Casually, Promi reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out the jeweled belt buckle. He tossed it to the baker, who stared at it in utter astonishment.
“That should cover the cinnamon bun,” said Promi dryly. “As well as those huckleberry tarts.”
The stunned baker peered at him. “But, lad—”
Promi held up his hand. “No haggling for a higher price, now,” he said with a grin. Then, more seriously, he added, “But I’d suggest, if you ever need money, don’t try to sell the whole buckle. Too easily recognized. Just sell those sapphires one at a time.”
The baker pinched his lips. “You stole this?”
“Not from anyone who deserves to own it.” Promi gave him a wink. “Now it’s where it really belongs.”
Taking another bite of the cinnamon bun, Promi spun around and walked down the cobblestone street. Seconds later, he turned a corner and disappeared.
In front of the pastry shop, Shangri peered at the glittering object in her father’s hand. She’d never seen anything like it before. “Papa,” she asked, “does that really pay for the cinnamon bun?”
“Aye,” he whispered. “It does.”
CHAPTER 4
Spicy Sausage
My favorite meals are freshly made, freshly spiced . . . and freshly stolen.
—From Promi’s journal
Promi stole through the twisting, narrow streets, always keeping in the shadows. That was, by now, a habit: The fewer people who saw him, the better. Why make his life as a thief any tougher than it already was?
Besides, he now had a new acquaintance named Grukarr to watch out for. Not to mention some very angry temple guards . . . if, that is, the priest had allowed them to live.
No need to worry about Grukarr, he assured himself, passing a flower bed that overflowed with blue lilies. He paused a moment to savor their sweet smell, then moved on. He’s probably still trying to put his pants back on.
Yet even as he thought that, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d humiliated the priest, that was certain. And Grukarr wouldn’t spare any effort to respond. The man was deeply vengeful, jealous of his power, and extremely cruel—someone who enjoyed inflicting harsh punishments on commoners.
Especially a commoner who had dared to make him look like a fool in public.
Slipping around a corner into an alley, Promi couldn’t resist a grin. Already, he felt sure, stories must be circulating about the brave young vagabond who’d stolen Grukarr’s belt—and, in the process, his dignity. Just as there would be stories about the mysterious person (surely someone different from the vagabond) who had brazenly leaped off the top of the bell tower to escape a temple guard and then floated unharmed back down to the City.
He tapped the golden earring, his new prize. All in all, it had been a good day. And now, he told himself confidently, it’s about to get even better.
For today, the feast holiday of Ho Kranahrum, he was going to attempt his most difficult—and most satisfying—job ever. Something he’d been planning for a full year. It wouldn’t happen out on the street, but deep inside the Divine Monk’s temple. Yes, right before the eyes of the Divine Monk himself, as well as his chief adviser, High Priestess Araggna. And maybe also her deputy—a certain priest by the name of Grukarr.
Running his hand over his empty sheath, Promi reminded himself, First, though, I’ll need a knife.
He turned left, wending his way to the market square. As soon as he arrived, he almost bumped into a man selling snakes. The man wore them coiled around his arms, ankles—and even his head, wearing a cobra like a living turban. Promi could tell right away that the chaos he’d caused by his mad dash through the market had been replaced by the usual bustle of tradesmen, vendors, and common folks. Even the stampeding goats now stood calmly inside a makeshift pen. Only the splintered remains of a smashed cage sprinkled with brightly colored feathers showed any sign of what had happened earlier. That, and a faint humming that came from a table of magical fruit.
A moment later, he spotted a woodworker whose specialty was carving bowls, mugs, and the handles of knives. With practiced ease, Promi plucked a simple knife off the carver’s bench, leaving several more valuable blades behind. Quietly, the young man blended back into the crowd.
This knife, he thought as he tapped his sheath, will be used for a good cause. He nodded. A very good cause.
Promi slipped out of the market square and turned down a small street, passing a stable of horses so silently that they didn’t even bother to turn their heads in his direction. A moment later, he came to the area outside the temple gates. Hundreds of people thronged this place—the same people who had, not long before, witnessed his daring leap from the bell tower.
He glanced up at the copper dome glittering in the sun. That had been a good escape, one of his best. But the one he was planning for later today would be even better. Assuming, he reminded himself, I don’t get caught.
As lightly as a breath of wind, he drifted into the crowd. Eager to celebrate Ho Kranahrum on the temple’s main courtyard, many of these people had started gathering the night before. In their arms, slings, and wagons, they carried prayer leaves inscribed with the names of loved ones, blankets, and flasks of fresh water and home-brewed ale. As well as hundreds of sacks and baskets bulging with food. For this particular holiday offered more than a reason to pray: It was a good excuse to eat like hungry goats.
Ho Kranahrum was Ellegandia’s only religious holiday that was celebrated not just by monks and priestesses in the temple but by virtually everyone, even in the smallest villages far away from the City of Great Powers. Why? Because this holiday was all about giving thanks for Ellegandia’s vast bounty of foods provided by nature. And what better way to give thanks than to eat and drink your fill and then eat and drink some more?
As he slid through the crowd, Promi casually reached into someone’s basket and took a honeycomb dripping with fresh clover honey. Then, having swallowed that, he grabbed a couple of filo dough pastries. And then a large homemade sausage spiced with cayenne pepper. He took a bite of the sausage, liking how the pepper blazed in his mouth.
Not bad, he thought, taking another bite of the sausage. But I still prefer sweets.
Just then, a pair of kindly-looking monks opened the temple gates. Like a river whose dam had burst, the villagers poured into the main courtyard. Paved with wide slabs of green marble, the courtyard offered plenty of space for people to sit down, stretch out their blankets, say prayers of gratitude to the spirits—and, above all, eat.
Chewing thoughtfully, Promi walked across the courtyard and borrowed a flask of cold water from a devoted family who had just bowed their heads in prayer. That’s what they get, he said to himself, for not paying attention.
He crossed into the shaded archway at the far side of the courtyard and paused to study the nearest building. Ornately crafted with gilded beams, turquoise-blue tiles on the walls, at least a dozen balconies, many statues of immortal spirits, and tile mosaics featuring the images of gold turbans, the building could not be mistaken. Here was the Divine Monk’s personal residence—the place where, in about two hours, the Divine Monk himself would feast on his own grand meal to celebrate the holiday.
Promi nodded. He’ll have one more guest than he expects.
Looking over at the faithful people who teemed in the courtyard, praying and chanting and eating and drinking, he shook his head, mystified. Enjoying all their good food he could certainly understand. Just as he could understand their gratitude for Ellegandia’s fabulous bounty of fruits and grains, meats and spices. But worshipping some invisible spirits who supposedly lived somewhere up in the sky or inhabited the Great Forest? That was impossible to comprehend.
He took the last bite of his sausage and chewed slowly. No, the only things I believe in are solid enough to be touched with my hand. Or, he added with a pat of his sheath, stuck with my knife.
Turning back to the Divine Monk’s residence, he scrutinized the façade, especia
lly one particular balcony just below the corner of the roof. Behind it hung a bloodred curtain. That color made him think about what would happen if he made even the slightest mistake.
He rubbed his tunic over the strange mark on his chest, which was starting to prickle with heat. Then, to calm his nerves, he did something he’d done many times before. He reached into the tunic’s inner pocket and pulled out a tattered old book—his journal.
Appropriately, the journal had originally been a book of recipes for making desserts. He had taken it from a shelf in a baker’s kitchen years before. By now, almost every available margin and blank spot had been filled with his scrawled entries.
He pulled a worn charcoal pencil out of the book’s spine and flipped through the pages, looking for a spot for this morning’s entry. There! He found one, fittingly enough, at the top of a page with a recipe for cinnamon buns.
Hastily, he jotted some notes about his encounter with Grukarr, the priest’s belt and buckle (and the pants they once held up), the rather unusual escape, and the baker’s orange-haired daughter. Just as he’d hoped, the simple act of writing served to quiet his jitters. Why, he couldn’t explain—just as he couldn’t explain how he’d learned to read and write as a child. Perhaps he’d gained those skills from the same person who had sung that half-remembered song so long ago.
None of that mattered now, though. All Promi knew was that something about scribbling in this journal made him feel, well . . . better. Almost like it gave him some company—as if he were writing to a long-lost friend whose face he couldn’t recall.
Truth was, the journal itself had become a friend. More than his threadbare clothing or even his perfectly fitting boots, this old recipe book felt like a faithful companion he’d never want to live without. Maybe that was because it held, by now, his most important experiences . . . and most secret thoughts.
Having finished the entry, he closed the journal and slid it back into his pocket. He licked his lips, recalling the sweet taste of those pastries. And licked them again, knowing that, with luck, he’d soon taste something even sweeter.
A theft he’d long contemplated.
He glanced again at the palatial residence, plotting the best route to that corner balcony. Then, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER 5
The Target
If you were as big as your desire for sweets—then you, Promi, would be bigger than a giant. And if I were as big as my desire to see you again—then I would be bigger than you by far.
—From her journal, on a page so crumpled and torn you’d think she had started to rip it out
Soon afterward, hidden behind the bloodred curtain inside the balcony, Promi heard the group approach. Coming with them, he felt sure, would be his target.
A target he was determined not to miss.
A perfect throw, he vowed silently. I’ll have one chance, and only one.
He drew a deep breath and willed himself to stay calm. Slowly, carefully, he drew his dagger from its sheath and clasped it in his left hand. Meanwhile, he tried to slow the galloping beat of his heart.
A bead of perspiration rolled down his brow, then onto the bridge of his nose, then into his eye. It stung, making him blink. But he didn’t dare wipe his eye for fear of disturbing the curtain.
The mark above his heart was feeling warm again. Like a windblown fire coal, it grew hotter by the second. Yet he resisted making any movement to touch it.
Hardest of all to resist, though, were the smells. For he was hiding at the back of the Divine Monk’s private dining room, where the monk would soon arrive with his entourage to eat the most sumptuous meal of the entire year. In fitting tribute to the holiday of feasting, the dining room table was already laden with mounds of grapes, freshly baked salt bread, tea leaf salad, squash and ginger soup, whipped avocado pastries, and—as of just a few seconds ago—a steaming platter of roast duckling with honeyed cherry sauce. Not to mention several flasks of rich red wine from the faraway vineyards of the Indragrass Meadows.
Promi could see none of this, of course, from behind the curtain. Tempting as it was to look, he refused to risk taking a peek. But he didn’t need to see the table to know what it held. For he could smell every morsel of this feast, right down to the last drop of honeyed cherry sauce.
He could also tell, by the absence of a certain aroma, that the dessert hadn’t yet arrived. Rumors said that, of all the special preparations that went into the Divine Monk’s feast of Ho Kranahrum, of all the rare ingredients his chefs obtained from across Ellegandia, the most effort and skill went into preparing dessert. For this wasn’t just any dessert—it was a pie made from a special kind of fruit so sweet that it could be grown, by ancient law, only within the temple’s sacred garden.
Smackberries.
So prized were those berries, and so richly sweet their flavor, the temple garden was heavily guarded day and night all year round to prevent thievery. Promi swallowed, recalling the report he’d heard of a monk who had dared to pick a single smackberry. The poor fellow’s punishment, ordered by High Priestess Araggna and carried out by Grukarr, included losing his job . . . as well as his tongue.
Not only were smackberries grown nowhere else, they could be eaten by only one person: the Divine Monk. For the law proclaimed that no other mortal’s heart could possibly be pure enough, and so close to the immortal realm, to deserve to taste such divine sweetness.
Clearly, thought Promi, that rule was invented by a Divine Monk to keep all those berries to himself.
Suddenly Promi caught a whiff of something warm and bubbling with nectarlike juices within a flaky, buttery crust. And sweet—so intensely sweet he’d never experienced anything like it before.
Smackberry pie.
The aroma tickled Promi’s nostrils. He felt strangely light-headed, almost intoxicated. Unable to resist any longer, he reached up with the tip of his knife and parted the curtain ever so slightly, just in time to see two monks bringing the pie on a mahogany platter. They set it down on the dining table, all the while looking longingly at the steaming hot dessert. After lighting several tall candles arrayed around the table, they promptly left the room.
At that instant, the Divine Monk himself arrived. He entered the doorway first with his belly, which protruded so far out front that his scarlet robe seemed to be covering three people instead of one. Upon his head sat the traditional gold turban, studded with diamonds and an enormous ruby in its center. He walked with a swagger, a stride befitting the supreme leader of Ellegandia, making his flabby chins bounce with every step. From his uppermost chin sprouted a scraggly white beard, decorated with precious jewels that jostled against his belly.
What struck Promi most, though, were the Divine Monk’s eyes. He wasn’t surprised by what they were—small, beady, and brown—but what they were not. Everyone in this country knew that green eyes signified natural magic, whether the ability to communicate with animals in the market or the power to hear the distant whispers of immortals on the wind. Green eyes were rare; most people, like Promi, had brown. Even so, while he already knew that no one in the Divine Monk’s entourage had green eyes, he’d expected to find that the leader of the country’s religion as well as its government would be different. But no, this portly fellow had not even a fleck of green in his pupils.
Right behind the Divine Monk came three old monks, so thin they didn’t have any trouble walking side by side through the door. All of them wore identical tan robes that fell to their leather sandals. Yet each sported a different color sash—bone white, copper, and ebony—to represent the wide range of skin colors of Ellegandia’s people.
The monk on the left carried an ancient drum whose skin was covered with sacred symbols designed to spread blessings every time it was struck. Beating the blessing drum with a silver mallet, the monk marched slowly into the room. By his side, the monk in the center held a flag (much smaller than the one Promi had used to escape from the bell tower). Embroider
ed with gold thread, the flag showed an eternally blooming golden flower, the symbol of Ellegandia. And the monk on the right carried a pole with a brass incense shaker. He shook it vigorously as he walked, releasing thick clouds of pungent incense.
But no amount of that incense could diminish the sweet smell of the pie. The smackberries’ aroma continued to fill the room, making Promi salivate. Gazing longingly at the pie, he watched a thin stream of purple juice bubble over the edge of its sugary crust and roll down to the platter.
The Divine Monk’s sense of smell was not as keen, though. He turned and barked at the incense bearer, “Stop shaking that wretched thing, will you? It hides the smell, my favorite in the whole mortal realm.”
The incense bearer froze, and his face turned as white as his robe. For several seconds, no one spoke; the only sound in the room was the continued beating of the blessing drum. Finally mustering the courage to reply, the monk said, “But, Holy Wondrous Eternally Blessed Master . . . it is traditional to bring incense to the feast of Ho—”
“I said stop!” The Divine Monk bellowed so loud the dining table shook, rattling the silver plates, cups, spoons, and knives arrayed there.
Then he scowled angrily at the monk beating the drum. “You stop, too!” he snapped. “That incessant pounding of yours is giving me a headache.”
The monks exchanged fearful glances. Then, in unison, they declared, “Whatever you command, He Who Has Been Kissed by the Wisdom of Immortal Spirits.”
“The correct response,” declared a thin, raspy voice at the doorway.
Recognizing that voice, Promi stiffened behind the curtain. For he knew that it belonged to High Priestess Araggna. Under his tunic, the skin on Promi’s chest felt a new burst of heat.
The ancient, white-haired priestess entered the room. Wearing a dark brown robe, she shambled slowly, more like a walking corpse than a powerful figure in Ellegandia’s government. Her skin was as pale as a sun-bleached prayer flag, her bony hands as brittle as pottery. Only her coal-black eyes, which gleamed with ruthless intelligence, seemed fully alive.
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