Mystic

 

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

 

To you, Jennifer,

Because this journey began

When we shared haikus

 

On the wind, my breath

By the light between

My eyes to far-lost Fayün

So shall I hold dear

All that lives in harmony

Within the Myst and

Carry it into the Deep

 

ONE

SPRINGRISE

On the island of Moth, under a swollen moon, Pomella AnDone stormed out of her house, slamming the door behind her. She hurried, expecting Fathir's yell to sound behind her. It was like waiting for thunder after a flash of lightning.

“You're not a jagged noble!” he finally screamed from behind the door. “Cut your hair and know your place!”

Pomella knocked aside a half-made barrel and strode away from the house, not looking back. She snatched up a wicker basket and carried it under one arm past her flourishing garden. The hateful man could choke on gunkroot for all she cared. She'd grow her hair whatever length she wanted.

All around her, the villagers of Oakspring prepared for tonight's Springrise festival. A cluster of men fed a young bonfire to push back the darkening night. A swarm of children chased one another, leaving behind frazzled mhathirs trying to bundle them up. Pomella ignored everyone, and headed toward the forest.

The bustle of village activity faded as she hiked to a nearby hill on the edge of the Mystwood. Comforting silence greeted her as she passed the tree line. The rushing flow of the Creekwaters sang to her from the far side of the hill, down in the thicket.

Pomella relaxed her heaving breaths. Tucking back a strand of her dark hair, she inhaled deeply. This place, the forest, was her solace. She'd never traveled outside the barony, but she couldn't imagine a more peaceful place on Moth. Out here, nobody would holler at her, saying it was improper for a commoner to have long hair. Nobody would—

The night erupted with howling wolves.

Pomella froze, hugging the basket tight to her body. The howls faded, replaced by the trickle of the Creekwaters and the Springrise revelry coming from her village.

Biting her lip, Pomella wondered whether she should tell the Watcherman about the wolves. Maybe he'd believe her this time. Maybe, but probably not. She looked down the hill toward the distant village. Women and men laughed around the bonfire, and somebody pummeled the drums.

With everyone here for the festival, wolves could bring a bundle of trouble for the outlying homesteads.

Assuming, of course, they were
normal
wolves.

Setting her jaw, she hurried farther up the hill to a cluster of boulders. She climbed them with long-practiced ease until she stood at their summit, overlooking the shallow valley on the far side. Moonlight blanketed the Mystwood like a lingering winter frost. She listened for more wolves, but no further howls came. Pomella inhaled deeply, savoring the night, letting the fresh air calm her.

A rush of light flashed across the treetops. Her heart raced. It came again, revealing a glowing, silvery owl, trailing wispy light that quickly vanished behind it.

A familiar tingle of fear rose within Pomella. It'd been the life of the stars since anyone believed her about seeing strange, misty animals in her garden or the Mystwood. Each time she'd told somebody, they'd looked at her like she was a dunder. It was the same reason she'd learned long ago not to talk about her books or how she sometimes tried to feel and use the Myst. If her fathir found out about either, especially the Myst, he'd ensure with a firm hand that she didn't blather about it again. Commoners were forbidden from meddling in such things.

Still, sometimes, on cool nights like this, she felt something different in the air, like a song in her chest, demanding to be sung.

She shook her head. The owl was gone, and the wolves weren't likely to be a concern tonight. Or maybe she
was
a dunder and had imagined the whole thing.

Jumping down the rocks, Pomella found her nearby drying line and snatched up the clothes hanging there. She quickly folded each garment, tucking them inside the basket. She hummed as she worked, trying to raise her spirits for tonight's Springrise festival.

Stepping barefoot across the cool hillside grass, Pomella returned to her village. But instead of heading toward the bonfire, she skirted around Goodman AnClure's smithy, its furnace banked and quiet for the night. She found a dark corner behind the thatch-roofed building and dropped the basket. Quick as a luck'n so as not to be seen, she pulled her work dress over her head and let it drop to the ground. The night air pebbled her dark, almond-colored skin and she prayed to all the Saints that spring would bring warmer weather.

This would have been easier if she'd just gone home to change, but she was afraid Fathir might still be there. That, and her brother Gabor might be lurking, and the last thing she wanted was the little twerper running off with her dress as a prank like he did last Summeryarn.

Pomella fumbled through the basket, and pulled out her Springrise dress. She'd sewn it herself in autumn, having saved her nugs and even a clip in order to afford the fabric before winter came. She hoped to Brigid the dress fit. Pomella had grown more than usual over the past year, both in height and in the chest. Blessed Saints, how she hoped she was done growing! She was sixteen and it was time to be quit of it.

When she wiggled the dress over her hips, it settled nicely, if a bit snug, over her curves. She checked the length of the long sleeves. Embroidered ivy and sunflowers wove themselves around the cuffs and hem. It would have to do. Grandmhathir had always said Pomella's best talents lay elsewhere.

“
There
you are!” called a familiar voice.

Pomella looked up as Bethy AnClure, red haired and crowned with a golden wreath of winter leaves and pine needles in the likeness of Saint Brigid, hurried over. A heavy, shamrock-green cloak hung across Bethy's shoulders, clasped in front with a pin shaped liked a Mothic knot.