by T.A. Barron
“But now I know—”
“Now you know more,” finished Sammelvar. He added gently, “Like all the rest of us.”
Escholia stepped over and looked at Promi with compassion. “This is not your fault. This is Narkazan’s fault.”
“But,” he said sadly, “the veil is destroyed. Gone forever.”
“I’m afraid so,” agreed Sammelvar. “It took an extraordinary concentration of power to create the veil—so much that I’m not sure we could ever do it again. And even if we tried, we couldn’t possibly finish in time to stop Narkazan’s plans.” His shoulders sagged with the weight of the news. “All that magical energy—once the greatest single force in the spirit realm—is now lost, scattered everywhere.”
“Putting the Starstone at risk,” said Jaladay with a shake of her head. “As well as Atlantis.”
“Especially,” added Promi gravely, “Atlanta. She’s the only person besides me who knows where it’s hidden. And she will guard it with her life.”
His mother squeezed his arm but said nothing.
Promi recalled Bonlo’s description of the Starstone—the first time Promi had ever heard of it. The old monk’s voice had echoed among the dank stone walls of the dungeon as he described it as “a special kind of crystal, capable of magnifying whatever magic is around it. Its very presence makes that magic more powerful—which makes everything more beautiful.”
Or, Promi thought, more dangerous. If Narkazan succeeds at corrupting the crystal, as he’s long desired, then he’ll have a terrible weapon.
Jaladay, who had been listening to his thoughts, nodded. “The most terrible weapon in the universe.”
Frowning, Sammelvar commented, “If Narkazan finds the Starstone, then both the spirit and mortal realms will be at his mercy.”
“Of which he has none,” added Escholia.
On Jaladay’s shoulder, Kermi’s furry ears swiveled anxiously.
“When I was with Atlanta in the Great Forest,” said Promi, “a centaur named Haldor made a prediction. A prophecy about Atlantis.”
“What did he say?” asked Sammelvar, brushing back his white locks.
Promi gazed over the bridge railing to the luminous, ever-changing worlds below, watching their evolution cast brilliant colors in all directions. Then he turned to the far side of the bridge, where countless worlds lay shrouded in deep shadows. Drawing a long, slow breath, he spoke.
“The centaur warned us that Atlantis, with all its wonders and riches and creatures, would someday perish. He said it would be lost forever, swallowed up by the sea . . . after a terrible day and night of destruction.”
Kermi blew a stream of blue-tinted bubbles that rose briefly, then popped and disappeared. “He also said that Atlantis would have a lasting impact on the world. Not from its magic—but from its stories.”
“Right,” agreed Promi. “He said the tales about Atlantis would survive and grow and be cherished by people all over the world.”
“Unless,” Kermi pointed out, “that world and others are destroyed by the weaponized Starstone.”
“A terrible day and night of destruction,” repeated Escholia thoughtfully. “I wonder what that means exactly.”
“Something tells me,” said Sammelvar, “we’ll find out soon enough.”
Promi shook his head. “Not necessarily! We all know how prophecies can be misleading.”
He touched his chest on the spot where he bore the mark of the Prophecy. “Just remember how baffled everyone was about that line the end of all magic. We didn’t really know its true meaning until the very last instant before the Prophecy ended.”
With more than a hint of gratitude, Jaladay added, “When you figured it out and caused all those miracles.”
On her shoulder, the crusty kermuncle grumbled, “The much greater miracle was this dunce figuring out anything.”
Jaladay gave Kermi a sharp glance, then said quietly to Promi, “Your Prophecy hasn’t ended yet. I can feel it. There may be more miracles—and more terrors—yet to come.”
She looked at him in that soul-piercing way of hers. “You may not yet know the full meaning of those words, the end of all magic.”
Though Promi couldn’t explain why, he sensed that she was even more upset than she was letting on. As if there was something from her vision that she didn’t want to talk about—or even think about. He met her gaze, calling on his power as a Listener to probe deeper. What was she not telling him?
He listened to her heartbeat, her breathing, as well as her thoughts. Beneath all that, he heard the gathering storm of her fears. All at once, he understood.
“You know something else about Atlantis, don’t you?” he asked quietly. “Something you know will upset me?”
Jaladay’s eyes narrowed. “Curse that Listener magic of yours!”
“Hmmm, are you forgetting who gave it to me?”
“A mistake I now regret.”
Kermi thumped his tail against her back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You did,” she said with a sigh. Then, gazing at her brother, she explained, “Once Narkazan gets the Starstone, he will use it to destroy any opposition to him in the spirit realm.”
“Starting with us,” said Escholia.
Sammelvar nodded grimly.
“Then,” continued Jaladay, “he will move to invade Earth, since that’s the best way to conquer the entire mortal realm.”
“What else did you see?” asked Promi, sure there was more.
She lowered her voice. “The first place on Earth he will go—the very first stop—will be Atlantis. He wants to seize all its natural magic—every last bit of it.”
Promi shuddered. “So Atlantis will be just a source of fuel for his weapons—including the Starstone.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Promi. The last thing you wanted when you sacrificed so much to create that island was that it would . . .”
“Become Narkazan’s favorite target,” he grumbled. “And I even put Atlantis in a spot in the ocean all by itself where he’d have no trouble finding it.”
“You couldn’t have known, son,” said Sammelvar gently.
“Maybe,” added Escholia, trying to sound more hopeful than she felt, “there is still a way to stop Nark—”
Whooshhhhh. A sudden rush of air swept over them, cutting her off. Everyone on the bridge knew instantly that it hadn’t come from any gust of wind. No, it came from an arriving wind lion.
“Theosor,” said Promi, suddenly feeling a little better. Despite all the dire news and troubling prophecies, it always lifted his spirits to see the majestic creature who had carried him to his first quest in the spirit realm.
“Hello, young cub.” Theosor’s richly toned bass voice rolled across the bridge as he banked in the mist above Promi and the others. As always, there was a constant vibration above the lion’s muscular torso—but no visible wings. Theosor’s huge forepaws swept through the air, while a breeze tousled his silver-hued mane.
With a bow, the wind lion rumbled, “Greetings to you, Sammelvar and Escholia, Jaladay and Kermi—and you, as well, Prometheus.”
“And ours to you, Theosor,” answered Sammelvar in the traditional style. “What news do you bring?”
Theosor probed them with his great brown eyes, then said, “Nothing good.”
Sammelvar drew closer, leaning against the railing of the bridge. “Tell us.”
“Mistwraiths,” the wind lion began, saying the word with distaste as if he’d swallowed a rotting carcass. “A band of them was seen just moments ago, flying to the Earth. They seem to be heading—”
He paused, glancing at Promi before finishing the sentence. “To Atlantis. Clearly, Narkazan sent them there on some sort of mission.”
“To regain the Starstone,” declared Jaladay. She slipped
the turquoise band back over her eyes. “I saw it just now in a vision.”
Theosor, hovering in the air on the other side of the railing, released a deep growl. “I feared as much.”
“And if he gets it,” continued Jaladay, “he’ll waste no time corrupting it into a weapon.”
“A terrible weapon that threatens both the spirit and mortal realms,” said Sammelvar somberly.
Theosor nodded, his mane fluttering. “There is more. My scouts tell me that Narkazan himself is amassing a huge army—but not at the Caverns of Doom, as he originally planned.”
Promi and Jaladay traded glances, knowing that they had spoiled the warlord’s original plans by stealing his scrolls.
“So,” pressed Sammelvar, “exactly where are they gathering?”
“I still need to confirm that. But it seems to be far past the Caverns, in the region of Xarnagg.”
“One of the remotest places in the realm,” said Sammelvar with a scowl. “We need confirmation soon, if we are going to mount an attack before Narkazan gets his hands on the Starstone.”
Theosor hovered closer. “I am going to do that now.” He glanced over at Promi. “Would you care to join me on another quest, young cub? The whole realm depends on us . . . just like old times.”
Torn, Promi shifted his weight uneasily. He looked from the wind lion to his parents, then to Jaladay and Kermi—all of whom were watching him. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “Half of me wants to go with you . . . but the other half wants to head for—”
“Atlantis,” finished Jaladay. “Of course. The Starstone is there—and so is Atlanta. This is a difficult choice.”
“You’re telling me,” he muttered.
“Well, young cub,” Theosor rumbled, “you must decide.”
Escholia took Promi’s hand, and said gently, “Go where your heart leads you.”
“But,” he protested, “it’s leading me in two separate directions.”
“Time is short,” the wind lion rumbled.
“Whatever you choose,” said Sammelvar, “we trust your judgment.” Locking gazes with Promi, he added, “You have earned that trust, my son.”
Promi took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the misty air of the spirit realm. “I will go to Atlantis. To stop them from getting the Starstone.”
“So be it,” declared Theosor. “Stay in one piece, young cub.”
“I will if you will,” Promi replied.
Another whoosh of air—and the wind lion reared back on his powerful hind legs and vaulted into the sky.
His face lined with concern, Sammelvar cautioned Promi, “The skill you showed while rescuing Jaladay, stopping a mistwraith with love, will only work on one of those beings at a time. Not if you are faced with a whole band of them.”
Jaladay shivered at the thought.
“I know,” the young man replied. “But I must do whatever it takes to stop them. For the sake of us all.”
“Then go, son.” Sammelvar gazed at Promi for a long moment. “You take with you our love . . . as well as our hopes.”
CHAPTER 6
Voice from on High
Evening had come to Atlantis. And Reocoles, master machinist, had fallen asleep at his worktable.
After an arduous day’s work, none of that night’s noises were enough to wake him. Not the creaking and grinding of machinery in his workshop, nor the heaving of the huge bellows that heated his furnace for melting metals, nor the constant din of vehicles on the streets of the City of Great Powers—vehicles he had invented, whose coal-powered motors kept chugging past all through the night. Still wearing his work apron, smudged with grease, he slumbered.
But not well. He shifted in his chair, nearly falling out of it completely. His head, resting on his arm atop the worktable, turned constantly. Even his weak leg with its brace kept twisting, knocking against one leg of the table.
Right behind him stood the captain’s wheel from his wrecked ship, the only piece of the boat he’d been able to salvage from the wreckage. He’d carried it here to his factory in the City and mounted it in his workshop where he could see it every single day. To remind him of that moment when he and his crew had been saved by Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea—who had, he felt sure, sent a gigantic wave in the shape of a watery whale’s tail. That wave had rescued the doomed ship and cast it ashore on Atlantis, a true miracle. A miracle from the gods.
Reocoles would not have believed that the wave had actually been brought by an ancient sea goddess who had heard a heartfelt plea from Promi. The only mortal who knew the truth of what had happened on that day was Shangri, the baker’s daughter.
For over five years now, the old wooden wheel had sat in this workshop—the only unchanging fixture as Reocoles’s many inventions and raw materials had piled up around the cavernous room. The wheel, whose knobs still glistened with flecks of white sea salt, bore a chipped brass plate the master machinist had inscribed with the motto that had guided him ever since the day he set sail from Greece: the Control of Nature.
That motto, Reocoles believed, embodied the greatest gifts of mankind—gifts that separated humans from the rest of the animals and brought them closest to the gods. Cleverness, ingenuity, and persistence. And Reocoles knew in his heart that one of those gods had taken a special interest in his own life. Hephaestus, god of all crafts and machines, must surely have known that this mortal man—like the god who inspired him—possessed a relentless drive to conquer and exploit nature for the benefit of his people. As well as the profit it could bring him.
As Reocoles slept on this particular night, he dreamed that the old ship’s wheel suddenly came to life. With a loud snap, it flew off its mount—and into his eager hands. The magical wheel then carried him right out the door and high into the sky.
Below, Reocoles could see the whole City he’d successfully improved so much in the past five years. Oil-burning lamps lit the street corners that once were dark at night. Their light helped to catch some of the criminals who had for some reason multiplied since he’d started to industrialize the region. Soon, he knew, those lamps would be replaced by the modern gas lamps he’d been developing in his laboratory. Vehicles, pouring coal dust from their smokestacks, carried workers and supplies even at this late hour. Pipes full of water ran along the rooftops. With a satisfied grin, Reocoles spied the special water system he’d recently installed on the roof of the Divine Monk’s temple.
As long as that monk gets his hot bath in the evening and fresh food four or five times a day, thought Reocoles, I can always count on his support.
As his chest swelled with pride, the master machinist suddenly heard a powerful voice from the heavens. That voice, he felt certain, belonged to none other than the great god Zeus.
“Hear me, you miserable mortal,” boomed the god. “You heeded my first command and have started to remake this city and this island. That command set you on the road to gaining all the power you might have deserved.”
“I owe it all,” he said modestly, “to the guidance I’ve received from you, Great One, and Hephaestus.”
Satisfaction swept through Reocoles. And yet . . . something troubled him about how the god had said the word might.
Abruptly, the wheel turned and tore Reocoles away from the gleaming city. He flew, without any ability to steer, over the Divine Monk’s ornate quarters, past the city gates, across the deep chasm of the Deg Boesi River, and above the dark expanse of the Great Forest. Peering into the empty blackness below, Reocoles felt a stab of pain that his extensive mining operations at the edge of the forest had recently halted—all because of a meddling forest girl named Atlanta.
“Then why,” accused Zeus, his voice echoing among the clouds, “have you failed me? Why have you abandoned the road to triumph?”
Before Reocoles could offer even a meek reply, the entire vista changed dramati
cally. Daylight flooded the isle of Atlantis, revealing the complete forest, an untamed swath of greenery. Beyond, in the distance, lay wide, grassy meadows and a mysterious, spiral-shaped bay. None of those lands showed any signs of human development, though Reocoles had long hoped to change that.
Directly below him lay the open pit mines, refinery operation, and huge vehicles of his industrial complex—all of them now abandoned and silent. The only movement came from the large waste pool, dismal yellow in color, which bubbled continuously. Perhaps, from the depths of the pool, something else stirred . . . but Reocoles couldn’t be certain.
“If you do not do as I have commanded,” roared the god, “all your works shall vanish. Behold!”
Reocoles, holding the flying wheel more tightly than ever, gasped. An enormous wave, many times larger than the watery whale’s tail that had rescued his ship, rose out of the sea. Racing toward the island, it smashed into the cliffs and swept across the City of Great Powers. Buildings, temples, homes, vehicles, and bridges all disappeared under the titanic wave. Reocoles’s factory and all his equipment and inventions vanished in a few brief seconds. Not even a cloud of dust from the wreckage remained, for the sea had swallowed everything.
“Great god,” pleaded the master machinist, “give me another chance, I beg of you. I shall satisfy your command of progress, whatever that requires!”
From the clouds came only a distant rumble, like a faraway growl. “You must, in addition, do one thing more.”
“Tell me, Zeus. Please.”
“You must stay ever vigilant against the enemies of your work! For there are individuals who would see you and all your achievements destroyed.”
Thinking of that troublesome forest girl, Reocoles answered, “Worry not about her! I have already made plans that will completely stop her meddlesome ways.”
“Waste no more efforts on her, then. The one individual you must guard most against—the one who is your greatest nemesis—is a young man who calls himself Promi. You will recognize him by the black mark of a bird in flight on his chest.”