Atlantis in Peril (3 page)

The Starstone's Hiding Place

S
tartled to find him sitting there, Atlanta froze. “You!” she exclaimed.

Promi nodded, swishing the long black hair that contrasted starkly with the misty sheen of his skin. With the hint of a grin, he said, “Nice to see you, too.”

Despite all the doubts she'd felt only moments before, her heart leaped. She dashed to the stream and jumped across to Moss Island, landing right on top of Promi. They rolled on the moss sparkling with spray, laughing together.

Quiggley, who had taken flight as she jumped, flew up to a willow branch. Amused, he watched the scene below. Then he turned his attention to the stream itself, listening to its constant splash as it swept around the island.

Closing his little eyes, he recalled the family he'd lost in Grukarr's attack—a whole clan of faeries who delighted in places just like this. Places where they could zip playfully through the vapors, turning cartwheels in the air, even as they made magical flowers sprout from streams or dined on the nectar of water lilies. Of all their communal activities, though, his most favorite had been telling stories to young children . . . including his daughter. How bright their eyes had glowed when he told tales and drew colorful pictures in the mist!

Ever so slightly, his antennae drooped. When his tales had ended, those pictures melted away, gone forever. And now . . . so had those children.

In the moss below, Atlanta and Promi weren't aware of the faery's musings (although, if they hadn't been so distracted, they might have noticed the temperature grow a little cooler). Having rolled to a stop, they sat beside each other, still laughing. Finally, Atlanta spoke.

“How did you know I'd be here?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

She peered at him skeptically.

“You're more predictable than you think, Atlanta.”

“And you're more ridiculous than you think.”

“Besides,” he added playfully, “what makes you so sure I came here to see
you
?” He ran his fingers through the thick green growth beneath them. “Maybe I just love moss.”

“Right. So much that you came all the way from the spirit realm just to touch it.”

“Well, maybe I came here to touch something else.” Promi leaned closer and lightly stroked her cheek. “Like that.”

She held his gaze. Then, feeling suddenly awkward, she wanted to change the subject. “How was the journey?”

He hesitated, tempted to tell her about the fight he'd just had with his parents. But the last thing he wanted to do right now was ruin the mood with Atlanta. Maybe he'd tell her later . . .

“The journey,” she repeated. “How was it?”

“A bit bumpy,” he replied. “I flew into some, er . . . unexpected winds.”

Suddenly brightening, he added, “But I actually hit a snowstorm! With really huge flakes. It didn't last long, ending just before you arrived.”

She almost grinned. “That's hard to believe.”

He shrugged. “Most of my life is hard to believe.”

“That's true, Promi. You've come a long way for somebody who started out as a pie thief, prisoner, and all-around vagabond.”

“And don't forget,” he added with a chuckle, “the Divine Monk's proclaimed Worst Criminal Ever in All History. Not because I broke all those laws to sneak into his private quarters on a high holy day, mind you. But because I . . .”

“Stole his favorite dessert!”

They laughed, the sound of their mirth mixing with the gleeful thrum of the stream. When at last they paused, she looked at him with an expression that was not quite serious.

“The worst thing you ever did back in those days—”

“You mean the days,” he interrupted, eyes twinkling, “before I figured out the Prophecy, regained the Starstone, saved the world, ended the war in the spirit realm—and, oh yes, became immortal?”

“Right,” she parried. “Back in the days before you became the humble fellow you are now.”

“Right.” He tapped her forearm. “So what was the worst thing I ever did?”

Atlanta opened her arms wide. “Right here on this island, that first night, when you told me—and all those forest creatures who had fed you so lavishly—that you absolutely wouldn't help us.”

He winced. “Did I really?”

“You did. And nothing could change your mind! You didn't budge even when the centaur threatened to kick off your head, the birds tried to peck out your eyes, and the smelldrude wanted to make you stink like a field of rotten fish.”

“And I suppose it's no excuse that I was still just a stupid, sweets-loving mortal?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to a stupid, sweets-loving immortal?”

“You got me there,” he said with a sigh. “And there's nothing I can do to make that up to you?”

Thoughtfully, she stroked her chin. “Like what?”

“Well . . . like creating a whole new island in the middle of the sea?”

She shook her head. “That's been done. By somebody—can't remember his name.”

“Hmmm. Then how about naming the island after you?”

Again she shook her head. “Also been done.”

“Then how about this?”

Promi leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips.

After the kiss ended, Atlanta sat back. Thoughtfully, she ran a hand through her curls. “Well . . . that's a start.”

“Good. Maybe I should practice some more.”

She smiled. “Good idea.”

Reaching for each other's hands, they stood in unison. Seeing this, Quiggley fluttered down from his perch on the willow branch. He landed on Atlanta's shoulder, his radiant blue wings whirring softly.

“Welcome back, little friend.” Atlanta tapped one of his red berry shoes. “Missed you.”

“Quiggley!” exclaimed Promi. “How are you?”

The faery turned toward him. Suddenly Promi held up one hand.

“Wait! Don't answer that question! The last time you spoke to me, my head almost exploded.”

Quiggley's grin returned. A wave of merriment flowed into both young people, making them chuckle.

Promi turned, scanning the moss-covered island and the forest beyond. “You know, a whole lot has happened since that night. Including the prediction by that gloomy centaur.”

“Haldor,” said Atlanta. “Not the most cheerful fellow around.”

“I've met corpses more cheerful.”

“You're right, though—he did predict this place would actually become an island. But don't forget what
else
he predicted.”

“That one day,” recalled Promi, “Atlantis will be lost forever, sinking deep into the sea, after a great disaster. What he called
a terrible day and night of destruction
.”

Inexplicably, the temperature seemed to drop. Feeling the chill, Promi and Atlanta moved closer. Even the faery drew his cloak around himself.

“Brrr,” said Promi. “Feels like it could snow again.”

“Anything is possible around here,” she replied. Then, recalling something, she added, “Why, on that same night we were also visited by a whole family of mist maidens. And by the river god himself! Remember?”

Touching the magical dagger at his side, Promi nodded. “You bet I do.” He glanced at its gleaming, translucent hilt and the silver string that would wrap itself around his wrist whenever he threw the dagger. “That memory—like this blade—I'll never lose.”

She gave his hand a squeeze. “And now, thanks to you, this little island has something else unforgettable. Something with infinite power.”

Catching her meaning, he uttered a single word—and merely saying it made him feel somehow stronger. “Starstone.”

“Yes, Promi. It's here.”

He thought about the first time he'd held the Starstone. Resting in the palm of his hand, the magnificent crystal glowed with pure, pulsing light. At the same time, it filled him with its mysterious power, magnifying his own inner magic.

For that was the Starstone's gift. As the old priest Bonlo, whom Promi had met in the dungeon of Ekh Raku, first explained, this crystal did for magic what a magnifying glass did for images. It took simple magic and transformed that into something bigger—as well as far more rich and complex. So its very presence enhanced everything around it.

That quality made the Starstone, quite simply, the most powerful object on Earth. Its power could be used for good—as it was now, deepening the natural magic of the Great Forest. Or it could be used for evil, becoming a weapon of unlimited destruction—which had been the goal of Grukarr and his master, the spirit warlord Narkazan.

“But where is it?” Promi asked. “I don't see it anywhere.”

Atlanta grinned. “Oh, it's here on the island, all right. Just hidden from view.”

He continued to scan Moss Island. Yet he saw nothing unusual—just lots of moss beneath their feet, the old willow, and the surrounding stream. Maybe, he thought, if it can't be seen . . . it could still be
felt
.

Closing his eyes, he remembered what he used to do as a Listener—
to hear the unheard,
in his sister Jaladay's words. He felt grateful that, now that he'd become fully immortal, he no longer needed to make a sacrifice every time he tried to do it. In fact, Jaladay had told him that he still possessed all the ability to listen he'd had before, and that the power would never leave him.

Even so . . . he hesitated. He hadn't tried to use that power since Atlantis became an island. What if he'd forgotten how? What if he just couldn't do it?

Might as well try,
he told himself. The worst that could happen was he'd embarrass himself in front of Atlanta. And he'd already done that more times than he could count.

Opening himself to the sounds all around, he listened. Not just with his ears, but with his bones. His blood. His innermost feelings.

At first, he heard only the rushing stream. Then his own breathing, as well as Atlanta's. Then their heartbeats. And then . . . the very gentle pulse of the faery's heart.

Meanwhile, Atlanta watched him intently. On her shoulder, Quiggley leaned forward.

High overhead, Promi heard the steady flap of a bird's wings. An egret, he felt sure. Seeking a fish to bring home to a nest of young ones.

Then . . . a sound unlike any of the others. Both very near and far away, it seemed to beat like a heart, but with a resonance that echoed in all the living beings on the island. This deep, steady pulse echoed in himself, in Atlanta, in the tree—and even in the tufts of moss. As well as in the stream and in the ancient rocks on its banks.

Slowly, keeping his eyes closed, Promi turned. The sound's origin, its source, was calling. He could almost hear it.

Almost.

Stretching his listening to the limit, he caught hold of the sound.
There,
he told himself at last.
Over there.

He opened his eyes. With a certainty he couldn't explain, he stepped over to the willow tree. Kneeling by its roots, he lay his hand on one especially gnarled, moss-covered root.

“Here,” he said quietly. “The Starstone is buried under here.”

“Yes!” Atlanta rushed over and kneeled beside him. “I asked the tree to keep and protect it. To hide the crystal away—and never to release it unless Atlantis is in terrible, terrible danger. And that root lifted out of the ground, grasped the crystal, and carried it deep underground.”

As they stood, she gave him a smirk. “Not bad for a pie thief.”

Strange Magic

C
ome on,” said Promi as he nudged her shoulder. “Let's take a walk. Can't think of how many weeks it's been since I saw you—but it's too many.”

Atlanta nodded. “That's true! Shall I lead?”

“Of course. You know if I lead, we'll get completely lost in no time.”

“Also true.” Pointing at Promi's feet, she smirked. “Remember when you gave up your boots and walked the first time in bare feet?”

“Most painful thing I've ever done,” he answered. “Except maybe . . . when I had to put up with that crazy blue demon riding on my back.”

“Kermi? Oh . . . he was so
cute
.”

Promi scowled. “Cute as the plague.”

“Let's go,” declared Atlanta.

With the faery perched on her shoulder, she darted to the island's edge and leaped across the rushing waterway. Then, without breaking stride, she strode across a patch of lemongrass, between a pair of olive trees, and up a fern-covered slope. After glancing behind to make sure her companion was coming, she veered into a grove where passion fruits were just beginning to ripen.

Promi joined her—but as usual, without Atlanta's grace. Compared to her, he resembled a hippo trying to run with a gazelle. Yet he did try hard to stay by her side . . . except whenever they encountered a smelldrude.

When that happened today, fortunately, Promi was lagging behind. When Atlanta emerged from a stand of birches, the smelldrude saw her and waddled over. Looking like an oversized otter with enormous eyes, she placed one of her webbed feet in Atlanta's open hand. The smelldrude's powerful scent glands produced an aroma as sweet as wild roses. But the instant Promi appeared, that aroma took on a hint of something more like curdled milk mixed with dead fish.

Promi immediately turned around and retreated into the birches. Only after the smelldrude had waddled off—and Atlanta had waved to let him know all was clear—did he rejoin her.

Through the Great Forest they roamed, occasionally stopping to drink from a spring that bubbled up from the ground, eat some juicy pears, or split a sweet cakefruit. After a few hours, they climbed a massive fir tree (whose branches held a whole clan of chattering squirrels), just to enjoy the view from the top. Later, they came across a steep hill covered in fluffy blue moss—which they immediately rolled down. Throughout the day, the woods resounded with their conversation, laughter, and, whenever Atlanta felt inspired, song.

As late afternoon light touched the trees, painting branches with gold, they came to the western edge of the forest. Before them, at the bottom of a sloping meadow, sat three clear lakes. Like puzzle pieces, the lakes fit together perfectly, with narrow borders of rushes growing between them. Sunlight sparkled on the water.

“Shall we go for a swim?” Promi started to pull off his tunic. “Before the sun goes down.”

“Not there,” cautioned Atlanta. She put a hand on his arm. “Those are the Lakes of Dreams . . . and there is strange magic in that water.”

“But they look so inviting.”

“Look more closely.”

Peering at the lakes, Promi noticed that there were no birds on the surface. Nor did any other animals wander the shores. Indeed, he saw no signs at all of animal life—not even a path to a favorite spot to drink.

“I see,” he said. “There's something, well,
unfriendly
about those lakes.”

Twirling one of her curls thoughtfully, Atlanta gazed at the scene. “The rumor I've heard—ever since childhood—is that anyone who stands on the shore and looks into that water will see their most frightful dream.”

She glanced at him, then went on. “And anyone who stays too long by that water . . . will be condemned to
live
that dream.”

On her shoulder, the faery shuddered.

Promi raised his eyebrows. “Well then, I guess we won't be going for a swim after all.”

For a long moment, they sat in silence at the top of the slope. Then, in unison, they turned, reading each other's expressions.

“You're sure?” asked Promi.

“Yes,” she replied. “Just a quick look. For the adventure. Let's do it together! That won't be so bad.”

Quiggley flew in front of her face, wings whirring, waving his small arms in distress.

“It's all right, little friend. Just one look. How bad can that be?”

The faery waved even more frantically.

“Listen,” she explained. “My whole life I've been hearing about the Lakes of Dreams, and I've always heeded the warnings. But now I'm old enough to handle whatever the water shows me.”

“And I'm here, too.” Promi slid his fingers into hers. “We'll help each other.”

Dejectedly, Quiggley shook his head, almost losing his cotton hat. Then he flew over to the nearest tree, an elm, and perched on its lowest branch. He tucked in his wings, as if to say,
I'll wait for you here
.

Holding hands, Atlanta and Promi walked down to the nearest of the lakes. As they stepped into the rushes, their bare feet made the stalks snap and hiss. Finally, at the water's edge, they stopped.

They traded uncertain glances, then released hands. As one, they kneeled—and looked into the still water.

Atlanta saw a sudden blur of images. Her own face as a child, clouds of noxious fumes, menacing shadows, murky pools, twisted trees. The Passage of Death was near! She ran into the swamp, dodging quicksand pits and slithering snakes whose fangs gleamed darkly.

Mama! Papa!
she screamed, her small voice swallowed by the night.
Don't leave me all alone!

Images of hunched creatures flashed by, with more eerie shadows. Swamp specters! Feeding on human misery—following her. Reaching for her hair, her neck, her arms . . .

Dark vapors swirled. The scene suddenly changed to a sunlit meadow in the forest. Two people were lying together amidst the sweetstalk fern. Atlanta and Promi! She relaxed, reaching for him, even as he gently stroked her arm. Lovingly, they embraced, starting to kiss. Just an instant before their lips touched—

He burst into laughter! Not with joy, but with wrath—a harsh, vengeful laugh. Roughly, he shoved her away.

You!
He stood, looking at her with revulsion.
You are nobody. Nothing! I am leaving you forever.

Wait,
she cried.
Wait, Promi. Don't leave me all alone!

• • •

Kneeling by the lake, Atlanta reeled so violently that she fell over backward. Looking down at her was someone with long black hair. Promi!

She shrieked and rolled away from him, still feeling her anger and pain at what he'd done. What he'd said.

A dream,
she told herself.
It was just a dream.
But if that was true, why was the pain so raw? Why was her whole body shaking?

“Atlanta,” he said, watching her worriedly. “Are you all right?”

Slowly, she sat up. “Sure,” she said weakly. “Just . . . a bit shaken.”

He sat down beside her. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Gently, he placed his hand on her knee. But she recoiled from his touch, moving away.

“No,” she repeated. Lowering her head between her knees, she moaned, “That . . . was . . . a bad idea.”

Promi frowned solemnly. “I know.”

After a moment, she raised her head. “Was your vision just as horrible?”

He nodded.

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

She gazed at him, this young man who had saved the world, who had cast the wicked spirit Narkazan into a swirling maelstrom, who had created a whole new island—and who now looked so shaken and vulnerable. Drawing a deep breath, she slid over to his side. Their bodies leaned against each other. But they didn't speak.

In silence, they sat there. The sun dropped lower to the horizon, splashing pink and purple rays across the sky. Yet neither of them noticed.

Finally, Atlanta whispered a few words. “I'll tell you something about mine . . . if you'll do the same.”

“Well . . . ,” he said hesitantly.

She tapped his knee. “I think it might help. Both of us.”

He sighed. “All right. Shall I go first?”

“No,” she answered bravely. “I'll start.”

Chewing her lip, she paused, deciding what to say. “Mine was about . . . losing my parents. Searching for them, all by myself, in that terrible swamp. Calling for them . . .”

She started to cry. As Promi wrapped his arm around her shoulder, she said through her sobs, “But they . . . never . . . came back.”

As the sobs subsided, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “That's what I saw.” Then she added, though it wasn't true, “Nothing more.”

“That was enough.”

Looking away, she murmured, “Yes, enough.” Then she turned back to him. “And your vision?”

“A bit more scattered,” he replied. “Funny thing is . . . most of it was feelings, not places or people.”

“What sort of feelings?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, when I was a child and I found out my parents wanted to send me away—all the way to the world of mortals—I was angry. And confused. And very hurt.”

“Of course.”

“So what if they thought they were protecting me? They totally ignored what I wanted! They wiped away my memories, stole everything I knew—my whole past. Then they disguised me as a mortal, sent me to Earth, and forced me to fend for myself on the streets.”

Atlanta shuddered. Until now, she hadn't really understood what Promi had survived.

“All because of
this,
” he growled. He opened his tunic to show the strange black mark on his chest—right over his heart. Resembling a soaring bird, it was the sign of the Prophecy that had rocked both the mortal and spirit realms . . . and changed his life forever.

“The truth is,” he lamented, “I've been used my whole life.”

He paused, thinking about the fight he'd just had with his parents. Those childhood wounds were still so raw! Could he ever forgive Sammelvar and Escholia? Could he ever move beyond all that?

Reliving that pain, as he'd looked into the water, had been brutal. If that had been all he'd seen, it would have been bad enough. He blew a long breath and thought,
But that wasn't the worst of it. No—not nearly.

Promi chewed his lip. Should he tell Atlanta the rest?

No,
he decided.
I can't possibly do that. Can't possibly tell her how we were almost together—before we were ripped apart. Time after time after time!

Feeling her stroke his back soothingly, he told himself,
And I certainly can't tell her that the person to blame, the one who tore us apart, wasn't some outsider. It was me!

He shook his head. That was the most frightening part of the dream—the fear that he could never truly love anyone. Not his parents. Not his sister. Not even Atlanta.

She took his arm. “It's going to get dark soon. Should we find somewhere to spend the night?”

“Sure,” he replied, still gripped by what he'd experienced.

Together, they rose and walked up the slope to the forest's edge. Neither said a word. And neither looked back at the darkening Lakes of Dreams.