Atlantis Rising (7 page)

“What happened in the end?”

Bonlo sighed. “When he became the Deputy High Priest and showed himself willing to do anything desired by Araggna, who is just as lustful for power as he is—I confronted him. Told him how far he had strayed from the core of our faith. Explained what a tragic mistake it was to exclude from worship all the nature spirits who live right here in our world.”

“And,” asked Promi, “he didn’t take it well?”

“You could say that. He condemned me to die.”

“Just for speaking honestly?”

“Yes, lad. He asked Araggna to order me killed—beheaded—in the market square. She gladly complied, for she had always seen me as a threat to her influence over the Divine Monk.”

“That’s horrible!”

“True, but I was fortunate. Because of all my years of faithful service, the Divine Monk mercifully intervened on my behalf . . . and sent me to this dungeon instead.”

“Where,” said Promi, “you would die anyway.”

The old monk bit his lip, then spoke again, trying his best to sound grateful. “The Divine Monk did what he thought was best. And besides, if I hadn’t been sent here, I wouldn’t have met you. And I must tell you, Promi . . . it is truly a blessing to die in such good company.”

The young man shook his head. “Don’t talk like that. Now that our ropes are untied—”

“There is no escape, my good lad. No one ever leaves Ekh Raku alive.”

Promi scowled, sensing the truth in the monk’s words—yet not wanting to admit it. “We might still surprise Grukarr.”

Bonlo’s expression darkened. “You may be right about him, lad. I suspect that not even Narkazan, the wicked warlord of the spirit realm, is more arrogant and vengeful. Yet they are both out there, free to move in their worlds . . . while we are stuck in here.” He paused, then added a single word:

“Forever.”

Starstone and Prophecy

New ideas can be tasty, maybe even satisfying. But what I really want to taste is a nice big tray of pastries, warm and sweet, right out of the oven.

—From Promi’s journal

P
romi checked the monk’s wounded toe again. The bandage, soaked with blood, looked even redder than the dungeon stones. Blood continued to drip onto the floor.

Feeling bad for the old fellow, Promi tried to change the subject to something other than their imprisonment. “When you taught scriptures and things like that,” he asked, “did you have a favorite subject?”

“Oh, I liked just about everything.” The monk’s eyes, gray with flecks of green, brightened. “Though I did, I suppose, have a specialty.”

“What was that?”

“History.” Bonlo gazed at the nearest torch, watching its shadows dance on the stones. “Especially the War of Horrors . . . and the wonderful outpouring of magic that came afterward.”

Promi scratched his chin. “That war—it was thousands of years ago, right? Something about an attack by immortals?”

“Only
some
immortals,” corrected the monk. His face took on the expression of a teacher ready to guide a new student. “Led by Narkazan, the warrior spirit, a band of them attacked the Earth. That’s right—our world! They hoped to conquer and enslave all mortal creatures, as well as the nature spirits who have made this their home. Why? To capture all the Earth’s magic and use it to increase their own power. For that is what Narkazan craves most of all—power.”

Promi sighed, not very interested. This was, after all, ancient history. “But they lost, right? So the war turned out all right in the end.”

“Not if your village was destroyed, your body maimed, your family killed, or your river poisoned,” answered Bonlo sternly. “It truly deserved the name Horrors! And remember this, my good lad:
Narkazan almost won.
He lost only because of the good beings from the spirit realm who fought against him—Sammelvar, O Halro, Escholia, and others. And the many brave mortals who joined them. As well as the most powerful nature spirits from this realm—the ones who still live today in places like the Great Forest.”

Doubtfully, Promi asked, “The beings some people call river gods and tree spirits? They joined the battle?”

“Yes, lad.”

“And helped humans beat back the invasion?” He frowned skeptically. “You’re saying that these characters out of the old myths actually fought against Narkazan and still are here now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Bonlo’s tone became grave. “Without that great alliance among spirits and mortals, the invaders would have surely prevailed. And our world would be very, very different today.” Sadly, the monk shook his head. “Many of those mortals, people from all walks of life as well as creatures from the forests and birds from the sky, lost their lives to protect our world.”

He sighed. “Some groups—such as the Listeners, gifted people who actually knew how to tap into the magic of the Great Powers—suffered far more than their share. Why, even though the strongest Listeners could produce enough power to change the course of a river or cause a thunderstorm on a sunny day, they were no match for the invaders. And so, in trying to save us, the Listeners lost so many people, they vanished entirely from the world.”

Promi swallowed. “I, um . . . never knew that.”

“Of course not. People have stopped talking about it, even right here in the city named for the Great Powers. But as soon as people forget their history . . . they are likely to repeat it.”

“Those good immortals—the ones who fought against Narkazan—did they have anything to do with the special magic of Ellegandia? The gift I keep hearing about in the old myths?”

“Well, well,” said Bonlo, amused. “Seems like you want to know more of the story! I understand, of course.
Every
good story needs an ending.”

“All right,” the young man admitted. “Maybe I
am
a little curious.”

“Being curious is the first step to becoming a good student, you know.”

Promi grinned. “So tell me, then, my good teacher . . . what gave Ellegandia so much magic?”

Bonlo ran a hand through his white curls. “Remember, now, the Earth has always possessed a healthy amount of magic. From the very beginning, you could find it in forests and oceans, marshes and mountains, all around the world. Anywhere the spirits of nature could flourish. So you could also find magic in Ellegandia—but no more than in many other places.”

He tapped his brow, as if saying a silent prayer of thanks. “The immortals who fought Narkazan didn’t do that because they wanted the Earth’s magic for themselves. Quite the opposite. Those spirits understood something fundamental—the moral imperative of keeping the two worlds separate. Forever apart.”

“But why?”

“Ah,” replied Bonlo. “You ask an excellent question. And the answer is clear. Only if the two worlds are kept apart can mortal men and women choose the future of their world! Through their own free will. Yes, even if they make many grievous errors along the way. Free will, you see, is both very valuable and very fragile.”

Promi raised his eyebrows. “So there can be no contact at all between the mortal and immortal realms?”

“There can be no
movement
between the worlds, no visitations to Earth from the spirits who live on high. But there can still be some forms of contact—especially prayer.” The old man’s expression clouded. “I have learned some helpful things—and some worrisome things—from prayer.”

Interested, Promi bent closer. “Such as?”

“Such as there is a new war going on right now among the spirits on high. Narkazan is trying to dominate the whole spirit realm. So far, Sammelvar and Escholia have been able to contain him—but Narkazan is gaining rapidly. And there is also a Prophecy . . .” He caught himself and declared, “First things first, good student! I haven’t even told you about the last war yet. And we are about to get to the best part.”

“Which is?”

“What happened right after the War of Horrors ended.”

Drawing a deep breath, Bonlo continued, “As a way of expressing deep gratitude for all those mortals and nature spirits who had done so much to win the war and preserve the independence of both worlds, Sammelvar and the other immortals gave the Earth a gift. A most precious gift.”

“What?” asked Promi, intrigued.

“The Starstone.” As he spoke the word, the monk’s voice hushed. “Crafted by the immortals’ most skilled magic makers, it is quite small—no bigger than a hawk’s egg—but infinitely powerful.”

“All right, but what
is
it?”

Bonlo grinned. “A special kind of crystal, capable of magnifying whatever magic is around it. Just as a magnifying glass makes things look bigger and closer, or just as a prism takes in colorless light and puts out all the brilliant colors of the rainbow—the Starstone takes in simple magic and puts out amazingly rich, complex, and enhanced magic.
Its very presence
makes the magic around it more powerful. And that makes everything more beautiful.”

Promi’s eyes widened. “That sounds precious, all right. So . . . where on Earth is this Starstone?”

“No one knows for certain. But many, including myself, believe it’s hidden right here in our own little country.”

Promi gasped. “Which would explain—”

“Ellegandia’s special magic.”

“Could it be,” Promi wondered aloud, “somewhere in the Great Forest?”

“What better place to hide something so valuable?” The old man chuckled softly. “In an uncharted, magical forest deep in Ellegandia—a place unknown to the outside world.”

“Which is why,” Promi reasoned, “the Divine Monks have long decreed that nobody could leave the country. So the word of our magic—and this treasure—wouldn’t spread.”

“Correct, my good lad. For such tales would cause only temptation—and trouble. That is also why the immortal spirits built up the sheer cliffs that surround our peninsula on three sides—and the high peaks of Ell Shangro on the fourth.”

Amazed, Promi stared at him. “The immortals did that? All to protect the Starstone?”

“Yes, and all the natural magic that now thrives here.” For a moment, Bonlo watched the torchlight tremble on the dungeon wall. Then he added, “They did something else, too. The immortals placed a special magic on the Great Forest, the power to repel any invasion—whether it came, once again, from the spirit realm, or from forces right here on Earth. They called that power the
pancharm.
And it has protected the forest to this very day.”

Promi’s eyes widened. “So nobody could invade us to steal the Starstone?”

“Nobody. As long as the Great Forest survives, so will the pancharm.”

For a moment, Promi didn’t speak, trying to decide how much of this to believe. “This isn’t just another myth, right? You’re sure all this is real?”

Bonlo nodded. “As real as the holiday of Ho Byneri.”

“The high summer holiday? What does that have to do with any of this?”

“Ah, good lad, you show genuine curiosity.” He winked at Promi. “I warn you, though. Once you know a little of the truth, you will want to know more. And then you’ll want to know the ending! As I said before,
every
good story needs one.”

“Sure, sure. But what were you saying about Ho Byneri? It’s a month away.” Promi glanced grimly around the dungeon. In the distance, along with the sound of water dripping, he heard the unmistakable scurrying of a rat. “Not that either of us will live to see it.”

Bonlo shifted his legs and bumped his wounded toe against the floor. He winced painfully. Then, as his thoughts returned to Ellegandia’s history, he relaxed again. “The holiday is actually just two weeks away. And contrary to what most people think, it wasn’t created to celebrate the long days of summer.”

“So why, then, was it created?”

“To mark the day the War of Horrors finally ended. The very day Sammelvar gave the Starstone to the mortal world.”

Promi raised an eyebrow, still not sure how much of this to believe.

“More than that,” the old monk went on, “Ho Byneri also marks something else. Something important . . . as well as dangerous.
It is the day each year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.
”

Seeing the doubt on his companion’s face, Bonlo continued, “Magic, you see, moves like a tide. It ebbs and flows—in and out, in and out, year after year—touching shores both mortal and immortal.”

He drew a deep breath. “Magical events on a grand scale can shape that tide, affecting its flow. Now, just think about how much happened at the end of the War of Horrors! The movement of vast numbers of spirits between the worlds. The gift of the Starstone—possibly the most powerful magical object in the universe. And the pancharm to ward off invaders. Even the building up of Ellegandia’s sea cliffs and mountains.
All on the same day.
”

Again, he shifted his weight. “As a result, the tide of magic, already near its low point, ebbed even more. And so . . . as we approach Ho Byneri, the veil that divides our world from the spirit world grows increasingly thin. On the day itself, at sunrise, it is so thin that it’s barely there at all.”

Promi blinked in surprise. “Immortals could pass into our world on that day?”

“That’s right.”

“Really?” Then a new idea struck him. “And so . . . on that day, mortals could also go to the spirit realm?”

“Well, perhaps.” Now it was Bonlo’s turn to look skeptical. “Such a thing has never happened before. At least . . . not that anyone knows.”

“But,” insisted Promi, “it’s possible.”

“Highly unlikely, lad. Even the stories about wind lions, those spirit creatures who carry our prayers between the worlds, never say anything about carrying
people.
”

“I know, I know,” said Promi. “It’s just that . . . well, what a great adventure that would be! Do you think the stories are true about all the sweet things up there? Rivers full of honey and desserts that grow on trees?” He smacked his lips. Suddenly he remembered his glorious feast of the pie—and how very hungry he was now. Especially since that pie had probably been his last meal ever. Glumly, he said, “Not that I like eating sweets.”

The old man gazed at him with compassion. “I share your hunger, good lad. And your discouragement.” He bit his lip. “I have many worries, and they are growing.”

“Like . . . will we survive?”

Bonlo’s expression darkened. “That is the least of my worries.”

Puzzled, Promi cocked his head. “The least? What could be a bigger worry than that?”

“Not whether you and I will survive—but
whether Ellegandia and our world will survive.
”

“What? You just told me all about this land’s uniqueness, its special magic—as well as the Starstone and the pancharm that will keep us safe.”

“Yes,” said the elder gravely. “But I haven’t told you about the Prophecy.”

“Then tell me now.”

“Well . . . not much is known, frankly. And much of that is just idle speculation. Besides, prophecies are famously ambiguous, so their meanings are uncertain. What I do know, though, from prayer, is the wording of this one. And believe me, lad, it’s not encouraging. Do you really want to hear it?”

“Try me,” answered Promi. “Though I should tell you, I don’t believe in things like prophecies.” He winked at Bonlo. “But you’ve got me curious. Like a good student.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I only wish I could teach you about something happier. You will see why this prophecy is on my mind as we approach the holiday of Ho Byneri.”

He recited:

The end of all magic:

A day light and dark.

First light Ho Byneri,

The Starstone’s bright spark.

New power can poison,

Great forces can rend

Worlds highmost and low: