The Flame in the Mist by Kit Grindstaff

Author:Kit Grindstaff [Grindstaff, Kit]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-97914-8
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Final Hours

Mord-day, wee hours/dawn

They walked past the shacks in silence. There was no point avoiding the main road, Talon had said: Who would expect fugitives to be in plain view? In any case, nobody would dare suspect the Chief Inquisitor’s daughter. She was right, it seemed. Several packs of youths rode by, laughing and yelling; then a few girls about Digby’s age rattled past in an old cart, chattering wildly. Nobody stopped to question Talon or her companions, but Jemma kept her hood up, just in case.

Soon, the rain let up, and Jemma told Digby about Nox’s speech, and how at nine the following morning—the last moment she could be Initiated by her true parents—the Agromonds would declare victory. He nodded, purse-lipped, looking strained under the weight of the saddlebags. She could tell he was still upset about Pepper, though he was trying not to show it, even pointing out that they’d have been more noticeable on horseback.

As they walked, the truth of her situation sank in. It was one thing to wonder whether her Powers would be gone if she wasn’t Initiated, but knowing for sure was far worse. It was all over. Anglavia would never be free of the Agromonds and their Mist now. Gloom gnawed into her bones. She wished Digby would say something. Didn’t he realize how serious things were?

He knows. Pie crawled to Jemma’s shoulder and nuzzled her ear. Feels he let you down.

Oh.

The shacks behind them, they came to the fork in the road, and trudged on. Another band of marauders rode by on ragged-looking ponies, jeering as they passed—at least ten or twelve of them, including two girls. A stench of stale beer trailed in their wake, turning Jemma’s stomach.

“Wicked lot,” Talon mumbled, wringing out her soaked skirt. “Good thing you’re with me, or they’d attack yer jus’ for the fun of it.”

Digby shifted the saddlebags to his other shoulder. “How much farther, Talon?”

“Just up ’ere, then left by the yew tree.” She sighed. “Home sweet bleedin’ home.”

“Why not leave?” Jemma asked, then immediately felt foolish. It’s not so easy, she thought. I should know.

“Leave?” Talon said. “Wish I could. But Ma’s sick. Nothin’ infectious, mind,” she added hurriedly, “jus’ … well, sick in her spirit, is what I think. It’s been years. She can’t hardly move any more. Married to my pa, an’ havin’ six other bairns, each one of ’em dead before a year old, it’s took its toll. I’m all she’s got. So I in’t goin’ nowhere without her.”

“Oh, Talon …” Jemma took Talon’s hand, her own problems seeming to shrink slightly. “And to think you have to deal with Lok, as well.”

Talon shrugged. “Don’t see that much of ’im these days. Keeps ’im away, Ma bein’ like she is. Somethin’ to be thankful for, I s’pose. Look, here’s the yew. This way.”

She turned along a narrow path, which led through a grassy marsh. The three of them walked in single file, their footsteps falling into a rhythm. Jemma’s cloak had already dried her, and she lent it to the others, who soon dried as well.

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