Atlantis in Peril (12 page)

Darkness

I
n the deep darkness of her prison cell, Jaladay tried to keep exercising her mind. To keep it from being deadened by the oppressive blindness that weighed on her so heavily. That wasn't easy, given the sudden waves of panic she kept feeling, waves so powerful they wiped out any other thoughts and soaked her robe with sweat.

Narkazan may have robbed me of my sight,
she reminded herself often.
But I can still use whatever senses I have left.

Touch, for one. She could feel the cold, smooth vaporstone floors and walls of her cell. She'd even found subtle indentations, swirls, and notches in the stone. She tried to memorize them, assembling them into patterns. Not because that information could ever be useful—but because the activity might keep her from losing her mind completely.

Every once in a while, she caught the scent of something new—such as a crumb left on the floor from a meal that had been slid through the slot in the door. But those meals of tasteless, chalklike cake and water didn't have much scent. They served only one purpose: to keep her alive until the warlord was finished with her.

No, the main thing she could smell was her own urine and excrement in the corner. She hated that smell so much, it made her want to retch. But she couldn't do anything about it.

Hearing was her only other remaining sense. Yet she didn't have much chance to use it. On rare occasions, she heard Narkazan ranting in the room outside her cell. But none of his rants told her anything remotely useful.

Beyond that . . . all she could hear were the echoes of her own thoughts. And too often, her own panic.

How many days had she been imprisoned? She'd lost count. At least ten, she guessed. Though the days and nights—impossible to separate in this endless darkness—had begun to blend into one another.

Over and over, she asked herself the same questions. How much longer could she survive? Would anybody ever find her? Was there any way to warn her parents of Narkazan's plans for conquest of both the spirit and mortal realms?

And two more questions, as well. She was thinking of them right now while she sat in total darkness, twirling a strand of hair with her fingers.
Did Kermi deliver her warning about the Greek ship to her brother? And would Promi have the wisdom to heed it?

Somberly, she gazed into the darkness of the cell—all the more impenetrable because she couldn't use her second sight.
I'm blind, totally blind!

By itself, blindness was challenging enough. Even worse, though, was what it did to her mind.
My world is so much smaller, tighter. Closing all around me.

Using her sleeve, she wiped some beads of sweat off her brow. Would she ever see, truly see, again? Ever touch the face of someone she loved? Ever—

The sound of a bolt being slid interrupted her thoughts. Then a line of light appeared in the opposite wall. The door!

She crawled eagerly toward the door. Her heart leaped to see the line of light joined by perpendicular lines.
It's opening!
she rejoiced.

Just as she reached the wall—the door slammed shut. The heavy bolt slid again. All the light disappeared.

“No!” cried Jaladay.

On her knees by the door, she beat on it with her fists. She kept pounding, even though her hands hurt and she could hear, through the narrow food slot, Narkazan and his henchmen laughing on the other side.

Finally, she slumped against the door—trapped, helpless, and alone. She hung her head and sobbed.

More days of quiet misery followed. Except for the moments when the tray of food came or went, there was no interruption. No answers to her questions. And no hope.

Then, one day, without warning, the door opened again. And this time, it wasn't a tease: the door swung wide, filling the cell with light.

Jaladay shouted in surprise. She rose and stumbled toward it, hoping to get through before it closed again. The pain in her eyes from such a sudden burst of light, the ache in her stiff limbs and neck—none of that mattered. She was getting out!

She stepped into Narkazan's chamber, blinking in the light. Right in front of her sat Narkazan in his vaporthread chair. He was flanked by mistwraiths, three on each side. As before, the windows revealed nothing but dense, icicle-shaped clouds.

The warlord leaned forward and jutted his narrow chin. His fiery red eyes studied her intently, as his fingers drummed one of his tusks.

“How nice to see you again, my jewel,” he snarled. “Though you look terrible. And smell worse.”

He gave her a thin predator's smile. “Are your accommodations to your liking?”

Jaladay replied with a murderous look.

“Good. I am glad.” Straightening in his chair, he pointed to a pile of scrolls on the metal chest beside his cot. “Do you know what those are, my treasure?”

Without needing to use her second sight, she guessed, “Maps? Battle plans?”

“Very good.” Narkazan stroked his tusk. “I am nearly ready to commence my war of glory. All my preparations are coming together nicely. In a few more days, the conquest will begin!”

As if applauding, the mistwraiths crackled in unison. Their dark folds rippled with pleasure, casting black sparks onto the floor.

“Yes, yes,” their master told them. “I know you are eager.”

His voice dropped lower. “I, too, am eager! This will be my ultimate victory, my long-awaited triumph.”

Tapping his narrow chin, Narkazan mused, “That reminds me. Perhaps the time has come for me to send another dream to my ally in the mortal realm. Just to
encourage
him.”

At that, Jaladay raised an eyebrow. A mortal ally? Who could that be? And how does he fit into Narkazan's plan?

She continued to gaze at her captor. Not because she wanted to look at him, but because she wanted him to keep on talking, to take as long as possible with this meeting. She was savoring every second of seeing again. Of breathing clean air. Of experiencing even this small dose of freedom.

As Narkazan continued to boast about his coming conquests, she thought desperately about what she could do to warn her parents, Kermi, Promi—anybody who could possibly try to stop this madness. But what? It was too late to save herself, she felt sure of that. Yet maybe there was some way to contact someone—maybe even to derail Narkazan's plans.

How, though? This hideaway must be somewhere obscure, far too hidden to be discovered by anyone loyal to Sammelvar and Escholia. And from such a great distance, she couldn't reach anyone she knew by sending a telepathic message.

Wait.
She bit her lip. There might be one way! The message might not be understood. Or even intact. And it wouldn't go to any of the people she most wanted to reach, people she knew would try to help. Instead, if this plan somehow worked, her message would go to—

Narkazan pounded his fist on the arm of his chair, disrupting her thoughts. Immersed in his ranting, he fortunately hadn't noticed that his prisoner had been doing anything but listening. Now, however, he'd come to his point.

“Make your choice, Jaladay! This is your last chance. Will you help me by sharing your gift of second sight?”

He leaned forward again, probing her green eyes. “Remember this, my jewel. I am offering you this one last chance to assist me. There will be no more!”

He cackled quietly. “I almost hope you will refuse, so I can proceed immediately with my plans to torture your mother, your father, and most especially your meddling brother.”

He scowled, making the scars on his face darken. “But that desire is merely a personal preference. I will set it aside forever if you will help me win the war.”

The mistwraiths crackled with impatience. Narkazan demanded, “Now, what is your choice?”

Jaladay drew a deep breath, and replied, “Never. I will never help you!”

Even as Narkazan roared in anger and the mistwraiths swept toward her, sparks flying, Jaladay tried to send her message. But the mistwraiths cloaked her more quickly than expected. Marshaling all her strength, she formed her thought—

But she didn't have enough time. Before she could finish, darkness descended.

The Machines District

D
uring the time Promi had been in the spirit realm, much had happened. He'd flown with Theosor, met with his parents, witnessed the mist fire, visited the cloudfield where Jaladay disappeared, tried to escape the mistwraiths, been captured by Grukarr and then—thanks to Bonlo—gained at least a chance to survive before plunging into a remote spirit realm sea.

Yet during that same time, much more had happened on the isle of Atlantis. For time moved faster in the mortal world—occasionally much faster. In this case, by the time Promi splashed into that sea with Bonlo in his arms, a full five years had passed on Atlantis.

In those five years since the ship of Greek explorers had landed, some things hadn't changed. The City's market square continued to bustle with throngs of tradespeople, entertainers, makers of crafts, willing buyers, and all kinds of animals. The Divine Monk continued to celebrate religious festivals and feasts (especially the feasts). In his pastry shop, Morey continued to bake delicious treats just because he loved to do so, Shangri helped him for the same reason, and the lad from the ship still lived in the room upstairs.

Much more, though, had changed. Nothing showed that more dramatically than the graceful, bright-spirited young woman with flowing red hair who strode out of the pastry shop this morning. In her hands she carried a still-steaming rhubarb and cherry pie. Just as she stepped into the street, she glanced at the room upstairs whose window was wide open to the spring air.

Shangri grinned.
He's writin' right now,
she told herself.
I'm sure of it.

More and more these days, her thoughts turned to that handsome young man upstairs. He still dreamed of becoming a famous bard, though he had yet to discover the story that would inspire his very best writing—what he continued to call his “one great story.”

Today, however, her thoughts moved to someone else—someone she hadn't seen for five whole years. Even so, the memory of their last conversation seemed as fresh as if it had happened just yesterday.

Promi.

Where is he now?
she wondered, though she felt sure he was somewhere in the spirit realm. Recalling what he'd told her about how time moved slower there, she guessed that he might feel that he'd left only recently. But for Shangri, it was a long time ago.

Yet she remembered the details of everything he had told her that day on the cliffs above the sea. The origins of Atlantis. The description of the spirit realm—especially its sweet rivers of honey. The way prayers from mortals could travel all the way to that faraway world, thanks to wind lions.

And most of all . . . the way he spoke about Atlanta. While Shangri remembered all the words he'd said about her, what she'd noticed most was that look in his eyes. A look so full of love.

A bit of hot cherry juice dripped onto her hand, jolting her back to the present.
No more dallyin',
she told herself.
I've got a pie to deliver before it's stone cold!

Her well-worn sandals tapped the cobblestones as she walked toward the market square. But when she came to the alley she'd taken countless times to the square, she didn't turn. Instead, she just kept going and turned down a completely different street—one that led into the heart of the City's newest neighborhood, what most people called the Machines District.

As someone who had always been observant of people and her surroundings, Shangri's sharp eyes didn't miss much. She had certainly noticed how much the City had changed in the last several years. Especially in this neighborhood where the Greeks lived and worked.

Led by Reocoles, their ship's captain, they called themselves
the people delivered by Poseidon
. And they'd brought with them many new words and songs, ceremonies and skills. They even had their own array of gods and goddesses who lived in a part of the spirit realm they called Mount Olympus. But the most striking thing they'd brought to Atlantis was a great industriousness that produced all sorts of new machines—machines that had already changed everyone's lives.

Plumbing, for one. Every street in the City now had ducts and drains like the gleaming copper duct that ran beside Shangri, bubbling with water, at this very moment. Not to mention all the pipes that ran up the mud-brick walls into every home and storefront and stable, carrying water in and out. Cisterns, fed by pumps from the ducts, sat on the roofs of most buildings. So did little windmills that turned the frequent ocean breezes into power for the pumps.

Even more amazing, coal-fired boilers now sat on the roofs of homes belonging to the wealthiest merchants, as well as the Divine Monk. Their purpose? According to the rumors Shangri had heard—which seemed utterly impossible—those boilers made hot water available to everyone in the homes.
At any time.
So whenever the Divine Monk wanted a hot bath, all he needed to do was turn a valve and hot water flowed automatically into his tub!

Shangri shook her flowing red curls, sending up a puff of flour from her morning's work at the bakery.
That jest can't be true,
she told herself.
Though I've seen a few other things happen I never s'posed could be true.

Like modern, coal-fired cookstoves that allowed some people to make three or four times the amount of pastries that her father could produce with his old one. And without any wood chopping needed. Sure, those stoves made the City's air more smoky and sometimes got so hot they caused fires . . . but most people didn't seem to mind.

Or like other examples she could think of easily. The tall torch lamps that now illuminated almost every street corner after dark. The machines (whose gears she could hear whirring and cranking in the building she was passing right now) that made new, cheaper tools for carpenters and blacksmiths, as well as parts for more machines. The strange new medicines, made by something called
chemistry,
which were starting to appear on apothecaries' shelves. The big vehicles with such screechy wheels that carried up to ten cartloads of wood, rocks, or coal—as well as the heavy boiler to make those wheels turn. And the much bigger vehicles used for mining all the coal needed to power so many machines.

Those mining vehicles stood so large they never came into the City. Like buildings on wheels, they moved very slowly and only came to the City's gates, where men unloaded the coal and moved it to vehicles that could fit on the streets. Most people didn't even know those mining machines existed. It was only last month, when Shangri decided to take a stroll outside the gates, that she'd seen one being unloaded. And the sight of such a huge, lumbering contraption had made her jaw drop.

As Shangri walked through the streets of the Machines District, she couldn't help but notice how busy everyone looked. Yet . . . their bustling seemed strangely different from when her father was busily making his latest pie or cake creation. No, these people seemed busy in an unsatisfied way, as if they were carrying invisible loads on their backs, loads they didn't like carrying.

On top of that, everyone here scurried about as if they were late for an important meeting. No one stopped to chat or even say hello. They just kept walking as fast as they could to wherever they were going, their minds elsewhere.

The most uncomfortable part of this neighborhood, though, was simply the air. Fumes from all the machines and vehicles hung in the high, narrow streets. Shangri's throat itched and her eyes watered. Around her on the streets, some people held kerchiefs over their mouths as they moved along.

Suddenly a pair of men hurried out from a door and knocked into Shangri. She barely managed to keep herself from dropping the rhubarb cherry pie. But the ceramic bowl of whipped cream she'd also been carrying smashed on the cobblestones, breaking into shards. Neither of the men paused to apologize.

She took a deep breath to calm herself—but inhaled so much of the fume-filled air, her throat burned. Slowly, she continued on her way. But now she watched every door carefully before she passed and tried to walk in the least crowded places she could find. Of course, on some stretches she couldn't avoid the crowds, especially if one or more of those screechy-wheeled vehicles went hurrying past.

Finally, she saw a new building, larger than any others on the street. Three big chimneys belched black smoke from its roof. From the roof's peak waved a flag with a blue dolphin, the same design as the sail of the doomed ship. The whole building, covered in plaster, looked like it had been painted just recently. It shone pearl white except for the shadowy smudges of coal dust under the chimneys.

Shangri strode up to the building and read the copper nameplate:

R
EOCOLES

M
ASTER
M
ACHINIST

Balancing the fruit pie on one open hand, she lifted the heavy knocker shaped like a trident. It slammed down, though Shangri wasn't sure how anyone inside could hear it above the street noise. But a few seconds later, the door opened.