cue you at first. Right: Blank!”

  Jemma evoked the whiteness more easily than even moments earlier.

  “Good.” Marsh’s voi
ce cut into Jemma’s concentration. “Now, intensify. Think of Feo.”

  Jemma chuckled as she remembered Feo as a chubby little boy, breaking the wings off his toy Mordsprite. He’d thought it looked happier without them.

  “Jem, I said intensify! You got to rile the Mist, or you won’t get any practice. Think of somethin’ that gets your dander up about Feo. Somethin’ small, mind, to start with.”

  The spiders, that last Ceremony … Disgust at Feo fired up under Jemma’s skin. How could he have been so cruel? Mist twined around her neck and tightened like fingers.

  “Now, counter!”

  Jemma tried to fill her mind with whiteness, but she kept seeing Feo chewing the poor creatures, squashing them on the floor. Her thoughts reeled, panic rising—

  “Jem, don’t jump ahead!” Marsh yelled. “It’s no use tryin’ to blank when you’re caught up in them feelin’s! You got to counter first—think of somethin’ you love!”

  The spiders … The heat … What had happened next? Noodle and Pie … they’d come to her rescue! Gratitude flooded her. The Mist inched away. But suddenly other images invaded her mind, far worse than the spiders: skeletons, ghosts, their screams filling her head—

  The Mist was upon her again.

  “Jem, counter! Hold your Stone!”

  “I’m trying!” The Mist was strangling her, choking her thoughts. Her arms felt limp.

  “Surprise it—think of the first time you saw your ma!”

  Ma—ma—ma—ma— The word caught up with the screams in Jemma’s head, becoming harsh and shrill, like a taunt. Ma—ma—maaaaaAAA!

  “Jemma!” Marsh’s voice was barely audible through the screeching, which was like metal on metal, splitting Jemma’s brain in two. She began to shake. Standing still was unbearable—she had to escape the sound ripping through her, or she would shatter.…