Atlantis in Peril (2 page)

The Song

J
oin us?” asked Escholia, surprised. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Sammelvar ran his fingers through his white mane. “Honestly, my love, I don't know. But he's already so upset with me, I doubt it will make things any worse.”

Seated between her parents, Jaladay turned to each of them, viewing them with her second sight. But she didn't speak.

“I know,” said Sammelvar ruefully, “Promi doesn't want to talk about anything. At least not with me. He's made that very clear. But we
do
need to talk about the veil. It grows weaker by the day . . . and he insists on continuing to travel through it.”

“Haven't you already warned him?” Escholia questioned. “Made the dangers clear?”

The elder spirit nodded his head. “I've done everything short of banning him from all travel outside the spirit realm.”

“I doubt even that would work,” commented Jaladay. She stroked the tail of her sleeping friend, Kermi. “He's just determined to keep going to Earth.”

“Yes,” replied Sammelvar. “To visit his friend.”

“Her name,” declared a new voice, “is Atlanta.”

All of them turned to see Promi, striding toward them across the cloud. Though purple honeyscent flowers bloomed all around, filling the air with their sweet aroma, he didn't pause to enjoy them. Nor did he take the time to notice that each flower was actually a miniature world, complete with creatures, buildings, and flowering meadows of its own.

Promi's parents stood up to greet him. So did Jaladay, after gently setting Kermi down on the cloud so he could stay asleep. Yet the young man's expression remained grim. As he joined them, he looked at Sammelvar and demanded, “Am I in trouble again?”

Calmly, Sammelvar answered, “Just because I sent a wind lion to find you doesn't mean you're in trouble.”

“It does if the wind lion is my old friend Theosor and he gives me a look that says
you'd better be careful
.”

Before Sammelvar could reply, Escholia said, “It's good to see you, Promi.”

Tossing his long black hair, he answered, “Is it really?”

Escholia moved to his side and gave him an awkward hug. Then, peering at him with her misty blue eyes, she declared, “No matter what you may think, Promi, we are always glad to see our son.”

Jaladay raised her hand, trying to signal to her brother not to say the words she could tell he was thinking. But Promi ignored her warning.

“If you're always glad to see me,” he grumbled, “then why did you send me away as a child?”

Taken aback, Escholia blinked the mist from her eyes. “We did what we needed to do to save you.”

“Even if that meant erasing all my memories?” Promi shot back, his voice rising. “You stole them from me completely!”

Clenching his jaw, he shook his head. Then, in a whisper, he added, “The only shred of my childhood I have left, through all those years living on the streets, was that little scrap of a song you used to sing to me. Do you know how that feels?”

Escholia started to say something, then caught herself. Sammelvar took her hand, his face more careworn than ever. He heaved a sigh, then spoke to Promi.

“I didn't ask you to come here to rehash your grievances. But rest assured, we had ample reasons to do what we did. Including saving your life.”

“Then why,” snapped Promi, “did you send for me?”

“The veil.” Sammelvar locked gazes with his son. “Right now it's barely strong enough to hold back any spirit warriors who might want to invade the mortal realms. And, Promi . . . every time you make one of your journeys—”

“I know, I know,” said Promi with a casual wave of his hand. “It tears another hole in the veil. I've heard your theory before.”

“It's not just a theory!” Sammelvar struggled to contain his temper. “If you really care about your friend Atlanta—and all the rest of Earth's creatures—you'll heed my warning before it's too late.”

The sheen of Promi's skin darkened. “So I should simply
trust
you? Take your word for all this?”

“You can trust,” his father replied, “that whatever I've done that affects you . . . I've done because I thought it was best.”

“For who?”

“For the spirit realm. And the mortal realm, too.”

Promi frowned. So did Jaladay, as she watched him with compassion.
I know how much that hurts you, Promi,
she told him telepathically.
But he really doesn't—

Promi shot her a glance, cutting her off. Then he turned back to their father.

“You're always talking about what's best for the world,” he declared. “What about what's best for
me,
your own son? Do you even care about that at all?”

Sammelvar winced, while Escholia held her breath.

“All I want,” Promi continued, “is to go down to Earth whenever I like. You should support me in this! That's what a parent who really cared would do.”

“I
do
care,” Sammelvar said in a voice as quiet as a whisper. “More than you know. But our personal needs must come second to the needs of our world.”

“Easy for you to say,” snapped Promi. “You didn't lose your whole childhood! You didn't have everything in your life ripped away. And now you're telling me to trust you that you know what's best?”

Sammelvar reached for Promi's arm. “My son . . . I never meant to—”

“What?” Promi brushed aside his father's hand. “To hurt my feelings? To make me angry? Well, maybe you should have thought about those things before you sent me away.”

“We're not talking about only you,” said Sammelvar sternly. “We're talking about
everyone,
mortal and immortal. That's why saving the veil matters. It's more important than any one person.”

Promi's eyes narrowed. “You don't even know for sure the veil is getting weaker! You're just guessing—it's totally invisible, after all. Do you have any real proof?”

Sammelvar muttered, “Well, I—”

“Just as I thought,” said Promi with a smirk. “It's a guess. Nothing more.”

“Promi,” objected his mother. “You're going too far.”

“Am I? Listen, I know what you're doing! Don't think you can fool me. You're trying to keep me from seeing Atlanta. Just because she's mortal. You don't want us to be together!”

“No, no,” insisted Sammelvar.

“That's not true at all,” said Escholia. “You must believe us.”

“Why?” demanded Promi. “The only person I can believe is
myself
. That's what I learned in those years on the streets.”

Jaladay shuddered, feeling more pain in her brother than she could bear. She drew a deep breath and sent him one simple thought:
I'm so very sad, Promi—for everything you've been through.

He gazed at her somberly before sending her a thought in reply:
Glad someone understands . . . at least a little.

But you make it hard sometimes,
she added teasingly.
By being as stubborn as a herd of ox-wyverns.

He almost grinned.
Just like you.

Got me there,
she admitted. Cocking her head thoughtfully, she asked,
Can I ask you question?

Do I have any choice?

No. Here it is: Since you want to be on Earth so much—to be with Atlanta, which I truly understand—why don't you just go down there to stay? Then you'd get what you most want . . . and also, if our father happens to be right, avoid any risk of tearing the veil.

Promi shrugged.
Guess I just want to do whatever I want for a change! After all those years . . . I feel I'm owed that much.

She nodded sympathetically.

And also,
he added,
I like flying through the spirit realm. So many amazing places . . . and amazing desserts.

He paused, eyeing her.
Besides . . . there's someone up here I'd miss. Even if she's much too stubborn sometimes.

Jaladay smiled.
No idea who you mean.

“Promi,” said Sammelvar, interrupting them.

The young man stiffened and turned to him.

“We really do care about you, son. Even if you don't know that. But we are talking about something here that's bigger than any of us.”

Promi gazed frostily at his father. “If you really cared about me, then why didn't you ever come down to Earth after you sent me away, just to look in on me? To see if I was even still alive?”

“Because,” Sammelvar said through his scowl, “to do that would have thrown away all the protection we had won for you! That would have led Narkazan's warriors right to your hiding place—and all would have been lost.”

He paused thoughtfully. “Even so, let me say, it was hard not to visit you. Very hard.”

“Yes,” agreed Escholia. “As hard on us as it was on you.”

“I don't believe that.” Promi shook his head, swishing his locks against his shoulders.

Escholia chewed her lip, then admitted, “In truth, Promi . . . I
did
visit you.”

“You
what
?” exclaimed her husband, eyes wide with surprise.

“I visited Promi,” she declared. “In his dreams! I just . . . forgot to mention it to you.”

Sammelvar's scowl faded, replaced by a look of astonishment.

Turning to Promi, Escholia explained, “Through dreams, spirits can visit those on Earth. In the same way mortals can reach us with prayers, we can reach them with dreams. And so I came to you, my son, every single night you were gone.”

She turned to Sammelvar. “I know it's strictly forbidden, for the same reason you barred any direct contact with the people on Earth—it's just too intrusive on their lives, their free will. But my dear . . . I just
had
to see him.”

Her husband stood in silence, then slowly nodded. Meanwhile, Promi stared at her, his eyes full of doubt.

Moving with the grace of a floating tuft of mist, Escholia took both of Promi's hands. Softly, she said, “How else could you remember that song? And my voice? I sang to you every night.”

A wave of emotion flowed through Promi. He wanted so much to believe her . . . yet he still couldn't be sure. Summoning his composure, he asked her a pointed question.

“If you came to me in my dreams, then why didn't I have any memory of what you look like?”

A shadow of sadness passed over her face. “It
is
possible for spirits to appear physically in someone's dream. But only if they truly love that someone with deep devotion.”

Though his throat felt suddenly dry, Promi swallowed. “So that's not . . . how you love me?”

Escholia's eyes brightened. “No, that's
exactly
how I love you.”

“Then why did you only sing to me? You sent me your voice—but not the rest of you.”

“Oh, how I wanted to appear fully,” Escholia lamented. “More than words can express! But if I had done that, the sight of me would have triggered all sorts of other memories. And the more you remembered, the more you'd have been in danger of realizing your identity and returning to the spirit realm. Which would have put you right into the hands of Narkazan.”

Sammelvar nodded. “That's right. Your best protection was ignorance. The greater your knowledge, the greater your danger. So keeping you ignorant was best—both for you and for the Prophecy.”

The young man's anger rekindled. “Keeping me ignorant—that's easy for you to say. But it's
me
we're talking about! My memories. My life.”

“But,” protested his father, “the Prophecy—”

“Face it,” snarled Promi. “You cared more about the Prophecy than you did about me, your own son!”

“No, no. That's not—”

Sammelvar's unfinished sentence hung in the air. For Promi suddenly sprang into the sky, leaving behind his entire family. In seconds, he vanished into the swirling mists above the domelike cloud.

A cold wind passed over the cloud, making the purple flowers tremble. Promi's parents and sister also trembled . . . but not from the wind.

Feather Crystals

A
realm away, on Atlantis, the mortal world's most magical island, a voice rang out. Deep in the forest, the young woman's cry echoed among the trees.

“Hide me!”

Atlanta pleaded with the ancient blue spruce tree, leaning her whole body against its trunk. “Now! Before he finds me!”

The old tree seemed to shudder. Its upper branches tossed as if caught by a breeze. Except there was no breeze.

Atlanta rubbed her hands against the rough, rutted bark, using her gift of natural magic to awaken the tree—one of many in the Great Forest who had known her since that day she first came here, lost and alone, as a child. The trees, back then, had protected her and become her friends. But even now, as a fully grown young woman, she still turned to them when in need.

“Please, Master Spruce,” she begged. “He's coming . . . and there's not much time!”

Again, the tree shuddered—this time so forcefully that hundreds of blue needles poured down from the branches, showering her. She shook them from her curly brown hair, not even noticing how their tangy-sweet scent filled the air. She only clasped the trunk harder than ever.

“Now, old friend. Only seconds left!”

With a sharp crackling sound, the trunk started to expand. A whole new layer of bark sprouted from the ruts and wrapped around the tree—as well as Atlanta.

Seconds later, no sign of her could be seen. She was completely covered—her head, her purple gown woven from lilac vines, and her bare feet. Only the spruce's unusually wide trunk gave any hint of her whereabouts.

Safe inside the blanket of newly grown bark, Atlanta sighed. She squeezed the tree thankfully.

Meanwhile, all around the spruce, the forest hushed, as if holding its breath. All the other trees in the grove fell utterly still. So did the animals in their branches, ranging from a normally chattering squirrel to a pair of cockatoos. Even a small butterfly with green-striped wings froze in place.

Then a slight movement entered the grove—so subtle it was almost invisible. A faint whirring of wings . . . a hint of blue . . . a blur of something passing through the air. Nothing more than that.

The faery landed on one of the old spruce's lowest branches. Now fully visible, his luminous blue wings opened above him, shimmering with light. Between his delicate antennae sat a white cotton hat; a translucent cloak rested on his tiny shoulders. Hollowed-out red berries served as shoes.

The faery's antennae quivered ever so slightly. Then, after a few seconds' pause, he placed his little hands on his hips, waiting impatiently. Once again, his antennae quivered.

Suddenly the new layer of bark around the trunk trembled, buckled—and split open. As quickly as it had grown, it receded into the old folds of bark. Atlanta, fully exposed, caught her breath.

Above her on the branch, the faery cocked his head.

She peered up at him. “All right, Quiggley. Stop your gloating!” Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you found me, you don't have to look so smug about it.”

With a gentle flutter of wings, the faery glided down to her shoulder. Atlanta turned her head toward him and grumbled, “How did you do that so fast? It's no fun hiding from somebody like you!”

Quiggley shrugged modestly. But even on his tiny face, the grin of satisfaction couldn't be missed.

Because faery language is so densely packed with magical symbols, very few of Atlantis's mortal creatures could even attempt to understand it. Some elder unicorns, it was said, could banter freely with the faeries. And Falaru, the oldest of the great whales, often sang ballads with deepwater faeries that could last several weeks without pause. The only other known instance of someone conversing with a faery was when Promi, in Atlanta's presence, had tried it. That had required a great sacrifice on Promi's part—and he survived only because he was, in fact, immortal (though he didn't know it at the time).

And so . . . ever since Atlanta had first met this little fellow—and healed his wounds after he'd nearly died from an attack ordered by the wicked priest Grukarr—Quiggley had found other ways to communicate with her. Sometimes all it took was a grin like the one he was wearing now. More often, he sent her a wave of
feeling,
an emotion so clear it always touched her heart.

That's why Atlanta started to laugh. A wave of sheer amusement, so full of joy she couldn't resist, flowed through her. That joy wasn't just from playing their little game. Most of it came from simply appreciating their rather unusual friendship.

For an enduring friendship it had become. The attack that Quiggley had barely survived destroyed all the magic—and all the life—of his faery clan. He'd lost his young daughter, his wife, and both parents. Atlanta, meanwhile, had no relatives of her own. She possessed nothing more than a few memories of her parents, who had died in a terrible swamp near a place called the Passage of Death. So the two of them had bonded as tightly as bark and sap on a tree.

Since finding each other, the young woman and the faery had shared some perilous adventures—including a few with serious consequences for both the mortal and immortal worlds. And on days like this . . . they shared some lighthearted moments, as well.

As Atlanta's bell-like laughter quieted, she kneeled to smell a clump of lemongrass growing at her feet. She inhaled deeply, as did Quiggley while balancing on her shoulder. The scent made her feel peaceful, as always. And it also reminded her of the first day she had met Promi—over a freshly baked lemon pie he'd just stolen.

Suddenly she frowned. Standing again, she shot a glance at the faery. He nonchalantly twirled a loose lilac vine on the shoulder of her gown, looking carefree.

“You can't fool me,” she grumbled. “You know
exactly
why I'm so upset at him.”

Quiggley merely gazed at her, cocking his head innocently.

“Why does he have to go on acting this way?” she demanded. “When he knows it's just impossible?”

One corner of Quiggley's mouth lifted in a grin.

“Of course he likes me! That's obvious. Any buffoon can see that! But he doesn't have any right to assume I feel the same way about
him
.”

Now the faery's whole mouth was grinning.

Atlanta slapped her hand against the old spruce's trunk. “But it's impossible! He should know that. We're from two different worlds, separated by the veil—and a stack of ancient laws, too!”

Her eyes narrowed. “And besides . . . he's, well—he's such a
problem
.”

Biting her lip, she shook her head. “I know, I know . . .” Her voice grew quieter until, in a whisper, she said, “Maybe not the only problem.”

The faery merely gazed at her.

She sighed. “Right.
I'm
the real problem.”

Quiggley waved his antennae sympathetically.

For a long moment, she stared at her feet. Briefly, that game with Quiggley had lifted her spirits. But now here she was again, feeling the weight of all those thoughts that never took her anywhere, like a circular path in the forest that she couldn't escape.

Glumly, she sighed. She
was
the problem. If only Promi could understand how—

She caught her breath. Right before her eyes, a sparkling crystal appeared. It glistened and swelled rapidly, twirling as it floated through the air. A snowflake!

But it's springtime,
she told herself in disbelief.
And it's much too warm today for snow.

More surprisingly, the snowflake kept growing, stretching out delicate arms that continued to swell. Soon it looked more like a big white feather, glowing in the light. On top of that, it didn't fall to the ground. Instead, the crystalline feather just hung in the air, twirling slowly.

“You're not snow,” said Atlanta, awestruck. “What are you, then?”

She reached out to touch it, but a subtle breeze made it float just beyond her reach. At the same time, more feather crystals appeared. They glistened as they grew, spinning lightly through the air in a luminous, magical dance.

Watching this radiant display, she held her breath. Never in her whole life had she seen anything like this!

“Quiggley,” she whispered. “Have you ever—”

She glanced at the faery, then stopped. For his bright eyes, together with the slight trembling of his wings, explained it all.

“You!” she exclaimed. “
You
made this happen.”

He shrugged modestly, making his cloak shimmer like the crystals.

Atlanta peered at him, full of gratitude. “Just to cheer me up. Even if that means making it snow on a warm spring day! Quiggley . . . you are, well, you are something! I don't know the right word to describe it.”

Adjusting his cotton hat, he struck a casual pose.

“Yes, I do,” she corrected herself. “The word for you is
friend
.”

His expression didn't change . . . although his eyes might have gleamed just slightly.

“And, my friend,” she added, invoking her favorite blessing that she saved for the most special occasions, “I bless your eternal qualities.”

The feather crystals started to fall, at last. Gracefully, they settled down to the ground, decorating the roots of the old spruce and all the surrounding rocks, ferns, and grasses. Even an elderly bullfrog, seated on a mossy root, seemed to have sprouted crystalline wings.

For a brief instant, the forest floor glowed with sparkling radiance. Then, with a quiver of the faery's antennae, the feather crystals melted away.

Feeling much better, Atlanta started walking. “Let's go, Quiggley. We're not far from Moss Island.”

Indeed, only a few minutes later, they came to a clear stream. Following it deeper into the forest, they found a spot where the stream split into a pair of splashing waterways. In the center sat a small island covered in thick moss. And, to Atlanta's surprise, right in the middle of the island sat a young man.

Promi.