Feeling better, he opened his eyes. “Time for breakfast,” he announced. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good, fresh-baked pastry.”
On his shoulder, Kermi bobbed his head knowingly and blew a stream of small bubbles. “Go ahead and eat, manfool. It’s not like we have anything important to do today.”
“First things first,” Promi replied. “The only question is, where to begin? Someone’s morning pie cooling on a windowsill? A good sweet roll from a bakery? Some fresh fruit at the market?”
The answer suddenly presented itself. A rickety cart drawn by a pair of goats and guided by a boy in a straw hat turned out of an alley just in front of Promi. Loaded with several baskets of newly picked apples, the cart rattled over the cobblestones, its fruit bouncing.
Promi grinned, for he recognized those apples. Called “monk’s favorite” by most people, they were the sweetest apples in all of Ellegandia.
Time, he told himself, for a little nourishment.
Casually, he drew the silver dagger from its sheath. It still felt as cold as ice from a river. He tapped its hilt, watching the magical string wind around his wrist. Then, with the relaxed air of an experienced knife thrower, he hefted the blade, judging its weight. Suddenly he snapped his left arm forward, giving his wrist a slight twist as he released the dagger.
The blade impaled a large, juicy apple, plunging in with a squirt of apple juice. At the same moment, Promi flicked his wrist, making the silver string suddenly contract. The apple flew off the cart, nearly knocking off the boy’s straw hat as it whizzed past.
The boy, confused, stopped the goats and peered into the shadowy street behind him. He saw nothing strange. How odd, he thought, to have a single apple bounce off the cart that way! One of the wheels must have hit a loose stone. He’d need to watch his load more closely until he arrived at the marketplace.
While the boy puzzled, Promi was standing in the shadows, busily devouring the apple. “Mmmm, so sweet,” he said, taking another big bite. The apple snapped crisply as his teeth sank into it.
“No problem,” said Kermi sarcastically. “You don’t need to offer me any.” He blew a large, apple-shaped bubble. “Even if it is my favorite fruit.”
Promi took another bite, chewed it pleasurably, then swallowed. “Didn’t know you liked apples, bubblebrain.” Using the back of his hand, he wiped some juice off his chin. “Here, just because you were so nice to Atlanta, you can have half.”
Taking the apple in his tiny paws, Kermi started nibbling. “Why, thank you, manfool. I think a little of her good nature might have rubbed off on you.”
“Maybe so,” Promi said wistfully.
Just then, he saw a girl walking toward the market with a tray of cinnamon buns, still steaming hot from the oven. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t the pastries that most captured his attention. It was the person carrying them. Though white flour dusted the girl’s twin braids, their carrot color couldn’t be missed.
“Shangri!” he called.
She whirled around, almost scattering her cinnamon buns on the street. Seeing him, her freckled face lit up with delight. “Promi!”
He strode over to her while Kermi ducked behind his shoulder to remain unseen. “Careful now,” Promi told her while pushing some buns back to the middle of her tray. “Don’t want to lose these precious things.”
Beaming, she asked, “How are you, Promi? All’s well? You haven’t been by Papa’s pastry shop fer sev’ral days.”
“True. I’ve been, er . . . busy.”
“Not stealin’ things, I hope?”
He winked at her. “Only belt buckles.”
She giggled. “Papa’s been wearin’ it ever since you gave it to him. Under his apron, o’ course.” She nodded, bouncing her braids. “Want to stop by fer a hello? An’ maybe a pastry or two?”
“Wish I could. But right now . . . I can’t.” Feeling a pang for the simplicity of his old life, he added, “Someday soon, I hope.”
Young as she was, Shangri could see the sadness in his face. “What’s troublin’ you, Promi? Can I help?”
Though touched by her concern, he shook his head. “Thanks, Shangri, but there’s nothing you can do.”
“How ’bout this?” She grabbed one of the cinnamon buns and gave it to him. “Maybe this’ll help some.”
He smiled and took a big bite. Licking the sugar coating off his lips, he said, “These are the best.”
Merrily, she giggled. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “Don’t tell Papa . . . but I still think you should go to the spirit world! Jest to drink from their sugary streams an’ sip their sweet honey all day.”
He chuckled, finishing off the pastry. “Who needs to go there when we have your bakery right here?”
As she beamed at him, he tousled her carrot hair. “Better get yourself to the market, now. Before those cinnamon buns get cold.”
“All right. But Promi . . .”
“Yes?”
“You be careful.”
He nodded. “I will, Shangri. And you watch out for stampeding goats in the market.”
Still hearing her giggle, Promi turned and started down an alley. Soon he’d come to the temple wall—not so easy to scale without his boots, but he’d do his best. Once inside the Divine Monk’s temple, he had a hunch where he would find Grukarr: in the private quarters of the newly proclaimed High Priest.
He strode through the shadows. Though his heart still felt heavy, he could taste, for now, the sweetness of cinnamon on his tongue.
CHAPTER 33
Confidence
Can’t you understand, Promi? Just like bread in an oven, a person either rises—or gets burned.
—From her journal
Hours passed as Promi waited, hidden behind one of the ornately carved columns in Grukarr’s private quarters. Keeping his breathing shallow, in case one of the priest’s lackeys was nearby, he could feel the prickle of heat on his chest. But he remained still, his left hand poised by his silvery dagger.
At last—footsteps. Coming closer! Leather shoes slapped against the polished wood floor. And with that sound came another: someone whistling.
Grukarr.
Carefully, Promi peeked out from behind the column as the priest entered, adjusting the collar of his purple cloak as he whistled pleasantly. Fortunately, no guards were with him, and Huntwing was nowhere in sight. Yet that didn’t diminish the fiery heat on Promi’s skin.
Now that he’s High Priest, he’s looking pretty confident—too confident. Promi swallowed. I won’t make the same mistake.
Suddenly, Grukarr halted. His whistling ceased. Just one foot inside the room, he sensed something wasn’t quite right. What, though?
The priest scanned the room. Was it the flickering flame from the candle on his bureau? That wrinkle on the curtain by the window? The hint of a strange smell, something like the fur of a monkey?
His brown eyes narrowed. Just then, he heard the faintest whisper of a sound. Someone’s breath! Grukarr opened his mouth to shout for his guards—just as Promi stepped out from behind the column, dagger ready to throw.
“You!” spat the priest. “How did you ever get in here?”
“I have my ways,” answered Promi. “Don’t cry out. That is, if you’d like to live another instant.”
Mouth agape, Grukarr kept silent. Rage burned in his eyes. How in the name of Narkazan could he have been outwitted by this worthless street beggar again?
Moving closer, Promi swaggered across the room, always pointing his dagger at the priest. Unnoticed was the bulge in the back of his tunic that showed where Kermi was hiding. Promi kicked aside Grukarr’s fur-lined slippers and ran a hand across the gold-embroidered bed cover. All this was done to exude confidence . . . but the truth was quite different. He’d rather have crawled into a viper pit than stayed so long in Grukarr’s quarters.
“I bring you greetings,” said Promi, “from many places—including Ekh Raku dungeon.” He stopped, peering hard at
the man who dearly longed to rule over all mortals. “I met someone there who knew you well. Someone named Bonlo.”
At the mention of his teacher, Grukarr winced. But only for an instant. Right away, his haughty expression returned, and he snarled, “What children’s fables did that doddering old fool tell you?”
“Just one.” Promi’s gaze seemed sharper than the point of his knife. “That despite all the evil you have done, he still believed you could change.”
Grukarr’s skin color darkened to burgundy.
“Oh,” added the young man casually, “and I should also mention that your plans for Ho Byneri are going to fail.”
The priest stiffened.
“That’s right. We know all about your schemes! The army of invaders at the Passage of Death. The secret work at your lair. And even the extra mistwraiths you’ve sent for.”
Obviously taken aback, Grukarr scowled. Then, regaining his composure, he spat, “Vagabond! You know only a little! The fullness of my plans will dazzle you. And destroy you completely.”
Waving his dagger before the priest’s face, Promi asked, “Do you mean your idea for the Starstone? To make it a deadly weapon?”
Grukarr flinched. “How did you . . . ?”
“Never mind about that.” Promi pressed the knife’s point against the priest’s chest. “Just give me the Starstone, and I might show you more mercy than you deserve.”
“I don’t have it,” declared Grukarr.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s no lie, you fool! I don’t have it.”
Using the knife, Promi lifted the collar of the priest’s cloak. Nothing there! “Tell me where you hid it.”
Grukarr hesitated.
Raising his blade, Promi growled, “You have three seconds. Or I will gladly slice your throat.”
The High Priest swallowed. “It isn’t—”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, interrupting him. Instinctively, Promi glanced over Grukarr’s shoulder to see who was coming. The priest slashed with his forearm, knocking away the blade. The silver dagger clattered on the floor.
Quickly, Promi tugged the magical thread. The dagger zipped back into his hand. But just as he clasped the handle, he felt another blade jab against his chest, right over his heart. Knowing he’d been outmaneuvered, he stealthily slid the dagger back into its sheath.
Grukarr, holding his own blade, which he’d drawn from under his cloak, glowered at Promi. The priest pushed on the blade, hard enough that its sharp point cut through Promi’s tunic and pricked his skin. A trickle of blood flowed over the mark on his chest and seeped into his frayed garment.
“Guards!” shouted Grukarr. Immediately, the footsteps quickened and three men appeared at the doorway. Each carried a spear, which they instantly pointed at Promi.
Grukarr shot the temple guards a withering glance. “You imbeciles let an intruder into my quarters. I shall deal with you later, but rest assured, you will be punished.”
All three men cringed. They knew Grukarr well enough to believe his vengeance wouldn’t stop with them. Their families and their homes were also in danger. So they jabbed their spears against Promi, hoping to win a little mercy from their master. Meanwhile, the bulge under Promi’s tunic slid sideways to avoid a spear point.
Grukarr smiled maliciously, then whistled a few jaunty notes. “Now,” he declared, “you shall finally get what you have earned many times over.”
Promi tried to look fearless, but his whole chest seemed on fire. You worthless bag of boneless baboons! he cursed silently. He knew that he had failed completely—failed his quest, his homeland, and somehow worst of all, Atlanta.
“You will not live to see my plans realized,” snarled Grukarr. “Nor will you see my unchallenged reign as emperor.”
“You mean,” retorted Promi, “as Narkazan’s bootlicker! What makes you think, once you’ve given him the prize he wants, that he’ll have any more use for you?”
Surprisingly, Grukarr didn’t get angry. He merely chortled to himself. “You speak of the Starstone? Well, I have some plans of my own.”
“To get it back? That’s not possible—not if it’s in the spirit realm.”
Smirking, the priest replied. “For you, vagabond, that would be true. Why, for you to get the Starstone now would require a leap off that bridge!”
He paused to chortle again. “For me, however, the situation is different. And since you are about to die and the truth will make you suffer even more, I will show you why.”
Replacing his knife in its sheath, Grukarr opened a satchel under his cloak. Carefully, he pulled out a small copper disc with a white rim. Across its surface, magical symbols were painted, gleaming mysteriously. Holding the disc by the rim, he gazed at it with obvious pleasure.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked. Then, before Promi could speak, he said, “No, of course you don’t. Only the most learned priests and priestesses could recognize it, so how could a mere commoner?”
Slowly, he twirled the disc in his hand. “A shonsée disc is a kind of magical magnet. And this is the original shonsée disc, made ages ago by Tanalo, the greatest craftsman among the immortals. With the proper incantations, it can be primed to bring any magical object instantly.”
“And you have primed it to bring you the Starstone?” asked Promi aghast.
“Yes,” Grukarr answered proudly. “Of course, for the magnet to work, the Starstone must be near enough to be within sight. But that time will come, I assure you. And when it does, all I need to do is tap it—just the right number of times, mind you, or I would perish. But I will do it perfectly. And then the Starstone, transformed by Narkazan into a weapon that even he will fear, will belong to me!”
Gloating, he slipped the disc back into his satchel. Then he faced his prisoner and scowled. “You have wasted far too much of my time, vagabond! I am already late to lead the monks in evening prayers.”
He nodded to the guards. “Take him out to the square and kill him in the most violent way possible. Make an example of him, do you hear me? Slice off his head—but slowly enough that he will choke on his own blood. Then cut out his heart and any other organs you choose.” Feigning sadness, he said to Promi, “I would have them do it right here, but I just can’t have all that blood on my beautiful floor.”
With his boot, Grukarr tapped the polished wood. Addressing the guards again, he commanded, “Then throw whatever is left of his body into the dungeon for the rats to feast upon. And, oh yes,” he added with pleasure, “if you find an old prisoner down there named Bonlo . . . cut out his tongue for daring to speak to this criminal.”
Someone shoved Promi from behind, and the guards started to hustle him away. But the shove made him stumble into Grukarr, so hard the priest almost lost his turban.
“Fools!” he barked. “Never again soil my clothes with the touch of a prisoner!”
Scowling, Grukarr watched them go. Yet they had only just left his private quarters when he felt a surge of delight and started whistling merrily.
Meanwhile, Promi trudged slowly along the passageways that led to the central square. In his hand, he clasped the magical disc he’d stolen from Grukarr’s satchel when he’d bumped into him. As soon as they were well away, he slid the disc into the pocket that used to hold his journal.
Even such artful thievery didn’t improve his mood, though. His mind spun with urgent questions. Did Grukarr really mean what he’d said about a bridge? Why? And which bridge? The half-finished one called the Bridge to Nowhere? Or one of the others that crossed the river lower down?
One more question vexed him as he walked, feeling the spear points digging into his skin. What sacrifice should he make to save his life . . . and maybe also his world? That sacrifice would need to be something big. Very big. But what?
He bit his lip, knowing the answer. It was truly dreadful to contemplate, but it should be enough to make the magic work. This would be, by far, the greatest sacrifice he’d ever made.
The guards marched him down the stone stairs to the square, now darkening with nightfall. As soon as they arrived, they flexed their muscles, preparing to slice off the prisoner’s head and cut out as many organs as possible to gain favor with their master. As one, they raised their spears and thrust—just as the young man whispered some sort of chant.
He vanished! Their blades pierced nothing but air.
A sudden sound of wind rushed over them, although it didn’t move even a hair on their heads. Astonished at Promi’s escape, the three guards stared at each other. In that moment, they knew two things. First, the young man had disappeared through some sort of magic. And second, they would never tell anyone. For if Grukarr ever heard that this prisoner had escaped, they would surely die as brutally as the priest had commanded. Only for them, there would be no magical escape.
Frightened, they slowly backed away from the spot, turned, and ran down the darkened streets. Behind them, the sound of wind faded and then vanished.
CHAPTER 34
Prayer Leaves
What would you have done, Promi, if I had been there beside you? Probably the same utterly foolish thing.
But at least I could have warned you.
—From her journal
Promi opened his eyes. The sound of rushing wind vanished and was replaced by the constant flapping of prayer leaves—and, far below him, the continuous rumbling of river rapids.
Right away, he recognized the bridge where he was sitting, though it seemed rather ghostly in the glimmer of the night’s first stars. It looked just as dilapidated as when he’d first seen it a week ago, after his escape from the dungeon. Maybe even more dilapidated, since now he was close enough to see all the broken planks, collapsed rails, and tattered leaves of the unfinished bridge.
The Bridge to Nowhere.
Atlantis Rising Page 22