Atlantis Rising (15 page)

The Wounded Heart

It’s painful to wish you could learn something that’s impossible to know. But there is one thing worse—to wish you could unlearn something that’s impossible to forget.

—From Promi’s journal

H
oping to find room enough to sleep along with all the other creatures on the island, Promi scanned the moss. Spying one open spot, he claimed it, though he was nearly touching the mother gazelle’s hooves. For a while, he watched the stars, then closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, Atlanta found a spot at the edge of the island, right beside the stream, so she could hear only its constant splashing. Kermi curled up beside her, wrapping his tail around himself to keep warm. Across the stream, the centaur lay down completely and soon started to make a sound that was part whinny and part snore.

One by one, the other animals and birds dropped into sleep. Even the smelldrude settled into a lilac-scented slumber. And the radiant butterfly who had sat on Atlanta’s shoulder found a willow leaf where it could close its wings and sleep safely.

Promi lay awake for some time. His mind kept returning to Atlanta’s story about the boy who lost everything, even his life. He shifted positions, trying in vain to use his boots as a pillow. Several times, he checked to be sure the new magical knife was in its sheath. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

But he did not sleep well.

He rolled and tossed. Sometimes the gazelle kicked in her sleep, striking his chest with her hooves. But far worse was the deeply disturbing dream that came to him. It came again and again, always the same. Yet each time, it felt more frightful than before.

He dreamed that he awoke on the mossy island. But now he was all alone. Atlanta wasn’t there, nor were any of the animals and birds. Even the mist maidens were gone. He had no companions, and heard no sound except the beating of his heart.

Then, to his shock, he realized that his heart was not in his chest! No, it lay an arm’s length away, there in the moss. Though it continued to beat, and he could see it pulsing, it was completely outside of himself.

Worse yet, his heart was badly wounded—bleeding and bruised. Its beats grew steadily weaker; its blood soaked the moss.

Dying!
his mind screamed.
My heart is dying!

Yet when he tried to move, to reach over and touch his heart, he couldn’t budge. Completely paralyzed, he lay on his back, unable to do anything but watch.

My heart! My own heart. I must help it. Heal it. Save it.

But he couldn’t do anything.

Even as the heart weakened, its beats grew louder, drumming in his ears. He tried with every morsel of strength to reach out and touch it. His useless body trembled with the strain; his mind reeled.

Always, right then, the whole scene vanished. Promi remained asleep, his mind a blank. Yet he tossed uneasily, as if he remembered what he’d just experienced. Or as if he knew somehow that the dream would return. Which it did, time after time.

Finally, after many repetitions, the dream ended—and this time, Promi woke up. The instant he opened his eyes and saw Atlanta kneeling over him, he shouted in surprise and rolled away. Grasping his chest, he felt his heart, still beating inside himself. Then, in a flash, he knew he was truly awake.

Rolling back over, he sat up and faced her. “I—I’m sorry. You, um, scared me there.” Using his sleeve, he wiped the perspiration out of his eyes. “I had, well . . . a rough night.”

“You certainly did.” She studied him with genuine concern. “You weren’t really asleep. It was more like . . . a trance. I couldn’t wake you, no matter how hard I tried.”

“Couldn’t wake me?”

“Right.” She brought her face closer to his. “And, Promi, you were in pain. Crying out. Something about . . . your heart.”

Instinctively, he rubbed his chest, feeling the skin that bore the mysterious mark. With a swallow, he said, “I had a dream, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No,” he said with finality. “I don’t.”

“All right,” she replied gently. “At least it’s over now. You’re awake at last.”

His gaze sharpened. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” said a gruff little voice above his head, “that even I was starting to miss you.”

Promi looked up to see Kermi, dangling upside down by his tail. The long appendage was wrapped casually around a branch. Only then did the young man notice that all the other animals and birds had left the island. No sign of them remained. Haldor, the centaur, had also gone—no doubt to confound some new audience with his dark visions.

He peered up at the bright blue sky showing through the branches. “It’s morning.”

“Observant as ever, manfool,” said Kermi dryly.

“Late morning,” added Atlanta. “Almost noon.”

Gracefully, she sat beside him on the moss. Because neither of them wanted to raise the sore subject of Promi’s decision to go back to the City, they remained quiet. They simply listened to the splashing stream.

Finally, Promi said, “It was amazing to be so close to all those creatures last night.”

Atlanta nodded, watching the water flow past. “Always good to gather here on Moss Island. Even without visits from mist maidens and the river god.” Heavily, she sighed. “For the whole evening, I forgot about the blight and the rest.”

He turned, looking at her as she watched the stream.
She really is beautiful,
he thought.
And she truly loves this place and everything in it.

“What do you think,” he asked quietly, “caused the blight to start?”

She shrugged sadly. “Nobody knows. Not even the wisest old trees. But I’m starting to wonder if it might have to do with the Starstone.”

“The Starstone?” Bonlo’s description came back to him in a flash. “The gift from the spirit realm? With the power to magnify magic?”

“That’s right.” She faced him. “Only those of us who live here know that it’s been hidden right here in the Great Forest. For years beyond count.”

“But the Starstone is such a
good
thing,” he objected. “How could it have anything to do with the blight?”

Atlanta bit her lip, then said, “It’s gone. Someone took it—maybe a traveler or a wandering monk—just a few weeks ago. And without its power, the forest might have been weakened, which made it vulnerable to a disease like the blight.”

Promi frowned. “I can’t believe it’s gone.”

“And the worst part is,” she added glumly, “no one has any idea where the Starstone is now. So we can’t even try to get it back.”

An idea struck Promi with the force of a lightning bolt. “I do!”

She grabbed his arm. “You know where it is?”

“Yes. I saw it—twice, in fact.”

“Where?”

“Around Araggna’s neck.”

The same realization struck Atlanta. “I saw it too! Glowing under her collar.”

“Right.” His elation swiftly faded. “But if that old priestess has a treasure of such power . . . it can’t be good.”

Atlanta blew a long breath. “You’re right. Why, the only person worse would be Gr—” She caught herself before saying his name. Even so, the willow arching above them shuddered, dropping leaves on the moss.

Promi, too, shuddered. “What a terrible thought, to have something so beautiful and powerful in the hands of either of them!” He swallowed, then said under his breath, “Almost as terrible as that dream.”

She gazed at him sympathetically. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Totally sure.” Instinctively, he rubbed the skin over his heart. “Let’s just say it was like a kind of blight. Except . . . instead of hurting the forest, it was hurting . . .”

“You.”

He nodded gravely. “Like part of me was . . . well,
wounded.
Maybe even dying. And I couldn’t do anything at all to heal it.”

Her face creased with pain. “That’s how I felt . . . when my parents died.”

“How old were you?”

“Young. Too young.”

Gently, he touched her wrist. “How did it happen?”

Atlanta turned back to the stream and didn’t speak for a moment. At last, she said, “In the swamp—Unkhmeini Swamp, at the base of the high peaks.” She frowned. “They had a theory about a place on the other side of the swamp and went to explore it. The swamp is not very big . . . but it’s terribly dangerous, full of poisonous gases and worse. So they left me at our cottage on the southern side of the forest. Told me they’d be back in two or three days at the most.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They never came back.”

“And you don’t know what happened to them?”

She grimaced. “No, but I do know this: Of all the places in this country I may go in my life, I’ll never go there.
Never.
”

“What was the place,” asked Promi, “they wanted to explore? I’m just . . . curious.” He realized, with a pang, that old Bonlo would have been pleased to hear him say that.

“The Passage of Death,” she answered, wincing at the name.

“I’ve heard of that—in the legends people tell on the streets. The place where spirits of dead people supposedly go if they can’t find their way to the immortal realm.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That never seemed like much of a passage to me—a place where spirits get stuck forever.”

Morosely, she nodded. “That’s what intrigued my parents. They couldn’t believe it was so wrongly named. Even wondered if the name was given to that place just to keep people away, so that whatever is really there wouldn’t get discovered.”

“They were brave to go, Atlanta.”

“Foolish, you mean. The swamp they needed to cross is the exact opposite of this forest, a place of horrors and death.”

“So . . . who raised you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She raised her arms. “The animals, the trees, the mist, the magic.” She swallowed, then said, “I just wish I could have known them . . . a little longer.”

Softly, he said, “I lost my parents, too. Only I don’t remember how. Or what they were like. Or anything about them.”

“So who raised
you
?”

“I raised myself. With some help from the knives I learned how to throw.” He glanced down at the new blade in his sheath. “Except for this gift from the river god, every single thing I’ve ever owned—my journal, my boots, my knives, my clothes—I stole.”

Atlanta leaned a bit closer. “You have nothing left from your childhood? Nothing at all?”

“Just . . . a song. Not even the whole song, really. A few notes I can remember hearing someone sing to me. That’s all.”

She shook her head, trying to imagine what Promi’s life in the City must be like. After a while, she said, “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You, Promi.” She peered at him, her blue-green eyes alight. “No wonder you don’t want to get too attached—whether to a person or a place like this forest. Every attachment you had as a child was torn away. Don’t you see? You’ve lost everything once before, so you’re afraid of losing whatever else you find.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “That’s not true at all! I just like my life as a thief. The freedom, the excitement, the—”

“Idiocy,” grumbled Kermi from the branch. He blew a casual stream of bubbles. “And you’ve really mastered that part.”

Despite himself, Promi grinned. “Got me there, bubblebrain.”

The kermuncle’s normally wide eyes narrowed to slivers. “Don’t call me that.”

“Tell you what,” Promi offered. “I’ll never call you that again if you won’t ride inside my boots again.” He reached over to the boots, which hadn’t worked very well as a pillow, and pulled them on. “They may be magical enough to hold you, but they fit so much better without you.”

“Harrumph. So you’re telling me, manfool, we’re about to go somewhere?”

Promi turned to face Atlanta, uncomfortably shifting his weight. “I should go back to the City.”

She frowned and slid away on the moss. “Right,” she said somberly. “And I promised to give you directions.”

Just as somberly, he nodded. “You did.” Fumbling for words, he said, “It’s, um . . . been, well . . . good to meet you.”

She didn’t respond.

“But,” he added, “no need for those directions.”

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Why not?”

“Because, Atlanta . . . I’m coming with you.”

The Messenger

No melon ever tasted so good! Just remembering it makes my mouth water. How I wish I could have that again—not so much the melon as that brief, beautiful moment.

—From Promi’s journal

Y
es!” shouted Atlanta.

She threw herself at Promi and hugged him. The force of her leap knocked him over backward. Together, they rolled on the soft moss of the island to the edge of the splashing stream.

As they fumbled to sit up, Promi spat out a clump of moss. “I guess,” he said, “this means you’re glad.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, maybe. What you’re doing is just, um . . . a small thing.” A corner of her mouth edged upward. “But I do appreciate small things.”

Promi grinned. “Glad to hear it.”

Kermi dangled lower on his branch, hanging right in front of Promi’s face. “Guess what? I, too, appreciate small things. Like your brain.”

Promi’s grin only broadened. “Pretty good insult, bubblebrain. You really can be clever sometimes.”

Hearing this, Atlanta nodded. “Impressive, Promi.”

But Kermi reacted differently—with something close to horror. “Did you actually just pay me a compliment?” He stared, aghast, at the young man. “I must be losing my mind.”

“Can’t lose what’s already lost,” replied Promi.

The kermuncle glared at him.

Atlanta sighed, then said, “Time to get moving. If we’re going to stop Gr—I mean, that priest—we’d better get started.” Quietly, she added, “And Promi . . . it sure feels good to say
we.
”

“Right,” he answered. “But where exactly do you suggest we start?”

She leaped to her feet with the ease of a deer. “Highmage Hill. It’s the highest point in the whole forest. If we go there, we might see something that tells us what he is really planning.”

Promi looked doubtful. “That’s one possibility. But maybe, instead, we should go after the Starstone.”

Atlanta shook her head. “I want to know what that priest is up to! If we can discover his plan, we can save this whole forest. That’s our top priority, more important than anything else.”

Seeing her determined expression, Promi set aside his doubts. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

“Not so fast, manfool.” Kermi bounded down to the moss and slipped into Promi’s boot. Magically, it expanded just enough to give the little fellow room to ride inside the rim.

“Those are amazing boots,” Atlanta observed.

“Too amazing,” the young man replied, looking at the bulging leather around Kermi.

With a nod of thanks to the willow tree and a last glance around Moss Island, Atlanta stepped across the stream and into the forest. Promi followed close behind, impressed by how fast she could move when she wanted to cover ground quickly.

Speedily they walked, following unmarked trails and contours that Atlanta knew well. Without breaking stride, she often paused to stroke the branch of one tree or pat the trunk of another, as if she were greeting a friend on a busy street. A few times, as well, she waved to creatures including an ibex, a fox, and a mother owl in her nest. Only once did her pace falter—when she saw, across a marshy meadow, a sickly acacia tree. Promi didn’t need to ask her to know that it had been stricken with the blight.

Finally, after a couple of hours, Atlanta veered toward an enormous honeymelon tree. They sat on its massive roots under branches that wrapped themselves around bright green melons. But as imposing as the tree itself was, most striking of all was the taste of that honey-sweet fruit. No melon Promi had ever tasted in the marketplace came close to this burst of flavors both sweet and tart.

“Never thought I’d eat so soon after that dinner last night,” he said, melon juice dribbling down his chin. “But walking made me hungry again.”

“And you used your new knife for the first time,” Atlanta added. She glanced down at the small bulge under her sleeve where she’d placed her own gift from the river god. Even now, it glowed through the woven vines of her gown.
What,
she wondered,
is it for?

Meanwhile, Promi took another big bite of melon, and said, “Dis mewon is so wunnafoo.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” admonished Kermi. He, too, sat on the tree roots, nibbling at a slice.

“Why nop?” answered Promi, more juice dribbling. “Dere is much mowah to eap, an’ too liddle time.”

“So articulate,” grumped the kermuncle.

“Fank you, bubboobwain.”

“Kindly don’t call me that again,” replied Kermi. “Or I’ll pop you like one of my bubbles.” He shook his head, then grumbled, “Why I ever let Jaladay convince me to endure your company, I’ll never know.”

“Who is Jaladay?” asked Atlanta. She reached over and gently touched one of Kermi’s whiskers. “A friend?”

The creature’s large blue eyes grew moist. “The best of friends. She was . . .” He stopped, regaining his usual crusty composure. “A whole lot smarter than master melonhead here.”

Atlanta sensed this wasn’t the time to ask more. But she resolved to find another chance. Reaching for a sprig of wild watercress, which grew among the roots, she considered the blue kermuncle. There was something more to him than met the eye, that was certain. He wasn’t just unusual in the ways she could see . . . but in some other more mysterious ways, as well.

She swallowed another bite. “Time for us to go.”

“Lovely,” said Kermi. “I get to trade the smell of fresh melon for stinky boot.”

“You can walk, if you’d rather,” Promi suggested. “Did it ever occur to you to thank me for carrying you around?”

The kermuncle’s big eyes grew even bigger. He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would I ever do that?” He blew a long, thin bubble that hung in the air like a question mark.

Before Promi could reply, he heard a faint humming sound nearby. Atlanta, too, heard it and sat up straight. Her worried expression only deepened as she listened.

“What is it?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, except to mutter, “But they never fly alone. Never.”

A pair of luminous blue wings fluttered out of the forest, drawing nearer. Whatever sort of creature bore them seemed weak or injured, judging from how erratically it flew. At first, Promi thought it was some sort of butterfly or moth. Then, as it came close enough, he realized what it was.

“A faery!” he said in surprise. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“I’ve seen many,” replied Atlanta. “But not in this part of the forest, so far from their glens. And certainly not just one by himself.”

Weakly, the faery approached, each beat of his radiant wings an effort. Seeing Atlanta, the little fellow flapped one last time and glided into her open hand. He lay on her palm, nearly motionless. But for the delicate antennae, which trembled constantly, it was hard to tell that he was still alive.

Along with Promi and the kermuncle, she gazed at the bedraggled faery. His cotton hat, now more gray than white, sat askew on his head. One of his hollowed-out berry shoes had fallen off somewhere; the other had lost its red sheen for all the scratches. His translucent cloak, dingy and tattered, now clung to him by a few threads. Even the glorious blue wings showed several rips around the edges.

“Something terrible has happened,” groaned Atlanta. “This faery is almost dead! What caused this? Something tells me it’s the work of—um . . . that horrible man.”

“Can you ask the faery?”

“No,” she answered glumly. “Faery language is just too different, too densely packed with magical symbols. I’ve never been able to figure it out. Not even a word! As far as I know, the only nonfaeries who can speak it are a few elder unicorns.”

Weakly, the faery’s wings fluttered.

Atlanta frowned. “I’m sure he has something vital to say. If only we could hear it!”

“We can,” declared Promi.

“How?”

“When you said the word
hear,
it reminded me of . . . a way of Listening.”

“Harrumph,” said Kermi. “Wondered when you’d figure that out.”

Atlanta caught her breath. “But that means . . . a sacrifice.”

Promi nodded grimly. “I’ll sure miss them, but . . .” He closed his eyes, concentrating. Then he spoke the words, “Listen one, listen all.”

The sound of rushing wind filled their ears. As always, though, no real wind stirred even a single leaf on the surrounding trees. As the sound died away, Promi peered down at the tiny, crumpled figure on Atlanta’s palm. The faery’s antennae trembled, more vigorously than before.

All at once, Promi rocked backward against the tree root. If he hadn’t already been on the ground, he would have fallen down. A whirl of images and ideas slammed into his mind, crowding out every other thought, filling every one of his senses to the limit. He reeled, dizzy from the intensity of all the visions, suddenly aware that the magical mind of a faery held much more detail and richness than his own.

As quickly as the visions had flooded over him, they vanished. He was left there, sprawled against the root, panting from exertion.

“Promi!” cried Atlanta, grabbing his arm. “Are you all right?”

“He’s fine.” The kermuncle’s whiskers quivered with amusement. “He just learned what it’s like to have a real brain, that’s all.”

Groggily, Promi sat up straight again. He rubbed his forehead, which continued to throb from the onslaught of images. Slowly, his eyes came back into focus.

Turning to Atlanta, he explained what he’d seen—haltingly at first, stopping occasionally to shake his head at the horror of it all. Tears filled their eyes as he described the mistwraith’s brutal attack on the colony, the wrenching theft of so much magic, the wasteland of stunned faeries. He struggled to explain, because the visions in his mind seemed so much more intense than any human words could possibly convey.

“But why?” asked Atlanta, shaking with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

“No idea.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “But . . . the priest did say a few things.”

“What?”

“It all came so fast . . . it’s hard to remember.”

“Try, Promi.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to recall as much as possible.

“The Starstone,” he announced gravely. “The priest—he has a plan to get it. And to change it into a terrible weapon! What he called
the most powerful weapon in the universe.
”

Atlanta stifled a shriek. “He can’t! That’s unthinkable!”

“Not to him.”

Composing herself, she objected, “He doesn’t have enough power to do something like that.”

“He doesn’t,” replied Promi. “But Narkazan does.”

At the mention of the warlord of the spirit realm, Kermi gasped. “What an evil alliance! The worst of both realms.”

Grimly, Promi nodded. “The priest said he’ll give Narkazan the magic needed to fuel the weapon—at dawn on Ho Byneri, when the veil is thinnest.”

“Just ten days from now,” said Kermi.

“And for that service,” Promi continued, “Narkazan will make him the ruler of Ellegandia . . . and the rest of the mortal world.”

Atlanta stomped her foot on a root of the honeymelon tree. “That wicked priest! That’s why he wants my help. To collect magic for their weapon.” Her eyes practically sizzled with rage. “But I’ll never do it!”

Remembering something else, Promi grabbed her wrist. “He spoke about setting a trap for you. And said you’d definitely agree to help.”

“Wrong. He’ll never catch me, not with all my friends in this forest. And nothing he could possibly do would make me help him.”

Gently, she stroked the faery’s tattered wing. “He’s done enough damage already.”

Promi’s brow furrowed. “There’s more to his plan. He’s called for more mistwraiths. Not just to capture magic, but to do something else.”

“What?” asked Atlanta.

“I don’t know. But he wants the mistwraiths sent right away to his lair.”

She ran a hand through her brown curls. “His lair! Wherever that is—it’s where we should go.”

“But—”

“I’m sure of it,” she declared. “Did you hear anything about where this lair might be?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Well?” she demanded. “Where?”

“It’s, well . . .”

“Tell me!”

Promi clenched his jaw, then said, “At the Passage of Death.”

She froze. “Are you sure?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Which means . . . to get there, we need to cross—”

“The swamp,” she whispered, aghast. “Why there? Of all places, why there?”

Peering into her eyes, he said, “Maybe we shouldn’t go. Maybe there’s another way to stop him.”

“No,” she answered, wincing as she spoke. “We must go, Promi. There’s no other way.”

“Are you sure? That swamp is so dangerous—you said so yourself. It’s where your parents . . . um, disappeared.”

She chewed her lip, then said, “Maybe I can finish what they started.”

Touched by her bravery, Promi said nothing.

“At least,” she said reassuringly, “the swamp isn’t very big. Bad as it is, we can cross it in less than a day.”

Kermi grumbled, “If we survive that day.”

Atlanta touched Promi’s forearm. “Thank you for what you did. Now, at least, we know what we need to do . . . to save everything we care about.”

He rubbed his aching brow, still trying to sort through all the images that had electrified his brain.

“So . . . what did you sacrifice?” Atlanta raised an eyebrow. “Not food again?”

“No. Painful as that was, something told me I needed to make a bigger sacrifice this time. A permanent one.”

“What?” she implored. “You don’t have much to give up.”

“That’s true,” he said glumly. “Especially now that I no longer own any . . .”

“Boots!” she exclaimed, suddenly noticing his bare feet. “That’s terrible, Promi!” Kindly, she added, “But after your feet toughen, you’ll really feel the forest under you.”

“If I have any feeling left, that is.” He gazed glumly at his toes, so much paler and more tender-looking than hers. “It was stupid, I know . . . but it was all I could think of to hear the faery’s message.”