Atlantis Rising (12 page)

“Not really. The point is, this stupid mark doesn’t mean a thing.”

She shook her curls. “So you keep telling me. Say, Kermi has been awfully quiet recently.”

He tapped the bulge down in his boot. “As I said, these special boots adjust themselves to fit. And judging from how far down inside he is, I’d guess he decided to take a nap.”

“Poor little fellow,” she said with sympathy. “He must be exhausted.”

“Maybe,” mused Promi, “I should dump him into the stream?” Seeing her scowl, he added quickly, “Just to give him a drink, I mean.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t so mean to him, he’d be nicer to you. He’s really very sweet.”

“Right. Sweet as poison hemlock.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe I should add that to the menu for supper.”

“No thanks. But speaking of supper—”

She clapped her hands. “Come, cross over the stream. There’s no finer place to dine than Moss Island.”

A Whistle in the Woods

Have you learned yet, Promi, the paradox? Natural magic holds both joy and sorrow. There is nothing so beautiful as its flowering . . . and nothing so terrible as its end.

—From her journal

G
rukarr stomped through the forest. Around him rose the glittering boughs of star cedars, a grove of massive trees whose every cupped needle held a drop of morning dew. On a sunny day like this, those dewdrops caught the light and sparkled, trembling with the slightest breeze, filling the grove with a rich yet subtle radiance. Travelers who passed through this place often felt as if they were walking through a galaxy of thousands and thousands of stars.

But not Grukarr. He didn’t even notice the glittering cedars, the dewdrops, or the radiance. Just as he didn’t see the rare clusters of spiraling moss that draped from the cedars’ boughs or the orange eyes of three young owlets who watched him from their nest hidden inside a hollow burl. He barely even noticed the black shadow that hovered beside him, floating above the carpet of fallen needles.

“Curse those two young wretches! Curse their blood and bones, poison their next meals, and stifle their very last breaths!”

Grukarr growled the curse viciously for at least the hundredth time that morning. It happened to be one of his favorites, a balm that always soothed his mind and lifted his spirits in troubled times. Not today, however. Today things felt so bleak that not even a cherished curse could help.

Angrily, he marched ahead. One of his boots crushed a sprig of ripe boatberries, each one shaped like a tiny golden hull with a billowing sail. Indigo juice splattered his boot and the mud-stained hem of his robe—already so dirty from his trek through the forest that it looked more brown than white.

Hearing the squelch of the berries, he glanced down at his boot and cursed again. “Cut out my enemies’ intestines, tie them in knots, and burn them to ashes! I hate this filthy forest. And all the magic wielders who hide here!”

He paused, vengefully smashing under his boot a family of yellow mushrooms with transparent stems. “How,” he puzzled, “could those two criminals have vanished like that? What was the source of that magic? Not her, since we were deep in the City, much too far from the forest for her to use its magic. Yet . . . I can’t believe it could have come from him, either—that ignorant pie thief. So how did they escape?”

Kicking the remains of one mushroom off the toe of his boot, he asked the mistwraith, “You didn’t detect any other immortals nearby, did you?”

The shadow being quivered and brushed against his legs. Black sparks flew into the air, sizzling whenever they hit leaves or soil.

“So they don’t have anyone from the spirit realm to help them.” He ground his teeth angrily. “All the better. When I finally do catch them—I can crush them completely. After the forest girl helps me, that is.”

The mistwraith crackled again, shooting more sparks.

“Yes, I’m sure she will do it! Or else she will see her precious forest wither away and die.”

Malevolently, he grinned. “Killing those two will be lovely. But what I’m going to do to that old witch Araggna—that will be even better.” He wiped his boot in some grass, eliminating any trace of the mushrooms. “Of course, I must choose the perfect time and place. She has too many spies . . . as well as those infernal temple guards always around her.”

His grin twisted into a frown. “For now, I must continue to endure her insults. As if that escape from the alley was somehow my fault! Curse the Divine Monk’s navel! I wish I could have strangled Araggna right there. But no, not yet.”

The mistwraith writhed impatiently. It passed through the trunk of a young oak tree, killing it instantly.

“Not yet, I said.” Grukarr growled like a wounded tiger. “Right now, our highest priority is to find those two. Especially her! The day, the dawn, draws near! So we will keep searching this cursed forest, while Huntwing and my minions scour the City. And while we are here, perhaps you can—”

A sudden, high-pitched crackle interrupted him. By his side, the shadow being turned a lighter shade.

Grukarr peered down at his immortal companion. “Nearby? Are you certain?”

More crackling.

“Well, well,” said the priest with the faintest hint of satisfaction. “We won’t rest until we find the forest girl, of course. But finding
that
would make this long day of slogging worthwhile. Take me there!”

The mistwraith surged ahead, floating out of the grove and into a grassy meadow. A family of field mice suddenly scattered as it approached, while a pair of mirror-winged butterflies took flight, the dark shadow reflected on their wings.

At last the mistwraith slowed. Near the edge of the meadow, where three streams converged, it stopped. Stealthily, it hovered just above the grass.

Grukarr hurried to catch up, almost stumbling on a fallen branch that held a parade of red-capped mushrooms. Halfway across the meadow, he too halted. For he saw what the mistwraith had found.

Faeries. Hundreds of them—a whole colony of these secretive creatures, each one no bigger than a man’s thumb.

They were doing all the things faeries love to do most in their secret hideaways—zipping playfully through the air, drawing magical flowers that sprouted on the water, and telling stories to their bright-eyed children. They danced on the rapids. Dined on rose nectar. Used their magic to make sculptures out of honeycomb. Sang ethereal harmonies that flowed like streams of sound.

Grukarr’s brown eyes opened wide. He fingered his necklace of golden beads eagerly, knowing that very few creatures held as much magic as faeries. Only baby dragons, unicorns, and mysterious beings called starsisters—whose power to make light was so great, it was said, that they could make sunbeams look like shadows—possessed as much magic as faeries.

And here were hundreds of them.

Turning toward the hovering mistwraith, Grukarr nodded. The shadowy immortal began to float silently toward the faery colony.

To avoid frightening their prey, the priest stood as still as a tree. He watched, noticing for the first time that most of the faeries wore some sort of garb. Many sported thin, translucent cloaks wrapped around their necks and the base of their wings. All but the youngest wore tiny shoes of hollowed-out red berries and amulets made from various seeds.

One faery, a mother, carried her honey-haired child in a backpack made from an acorn. Its smooth surface had been decorated with colorful paintings of clouds, trees, and summer flowers. As the child slept, the faery mother sang a soothing song to bring peaceful dreams.

Females tied their flowing hair with green or pink ribbons fashioned from flower petals or woven moss. Males wore rust-colored leggings and fluffy cotton hats with tiny holes to allow their antennae to protrude. Yet no clothing could match the beauty of the faeries’ unadorned wings, whose shining blue surfaces glowed like crystals as delicate as the air itself.

Trash,
thought Grukarr with a sneer.
Forest trash. How, by the Great Powers, such insignificant creatures ever gained such enormous magic, I will never understand.
His mouth twitched malevolently.
But that will soon change.

At that instant, the mistwraith reached the streams. A few faeries suddenly noticed the intruder and shrieked in alarm. Dozens of them rose into the air, their wings buzzing as they started to fly away. The mother faery stopped singing to her child in the painted acorn, screamed in fright, and joined the escape.

Too late.

Even as the shrieks began, the mistwraith expanded. In the blink of an eye, it stretched into a deadly blanket that blocked the sun, while shooting out dark tendrils that surrounded the fleeing faeries. All across the shadowy blanket, black sparks exploded. With each spark, a single faery cried out—then fell into the water or onto the grass, its wings now drab and motionless, devoid of light.

The faeries were not dead. Not yet, at least. For now, they lay on the ground or floated helpless on the water, unable to fly or sing or conjure even the smallest spell. The mother lay stunned on the bank, unable to reach out and touch her child who had fallen out of the acorn and rolled down to the water’s edge.

What had happened to them was, in fact, worse than death. They would gladly have died instantly to avoid this fate.

They had been robbed of their magic—and consequently, their ability to move or speak. All their magic had been devoured by the mistwraith. Its shadowy folds rippled with satisfaction, making a contented, swishing sound.

Victorious, Grukarr kissed his ruby ring. He started to whistle happily, then strolled over to the stream, kicking aside a pile of winged bodies.

For several seconds, he surveyed the scene to make absolutely sure that not a single glowing wing had escaped. All the while, he whistled. Finally satisfied, he turned to the mistwraith and watched as the shadowy being shrank back to its normal size.

“Excellent work, my friend. You have gathered more magic in this moment than in all the days we have been together. And the more magic we gather . . . the more we will have for the great moment of triumph.”

The mistwraith shuddered with pleasure, releasing a shower of sparks.

Grukarr’s expression hardened. “We have much more work to do, however. And very little time before dawn on Ho Byneri.” He added in a commanding tone, “Which is why I am sending you back to the realm of immortals.”

The mistwraith crackled in surprise and darkened like a thundercloud before a storm.

“Yes,” continued Grukarr. “I need you to go back—and urge our master Narkazan to send more mistwraiths. Straight to my lair at the Passage of Death! I need them now, with no more delay.”

Angrily, the shadow being crackled again.

“I
know
Narkazan needs every mistwraith he has right now for his battles on high! Do you think I don’t know his plans?” Grukarr bent lower, keeping one hand on his turban so it wouldn’t fall off. “You must convince him that sending me more mistwraiths right now will
guarantee
him victory in those battles. For they will help me provide him with the ultimate weapon to defeat all his enemies.”

The mistwraith, clearly anxious, floated backward on the grass. It crackled so fast that the sound was more like a hum punctuated with black sparks.

The priest shook his head. “No, he will not punish you for bringing this message. Show him how much magic you have inhaled in just one encounter with faeries. That should convince him. And tell him I will soon have more than a hundred times that much magic!”

Another burst of crackling.

“Of course I will find the forest girl! Watching you just now, I thought of the perfect way to trap her.” He smirked with satisfaction. “And when I do . . . she will do all I ask. Or see her precious forest die from the blight. She will cooperate, believe me.”

Silently, the mistwraith floated around Grukarr’s legs. Then it crackled with more sparks.

“You still doubt me? Then remember the Prophecy! Its meaning could not be more clear.”

Lowering his voice, Grukarr declared, “At dawn on Ho Byneri, when the veil is thinnest, I will deliver to Narkazan all the magic he needs to give the Starstone a whole new purpose—to make it the most powerful weapon in the universe.”

He beamed. “That will spell
the end of all magic
in the mortal world. And the beginning of a whole new era.” Puffing out his chest, the priest nodded confidently. “And for that service, he will give something to me: the world of mortals.”

Agreeing at last, the mistwraith lightened a shade, though it still looked as dark as a moonless night. With a sharp crackle and a burst of sparks, the immortal vanished.

Once again, Grukarr scanned the remains of the faery colony. Seeing the small, helpless bodies lining the banks, hanging from the grass, and spinning in the stream’s eddies, he sighed in satisfaction. He began to whistle again, even more cheerfully.

Maybe,
he thought as he tapped his foot to the rhythm,
I will whistle something for the commoners at my coronation. Just to show that I am an emperor who is also a man of the people.

Glancing over his shoulder at the forest, he remembered Atlanta. His whistling ceased. “I will find that wretched young woman,” he muttered. “And soon!”

He turned to leave—then stopped. For there, in the shade of a rose bush by the farthest stream, he’d spotted a pair of luminous wings.

A faery! Grukarr’s lip curled in rage. “How did you escape, you little beast?”

He glared at the tiny creature who cowered, wings trembling, under the rosebush. “I can’t deal with you now, unfortunately. But your time will come very soon! Before Ho Byneri, I can promise you that.”

Grukarr spun and started to march off. He knew that these three streams would lead him eventually to a path he knew well—one that he used often to visit his secret lair near the mountains. This time, however, he would not follow the path to the lair, but back to the City. For he had an important task to perform. A task he wanted to do before setting the trap for Atlanta.

A task,
he thought as he walked,
for a future emperor.