Atlantis Rising (8 page)

The ultimate end.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the dungeon were the occasional scurrying of rats and the steady
drip-drip-drip
of water on the stone floor. At last, Promi repeated the Prophecy’s opening line.

“
The end of all magic.
What does that mean, Bonlo?”

“The same as that final phrase, I suspect:
The ultimate end.
”

Promi ran a hand through his sooty hair. “Sorry, but none of this makes much sense to me. Anyway, I can’t get too concerned about it—or any other myth about worlds changing and magic ending.” He shrugged. “Truth is, Bonlo, you got me wrong. I’m nothing special. I’m just a thief who throws a good knife, keeps a journal, and doesn’t care about anything besides where to grab my next meal. So long as there are pies and pastries to steal, I really don’t care about the rest of the world.”

Bonlo peered at him closely. “You must have lost quite a lot, good lad, to speak that way.”

Promi swallowed.

“And I don’t believe a word of it,” the monk went on. “No, I didn’t get you wrong. In fact, I’d wager to say that—”

A scream erupted, cutting him off. Full of pain, it swept through the dungeon.

A Blessing

Sure, I expected you to be completely foolhardy. You are, after all, Promi. But I never expected it to be so painful for you. And for that . . . I am truly sorry.

—From her journal, above a sketch of dark shadows gathered around a huddled form

T
he scream echoed down the dimly lit corridors. It came, Promi felt certain, from a woman—a woman in anguish. As her scream faded, other sounds took its place: the crack of a whip, another shriek of pain, then someone’s cruel laughter.

Promi glanced at Bonlo. “I’ll be back.”

Looking fearful, the old monk nodded. “Be careful, lad.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes, yes. I’m not going anywhere with this wretched foot. But if that hungry rat attacks me again . . . well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Promi looked at him doubtfully.

Another scream echoed.

Promi slipped away, keeping to the darkest shadows. Pressed against the wall, he moved with the stealth of a practiced thief, slipping down one corridor and then another. Just beyond the flickering light from one torch, he paused to listen.

Right around the next bend, he could hear the woman’s anguished breathing. Her tormentor laughed again and cracked a whip. She had grown so weak that this time she didn’t scream, but only moaned miserably.

Creeping to the corner, Promi peered into the shadowy corridor. There stood a hulking guard who carried a whip. On the floor at his feet lay a woman clothed in rags, her long white hair spread across the red stones.

The guard, whose back was to Promi, raised his boot and kicked the woman in the back. She moaned again and mustered enough strength to crawl feebly away.

“Where you goin’, witch?” The guard started to swing his whip. “No escape fer you, not never.”

Craaaaack!
The whip snapped, slashing the back of her neck. She stopped crawling, moaned once more, then fell silent.

Promi scowled.
Curse the sky and sea and everything in between! How can I stop him?

Meanwhile, the guard glowered at the helpless woman. He grunted, deciding where to kick her next. Slowly, he raised his boot.

Frantically, Promi looked for something to throw.
One more kick like that could kill her.

Seeing nothing he could use, he threw the only thing he could—himself. He sprinted across the stones and plowed into the guard from behind. Caught by surprise, the burly man slammed headfirst into the stone wall, so hard that a ceiling beam snapped and chunks of mud and mortar rained down on the dungeon floor.

The guard rolled over, dazed. Promi punched him in the jaw, throwing all his weight into the swing. The big man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Dodging the chunks of mortar, Promi ran over to the woman. Dark welts covered one of her arms, and blood ran down her neck. She didn’t stir when he touched her shoulder. Gently, he rolled her over.

Her eyes remained open but unseeing. Completely lifeless, her deep green irises stared up at him.

“Don’t die, now.” Promi gave her a shake. Still no response. He bent closer to check her breathing, but there wasn’t even a hint of breath.

Dead! I’m too late.

A shadow dimmed the torchlight. As Promi turned, a heavy fist smashed into the side of his head. He reeled and fell against the wall. Barely able to stand, he could only watch as the wrathful guard strode toward him.

“You slimy beast,” the guard spat. His massive arms and shoulders flexed as he clenched both fists.

Promi tried to move away, but didn’t have enough strength. Nor could he stop his mind from spinning. Tasting something bitter on his tongue, he swallowed. Around the mark over his heart, the skin burned.

The burly man advanced and roared with rage. He kicked Promi in the ribs, sending the young man sprawling. “I’ll break your bones, ev’ry last one.”

Waves of pain coursed through Promi’s body, but he still tried to sit up. That ended abruptly when a heavy boot stepped on his chest, pinning him to the floor.

Can’t move! Can’t breathe!

Squeezing the handle of his whip, the guard growled, “Then I’ll wrap this around your scrawny neck and strangle you dead.”

He raised a huge fist. “But first, boy, your face needs to change shape.”

At that instant, the torch right behind him suddenly crackled and flamed brighter. The guard spun around—just as the torch’s wooden pole swung forcefully and slammed into his head. Sparks exploded in the air, sizzling as they flew across the dungeon.

The guard staggered, then fell in a heap. Above him, still holding the torch, stood Bonlo.

The old monk swayed unsteadily. He dropped the torch, which hit the floor with a spray of sparks. He looked at Promi with an unmistakable gleam of satisfaction—then collapsed.

Despite the pain that surged through his chest, Promi crawled over to his friend’s side. “Bonlo! You saved my life.”

The monk blinked up at him. He drew a frail breath. “Yes, my good lad. And also . . .” He struggled to take another breath. “I managed . . . to end mine . . . with dignity.”

“No, no,” Promi insisted. “You’re not going to die!”

Anxiously, he glanced at the old man’s bloody foot. The severed toe now hung barely by a sinew; it was bleeding profusely. A trail of blood on the stone floor marked Bonlo’s arduous journey through the dungeon.

Promi cradled the elder’s head, meshing his fingers in the white curls. “Please,” he begged, “don’t die.”

Weakly, Bonlo whispered, “Every good story . . . needs an ending.”

For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. Then the old monk added, so softly it was almost inaudible, “It is truly a blessing . . . to die . . . in such good company.”

His eyes closed.

Gently, Promi lowered the monk’s head. “Wish I could bury you, old friend. Or burn you in great honor, the way they do Divine Monks.”

Feeling another kind of pain, worse than the physical kind, Promi bit his lip. He tried to pull off his tunic in order to place it over the old man’s face. But just that small movement caused his ribs to hurt so badly that he nearly fainted.

He sank back to the floor. His chest throbbed; his mind darkened. Turning his head toward Bonlo, he moaned, “Good thing you died first. That way . . . you thought . . . you really saved me.”

Certain that he, too, would soon die in this dungeon, Promi moaned. He’d never taste another sweet treat—let alone one as fabulous as smackberry pie. He’d never move freely in the world again, choosing how and when to steal his next meal. And worst of all, he’d never even get to find out if he might actually do something meaningful with his life—the life Bonlo had tried so hard to save.

He cringed, knowing the hard truth: He wasn’t the least bit special, despite what the old monk had believed. Why, he couldn’t be more different from all those brave people Bonlo had described! They had given everything to protect their world—to make it safe for the Starstone.

“And what have I done?” he asked bitterly, his words echoing among the dank walls. “Nothing but steal . . . pies and cinnamon buns.”

“Well,” said someone nearby, “at least that’s a start.”

Promi gasped. With all his strength, he forced himself to lift his head. And he saw, gazing down at him, the white-haired woman.

He stared at her in disbelief. “Alive?” he sputtered. “You . . . you’re
alive
?”

She merely watched him, toying with a single strand of her hair.

He shook his head, sending a blast of pain through his skull. How could she still be alive after the guard’s brutal beating? She looked impossibly strong and healthy, with no welts on her arm, as if nothing had happened.

No,
he realized with astonishment.
She looks even better than that.

Sure enough, her face seemed younger somehow. Her skin was more ruddy and not so wrinkled. Her long hair, while still white, was thicker than before, sweeping gracefully around the contours of her face. Most striking of all, though, were her eyes. Radiant green, they gleamed with new light, like a forest at dawn.

Listen One, Listen All

It wasn’t easy, Promi. But it certainly got your attention.

—From her journal

I
thought . . .” A new wave of pain crashed through Promi’s head and ribs, making him stop. “Thought you . . . were dead.”

The woman peered down at him and almost smiled. “Perhaps I was.”

She knelt beside him on the dungeon floor. Gently, she placed a hand on his chest. “Now, though, I am feeling very much alive.”

“That’s better . . . than I’m feeling.” He tried to sit up but groaned and fell back, hitting his head against the stone floor. “Uhhh,” he moaned. “That oaf broke one of my ribs.”

The woman’s fingers played lightly over his chest. “Five, actually.” Her voice was quiet, barely louder than the sputtering torches on the wall. After a few seconds, she scowled. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

“How?” He tensed, waiting for another wave of pain to pass. “How . . . do you know?”

“Shhhhh,” she commanded. “Be quiet so I can concentrate.”

She tilted her head, as if she were listening for a distant sound. Her brow furrowed. Meanwhile, her fingers moved to a spot below his heart, tapped lightly, then stopped.

Seconds passed. Promi’s whole chest seemed to shout in pain, convulsing with every breath. His mind spun, making it difficult to focus, but he couldn’t miss her deepening frown. When, at last, she spoke, her tone was grave.

“Beneath the broken ribs, you have a punctured lung. Even now, it’s filling fast with blood. Your kidney is torn and bleeding. And worse, your heart is also badly damaged—right under that mark of the bird on your chest.”

He blinked in surprise. “That mark—it’s under my tunic! How . . . do you know it’s there?”

“Never mind,” she replied. “But I can hear it clearly, just as I can hear your injuries.”

“Hear?” He didn’t understand why she had used that word. But he did, alas, understand her message. “Am I . . .” He swallowed a new wave of pain, then tried again. “Am I . . . dying?”

Grimly, she looked at him. “Yes. You are dying.”

Promi drew a shallow breath, trying to ignore the swelling agony inside him. “Is there any . . . way to escape? To get help?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “You have only a few seconds to live.” Sorrowfully, she stroked her long white locks. “Such a pity.”

“A pity!” He coughed several times, each spasm worse than before. Blood coated his tongue; dizziness overwhelmed his mind. “It’s worse . . . than that.”

“Perhaps,” she said calmly. “But it is truly inconvenient.”

“Incon . . . venient?” He grimaced. “We’re talking about . . . my life!”

“Yes. And more importantly, about my hair.”

Great,
he thought darkly.
She’s completely crazy!

The woman gazed at him, her green eyes alight. Even through the haze that was clouding his vision, Promi couldn’t dispel the feeling that she looked almost—in some way he couldn’t explain—like a different person. Truly changed from when he’d first found her. Meanwhile, she spread her fingers on his chest and spoke a single phrase.

“Listen one, listen all.”

A sweeping, swishing sound, like a distant wind, flowed through the dungeon. Yet no real wind buffeted any of the torches.

No more than a few seconds had passed. But Promi could tell, beyond any doubt, that two things had changed.

He felt suddenly better! No more pain, no more coughs, no more dizziness.
Am I healed?
he wondered in disbelief. He sat up, thumping his chest.

Then he noticed the second change: the woman’s white hair had completely disappeared. She gazed down at him, her hairless scalp glowing in the torchlight.

“Why do you look so surprised?” she asked. “I
told
you it was a pity.”

To Hear the Unheard

I told you a lot, right then. More than I had planned. About the magic, the price, and the threat to our world. But there was one thing I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.

The most important thing of all.

—From her journal

P
romi sat up on the dungeon floor. He patted the ribs that had, only seconds before, been broken—and that now felt fully healed. Bewildered, he shook himself, his hair brushing his shoulders. Even the awful headache had disappeared.

“H-how . . . ?” he sputtered, peering at the hairless woman kneeling beside him. “How did you—well, do whatever you . . . um, did? And your hair?”

She rubbed the bare skin of her scalp. As if trying to convince herself, she said, “So much trouble to wash hair like that.”

“B-but . . . how? Yes, and . . .
how
?”

“Articulate, isn’t he?” said a gruff little voice nearby.

Promi spun his head, searching for its source. The words hadn’t come from the woman, who continued to watch him in silence. Nor from the guard, who was still unconscious; nor Bonlo, whose lifeless body lay on the stone floor.

“And he’s not too observant, either.” This time the little voice finished with a throaty chuckle.

The woman grinned. “Give him time, Kermi. He’s still absorbing all this.”

“Sure,” replied the voice. “But he’s about as absorbent as an old boot! Even that senseless guard lying over there could think faster than this young—”

“Hush, Kermi.” She glanced up at the nearest torch, its flame dancing in her eyes. “Give him a chance.”

Following her gaze, Promi finally saw who had spoken—a small, monkeylike creature hanging upside down by his surprisingly long tail, which he’d wrapped around the base of the torch. Deep blue, with patches of silver, the creature’s fur seemed to vibrate in the wavering light. His large blue eyes looked much too big for his head—but even bigger were his round, furry ears, which swiveled constantly.

Smirking, the furry blue fellow gazed down at Promi. Then he did something completely unexpected: he blew a large, blue-tinted bubble, which floated up to the ceiling and popped when it struck a beam.

Turning to the woman, the creature grumbled, “Why should I give him a chance? He had one already—and completely botched it.”

Promi’s face flushed with anger. “Now, hold on! Because of me—”

“We all nearly died,” said Kermi flatly. “But to be fair, when you were staggering around, you did at least manage to avoid falling on top of the old monk.”

At the mention of Bonlo, Promi suddenly had an idea. He grabbed the woman’s arm. “Can you save him too? If anyone deserves to live, he does.”

Sadly, she shook her head. “Alas, I cannot heal the dead. Only the living.”

“Too bad,” said Kermi dryly. He blew a new pair of blue-tinted bubbles. “If you ask me, you saved the wrong one.”

Leaping to his feet, Promi started to take a swipe at the sassy creature. Just before he swung his arm, the woman jumped up and grabbed his tunic sleeve. “Stop it,” she commanded. “Both of you!”

She glared at the little beast dangling from the torch. “I mean it, now. Introduce yourself.”

“I never introduce myself to strangers.” Kermi shut his big blue eyes. “Besides, he’s gone now.”

Promi turned to the woman. “Who are you two? And how did you heal me?” He pointed at her arm and neck, no longer streaked with blood. “As well as yourself?” He studied her suspiciously. “And how come you look so much
younger
?”

“Oh,” she said casually. “Must be my new hairstyle.” She pretended to stroke her flowing locks. “It has that effect on people.”

“And another thing. How did you—”

“Later,” she declared, cutting him off. Flicking her hand toward the torch, she said, “That is my companion, a rare blue kermuncle. They are known for their sassy wit, their ability to blow bubbles, and their—”

“High intelligence,” finished the creature proudly. He turned his gaze toward Promi and added, “Unlike some people.”

The woman barely kept herself from laughing. She rubbed the side of her now-bald head and added. “But kermuncles are
not
known for their polite conversation.”

Kermi snorted. “How about this? I absolutely
love
your new look! So . . . bald.”

“Enough,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. “Or I’ll be forced to send you back to . . .” She caught herself. “To where you came from.”

“Really?” he asked hopefully, his blue eyes wider than ever. “You’d let me go back?”

“No,” she answered firmly. “I shouldn’t have said that. You can’t go back until—”

“I keep my promise,” he said glumly. “I know, I know. But I never should have made it! He’s so much stupider than—”

“You promised, Kermi! Don’t forget that. Do I need to remind you what happens to kermuncles if they break a promise?”

The furry creature sighed. “I’d shrivel up and die! Which means that I could
never
go back home. Honestly, I can’t understand why we kermuncles are made that way. Amidst such perfection, a true design flaw!” He glared at Promi, whose expression looked more confused than ever. “And what do I get for making that promise in a moment of weakness? The great joy of associating with someone who makes an acorn look smart.”

Though he bristled at the kermuncle’s insults, Promi kept his gaze focused on the woman. “You still haven’t told me who
you
are. Or how you healed me. By the way, my name is Promi.”

She bowed her head. “I am Jaladay.” Cautiously, she glanced around the dungeon, then added, “And . . .
I am the last of the Listeners.
”

“Listeners? I thought they all died ages ago.”

Frowning, she replied, “Almost true. We lost vast numbers of our faith in the War of Horrors. Then more died in the centuries that followed, killed by ignorant folk who feared them, calling them witches and goblins.”

Promi pointed at the unconscious guard. “Folk like him.”

“Yes,” said Jaladay grimly. “But a few of us, very few, survived.”

She nudged the guard’s boot with her bare foot. “When that fellow found her—er, I mean
me
—he was certain I was a witch. Just as he’d been taught by those hateful and intolerant religious leaders he serves.”

Promi glanced over at the body of his friend Bonlo.
Not all of them are hateful and intolerant,
he thought.
Some of them are truly good and loving.

Unsure whether or not to believe Jaladay, he said, “Look, I’ve heard a few tales about the Listeners. How they could whip up a storm anytime they wanted. How they could read people’s minds, predict the future, and more. You’re telling me all that stuff is true?”

She nodded.

“That’s hard to swallow.”

Her gaze bored into him. “Harder than being magically healed of wounds that should have killed you?”

Instinctively, he patted his ribs. “No.”

“Well, then,” she said sternly, “don’t forget how little you really know.”

He chewed his lip. “I’m reminded of that every day.”

“Good,” declared Jaladay. “Then you’re already walking on the path to wisdom.”

Kermi chuckled, swaying from the torch. “Get ready for a very long walk.”

Jaladay scowled at the kermuncle, then turned back to Promi. “Not all the legends you’ve heard are true, by the way. Only the greatest master Listeners could call up a storm—or do anything to influence the elements of nature. That takes the highest levels of magical power. And no one with that sort of power has walked in this world for many centuries.”

She stepped closer, practically pressing her nose against his. “Though nobody except a master could call up a storm, any Listener of reasonable skill could
predict
the coming of a storm. Or, for that matter, read the secrets of someone’s mind. That’s how most of the legends got started.”

She sighed. “And that’s also how the fear of Listeners got started. Why villagers started to persecute my people—and why the Divine Monks, who felt threatened by this older faith, did everything they could to extinguish our ancient flame.”

Promi swallowed. “How about healing someone’s body? Is that something all Listeners could do?”

“Not all, but some. Although . . . something that difficult is a bit more, shall we say,
costly.
”

“Well, however you did it, I’m grateful to you for saving my life. But . . . I still have trouble believing all that Listener stuff. Why, even the crazy things I write in my journal aren’t as wild as what you’re saying.”

Unexpectedly, Jaladay smiled. For an instant, she seemed to have lost some more years, as if she were really no older than Promi herself. “You keep a journal?”

“Sometimes.” He tapped the tunic pocket that held his book full of scribbles in the margins. “Now and then. Just to remember things.”

“What kinds of things?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, just . . . memories. Like a good meal, which hasn’t happened in a while. Or dreams—especially the peaceful ones, though they come less often than scary ones. Or sometimes, good ideas for stories.”

“You know,” she said, “that shows intelligence and imagination.”

From the torch above them came a rude snort.

Jaladay ignored it and said earnestly, “Imagination is precious. Why, it was that very quality in humans that inspired immortals to give them Listener magic.”

Promi started. “This power of yours came from the spirit realm?”

“Long ago, yes. It was a gift from some spirits who enjoyed visiting the mortal realms—before the War of Horrors led to a strict ban against any immortals coming to Earth.”

She looked suddenly older. “But the truth is, this power isn’t so much a gift as a burden. A responsibility.”

Placing her hand on his shoulder, she explained, “That’s why Listeners have sometimes given away their power—and why, Promi, I would like to give my power to
you.
”

“Me?” He stared at her, astonished.

“That’s right. And I want to do this now. You see, even though I’ve, well, revived enough to heal you . . . my time to live is almost gone.”

“But,” he objected, “how do you know that?”

“The same way I knew about your wounds. Or, for that matter, about the mark over your heart. By Listener magic.” She sighed. “And since I am the last one of my kind, when I die . . . the magic will die with me. Disappear forever from the world. Unless I give it to someone else.”

“Why me, though? Why would you give such powerful magic to me?”

“Harrumph,” said Kermi. “Could be you’re the only living person down here at this moment! Other than the guard, of course . . . but he doesn’t look too interested. So don’t think you’re anything
special.
”

Hearing that word again, Promi thought of Bonlo—and the old fellow’s persistent belief in him. Promi looked over at the corpse, knowing just what he’d say if the monk were alive:
I still think you were wrong, my friend.

Jaladay’s expression hardened. “You have a choice. This magic could allow you to tap into the Great Powers, to draw strength from the spirits of both worlds, to do amazing feats. Yet this same magic could also bring you great pain. The loss of something you love. Or worse. For every use of this magic comes with a cost—sometimes a truly terrible cost.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Now you must decide, Promi. Do you want it or not?”

Torchlight flickered across his face as he considered her words.
Power. Pain. Magic.
And, last of all,
cost.

Not just any cost.
A truly terrible cost.

And yet . . . power like that would be useful. Very useful. For starters, he could use it to get food—and to make sure he never, ever felt hungry again.

That notion was especially appealing. Why, if he could predict a thunderstorm, then he shouldn’t have any problem predicting when a truly tasty pie was about to emerge from someone’s oven. Or how to escape unharmed, no matter how brazen the thievery.
Ah, the things I could do!

Again, his gaze strayed to the old monk. Bonlo’s face looked quite peaceful, full of kindness and trust. The very same qualities he’d shown to Promi.

And who knows, old fellow? Maybe I might find some way to use this new power that could actually justify your faith in me.

Resolved, Promi nodded. “Show me this magic.”

The kermuncle, dangling from his perch, shuddered. “You are definitely going to regret this, Jaladay! Even worse, I have a feeling that
I’m
going to regret this.”

“Hush, now.” She glanced cautiously over her shoulder, then placed her hands over Promi’s ears. As she peered at him with total concentration, her fingers vibrated ever so slightly. Finally, she lowered her hands.

“The magic is yours,” she announced.

“Really?” He shook himself. “I don’t feel any different.”

“You will in time. The more you use the magic, the more you will be aware of it.”

“But—”

“Above all,” she declared, interrupting him, “you must understand this: Listener magic does not take anything away from the world. Nor does it force anything new upon the world. Rather,
it simply listens to the underlying truth of the world.
”

The young man shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to understand.”

“Told you he’s hopeless,” groused Kermi.

“Let me put it this way,” said Jaladay, cupping her hand to her ear as if she were trying to hear some faraway sound. “This magic allows you to hear not with your ears—but with your heart. With every particle of magic that lives in you—and also in the world around you.”

“Is that why,” he asked, “before you healed me, you said
Listen one, listen all
?”

“Right,” she said approvingly. “Listener magic gives you the power to call upon the sources of magic, wherever they exist. To open yourself to the power of the spirits—whether they live in our world right here or in the spirit realm on high. To discover the deepest truths. To hear the unheard.”