Atlantis Rising

by T.A. Barron

  Again, he shifted his weight. “As a result, the tide of magic, already near its low point, ebbed even more. And so . . . as we approach Ho Byneri, the veil that divides our world from the spirit world grows increasingly thin. On the day itself, at sunrise, it is so thin that it’s barely there at all.”

  Promi blinked in surprise. “Immortals could pass into our world on that day?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Really?” Then a new idea struck him. “And so . . . on that day, mortals could also go to the spirit realm?”

  “Well, perhaps.” Now it was Bonlo’s turn to look skeptical. “Such a thing has never happened before. At least . . . not that anyone knows.”

  “But,” insisted Promi, “it’s possible.”

  “Highly unlikely, lad. Even the stories about wind lions, those spirit creatures who carry our prayers between the worlds, never say anything about carrying people.”

  “I know, I know,” said Promi. “It’s just that . . . well, what a great adventure that would be! Do you think the stories are true about all the sweet things up there? Rivers full of honey and desserts that grow on trees?” He smacked his lips. Suddenly he remembered his glorious feast of the pie—and how very hungry he was now. Especially since that pie had probably been his last meal ever. Glumly, he said, “Not that I like eating sweets.”

  The old man gazed at him with compassion. “I share your hunger, good lad. And your discouragement.” He bit his lip. “I have many worries, and they are growing.”

  “Like . . . will we survive?”

  Bonlo’s expression darkened. “That is the least of my worries.”

  Puzzled, Promi cocked his head. “The least? What could be a bigger worry than that?”

  “Not whether you and I will survive—but whether Ellegandia and our world will survive.”

  “What? You just told me all about this land’s uniqueness, its special magic—as well as the Starstone and the pancharm that will keep us safe.”

  “Yes,” said the elder gravely. “But I haven’t told you about the Prophecy.”

  “Then tell me now.”

  “Well . . . not much is known, frankly. And much of that is just idle speculation. Besides, prophecies are famously ambiguous, so their meanings are uncertain. What I do know, though, from prayer, is the wording of this one. And believe me, lad, it’s not encouraging. Do you really want to hear it?”

  “Try me,” answered Promi. “Though I should tell you, I don’t believe in things like prophecies.” He winked at Bonlo. “But you’ve got me curious. Like a good student.”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I only wish I could teach you about something happier. You will see why this prophecy is on my mind as we approach the holiday of Ho Byneri.”

  He recited:

  The end of all magic:

  A day light and dark.

  First light Ho Byneri,

  The Starstone’s bright spark.

  New power can poison,

  Great forces can rend

  Worlds highmost and low:

  The ultimate end.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the dungeon were the occasional scurrying of rats and the steady drip-drip-drip of water on the stone floor. At last, Promi repeated the Prophecy’s opening line.

  “The end of all magic. What does that mean, Bonlo?”

  “The same as that final phrase, I suspect: The ultimate end.”

  Promi ran a hand through his sooty hair. “Sorry, but none of this makes much sense to me. Anyway, I can’t get too concerned about it—or any other myth about worlds changing and magic ending.” He shrugged. “Truth is, Bonlo, you got me wrong. I’m nothing special. I’m just a thief who throws a good knife, keeps a journal, and doesn’t care about anything besides where to grab my next meal. So long as there are pies and pastries to steal, I really don’t care about the rest of the world.”

  Bonlo peered at him closely. “You must have lost quite a lot, good lad, to speak that way.”

  Promi swallowed.

  “And I don’t believe a word of it,” the monk went on. “No, I didn’t get you wrong. In fact, I’d wager to say that—”

  A scream erupted, cutting him off. Full of pain, it swept through the dungeon.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Blessing

  Sure, I expected you to be completely foolhardy. You are, after all, Promi. But I never expected it to be so painful for you. And for that . . . I am truly sorry.

  —From her journal, above a sketch of dark shadows gathered around a huddled form

  The scream echoed down the dimly lit corridors. It came, Promi felt certain, from a woman—a woman in anguish. As her scream faded, other sounds took its place: the crack of a whip, another shriek of pain, then someone’s cruel laughter.

  Promi glanced at Bonlo. “I’ll be back.”

  Looking fearful, the old monk nodded. “Be careful, lad.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m not going anywhere with this wretched foot. But if that hungry rat attacks me again . . . well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Promi looked at him doubtfully.

  Another scream echoed.

  Promi slipped away, keeping to the darkest shadows. Pressed against the wall, he moved with the stealth of a practiced thief, slipping down one corridor and then another. Just beyond the flickering light from one torch, he paused to listen.

  Right around the next bend, he could hear the woman’s anguished breathing. Her tormentor laughed again and cracked a whip. She had grown so weak that this time she didn’t scream, but only moaned miserably.

  Creeping to the corner, Promi peered into the shadowy corridor. There stood a hulking guard who carried a whip. On the floor at his feet lay a woman clothed in rags, her long white hair spread across the red stones.

  The guard, whose back was to Promi, raised his boot and kicked the woman in the back. She moaned again and mustered enough strength to crawl feebly away.

  “Where you goin’, witch?” The guard started to swing his whip. “No escape fer you, not never.”

  Craaaaack! The whip snapped, slashing the back of her neck. She stopped crawling, moaned once more, then fell silent.

  Promi scowled. Curse the sky and sea and everything in between! How can I stop him?

  Meanwhile, the guard glowered at the helpless woman. He grunted, deciding where to kick her next. Slowly, he raised his boot.

  Frantically, Promi looked for something to throw. One more kick like that could kill her.

  Seeing nothing he could use, he threw the only thing he could—himself. He sprinted across the stones and plowed into the guard from behind. Caught by surprise, the burly man slammed headfirst into the stone wall, so hard that a ceiling beam snapped and chunks of mud and mortar rained down on the dungeon floor.

  The guard rolled over, dazed. Promi punched him in the jaw, throwing all his weight into the swing. The big man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Dodging the chunks of mortar, Promi ran over to the woman. Dark welts covered one of her arms, and blood ran down her neck. She didn’t stir when he touched her shoulder. Gently, he rolled her over.

  Her eyes remained open but unseeing. Completely lifeless, her deep green irises stared up at him.

  “Don’t die, now.” Promi gave her a shake. Still no response. He bent closer to check her breathing, but there wasn’t even a hint of breath.

  Dead! I’m too late.

  A shadow dimmed the torchlight. As Promi turned, a heavy fist smashed into the side of his head. He reeled and fell against the wall. Barely able to stand, he could only watch as the wrathful guard strode toward him.

  “You slimy beast,” the guard spat. His massive arms and shoulders flexed as he clenched both fists.

  Promi tried to move away, but didn’t have enough strength. Nor could he stop his mind from spinning. Tasting something bitter on his tongue, he swallowed. Around the mark over his heart, the skin burn
ed.

  The burly man advanced and roared with rage. He kicked Promi in the ribs, sending the young man sprawling. “I’ll break your bones, ev’ry last one.”

  Waves of pain coursed through Promi’s body, but he still tried to sit up. That ended abruptly when a heavy boot stepped on his chest, pinning him to the floor.

  Can’t move! Can’t breathe!

  Squeezing the handle of his whip, the guard growled, “Then I’ll wrap this around your scrawny neck and strangle you dead.”

  He raised a huge fist. “But first, boy, your face needs to change shape.”

  At that instant, the torch right behind him suddenly crackled and flamed brighter. The guard spun around—just as the torch’s wooden pole swung forcefully and slammed into his head. Sparks exploded in the air, sizzling as they flew across the dungeon.

  The guard staggered, then fell in a heap. Above him, still holding the torch, stood Bonlo.

  The old monk swayed unsteadily. He dropped the torch, which hit the floor with a spray of sparks. He looked at Promi with an unmistakable gleam of satisfaction—then collapsed.

  Despite the pain that surged through his chest, Promi crawled over to his friend’s side. “Bonlo! You saved my life.”

  The monk blinked up at him. He drew a frail breath. “Yes, my good lad. And also . . .” He struggled to take another breath. “I managed . . . to end mine . . . with dignity.”

  “No, no,” Promi insisted. “You’re not going to die!”

  Anxiously, he glanced at the old man’s bloody foot. The severed toe now hung barely by a sinew; it was bleeding profusely. A trail of blood on the stone floor marked Bonlo’s arduous journey through the dungeon.

  Promi cradled the elder’s head, meshing his fingers in the white curls. “Please,” he begged, “don’t die.”

  Weakly, Bonlo whispered, “Every good story . . . needs an ending.”

  For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. Then the old monk added, so softly it was almost inaudible, “It is truly a blessing . . . to die . . . in such good company.”

  His eyes closed.

  Gently, Promi lowered the monk’s head. “Wish I could bury you, old friend. Or burn you in great honor, the way they do Divine Monks.”

  Feeling another kind of pain, worse than the physical kind, Promi bit his lip. He tried to pull off his tunic in order to place it over the old man’s face. But just that small movement caused his ribs to hurt so badly that he nearly fainted.

  He sank back to the floor. His chest throbbed; his mind darkened. Turning his head toward Bonlo, he moaned, “Good thing you died first. That way . . . you thought . . . you really saved me.”

  Certain that he, too, would soon die in this dungeon, Promi moaned. He’d never taste another sweet treat—let alone one as fabulous as smackberry pie. He’d never move freely in the world again, choosing how and when to steal his next meal. And worst of all, he’d never even get to find out if he might actually do something meaningful with his life—the life Bonlo had tried so hard to save.

  He cringed, knowing the hard truth: He wasn’t the least bit special, despite what the old monk had believed. Why, he couldn’t be more different from all those brave people Bonlo had described! They had given everything to protect their world—to make it safe for the Starstone.

  “And what have I done?” he asked bitterly, his words echoing among the dank walls. “Nothing but steal . . . pies and cinnamon buns.”

  “Well,” said someone nearby, “at least that’s a start.”

  Promi gasped. With all his strength, he forced himself to lift his head. And he saw, gazing down at him, the white-haired woman.

  He stared at her in disbelief. “Alive?” he sputtered. “You . . . you’re alive?”

  She merely watched him, toying with a single strand of her hair.

  He shook his head, sending a blast of pain through his skull. How could she still be alive after the guard’s brutal beating? She looked impossibly strong and healthy, with no welts on her arm, as if nothing had happened.

  No, he realized with astonishment. She looks even better than that.

  Sure enough, her face seemed younger somehow. Her skin was more ruddy and not so wrinkled. Her long hair, while still white, was thicker than before, sweeping gracefully around the contours of her face. Most striking of all, though, were her eyes. Radiant green, they gleamed with new light, like a forest at dawn.

  CHAPTER 13

  Listen One, Listen All

  It wasn’t easy, Promi. But it certainly got your attention.

  —From her journal

  I thought . . .” A new wave of pain crashed through Promi’s head and ribs, making him stop. “Thought you . . . were dead.”

  The woman peered down at him and almost smiled. “Perhaps I was.”

  She knelt beside him on the dungeon floor. Gently, she placed a hand on his chest. “Now, though, I am feeling very much alive.”

  “That’s better . . . than I’m feeling.” He tried to sit up but groaned and fell back, hitting his head against the stone floor. “Uhhh,” he moaned. “That oaf broke one of my ribs.”

  The woman’s fingers played lightly over his chest. “Five, actually.” Her voice was quiet, barely louder than the sputtering torches on the wall. After a few seconds, she scowled. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  “How?” He tensed, waiting for another wave of pain to pass. “How . . . do you know?”

  “Shhhhh,” she commanded. “Be quiet so I can concentrate.”

  She tilted her head, as if she were listening for a distant sound. Her brow furrowed. Meanwhile, her fingers moved to a spot below his heart, tapped lightly, then stopped.

  Seconds passed. Promi’s whole chest seemed to shout in pain, convulsing with every breath. His mind spun, making it difficult to focus, but he couldn’t miss her deepening frown. When, at last, she spoke, her tone was grave.

  “Beneath the broken ribs, you have a punctured lung. Even now, it’s filling fast with blood. Your kidney is torn and bleeding. And worse, your heart is also badly damaged—right under that mark of the bird on your chest.”

  He blinked in surprise. “That mark—it’s under my tunic! How . . . do you know it’s there?”

  “Never mind,” she replied. “But I can hear it clearly, just as I can hear your injuries.”

  “Hear?” He didn’t understand why she had used that word. But he did, alas, understand her message. “Am I . . .” He swallowed a new wave of pain, then tried again. “Am I . . . dying?”

  Grimly, she looked at him. “Yes. You are dying.”

  Promi drew a shallow breath, trying to ignore the swelling agony inside him. “Is there any . . . way to escape? To get help?”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “You have only a few seconds to live.” Sorrowfully, she stroked her long white locks. “Such a pity.”

  “A pity!” He coughed several times, each spasm worse than before. Blood coated his tongue; dizziness overwhelmed his mind. “It’s worse . . . than that.”

  “Perhaps,” she said calmly. “But it is truly inconvenient.”

  “Incon . . . venient?” He grimaced. “We’re talking about . . . my life!”

  “Yes. And more importantly, about my hair.”

  Great, he thought darkly. She’s completely crazy!

  The woman gazed at him, her green eyes alight. Even through the haze that was clouding his vision, Promi couldn’t dispel the feeling that she looked almost—in some way he couldn’t explain—like a different person. Truly changed from when he’d first found her. Meanwhile, she spread her fingers on his chest and spoke a single phrase.

  “Listen one, listen all.”

  A sweeping, swishing sound, like a distant wind, flowed through the dungeon. Yet no real wind buffeted any of the torches.

  No more than a few seconds had passed. But Promi could tell, beyond any doubt, that two things had changed.

  He felt suddenly better! No more pain, no more coughs, no more dizziness.
Am I healed? he wondered in disbelief. He sat up, thumping his chest.

  Then he noticed the second change: the woman’s white hair had completely disappeared. She gazed down at him, her hairless scalp glowing in the torchlight.

  “Why do you look so surprised?” she asked. “I told you it was a pity.”

  CHAPTER 14

  To Hear the Unheard

  I told you a lot, right then. More than I had planned. About the magic, the price, and the threat to our world. But there was one thing I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.

  The most important thing of all.

  —From her journal

  Promi sat up on the dungeon floor. He patted the ribs that had, only seconds before, been broken—and that now felt fully healed. Bewildered, he shook himself, his hair brushing his shoulders. Even the awful headache had disappeared.

  “H-how . . . ?” he sputtered, peering at the hairless woman kneeling beside him. “How did you—well, do whatever you . . . um, did? And your hair?”

  She rubbed the bare skin of her scalp. As if trying to convince herself, she said, “So much trouble to wash hair like that.”

  “B-but . . . how? Yes, and . . . how?”

  “Articulate, isn’t he?” said a gruff little voice nearby.

  Promi spun his head, searching for its source. The words hadn’t come from the woman, who continued to watch him in silence. Nor from the guard, who was still unconscious; nor Bonlo, whose lifeless body lay on the stone floor.

  “And he’s not too observant, either.” This time the little voice finished with a throaty chuckle.

  The woman grinned. “Give him time, Kermi. He’s still absorbing all this.”