Drudge opened one yellow eye. “Jmaaaagh! Help—”
Jemma spotted an edge of white porcelain under his pallet: his chamber pot. “Sorry, old man,” she said, grabbing it. “I can’t risk you sounding the alarm.” For a second, his eyes met hers, and he seemed suddenly meek; just very old and tired, and not sinister at all. She felt a pang of guilt. Then panic took over, and she swung the pot onto his head. Foul-smelling liquid spattered her dress. He groaned and fell back onto his straw pillow.
“Sorry,” she whispered again, then took off across the kitchen, her pouch banging against her hip as she ran. The book, food, and knife inside it were heavy, but she was glad she had them. Halfway down the South Corridor, she remembered something else: the two crystals. She checked her pockets: empty. “Oh, no! They must have fallen out while I was asleep.…” For some reason, she felt sad about leaving the crystals behind, but it was too late to go back for them now.
She stopped at the first of the three locked doors. Noodle and Pie ran to and fro across its threshold as Jemma fumbled with the keys. Most were shiny and smooth from recent use, but three were lumpy and covered with rust—the three, Jemma guessed, that she needed. The first was too big; the second, too small. The third slipped into the lock, and turned with surprising ease. She looked down at the rats, who stared up at her, unblinking.
“What is it?” she whispered, pushing the door open.
A faint sound began echoing in her head: high, distant squeals. As she stepped inside, her boots crunched onto something brittle. She looked down. Thousands of small bones were strewn everywhere—tiny mouse- and rat-sized rib cages and skulls—and whole skeletons nailed to the walls in tortured positions: bats and birds, their wings tattered by years of decay.
Jemma reeled back in dismay. “Ugh! You were trying to warn me, Rattusses, weren’t you?” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, the poor things …”
She and the rats ran along the corridor to the second door. Her hand shook as she tried the first, then the second of the remaining keys. Neither worked. She tried the first again, using both hands to turn it. The lock gave slightly, then shot back. Noodle and Pie started dashing across the threshold again.
“You know there’s something bad, don’t you?” Jemma whispered. “But what if the escape tunnel is in here?” She pushed the door, but something behind it prevented it from opening. The rats nipped at her feet, squealing. The echoes in her head began again, closer now, and lower in pitch. She leaned harder against the door. Slowly, it scraped open.
What met her eyes was more horrific than she could have imagined. Countless small human skeletons were grouped together in twos and threes, some whose arm bones embraced another; others with finger bones entwined. Several behind the door looked as though they’d been trying to claw their way out.
“Oh, no … No!” Jemma leaned against the door frame as the horror sank into her, and she held her head to stop the voices. The screams that had haunted her dreams for so long. Children, calling for help. Were these their remains? How long had they been here? Her stomach heaved.
Noodle and Pie clawed at her ankles. But Jemma’s legs felt leaden, and she couldn’t move. Pie clambered up to her shoulders, leaned around her neck, and nudged the Stone. Jemma closed her hand around it. Its energy infused her. Pie jumped back down to the ground, and the three of them set off again. Through the kitchen. Along the West Passage. Into the Vat Room. Across it was the third and last locked door. The final key slid easily into the lock as if it was well-oiled and ready for her, and the door swayed open into a long corridor, curtained with cobwebs. At the far end, she could just make out another door.
“Thank goodness—that must be it!” Jemma slipped the key ring around her wrist, leather strap dangling, and ran, the rats bounding alongside. The walls on their right were interspersed with glassless, barred windows through which rain teemed from outside, puddling at intervals along the floor. She slashed through the cobwebs as she passed the first three windows, then the fourth, the fifth, the sixth.…
A swooshing sound swept up from behind her. Black wings swooped at her and swiped at her cheeks. Noodle and Pie clambered to her shoulders and struck out at the creature as Jemma grabbed it and wrenched it away from her face. A gray beak jabbed at her hands, drawing blood. Jet eyes blazed at her, full of malice.
“Rook!” Jemma stopped and tore at his feathers. He screeched in pain but kept beating his wings, trying to peck her neck. “You foul creature! I don’t want to kill you, but you give me no choice!” She reached for the knife in her pouch, but Drudge’s keys, clanking on her wrist, gave her another idea. In one deft motion, she slipped her hand free of the key ring and whipped its leather strap around Rook’s legs, then tied it to the bars of the seventh window. Rook flapped furiously, wings slapping the stone walls as rain sheeted onto him from behind. “Struggle all you like, wretched bird!” she said, knotting the strap securely. “You won’t get free. Now, hang on, Rattusses.”
The rats clung to Jemma’s shoulders as she took off, Rook’s caws fading behind them. But his presence meant Nocturna wouldn’t be far behind. Jemma ran as never before, past the eighth window … the ninth, tenth.… The opening at the end of the passageway was getting closer. They were only seconds from it.…
Wham! A portcullis slammed down in front of them.
“No!” Jemma hammered at the iron bars with her fists. “Not now! Mother of Majem!”
A deafening boom rang out: the single stroke of three-thirty.
Light flickered behind them. Footsteps and rustling silk approached. Jemma clasped her Stone and tugged, breaking the fine chain holding it around her neck, then turned. Nocturna was speeding toward them, lamp in hand, the angles of her face sharp in its light. Her four black weasels trailed her like malevolent shadows. Jemma backed into the portcullis, Noodle and Pie quivering into her neck.
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 t
oward 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.
CHAPTER TEN
The Littlest Dungeon
Monday, early hours
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.
The Flame in the Mist Page 6