by T.A. Barron
Bending closer to Promi, she asked, “Do you have a plan, Prrrrrometheus?”
Under his breath, Kermi muttered, “This should be entertaining.”
Promi chewed his lip, then confessed, “Er . . . no. I don’t.”
“Then,” the turquoise dragon announced, “I have a plan to offerrrrr.”
“Tell us,” said both Promi and Kermi at once.
“We shall searrrrrch the icicle clouds forrrrr the hidden forrrrrtrrrrress of Narrrrrkazan. If we find it, I shall face my worrrrrst enemy—the mistwrrrrraiths—and do my best to drrrrraw them away.”
Bending her enormous head closer, she said gravely, “Then you shall face yourrrrr own worrrrrst enemy—Narrrrrkazan—and trrrrry to save Jaladay.”
His expression grim, Promi nodded. “We have a plan. Let’s hope that it works.”
“And that,” Ulanoma added, “when it is all overrrrr . . . we shall meet anotherrrrr day.”
Suddenly, a deep roar echoed across the ocean waves. Though it came from far away, Promi recognized it immediately. And his face brightened.
“You know that rrrrroarrrrr,” declared the dragon. “I sense it comes frrrrrom no strrrrrangerrrrr.”
“Right.” Promi stood up on the dragon’s wing. “It comes from Theosor!”
Just then, the wind lion appeared out of the misty sky. Giving his thick mane a shake, he hovered over their heads, his invisible wings whirring.
“Greetings to you, great dragon,” he declared, his voice booming across the water. “I am Theosor. And I see you have met my friends.”
The dragon nodded, making her turquoise scales shimmer. “I am Ulanoma. Have you come to join us on ourrrrr quest?”
“To rescue Jaladay,” added Promi. “We’re just about to leave—searching for a place with jagged clouds like icicles.” Hopefully, he asked, “Will you join us?”
“No, young cub.” The wind lion’s immense eyes peered at Promi. “I cannot, for I am very busy patrolling the perimeter of a certain afterglow.”
Promi frowned. “My fault, I know.” After a pause, he questioned, “So why are you here?”
Theosor flew lower, hovering close enough to Promi that the young man could feel the wind from his wings. “I am never too busy to bring a message to you, young cub.”
“A message? From who?”
“From a mortal—someone named Shangri. She sent you a prayer leaf from the very same bridge where we first met.”
“When I leaped,” Promi recalled, “and you caught me.”
“That I did,” thundered the wind lion.
“Shangri,” said Promi, feeling surprised, as well as pleased. “What did she say?”
“Just this, young cub.” And Theosor recited:
“Promi, it feels jest like yesterday we talked on those cliffs above the sea. But five years have passed for us here on this world.”
“Five years!” exclaimed Promi. “That can’t be true.”
“But it is, young cub. Now hear the rest.
“Those years have not been good for Atlantis. We are in trouble, Promi—mainly from the people on that ship you rescued.”
At this, Kermi groaned loudly and Promi scowled. But Theosor went on.
“We need yer help, Promi. Atlantis is in peril . . . an’ what are we to do?”
Promi shook his head. How could he have caused so many problems in both of his worlds?
“There’s one more somethin’ you must know,” recited the wind lion. “An’ it’s the most important fact o’ all: Atlanta still loves you. I jest met her an’ she still holds a place in her heart fer you.”
The force of those words almost knocked Promi off the dragon’s wing. He steadied himself, but his head spun with questions, doubts, and longings.
“If ye really get this,” concluded the message, “please answer yer old friend Shangri. An’ if ye ever do come back to us . . . cinnamon buns will be waitin’, that’s a promise.”
Theosor studied the young man below him. “Do you have any reply?”
Furrowing his brow, Promi answered, “Just this. Let Shangri know that I got her message. Tell her that I will never abandon Atlantis, if it’s the last thing I ever do! Tell her not to lose hope. Trust me, hope has great power. And finally . . . tell her that I feel the same way about Atlanta—even if we can never be together.”
Theosor nodded, shaking his great mane. “I shall deliver your message, young cub. The next time her thoughts turn to you, she will hear your voice on the wind.”
Lifting himself higher, he said, “Now I must go. But first, I have two more things to say.”
Turning to the turquoise dragon, he declared, “There is only one formation of icicle clouds anywhere that I know. It lies far from here, near the Caverns of Doom.”
Ulanoma’s golden eyes narrowed. “Those caverrrrrns arrrrre known to me. Forrrrr that is wherrrrre my mate was murrrrrderrrrred.”
“Be careful, brave dragon,” said Theosor.
“I shall trrrrry.”
The wind lion faced Promi again. “If you are attacked by mistwraiths, remember your father’s advice. It sounds crazy, I must agree, but Sammelvar has great wisdom. Perhaps you should trust him.”
“No!” retorted Promi. “I won’t—can’t—do that. His advice doesn’t just sound crazy, it really is crazy. No one could love one of those evil beings!”
Theosor merely gazed at him with the deep brown pools of his eyes.
“I can’t do it,” repeated Promi.
“No one,” growled Ulanoma, “could everrrrr love a mistwrrrrraith! They arrrrre the most loathsome beings anywherrrrre.”
“So be it,” declared Theosor. “Good luck to you all.”
There was a whir of invisible wings—and the wind lion vanished.
CHAPTER 37
War of Glory
Jaladay crawled slowly across the vaporstone floor of her cell. She grimaced, realizing how much more effort that required than it did when Narkazan’s mistwraiths had first captured her, however many days ago. Now even the simple motion of crawling made her feel dizzy and exhausted.
All part of his plan, she reminded herself. He wants to weaken me—first my body. Then my resolve.
Indeed, the crumbs Narkazan had allowed her to eat were just enough to keep her functioning. Barely. He knew that even an immortal’s body needed some sustenance, but he wasn’t going to give her more than the minimum. After all, she’d only use her added strength to try to escape.
Or to try to send a message, she thought grimly.
Weakly, shoulders trembling, she crawled toward the wall that held a door—a door that had opened only rarely since she’d arrived. Even in this utter darkness, with her second sight deadened, she knew exactly where to find that door. How? From the faint rays of light that filtered through the narrow food slot. And also from the hint of fresh air that wafted through that small opening.
Right now, it was the promise of better air that had motivated her to move herself across the cell. Her prison felt more stifling by the hour, so tightly enclosed that she had trouble breathing. Yet again—she knew that was part of the warlord’s plan.
Survive, she told herself firmly. Must survive! For as long as I can.
But even as she made that vow, she wondered how much longer that could be. For as Narkazan knew, the worst kind of starvation came not from lack of food—but lack of hope. And here in this cell, with nothing to stir her senses or her second sight, with barely enough air to breathe, with no one to talk with, and no way to escape . . . hope could not last long.
Why should I try so hard to stay alive? What’s the point? Discouraged, she ran a hand through her straggly hair. Maybe it’s best for everyone if I just . . . die.
Panting, she reached the food slot. Lowering herself flat on the stone floor, she turned her head toward
the thin opening. The faint wisp of air that flowed over her face struck her like a plunge into a cold lake.
She knew, of course, that a little bit of air really wasn’t much of an improvement. But for the moment, at least, it revived her. Not enough to do anything remarkable, since she was still so weak she could hardly stand. Yet . . . enough, perhaps, to shift her thinking.
After all, she was still alive. Still herself. And still aware of Narkazan’s plans for war—what he called my war of glory.
That war would begin very soon. Forces were getting ready. Battle plans were being finalized.
She’d heard, through this very slot, a few scattered clues about those plans. Nothing detailed, unfortunately. But she’d learned enough to know that the whole spirit realm was about to explode in chaos and wrath. The wrath of Narkazan.
Mistwraiths had gathered secretly in the Caverns of Doom.
A vast army had assembled somewhere behind a spell of concealment.
The warlord had offered a huge bounty on the lives of Sammelvar and Escholia. And a far greater one on her brother, Promi.
I don’t know what to do with all this, she thought. But maybe I can still do something that could help!
Lying by the bolted doorway, she clenched her jaw. For she’d remembered exactly why she needed to stay alive.
Suddenly, she heard Narkazan shout angrily at someone. Then, as that person spoke, she caught her breath. For she recognized his voice—a man who had battled Promi and Atlanta fiercely on Earth, and who now served his master in the spirit realm.
Grukarr.
Pressing her ear as close as she could to the food slot, she strained to hear. She didn’t want to miss a single word they said.
CHAPTER 38
The Gift
Imbecile!” shouted Narkazan, so loud it seemed to shake the walls of his chamber.
The scars on his face turned dark red, as if they were rivers of blood. “Let me understand this. You actually had him in your grasp? Right there inside the flying ship?”
“Y-yes, Master,” answered Grukarr, shuffling his boots on the vaporstone floor.
“You are certain it was him? That miserable young meddler marked by the Prophecy? The one who stole my Starstone?”
“Y-yes, Master.”
Narkazan leaned forward in his thronelike chair, thrusting out his narrow chin as if it were the point of a sword. As he peered at Grukarr, his fiery eyes burning, the pair of mistwraiths floating by his side released an angry crackling noise. Black sparks sprayed on the floor, almost scorching Grukarr’s boots.
Speaking in a voice that was much quieter—and much more frightening—the warlord asked, “And you had him under control?”
“Completely,” the former priest assured him.
Narkazan raised an eyebrow.
“Well . . . maybe not completely. But, Master, I promise you it seemed that way! I had him bound up in a net made of fibrous vaporstone, tightened securely all around his body. Why, I even had that furry blue beast of his bound up, too.”
Narkazan bared his teeth and growled, recalling the moment when that very same beast had attacked him and nearly gouged out his eyes.
Grukarr scowled. “There was no way they should have escaped. No way!”
“Except they did.” Narkazan’s eyes seemed to sizzle. “Of all the idiots, fools, and half-wits ever to serve me, you are the worst.”
Swallowing hard, Grukarr said meekly, “As you say, Master.”
“No! This is exactly not as I say!” The warlord’s shouts echoed inside the chamber—and, no doubt, in Grukarr’s head. On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay heard those shouts clearly . . . with the first hint of a grin since she’d been captured.
“I commanded you to capture him,” Narkazan ranted, “and bring him straight to me! Instead, you bungle everything and set him free again!”
The mistwraiths crackled ferociously. Black sparks flew into the air. One spark landed on Grukarr’s pant leg, instantly burning a hole in the fabric. It very nearly burned his skin, as well, but he brushed it away just in time.
Glaring at his subject, Narkazan tapped one of his bloodred tusks. “Something tells me, imbecile, that you tried to inflict a bit of torture on your prisoners. Is that right?”
Shuffling nervously, Grukarr mumbled, “Well . . . I might have tried using a few blades on them.”
“Is that all?”
“And . . . well, maybe giving them a bit of skinmelt potion.”
Narkazan tapped his tusk. “And?”
“M-m-maybe also . . . hanging them outside the ship. But that never happened! I never actually did it.”
“Because they escaped, you moron!” The warlord slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Your desire for vengeance spoiled everything!”
He leaned forward even more, jutting his chin. “For that, you shall suffer dearly.”
Grukarr’s face went white. “B-but, Master . . .”
“Unless,” continued Narkazan, “you can successfully hunt down that young man and his troublesome pet. Can you do that simple, straightforward task?”
“Oh yes! I most certainly can, great and forgiving master.”
“Good. Because if you fail me again . . . I shall make certain that you experience all the tortures you tried to inflict on your prisoners. That’s right—all of them.”
Grukarr made a sound like someone choking. He took a step backward.
“And, Grukarr,” concluded the warlord, “when I torture someone . . . he never escapes.”
For several seconds, Narkazan glared at his subject. Then, with a wave of his hand, he spat, “Go! Get out of my sight.”
Hurriedly, Grukarr backed away, then fled down the darkened hallway that was the room’s only entrance. As he departed, the mistwraiths crackled angrily, hovering beside their master.
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled at them. “I did let him off far too easily. But he might still prove useful to me.”
Narkazan peered at the hovering mistwraiths. “I must leave briefly to inspect my growing army. I must make certain all the preparations are in order before we attack.”
The shadowy beings crackled with approval.
“My trip won’t take long,” the warlord continued. “Until I am back, you and your fellow warriors must guard my lair. Be always alert! If any intruders dare to come near, give them the most exquisitely painful deaths you can.”
A fountain of black sparks sprayed from the mistwraiths.
“Good.” Narkazan grinned malevolently. “When I return, I shall look in on our prisoner. And if she has not changed her mind and decided to cooperate, I shall commence her tortures.”
On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay shuddered. Her imprisonment, she knew, would soon come to an end. A most horrible end.
Suddenly another mistwraith swept into the chamber, blowing out of the hallway like a dark, menacing cloud. Approaching Narkazan, the mistwraith crackled noisily, releasing a fountain of black sparks.
Listening closely, the warlord sat bolt upright. “Are you certain? A red glow in the mist of the borderlands?”
Excitedly, the mistwraith crackled. More sparks erupted, sizzling on the vaporstone floor.
A predatory smile creased Narkazan’s face. “Well, well. The afterglow from mist fire!”
He sat back in his chair, tapping his tusk thoughtfully. “How very careless of you, Sammelvar! For now you have told me what you least wanted me to know—that the veil between the worlds is so weak you were worried enough to check it.”
On the other side of her prison door, Jaladay gnashed her teeth. The veil, she thought miserably. So weak it can no longer shield the mortal world from Narkazan. And what’s worse . . . he now knows about it!
Though she was already lying flat on the floor of her cell, she felt as if she�
�d slumped even lower. Her brief taste of hope had vanished. What remained in its place was the most bitter taste of all, a mixture of helplessness and despair.
In his chamber, however, Narkazan was feeling quite different. Almost giddy with this unexpected news, he chortled with delight. The mistwraiths, unsure what to make of this mood they’d never seen before in their master, huddled together anxiously.
Finally, Narkazan’s chortling ceased. “At last,” he said to himself with satisfaction, “I am getting some of the good fortune I so deserve.” With a vengeful gleam in his eyes, he added, “And now . . . I have an idea of how to give that meddling son of Sammelvar the ill fortune he so deserves.”
Leaning toward the mistwraiths, Narkazan declared, “The young man of the Prophecy seems unduly fond of the mortal world below. Have you noticed?”
In unison, the shadowy beings crackled angrily.
“A wasteful dalliance on his part,” the warlord went on, “since the creatures of that world last just a few short breaths of our immortal lives. Besides, they exist only to serve our needs.”
He stroked the length of one of his tusks, savoring his new idea. “Let us turn his fondness for mortals to our advantage! I have a gift for you to deliver to that place he so cherishes. Yes . . . a gift he will long remember.”
As the mistwraiths trembled with excitement, Narkazan explained, “This will surely make him come out of hiding and speed back to the mortal realm. Then we can find him more easily! And this time, he will not escape.”
A chorus of ominous crackling greeted his words. “The poetic justice of this plan is simply beautiful,” crowed Narkazan. “For when he goes to Earth for this gift, he will cause further damage to the veil, weakening it even more.”
The mistwraith who had brought the news about the veil shook vigorously, snapping its dark folds.
“Yes,” agreed the warlord. “By then, the veil might have collapsed completely.” In a voice drenched with sarcasm, he added, “How very disappointing.”
The mistwraiths started to rustle noisily. But the instant Narkazan thumped his fist on the arm of his chair, they halted. “Now,” he commanded, “come closer together. All of you.”