Atlantis Rising (13 page)

Secrets

Any dessert, whatever its ingredients, can be a tasty treat or a rotten mess. All depends on how it’s prepared.

—From Promi’s journal

G
rukarr walked stealthily down an alley at the City’s edge. Keeping in the shadows, he moved almost as quietly as a mistwraith, as if he were floating over the cobblestones.

Still wearing his mud-streaked robe after his long trek through the forest and carrying his turban in the crook of his arm, he might have been mistaken for a beggar by anyone who happened to glimpse his shadowed form. But as far as he knew, no one had spotted him. And he was determined to keep it that way. Far too much was at stake.

If anything went wrong with his plans, there would be no one around to help him. His ally from the spirit realm was no longer at his side. Huntwing was as loyal as ever, but right now the bird was elsewhere. And Narkazan? These days the spirit lord’s attention was focused entirely on the battle to win control of the immortal realm.

Careful, now. Careful,
Grukarr told himself as he moved closer to the end of the alley. Anxiously, he fingered his necklace of golden beads.
Must stay hidden from Araggna and her spies.

Step by step, he slid through the dark passageway. At last, he reached the end, encountering a stone gutter that carried waste and rainwater down to the river. Opposite the gutter stood an old building, long ago abandoned, whose worn mud-brick walls had almost collapsed. A part of its roof had, in fact, fallen in. As Grukarr watched, a rat scurried out of the gutter and into a crack in the building’s foundation.

Made it all the way here,
he thought,
with no problems. But I haven’t yet made it inside.

Carefully, he surveyed the old building, then checked all the nearby streets. Everything looked clear. Feeling his racing heartbeat, he tried to remain calm.
What strange things I do to gain the power I deserve! Soon, if all goes well, there will be no more need for such miserable tasks.

Once again, he checked the surrounding streets. No sign of spies—or temple guards. Jaw clenched, he stepped over the gutter and up to the building’s door.

Abruptly, he kicked the door open. It slammed against the inside wall, so hard the whole building shook. Mud-bricks cracked and fell to the dirt floor.

Grukarr strode inside.

The first thing he saw were about fifteen men lounging by a large pile of rudimentary weapons—axes, shovels, wooden pikes, bows, and some rusty blades, mostly daggers along with one old broadsword. Caught completely by surprise, the men leaped to their feet. Only one didn’t move: a gray-bearded fellow dozing soundly with an empty jug of ale under his arm.

“Halt!” shouted the nearest man as he jumped up. His broad face showed a scar that ran from cheek to chin. He grabbed the sword and pointed it at Grukarr’s chest, ready to attack. “One more step an’ you die.”

The priest’s gaze locked onto the scowling man. But instead of scowling back, Grukarr merely chortled. “Easy now, Rending.”

With a screech of recognition, Huntwing flapped over from his perch on a ceiling beam and settled on his master’s shoulder. Grukarr stroked the bird’s rust-colored wing.

“Oh!” exclaimed the man, dropping the sword. “It’s you.”

“That’s right,” growled Grukarr, replacing his turban on his head. “I came for a surprise inspection.” He glanced around at the motley group. “And what I see does not please me.”

Rending tensed. “But Master . . . we done searched the whole City fer that forest girl. Been doin’ nothin’ else since you released us from the temple jail. Jest like you commanded.”

Wrathfully, Grukarr kicked at a shovel, sending it flying across the room. “And what did you minions find? Nothing.”

Huntwing scraped his talons together, as if longing to use them to gouge someone’s eyes out.

“Not yet, my Huntwing,” said Grukarr soothingly. “These men still have one more chance to prove their worth. But if they fail . . . you shall have your way with them.”

Several men went pale, while a few others backed away from the bird who glared at them so savagely.

“Or, if I choose,” the priest continued in an even more malicious tone, “I will send every man in this room back to jail to receive the punishments already ordered by High Priestess Araggna.”

A wave of shudders and grumbles passed through the men. Only when Huntwing clacked his beak did they fall silent.

“Now,” growled Grukarr, “before I give you your new orders, I want to remind you that I will tolerate no more failure. And also no slackers!”

“No slackers among us,” replied Rending nervously. “We is all eager to serve you.”

“Is that so?” answered Grukarr. His gaze shifted to the man dozing on the floor. Striding over, he kicked away the man’s jug of ale. But the man stayed asleep, snoring contentedly.

Grukarr’s eyes narrowed. Grabbing a shovel, he raised it and slammed it hard against the fellow’s head. The man shrieked and rolled over. He lay motionless on the dirt, blood streaming from his head wound.

Stunned by Grukarr’s brutality, Rending winced. His scar reddened. None of the men dared to speak or move, not even to try to stop their companion’s bleeding.

The priest scanned them icily. “Now, I believe, you understand. I have not worked so hard for so long—even going so far as to free you rabble from jail—to fail because of some lazy, witless drunkards.”

His nostrils flared. “Here are your new orders. You will march in the direction of Ell Shangro and the other mountains, all the way to my secret lair.”

Grukarr paused, stroking his bird’s tail feathers. “Huntwing here will guide you to make sure no one gets lost. Or tries to turn back. And he will show you where to find the special masks I have made to protect you from . . . certain dangers. Do you understand?”

All the men nodded.

“Good. Then get out of my sight.”

Immediately, the men grabbed their weapons and hurried out of the old building.

Grukarr peered into Huntwing’s savage eyes. “Make sure they get to the lair as soon as possible. I have uses for them there.”

Huntwing clacked his beak in assent and flew off. The priest watched him go, then muttered quietly, “Uses that will expand my power—the only true purpose of a commoner’s life.”

Straightening his turban, he thought,
That was something Bonlo, that sentimental old fool, never understood. He even dared to question my authority! May he rot forever in that dungeon.

Grukarr walked to the door and peered cautiously outside. His men had all departed, leaving the area empty. Still, he paused to make sure there was no one in the surrounding streets who might see him. Just to be safe, he removed his turban and tucked it under his arm.

Convinced all was clear, he stepped over the gutter, crossed the street, and turned into a narrow alley. The passage was dark enough, layered with shadows, that he paused to let his eyes adjust. And he breathed a sigh of relief that his exit from the old building had gone so smoothly.

Now,
he thought,
my time of triumph is near.

He started to stride deeper into the alley—but heard a rustling sound. He froze, surveying the shadows.

Just then, six temple guards stepped into view, three ahead of him and three behind. Curved swords drawn, they surrounded him, blocking any possible escape. Grukarr jumped, then fumbled to put his turban back on his head.

“That won’t help you now,” rasped a voice behind him. Grukarr whirled around to face Araggna as she stepped out of the shadows. She faced him, the lines around her eyes etched more harshly than ever. On her forearm, the boa constrictor slithered menacingly.

“I charge you,” she said coldly, “with willfully releasing prisoners from custody—prisoners I had ordered punished.”

“But, High Priestess,” protested Grukarr, “I was only—”

“Silence!” she commanded. “You were only doing what serves your own ambitions, as always. Do you think me such a fool? My spies have kept me well informed of your disobedience and incompetence. As if I needed any more evidence of that.”

She scowled at him. Then she tapped the collar of her robe, feeling the luminous object hidden underneath. Whatever it was sent light through the cloth as well as the gaps between her fingers.

“I know what you want,” she rasped. “You want
this.
” Again she tapped her collar. “And all its power.”

Her eyes gleamed. “The precious Starstone! Though I have tried to keep it secret since that monk found it in the forest and brought it to me weeks ago, I could tell that you recognized its magical light—light that fills its wearer with enormous strength.”

Shifting her expression, she seemed almost compassionate. “You were right to want it, Grukarr. Every minute I wear it, I feel my power growing, my youthful strength returning. It is truly the treasure of legend, with the ability to magnify whatever magic it meets.”

Unable to contain his overwhelming desire, the priest whispered, “It is magnificent.”

Araggna’s normal harsh expression returned. “And you shall never have it!”

Grukarr stiffened, though he still couldn’t take his eyes off the glowing bulge beneath her robe.

Straightening her back, the High Priestess declared, “For crimes against the Divine Monk’s holy order and the state of Ellegandia, I hereby sentence you to death.”

The snake raised its head, glaring straight at Grukarr, and released a loud hiss.

Grukarr shuddered, anxiously looking around to see if he could somehow manage to escape.

“No more delay,” rasped Araggna. “Guards! Cut him down right here in this alley.”

Then Grukarr did something surprising. He clapped his hands and declared, “Now.”

Instantly, the temple guard nearest to Araggna swung his sword and sliced off the head of her snake. The priestess shrieked as the boa’s body slipped off her arm and fell to the ground.

The other guards, at the same time, moved to surround Araggna. Pointing their swords at her, they glared vengefully.

Too stunned to speak, Araggna looked back at them. Never one to pay much attention to the lowly people who served her, she rarely even glanced at the faces of her guards. But now she realized something was wrong.

These men were not the same ones who had been guarding her yesterday! In fact . . . she didn’t remember them guarding her
ever.
Yet they did look vaguely familiar. But why?

She gasped, realizing the truth. “Criminals!” she rasped. “I sentenced you to die for your violations of the law.”

“That’s right,” answered Grukarr pleasantly. He stepped between two of the guards. “And I released them. Now they are sworn to serve me.”

“Outrage!” cried the priestess. “You are beneath scum, Grukarr.”

He merely smirked. “It was you who gave me the idea, High Priestess. Yes, when you stripped me of my own guards.”

Ready to explode with rage, Araggna couldn’t stop shaking. “You will pay for this, Grukarr. The immortals on high will punish you!”

“Perhaps,” he said casually. “But I doubt it.”

He reached for her collar, grabbed the slender cord around her neck, and yanked hard. The cord snapped, allowing him to pull out from under her robe a luminous crystal whose every facet pulsed with light. Holding the Starstone in his hand, Grukarr grinned with deep satisfaction.

“You won’t have any further need for this.” He stuffed the glowing crystal into his pocket, then gazed at the priestess. “I should say it has been an honor and a pleasure to serve you.” After a pause, he added, “But it has not.”

Shaking with fury, Araggna couldn’t speak. All she could do was glare hatefully at Grukarr and silently curse the world that had betrayed her.

With a wave of his hand, Grukarr commanded the guards, “Now do to her what she wanted done to you.”

He spun around and strode out of the alley. Behind him, Araggna screamed in agony. Feeling quite pleased, Grukarr started to whistle serenely.

Feast of the Forest

When in doubt, put aside everything else and do what matters most. Eat.

—From Promi’s journal, written on the opening page of recipes

M
oss Island, sparkling with vapor, gleamed in the last light of day. The stream that divided to form the island and hugged its edges splashed continuously, thrumming with tranquil tones. Aside from one old willow tree, nothing but moss grew there—so thick and soft it could have been a bed of green feathers.

Led by Atlanta, Promi waded across the stream to the island. Her bare feet sprang across the river stones, while he walked unsteadily in the current, barely keeping his balance. Yet while the water was fairly deep, none of it got inside his boots. For those magical boots, sensing water lapping at their rims, instantly grew a little bit taller. That kept any water from dousing his feet—as well as Kermi, who lay curled around one ankle, sound asleep.

Reaching the other side, they sat down on the lush carpet of moss. Promi’s stomach rumbled, and he glanced around the island. “Er . . . beautiful place,” he said. “But I don’t see any signs of supper.”

“You will,” Atlanta promised.

“When?”

“Soon, Promi. But first I need to sing something.”

He frowned, rubbing his belly. “I can’t eat songs.”

Ignoring him, she started to sing, so quietly her voice could barely be heard above the splashing stream:

Mist arises all around,

Forest deep I roam—

Music made from ev’ry sound

Fills the

Singing hills of home.

Creatures gather as I sing,

Seedlings spring from loam—

Music flies like birds awing

In the

Singing hills of home.

Endless magic touches life:

Muscle, flesh, and bone—

Music lift us out of strife!

Bless the

Singing hills of home.

As she sang, the first stars glowed through the gaps between the willow branches. Meanwhile, birds began to gather in those boughs. A woodland grouse with a puffy chest, a family of red-feathered sparrows, two small owlets, a rainbow-winged beecatcher, and a great hornbill with an enormous crown all settled in the willow. As soon as they landed, they ceased chirping or rustling so that Atlanta’s voice could carry farther. One of the first to arrive, a young hawk with iridescent green bands on his wings, floated down to the island and perched right beside Promi on a broken branch in the moss.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
A small woodpecker hit against a branch, keeping perfect rhythm to Atlanta’s song.

The original blessing drum,
thought Promi.

Meanwhile, more animals came. A monkey with yellow fur leaped onto the island from a forest vine, his tail clutching a bunch of plump pink berries. Gently, the monkey stretched out his tail and placed the berries on Atlanta’s thigh. Without breaking the rhythm of her song, she gave him a grateful wink.

Before she’d finished the second verse, a butterfly floated over and landed on her shoulder. Even in the subtle starlight, its wings flashed rich shades of green. Its antennae bobbed with the music, as if they were keeping time.

A mountain gazelle with her newborn, still wobbly on his thin legs, crossed the water to stand beside Atlanta. A huge black crab clambered out of the stream and sat on the bank, watching with extended eyes. And a thin green snake, whose color precisely matched the moss, slithered out of the shadows to listen.

Then came a rare smelldrude, a creature resembling an oversized otter with vibrant blue eyes, who was almost never seen . . . but was occasionally smelled. Promi had never believed the tales he’d heard about smelldrudes, who supposedly showed their moods by producing smells. But just to be safe, he scooted a bit farther away. For while a happy smelldrude, like this one, smelled like fresh peaches or popping corn, an anxious one could make a whole meadow reek of dead fish. And a genuinely upset one could fill a forest grove with a fragrant mixture of rotten eggs, stale monkey brains, and curdled vomit. Hence the old saying
Beware a smelldrude in an ugly mood.

Warily, Promi eyed the creature. The smelldrude, a female with wide, webbed feet, did the same to him. Her aroma took on the slightest hint of fish.

Even as Atlanta finished her song, more creatures arrived. Some, such as the family of iridescent beetles shaped like tiny crowns, came by air; others, such as the red-spotted turtle, by water. And many more came by land, trotting and scampering out of the forest.

The largest creature was a centaur whose white hooves glowed in the starlight. Not bothering to cross over to the island, he settled himself on the far side of the stream. While he nestled his lower body, shaped like a horse, in the grass, his upper body, shaped like a muscular man, leaned over the water to look closely at Promi.

Peering into the centaur’s ebony eyes, the young man swallowed. “Pleased . . . to meet you,” he said uneasily.

The centaur folded his arms across his chest and rumbled in a deep voice, “There is more, and less, to you than appears.”

Surprised, Promi asked, “What does that mean?”

Atlanta, sitting beside him, chuckled. “Meet Haldor. He sees visions—usually dark ones.”

Before Promi could reply, the centaur continued, “All of which will change after you die.”

Now totally confused, Promi gazed at the harsh face looking down at him. “Well . . . thanks. That explains a lot.”

Haldor studied him, unblinking. “Fear not. Your death will come soon and be terribly painful.”

“How nice,” muttered Promi. With a glance at Atlanta, he added, “This fellow could ruin anyone’s appetite. Even mine.”

Kermi poked his furry blue head out of the boot. He stretched his tiny arms, blew several bubbles, then turned to Promi. “Hello, manfool. Did I just hear something lovely? About someone’s painful death?”

“No,” the young man replied. “It wasn’t about you.”

Atlanta waved her hand at the centaur. “That’s enough for now, Haldor. It’s time for the meal I promised him.”

The great beast nodded knowingly. “Enjoy it, for it shall be one of your last.”

Promi just shook his head, more unsure than ever what to make of this dour supper companion.

“A feast!” proclaimed Atlanta. Facing the assembled creatures, she asked, “Would you help, my friends? Go quickly and return with the very best foods you can find.”

With that, the birds took flight and the animals departed. Even the turtle slid back into the stream. Only one remained—the centaur. Too comfortable to move, he just stayed in the grass, staring glumly at Promi.

Meanwhile, Atlanta reached up and clasped a dangling bough of the willow. Gently, she tapped it, using three fingers. At the same time, she whispered in a strange language full of whooshes, swishes, and clacks of her tongue.

Seconds later, a slight breeze seemed to stir the tree’s branches. Several of them started to sway, making their own whooshing and clacking sounds. The noise swelled, spreading to the trees across the stream. More trees made sounds—sycamores and elms, acacias and thornberries, cedars and banyans. One bodhi tree started to hum in deep, resonant tones. Before long, all the surrounding forest joined in the chorus that had started with a few taps of Atlanta’s fingers.

Promi leaned back on the moss. “That’s nice, Atlanta, but I really need some food. I’m feeling faint.”

“Just watch,” she said.

A luminous purple bird swooped down through the waving branches. In its slender beak, it carried a single raspberry. Though it circled to land on Atlanta’s shoulder, she tilted her head toward Promi and whistled softly. The purple bird veered, its wings flashing in the light of the setting sun, then dropped the raspberry into the young man’s lap before flying back to the forest.

Surprised, he glanced at Atlanta, then immediately popped the berry into his mouth. Sweet, fruity flavor exploded on his tongue, while juices slid down his throat. His whole body tingled from the sensation.
Food! I’d almost forgotten.

“Just a small taste to give you strength,” she explained.

“Strength to wait?”

“No. Strength to
eat.
”

She’d hardly spoken the words when a pair of bushy-tailed starlings floated through the trees, each bearing a sprig of wild mint. Along with them came a silver falcon whose talons clasped a large cabbage leaf. As soon as the falcon placed the leaf on the ground beside Promi, the starlings glided over and dropped their mint. The sprigs spun slowly downward, and by the time they landed on the leaf, several more birds had arrived. They brought with them a variety of edible flowers, along with spinach, parsley, chives, and baobab leaves—all of which they piled on the leaf.

“Might as well start on your salad,” suggested Atlanta. “Just don’t forget the dressing.”

“Dressing? You’re not serious.”

At that instant, a large, bronze-hued squirrel hopped over some stones in the stream and scampered onto the island. Its dark eyes glinted, and its ears twitched constantly. In its forepaws, it held a strip of bark that had curled into itself, forming a shallow bowl. And within that bowl lay some thick, tan-colored cream sprinkled with nuts.

“What’s wrong, Promi? Never seen hazelnut cream before?” She tried to sound disappointed. “Poor boy, you’ve only experienced human bakeries.”

Taking the squirrel’s gift, Promi dipped his finger in the cream. White lather, along with a few bits of nut, clung to his skin. “Mmmmm,” he said, licking the finger clean. “Wonderful.”

“It’s made from milkfruit, well shaken, with a squeeze of lemon juice,” she explained with satisfaction. “And of course, only the best local hazelnuts.”

All at once, more food arrived. From every direction came a feast from the forest. A hollow burl piled high with wild mushrooms, brought by a white ibex. A leaf full of raw grains soaked in meadowblossom honey, carried by a scarlet bird of paradise. A root filled to the brim with guava juice, delivered by the same yellow monkey who had been one of the first creatures to arrive. Curled in his tail, he also brought a bark bowl of baby plums—the sweetest ones Promi had ever tasted, even without the bits of honeycomb sprinkled on top.

Watching him devour the plums, Atlanta asked drily, “Like them, do you?”

Promi glanced at her, his mouth crammed full of fruit. “Wup ebah gabe you dat idea?”

She nodded. “Looks like you could just live on those plums. Or anything sweet.”

“Right,” he replied after a big swallow. “When it comes to food, the sweeter the better.”

“Typical,” said Kermi, who had climbed up to a willow branch. Hanging by his tail, he crinkled his furry blue snout. “That’s all you think about, manfool. The next sweet! The only place you could ever get enough of them is the spirit realm.”

“Perhaps,” said the centaur in an unusually optimistic tone, “you will find your way there after your violent and brutal death.”

Ignoring him, Promi mused, “A land of sweets is my kind of place.”

“Then the spirit realm is for you,” commented Atlanta. “I’ve heard stories that the rivers there flow with nectar, sugar cakes grow on trees, and all the flowers are sweeter than honey.”

The green butterfly, who had perched again on her shoulder, shook its antennae with delight.

“Too bad it’s impossible for mortals like you to get there,” said Kermi with a vengeful grin.

Promi looked up at him. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to find a way.”

The kermuncle rolled his eyes. “I won’t hold my breath.”

“Good. If you held your breath too long, you might turn blue. And
nobody
with any sense wants to be blue.”

“Harrumph. Better to be blue than
you,
manfool.” For emphasis, he blew a stream of bubbles.

Promi went back to eating—not because he couldn’t think of a few good curses, but because the meal had only just begun. Food was piling up fast all around him.

Animals and birds arrived in droves, bringing freshly picked watercress, the smallest (and juiciest) tomatoes Promi had ever eaten, an extremely tart apple, and a cinnamon root so potent that one bite popped his eyes wide open. Plus a bunch of rosehips sprinkled with nutmeg. A ripe persimmon that tasted surprisingly like vanilla. Three pears, so juicy they dribbled all over his tunic. And half a stalk of sugarcane, brought by the smelldrude. (What had happened to the other half, Promi didn’t need to ask, since she smelled deliciously sweet.)

As if that weren’t enough, animals delivered a bunch of miniature bananas, some golden almonds, and one fiery hot chili pepper. Along with a stack of fresh butterpetals, an enormous nut Atlanta called
coco de mer,
and some more sprigs of mint.

Every so often, Promi leaned over and drank from the freshwater stream. Then, without delay, he went right back to eating. On the rare occasions when he paused briefly, it was just to close his eyes and savor the smells around him. Which included the pleasing scent of fresh ginger, thanks to a young unicorn who emerged from the forest with a ginger root on the tip of his horn. Shyly, he dropped the gift by Atlanta’s side and then trotted back into the forest, his golden mane sparkling.

At last, Promi couldn’t possibly take another bite. Feeling fully satisfied, he turned to Atlanta. She was sitting in the moss, playing with a family of small golden birds who kept fluttering around her, landing on her nose and ears and curly hair. She laughed at their antics.

Turning to Promi, she said, “Well, well. Ready for more?”

He grinned. “Not a chance. Never thought I’d say this, but . . .” He patted his belly. “I’m completely full.”