by T.A. Barron
Nevertheless, he tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and wrapped it around the man’s bloody toe. Gently, he squeezed the toe, hoping to stop the bleeding. No bones had yet been severed, but muscles and skin were brutally torn. And blood kept pouring from the wound.
The white-haired man gazed up at him, blinking as if he were dazed. “You came . . .” he whispered, “from the Great Powers? The spirit realm?”
“No,” answered Promi. “I just came from over there.” He waved at the dungeon’s opposite wall. “I’m a prisoner, like you.”
The old fellow shook his head. “No, no. By all the years I’ve toiled as a monk . . . I’m certain! You have something . . . special . . . about you.”
Promi shook his head. Removing the blood-soaked bandage, he tore off some more cloth and wrapped the toe again. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the only thing special about me is my ability to throw a knife. Or sometimes a rock.”
He glanced around the corridor, looking past the flickering torches into the darkest shadows. No sign of that rat. Grimly, he turned back to the monk.
“Let’s get you untied.” He quickly loosened the rope from the elder’s emaciated wrists. Carefully, he moved the old fellow over to the wall so that he could sit up.
The monk’s wrinkled face shimmered in the torchlight as he stared at Promi. “You may not know it, my good lad, but you truly have the grace of the spirits.”
“Right,” scoffed Promi. “Well, grace might be nice, but I’d much rather have something useful from the spirits—like wings. They can fly, can’t they? At least in all the stories. Then maybe I could fly us out of here.” Wistfully, he added, “And get us some food.” He licked his lips, hoping to catch even the slightest hint of those smackberries. But he tasted nothing except sweat and grime. “I’m awfully hungry.”
The monk nodded. “Yes, lad, so am I.” He lifted his weathered hand and placed it on the young man’s shoulder. “My name is Bonlo. And yours?”
“Promi.”
“Well then, Promi . . .” The old fellow smiled so genuinely that no one, seeing his face, could have guessed the painful experience he’d just endured. “I thank you.”
Even in the flickering light, it was easy to see Promi’s blush. “So,” he asked, “how did a monk like you ever end up down here?”
“I wasn’t just any old monk, my good lad. The Divine One himself promoted me, after many years, to Priest Sage.”
Promi cocked his head quizzically. “No idea what that is. A high rank?”
“The highest.” The monk sighed. “Or at least it was. Until recently.”
He gazed at Promi. “The Priest Sage is a kind of teacher, a mentor to younger monks and priestesses across the country. Someone who helps them deepen their bonds with the Great Powers—both those who dwell in the spirit realm above and those who live in the mortal world.”
His jaw tightened. “And more. For thousands of years, the Priest Sage has also been a valued adviser to the Divine Monk. But alas . . . that, too, has changed.”
Promi glanced at the bloody bandage. Moving closer to the old man, he asked, “What happened, Bonlo? How did you get thrown into this pit?”
The monk lowered his gaze. “Well . . . it comes down to this. Certain people in the priesthood started to listen less to the wisdom of the spirits and more to their own ambitions. They traded humility for arrogance, generosity for greed. Why, they even changed our religion’s name from the Faith of All Spirits to . . .” He almost choked, saying the new name. “The True Religion.”
“Hmmm,” said Promi. “That sure has a ring of humility.”
“Yes,” Bonlo agreed bitterly.
“So you spoke your mind to somebody powerful—and wound up in the dungeon?”
“You see . . .” A new light, not quite humor and not quite sorrow, came into the elder’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself from trying to teach that person. Even when he was my superior. Alas, he had a temper that erupted like the volcano Ell Shangro.”
Liking this fellow more by the minute, Promi nodded. “I’ve met a few bakers like that.”
Bonlo managed a grin. “Good lad. I wish I could have been your teacher.”
Promi grinned back. “Well, if I had been your teacher, I could have shown you some really important things. Like how to steal cinnamon buns.”
The elder peered at him. “And more, I’m sure.”
“Maybe. Anyway, who was this superior with the bad temper?”
“He was, long ago, my student. Both his parents died from a terrible disease when he was very young, so I took him in. Raised him for many years, almost as a son. But . . .” He winced at a memory more painful than his mangled toe. “I failed him, Promi. Failed to teach him how to rise above his desire to control everything and everyone around him, to gain that power he never had as a child.”
Bonlo looked up at the ceiling. “I prayed to the Powers on high to help him—especially to Sammelvar, the great spirit of wisdom, and to fair Escholia, the spirit of grace. But it did no good! Even the spirits cannot help someone who doesn’t want to help himself.”
“What was his name?”
“Grukarr.”
Promi shuddered. “That madman? He’s horrible!”
“So . . . you’ve met him?”
Promi rubbed his sore temple. “Once or twice.” He grimaced. “And I can tell you, it wasn’t your fault he didn’t respond to your teaching. That man is like a moldy, rotten fruit—all bad, through and through.”
The old monk shook his head. “No one is all bad. I never gave up trying to help him.”
“What happened in the end?”
Bonlo sighed. “When he became the Deputy High Priest and showed himself willing to do anything desired by Araggna, who is just as lustful for power as he is—I confronted him. Told him how far he had strayed from the core of our faith. Explained what a tragic mistake it was to exclude from worship all the nature spirits who live right here in our world.”
“And,” asked Promi, “he didn’t take it well?”
“You could say that. He condemned me to die.”
“Just for speaking honestly?”
“Yes, lad. He asked Araggna to order me killed—beheaded—in the market square. She gladly complied, for she had always seen me as a threat to her influence over the Divine Monk.”
“That’s horrible!”
“True, but I was fortunate. Because of all my years of faithful service, the Divine Monk mercifully intervened on my behalf . . . and sent me to this dungeon instead.”
“Where,” said Promi, “you would die anyway.”
The old monk bit his lip, then spoke again, trying his best to sound grateful. “The Divine Monk did what he thought was best. And besides, if I hadn’t been sent here, I wouldn’t have met you. And I must tell you, Promi . . . it is truly a blessing to die in such good company.”
The young man shook his head. “Don’t talk like that. Now that our ropes are untied—”
“There is no escape, my good lad. No one ever leaves Ekh Raku alive.”
Promi scowled, sensing the truth in the monk’s words—yet not wanting to admit it. “We might still surprise Grukarr.”
Bonlo’s expression darkened. “You may be right about him, lad. I suspect that not even Narkazan, the wicked warlord of the spirit realm, is more arrogant and vengeful. Yet they are both out there, free to move in their worlds . . . while we are stuck in here.” He paused, then added a single word:
“Forever.”
CHAPTER 11
Starstone and Prophecy
New ideas can be tasty, maybe even satisfying. But what I really want to taste is a nice big tray of pastries, warm and sweet, right out of the oven.
—From Promi’s journal
Promi checked the monk’s wounded toe again. The bandage, soaked with blood, looked even redder than the dungeon stones. Blood continued to drip onto the floor.
Feeling bad for the old fellow, Promi tried to change the
subject to something other than their imprisonment. “When you taught scriptures and things like that,” he asked, “did you have a favorite subject?”
“Oh, I liked just about everything.” The monk’s eyes, gray with flecks of green, brightened. “Though I did, I suppose, have a specialty.”
“What was that?”
“History.” Bonlo gazed at the nearest torch, watching its shadows dance on the stones. “Especially the War of Horrors . . . and the wonderful outpouring of magic that came afterward.”
Promi scratched his chin. “That war—it was thousands of years ago, right? Something about an attack by immortals?”
“Only some immortals,” corrected the monk. His face took on the expression of a teacher ready to guide a new student. “Led by Narkazan, the warrior spirit, a band of them attacked the Earth. That’s right—our world! They hoped to conquer and enslave all mortal creatures, as well as the nature spirits who have made this their home. Why? To capture all the Earth’s magic and use it to increase their own power. For that is what Narkazan craves most of all—power.”
Promi sighed, not very interested. This was, after all, ancient history. “But they lost, right? So the war turned out all right in the end.”
“Not if your village was destroyed, your body maimed, your family killed, or your river poisoned,” answered Bonlo sternly. “It truly deserved the name Horrors! And remember this, my good lad: Narkazan almost won. He lost only because of the good beings from the spirit realm who fought against him—Sammelvar, O Halro, Escholia, and others. And the many brave mortals who joined them. As well as the most powerful nature spirits from this realm—the ones who still live today in places like the Great Forest.”
Doubtfully, Promi asked, “The beings some people call river gods and tree spirits? They joined the battle?”
“Yes, lad.”
“And helped humans beat back the invasion?” He frowned skeptically. “You’re saying that these characters out of the old myths actually fought against Narkazan and still are here now?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Bonlo’s tone became grave. “Without that great alliance among spirits and mortals, the invaders would have surely prevailed. And our world would be very, very different today.” Sadly, the monk shook his head. “Many of those mortals, people from all walks of life as well as creatures from the forests and birds from the sky, lost their lives to protect our world.”
He sighed. “Some groups—such as the Listeners, gifted people who actually knew how to tap into the magic of the Great Powers—suffered far more than their share. Why, even though the strongest Listeners could produce enough power to change the course of a river or cause a thunderstorm on a sunny day, they were no match for the invaders. And so, in trying to save us, the Listeners lost so many people, they vanished entirely from the world.”
Promi swallowed. “I, um . . . never knew that.”
“Of course not. People have stopped talking about it, even right here in the city named for the Great Powers. But as soon as people forget their history . . . they are likely to repeat it.”
“Those good immortals—the ones who fought against Narkazan—did they have anything to do with the special magic of Ellegandia? The gift I keep hearing about in the old myths?”
“Well, well,” said Bonlo, amused. “Seems like you want to know more of the story! I understand, of course. Every good story needs an ending.”
“All right,” the young man admitted. “Maybe I am a little curious.”
“Being curious is the first step to becoming a good student, you know.”
Promi grinned. “So tell me, then, my good teacher . . . what gave Ellegandia so much magic?”
Bonlo ran a hand through his white curls. “Remember, now, the Earth has always possessed a healthy amount of magic. From the very beginning, you could find it in forests and oceans, marshes and mountains, all around the world. Anywhere the spirits of nature could flourish. So you could also find magic in Ellegandia—but no more than in many other places.”
He tapped his brow, as if saying a silent prayer of thanks. “The immortals who fought Narkazan didn’t do that because they wanted the Earth’s magic for themselves. Quite the opposite. Those spirits understood something fundamental—the moral imperative of keeping the two worlds separate. Forever apart.”
“But why?”
“Ah,” replied Bonlo. “You ask an excellent question. And the answer is clear. Only if the two worlds are kept apart can mortal men and women choose the future of their world! Through their own free will. Yes, even if they make many grievous errors along the way. Free will, you see, is both very valuable and very fragile.”
Promi raised his eyebrows. “So there can be no contact at all between the mortal and immortal realms?”
“There can be no movement between the worlds, no visitations to Earth from the spirits who live on high. But there can still be some forms of contact—especially prayer.” The old man’s expression clouded. “I have learned some helpful things—and some worrisome things—from prayer.”
Interested, Promi bent closer. “Such as?”
“Such as there is a new war going on right now among the spirits on high. Narkazan is trying to dominate the whole spirit realm. So far, Sammelvar and Escholia have been able to contain him—but Narkazan is gaining rapidly. And there is also a Prophecy . . .” He caught himself and declared, “First things first, good student! I haven’t even told you about the last war yet. And we are about to get to the best part.”
“Which is?”
“What happened right after the War of Horrors ended.”
Drawing a deep breath, Bonlo continued, “As a way of expressing deep gratitude for all those mortals and nature spirits who had done so much to win the war and preserve the independence of both worlds, Sammelvar and the other immortals gave the Earth a gift. A most precious gift.”
“What?” asked Promi, intrigued.
“The Starstone.” As he spoke the word, the monk’s voice hushed. “Crafted by the immortals’ most skilled magic makers, it is quite small—no bigger than a hawk’s egg—but infinitely powerful.”
“All right, but what is it?”
Bonlo grinned. “A special kind of crystal, capable of magnifying whatever magic is around it. Just as a magnifying glass makes things look bigger and closer, or just as a prism takes in colorless light and puts out all the brilliant colors of the rainbow—the Starstone takes in simple magic and puts out amazingly rich, complex, and enhanced magic. Its very presence makes the magic around it more powerful. And that makes everything more beautiful.”
Promi’s eyes widened. “That sounds precious, all right. So . . . where on Earth is this Starstone?”
“No one knows for certain. But many, including myself, believe it’s hidden right here in our own little country.”
Promi gasped. “Which would explain—”
“Ellegandia’s special magic.”
“Could it be,” Promi wondered aloud, “somewhere in the Great Forest?”
“What better place to hide something so valuable?” The old man chuckled softly. “In an uncharted, magical forest deep in Ellegandia—a place unknown to the outside world.”
“Which is why,” Promi reasoned, “the Divine Monks have long decreed that nobody could leave the country. So the word of our magic—and this treasure—wouldn’t spread.”
“Correct, my good lad. For such tales would cause only temptation—and trouble. That is also why the immortal spirits built up the sheer cliffs that surround our peninsula on three sides—and the high peaks of Ell Shangro on the fourth.”
Amazed, Promi stared at him. “The immortals did that? All to protect the Starstone?”
“Yes, and all the natural magic that now thrives here.” For a moment, Bonlo watched the torchlight tremble on the dungeon wall. Then he added, “They did something else, too. The immortals placed a special magic on the Great Forest, the power to repel any invasion—whether it came, on
ce again, from the spirit realm, or from forces right here on Earth. They called that power the pancharm. And it has protected the forest to this very day.”
Promi’s eyes widened. “So nobody could invade us to steal the Starstone?”
“Nobody. As long as the Great Forest survives, so will the pancharm.”
For a moment, Promi didn’t speak, trying to decide how much of this to believe. “This isn’t just another myth, right? You’re sure all this is real?”
Bonlo nodded. “As real as the holiday of Ho Byneri.”
“The high summer holiday? What does that have to do with any of this?”
“Ah, good lad, you show genuine curiosity.” He winked at Promi. “I warn you, though. Once you know a little of the truth, you will want to know more. And then you’ll want to know the ending! As I said before, every good story needs one.”
“Sure, sure. But what were you saying about Ho Byneri? It’s a month away.” Promi glanced grimly around the dungeon. In the distance, along with the sound of water dripping, he heard the unmistakable scurrying of a rat. “Not that either of us will live to see it.”
Bonlo shifted his legs and bumped his wounded toe against the floor. He winced painfully. Then, as his thoughts returned to Ellegandia’s history, he relaxed again. “The holiday is actually just two weeks away. And contrary to what most people think, it wasn’t created to celebrate the long days of summer.”
“So why, then, was it created?”
“To mark the day the War of Horrors finally ended. The very day Sammelvar gave the Starstone to the mortal world.”
Promi raised an eyebrow, still not sure how much of this to believe.
“More than that,” the old monk went on, “Ho Byneri also marks something else. Something important . . . as well as dangerous. It is the day each year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.”
Seeing the doubt on his companion’s face, Bonlo continued, “Magic, you see, moves like a tide. It ebbs and flows—in and out, in and out, year after year—touching shores both mortal and immortal.”
He drew a deep breath. “Magical events on a grand scale can shape that tide, affecting its flow. Now, just think about how much happened at the end of the War of Horrors! The movement of vast numbers of spirits between the worlds. The gift of the Starstone—possibly the most powerful magical object in the universe. And the pancharm to ward off invaders. Even the building up of Ellegandia’s sea cliffs and mountains. All on the same day.”