Atlantis Rising (5 page)

A heavy net suddenly dropped on top of him. Several men rushed over and roughly pinned him to the ground. Then he heard a voice that made his skin prickle with heat—a voice he’d never expected to hear again today.

“Well, well,” declared Grukarr as he strode out from behind the tree. “What a perfect place you chose to eat your stolen pie.” Lowering his voice to a growl, he added, “And to end your days.”

Promi struggled to free himself from the net, trying with all his strength to throw off his captors. But a couple of sharp kicks to his head and ribs put a quick end to that. He groaned painfully.

“Indigestion?” asked Grukarr with mock sympathy. “That’s what happens when you eat too fast. Or eat too well for your lowly place in society.”

Striding closer, the priest planted a heavy boot on his prisoner’s chest. Though the weight made it hard to breathe, Promi didn’t struggle or moan. He didn’t want to give this scoundrel any more satisfaction.

And Grukarr already felt plenty. He beamed down at the captive under the net and started to whistle jauntily, savoring his moment of triumph—a moment that was, for him, even tastier than smackberry pie. Then he released a different sort of whistle—a single, shrill call.

From the branches above came an answering call. Wings flapped, and a big, rust-colored bird with huge talons glided down and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s savage eyes, rimmed in scarlet, studied the helpless prisoner.

“Introductions?” asked Grukarr in a tone both playful and poisonous. “Or do you need to rush off to steal something else?”

Hearing nothing but labored breathing from Promi, the priest went on, “This is Huntwing, my loyal servant. It was he who found you, relaxing after your day of criminal mischief.”

The bird clacked his beak proudly. His large, vicious talons gripped Grukarr’s shoulder.

“And these,” continued the priest with a wave at the men who had jumped on Promi, “are my faithful minions. They will do absolutely anything that I command.”

A few men grumbled at this. But one sharp look from Grukarr silenced them.

“At least,” he went on, “they had better do so.” Stroking Huntwing’s talon, he explained, “You see, only a short while ago they sat in chains, convicted of terrible crimes. Their punishments, ordered by the High Priestess, would have left them without a limb—or a life.”

Several of the men stirred uneasily. Grukarr paused a moment, enjoying their palpable fear, as well as his power over them.

“But in the name of kindness,” he continued, “I took it upon myself to set them free. Now, they may not be as well trained as temple guards—but they will do whatever I tell them without question.”

With a chortle, he added, “Or else . . . the punishments Araggna had ordered for them will be
mild
compared to what I will do.” He tapped the bird’s talon. “Isn’t that right, my Huntwing?”

The bird clacked his beak savagely.

Ignoring the men’s shudders, Grukarr said to Promi, “And now, you worthless vagabond, I have something special planned for you.” Leaning hard on his captive’s chest, Grukarr barked to one of his men, “Club him so he won’t cause any more trouble.”

Grukarr started whistling merrily again—then something struck Promi’s head. He slumped to the grass. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the faint echo of that whistle, so very different from the half-remembered song that had given him such comfort during his short life.

Eternal Qualities

The most important moment in creating a pastry doesn’t happen in the oven, or even in the kitchen. No, it takes place long before, when a special stalk of grain emerges from the soil.

—A scrap from Promi’s journal

D
eep in a forest grove a few days’ walk to the South, the wind suddenly fell silent.

Branches stopped clattering; leaves ceased their restless rustle. High in the trees, bright-feathered birds grew still, their voices no longer echoing. Insects quieted. Even the noisy squirrels fell mute.

Then, from deep in the grove, a young woman’s voice lifted in song.

The seed holds the life of a tree;

A tree carries wonders untold.

The forest holds deep mystery:

A magic both newborn and old.

Leaf and droplet,

every part—

Form the Whole

and fill my heart.

Bless eternal

qualities—

Grace my soul

and all the trees.

Branches stirred again, rustling. Leaves brushed against each other; shaggy mosses started to sway. But they were not moving with any wind. No . . . they were dancing to the rhythm of the young woman’s song.

She stood beneath a towering yew whose crown lifted higher than any of the surrounding trees. Her blue-green eyes shone as she sang. And in time, the yew’s dark red berries, high in the branches, began to glow subtly.

A fern in the forest is slight;

A pebble is small by the shore.

Yet each holds a magical light:

Each morsel of magic brings more.

Sunlight and shadow grow stronger,

The day and the night are true kin.

Lives may be brief or still briefer,

Yet magic lies always within.

Leaf and droplet,

every part—

Form the Whole

and fill my heart.

Bless eternal

qualities—

Grace my soul

and all the trees.

The young woman continued to sing, tilting her head back as she looked up into the yew’s branches so that her curly brown hair played on her shoulders. Gently, she lifted her left hand and placed her palm on the massive trunk. She worked her fingers into the contours of bark, as if she were stroking the face of an old friend.

Atlanta she was called, both by those who knew her well and by those who had heard about her unusually powerful gift of natural magic. Her name, which meant “voice for all” in the Ellegandian Old Tongue, might have been a burden for some. But not for her. She simply was who she was, someone who wandered the forest paths, helping others find their magic.

More than twenty of these people surrounded Atlanta now, standing in the shade of the ancient yew. Women and girls, men and boys, they looked as varied as the oaks, yews, acacias, banyans, blue cedars, elms, redwoods, and thorn trees around them.

People from the cavern lands wore sashes of mountain bear fur decorated with wyvern claws, while those from the Lakes of Dreams had plumed hats with bright yellow sunbird feathers. Others, who had walked here from the Indragrass Meadows, wore iridescent robes that smelled like fresh mint, along with vests of supple willow shoots. A few, who had come all the way from the western shores, perhaps even from Mystery Bay, stood in sandals made from the rutted skin of crocodiles. They hummed quietly to themselves all the time, as was their custom. And one sturdy fellow had trekked from the Waterfall of the Giants, within sight of the country’s highest peak, Ell Shangro. His hat still smelled of waterfall lilies.

In addition, there were three priestesses and one monk from the City. The most senior priestess, a spry-looking elder, wore a traditional deep green robe, while her younger companions had chosen the tan-colored robes favored by those who resided in the temple. And their host, Atlanta, wore clothing that evoked the Great Forest—a simple purple gown of woven lilac vines.

As varied as these people were, they all shared a passion for natural magic . . . and a yearning to know more of its secrets. Which is why so many of them had traveled great distances to experience the Great Forest and learn from Atlanta.

On top of that, they shared one common physical trait—sparkling green eyes. Whether their irises showed just a few green flecks, looked as green as sunlit meadows, or combined shades of green and blue, they showed the unmistakable color of magic. In most parts of the country, such eyes marked someone as a valued healer; in others, as a person to be feared. But here in the Great Forest, the very heart of Ellegandia’s natural magic, all these people felt fully welcome.

Air that is breathed by us all,

Winds that support every wing—

Rise over mountains so tall,

Carry the magic of spring.

All branches and roots interlink,

A web that embraces the Whole.

Upon it are words without ink:

Deep magic on natural scroll.

Leaf and droplet,

every part—

Form the Whole

and fill my heart.

Bless eternal

qualities—

Grace my soul

and all the trees.

As Atlanta’s song ended, the ancient yew’s branches fell still. In the quiet that followed, the elder priestess with the deep green robe spoke. “Thank you, young one. You bring beauty to this forest, and blessings to us all.”

Modestly, Atlanta shook her head. “This forest holds blessings beyond any of us.”

“True,” the old priestess replied. “But too many people of this time—including some who wear the robes of priestesses and monks, who should know better—have forgotten that the immortals we worship are also present right here in the mortal realm, in this wondrous forest. Yes, just as much as they are alive in the spirit realm on high!”

From around the group came many murmurs of approval. The fellow with the hat that smelled of waterfall lilies gave a slight bow to Atlanta.

Feeling a new tingling in her hand that was touching the yew tree’s trunk, Atlanta lifted her gaze to the branches. An expectant hush filled the grove, and several people traded glances.

All at once, a pair of long vines with golden leaves uncoiled themselves from the tree’s upper limbs. Gracefully, like sinuous rivers, the vines flowed down the trunk. The first one to reach Atlanta curled lightly around her left hand. The other wrapped around her right hand and forearm. As the vines touched her skin, their golden leaves quivered.

“Now,” she said softly, gazing up into the tree, “my old friend here will reveal its most magical language. Come, Master Yew, show these good people the speech of the vines.”

Up and down the vines, golden leaves trembled and twirled. Those nearest Atlanta’s hands moved most vigorously—and then started to change color. Beginning at the stems, streams of purple and blue, orange and white, flowed into the leaves, spreading out in complex patterns. Spirals and curls of color wrote themselves on the surfaces, while the leaves’ serrated edges bent and waved in a slow, mysterious dance.

For a timeless instant, they held all their complex designs. Then, in unison, their colors drained away. The vines shrugged, giving Atlanta’s hands a gentle squeeze.

“What did they say?” cried a small girl who wore a garland of blue irises in her hair.

“They welcome us all to this place.” With a hint of a smile, Atlanta added, “And they bless our eternal qualities.”

More nods and murmurs of approval moved through the crowd. At the same time, branches in the yew as well as neighboring trees started swishing and slapping. Atlanta gazed up into the living forest canopy, her face content as she listened to this gathering wind of words.

The swishing stopped—as if the entire grove suddenly held its breath. Atlanta’s brow furrowed, more in surprise than concern. Meanwhile, the vines tightened around her hands. The leaves shook and changed colors, shifting from pale gold to deeper shades of red and black.

“Tell us,” urged the girl with the irises in her hair. “What are they saying now?”

“Yes,” called the old priestess. “Do tell us.”

Atlanta’s blue-green eyes widened as she stared at the leaves in disbelief. The vines shook her arms insistently, while the darker colors spread.

“They say . . .” she whispered hoarsely, too stunned to finish. Then, regaining her strength, she cried out the vines’ message:

“Leave now! Hide yourselves!”

True Religion

Sometimes a handsome pastry, dusted with sugar, can be just plain rotten inside.

—From Promi’s journal, written in unusually bold scrawl

T
he warning came too late. Even as Atlanta shouted the message of the vines, a band of people swept into the grove.

Unlike those who had gathered under the ancient yew, whose garb was so colorful and diverse, the new arrivals wore only rough brown tunics, ragged leggings, and old leather boots. Many also carried weapons, whether a rusted sword or a plowman’s staff. Several held unlit torches whose oily smell clashed with the fragrance of the grove.

Only one of the newcomers dressed differently. Taller than anyone else, he wore a robe of pure white silk, adorned only with a necklace of golden beads. On his head sat a white turban, stained at the bottom from his sweaty brow. Though he held no weapon, he conveyed an unmistakable air of authority.

Seeing him approach, the elder priestess gasped. The two younger priestesses by her side froze. And the monk accompanying them rubbed his hands together nervously.

“I am Grukarr,” declared the tall man as he reached the center of the grove. He curled his lips into an almost pleasant smile. “For those of you who do not know me, I am a humble priest of the True Religion.”

Atlanta’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Several people who had come here to learn about natural magic started muttering in anger or fear. Meanwhile, Grukarr’s men pressed closer. One of them lifted an ax with a notched blade.

But Grukarr, still smiling, raised his hand. A large ruby gleamed from his oversized ring. “Now, now, dear people. I come here in peace. So do my followers.”

He nodded sharply at the ax, then waited until it was lowered. “You see,” he went on, “we love the forest just as much as you do. We value its resources, its creatures, and most of all, its magic.”

With that, he gave a shrill whistle. Right away, a rust-colored bird descended and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s talons, still bloody from a recent kill, gripped Grukarr firmly.

“A blood falcon,” said Atlanta. “One of the few creatures who kill more than they need to eat.” Anxiously, she squeezed the vines draped across her hands.

“The common name,” agreed Grukarr, keeping his voice calm. “To those of us who know the true ways of the forest, however, he is a Royal Huntwing.”

The young woman, her gaze no less piercing than the bird’s, shook her curls. “My name is Atlanta, and I can tell you this: If you are part of something called the True Religion, that means you think any other form of worship is false. Including devotion to nature spirits. Which means you really know nothing of the ways of this forest.”

Grukarr’s smile vanished. His brown eyes peered at the young woman who had dared to contradict him. A storm seemed to gather under his brow, and his pale cheeks flushed.

Before he could speak, the elder priestess stepped over to join Atlanta. “She is right, you know. The spirits of the forest are just as worthy of devotion as the ones we pray to at the temple.”

Scowling, Grukarr glared at the old woman. “Shame on you! As you should know by now, the True Religion honors the immortals who live on high, in the sky above us, and nowhere else. You certainly won’t find them out here in the wild woods.”

Drawing herself up straight, the elder replied, “Only if you have no eyes to see and no ears to listen.”

Still holding the vines, Atlanta said to Grukarr, “We could teach you, if only you are willing to learn.”

The priest scowled at this impudence. He started to answer harshly, but caught himself. Trying to stay calm, he said, “No doubt you could teach me many things. Which is fortunate, Atlanta, because it will encourage me to be . . . gentle with you.”

His eyes glinted greedily. “You see, I have some uses, important uses, for your knowledge of this forest.”

The elder priestess gasped.

Frowning, Atlanta replied, “What I could teach you about this forest is not about
uses.
No, it’s about a deeper way of seeing. Breathing. Living.”

Dropping any pretense of friendliness, Grukarr growled, “If that is your attitude, then it is you who must learn from me.”

As if agreeing, the bird on his shoulder rustled both wings.

“You must understand,” Grukarr declared confidently, “the righteousness of my cause.” He shot a withering glance at the old priestess. “The True Religion, can
save
you—yes, even if you have strayed from the Truth. It is, in fact, the only path to salvation. The path out of the darkness and into the light.”

He paused to stroke Huntwing’s tail feathers. “But if you do not agree, here and now, to cast away your heathen ways, to end all your old-fashioned witchery and dark magic . . .”

His voice hardened. “Then I shall be forced to
educate
you.”

The people whose eyes sparkled with green all tensed. Some glanced furtively at the forest, looking for a way to escape. Others turned anxious faces toward Atlanta, while the small girl with the garland of blue irises scurried to her side. Still others, such as the sturdy fellow from the land of waterfall lilies, clenched their fists, ready to fight.

Atlanta, for her part, stared down at the golden-leafed vines she was touching. Quickly releasing one hand, she tapped and stroked the vine that now dangled freely, communicating some sort of message. She continued as Grukarr straightened his turban, preparing to speak again.

“Do I hear no reply?” he demanded. “Is no one here willing to repent and follow my guidance?”

“Never,” declared the elder priestess.

“No,” answered several others.

“Impossible,” said the girl with blue irises in her hair, her voice quiet but firm.

Malice written on his face, Grukarr declared, “Then I must take you to—”

He stopped abruptly as the free vine suddenly whipped toward him and struck him squarely on the forehead. He cried out in pain and tumbled over backward, losing his turban as he landed on the broken branches and dry leaves of the forest floor. Huntwing shrieked with rage and pounced on the vine, but only succeeded in battering the priest’s face with his wings.

Blood streaming from his head wound, Grukarr rolled in the leaves, trying in vain to bat away the bird. “No, you foolish beast! Get away!”

Atlanta, meanwhile, shouted to her followers, “Flee, all of you! Trust in the forest!”

She locked gazes with the old priestess. “Help them,” she said hurriedly, “however you can.”

“I will, Atlanta. But will you be safe? He has something terrible in mind for you, that’s clear.”

Atlanta nodded. “As long as this forest survives, so will I.”

As the priestess hurried off, Atlanta pulled the small girl closer. Wrapping one arm tightly around the girl’s waist, Atlanta gave a sharp tug to the vine still wrapped around her other forearm. Instantly, the vine retracted, pulling both of them up into the tree’s highest branches. As they vanished, petals of blue iris drifted down to the ground.

Grukarr, finally free of his bird, forced himself to stand. Blood still oozed from the cut on his forehead, spattering his white robe. Dry leaves and needles stuck to his ears and eyebrows. Shakily, he bent to pick up his battered turban.

Most of his men rushed forward and tried to steady him, but he shoved them away. Angrily, he glared at all the heathens who were swiftly disappearing into the forest.

“Kill them!” he shouted, eyes ablaze. “Kill them all—except for that young woman. Find her and bring her to me alive!”

He donned the turban, brushed off his silk robe, and stomped out of the grove. Catching the arm of one of his torch bearers, he pointed at the old yew and commanded, “And burn that cursed tree to the ground.”

Shouts and screams erupted in the once-peaceful grove. Dense smoke filled the air, blotting out everything else.