by T.A. Barron
“Harrumph,” said Kermi. “Wondered when you’d figure that out.”
Atlanta caught her breath. “But that means . . . a sacrifice.”
Promi nodded grimly. “I’ll sure miss them, but . . .” He closed his eyes, concentrating. Then he spoke the words, “Listen one, listen all.”
The sound of rushing wind filled their ears. As always, though, no real wind stirred even a single leaf on the surrounding trees. As the sound died away, Promi peered down at the tiny, crumpled figure on Atlanta’s palm. The faery’s antennae trembled, more vigorously than before.
All at once, Promi rocked backward against the tree root. If he hadn’t already been on the ground, he would have fallen down. A whirl of images and ideas slammed into his mind, crowding out every other thought, filling every one of his senses to the limit. He reeled, dizzy from the intensity of all the visions, suddenly aware that the magical mind of a faery held much more detail and richness than his own.
As quickly as the visions had flooded over him, they vanished. He was left there, sprawled against the root, panting from exertion.
“Promi!” cried Atlanta, grabbing his arm. “Are you all right?”
“He’s fine.” The kermuncle’s whiskers quivered with amusement. “He just learned what it’s like to have a real brain, that’s all.”
Groggily, Promi sat up straight again. He rubbed his forehead, which continued to throb from the onslaught of images. Slowly, his eyes came back into focus.
Turning to Atlanta, he explained what he’d seen—haltingly at first, stopping occasionally to shake his head at the horror of it all. Tears filled their eyes as he described the mistwraith’s brutal attack on the colony, the wrenching theft of so much magic, the wasteland of stunned faeries. He struggled to explain, because the visions in his mind seemed so much more intense than any human words could possibly convey.
“But why?” asked Atlanta, shaking with a mixture of anger and sorrow.
“No idea.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “But . . . the priest did say a few things.”
“What?”
“It all came so fast . . . it’s hard to remember.”
“Try, Promi.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to recall as much as possible.
“The Starstone,” he announced gravely. “The priest—he has a plan to get it. And to change it into a terrible weapon! What he called the most powerful weapon in the universe.”
Atlanta stifled a shriek. “He can’t! That’s unthinkable!”
“Not to him.”
Composing herself, she objected, “He doesn’t have enough power to do something like that.”
“He doesn’t,” replied Promi. “But Narkazan does.”
At the mention of the warlord of the spirit realm, Kermi gasped. “What an evil alliance! The worst of both realms.”
Grimly, Promi nodded. “The priest said he’ll give Narkazan the magic needed to fuel the weapon—at dawn on Ho Byneri, when the veil is thinnest.”
“Just ten days from now,” said Kermi.
“And for that service,” Promi continued, “Narkazan will make him the ruler of Ellegandia . . . and the rest of the mortal world.”
Atlanta stomped her foot on a root of the honeymelon tree. “That wicked priest! That’s why he wants my help. To collect magic for their weapon.” Her eyes practically sizzled with rage. “But I’ll never do it!”
Remembering something else, Promi grabbed her wrist. “He spoke about setting a trap for you. And said you’d definitely agree to help.”
“Wrong. He’ll never catch me, not with all my friends in this forest. And nothing he could possibly do would make me help him.”
Gently, she stroked the faery’s tattered wing. “He’s done enough damage already.”
Promi’s brow furrowed. “There’s more to his plan. He’s called for more mistwraiths. Not just to capture magic, but to do something else.”
“What?” asked Atlanta.
“I don’t know. But he wants the mistwraiths sent right away to his lair.”
She ran a hand through her brown curls. “His lair! Wherever that is—it’s where we should go.”
“But—”
“I’m sure of it,” she declared. “Did you hear anything about where this lair might be?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Well?” she demanded. “Where?”
“It’s, well . . .”
“Tell me!”
Promi clenched his jaw, then said, “At the Passage of Death.”
She froze. “Are you sure?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Which means . . . to get there, we need to cross—”
“The swamp,” she whispered, aghast. “Why there? Of all places, why there?”
Peering into her eyes, he said, “Maybe we shouldn’t go. Maybe there’s another way to stop him.”
“No,” she answered, wincing as she spoke. “We must go, Promi. There’s no other way.”
“Are you sure? That swamp is so dangerous—you said so yourself. It’s where your parents . . . um, disappeared.”
She chewed her lip, then said, “Maybe I can finish what they started.”
Touched by her bravery, Promi said nothing.
“At least,” she said reassuringly, “the swamp isn’t very big. Bad as it is, we can cross it in less than a day.”
Kermi grumbled, “If we survive that day.”
Atlanta touched Promi’s forearm. “Thank you for what you did. Now, at least, we know what we need to do . . . to save everything we care about.”
He rubbed his aching brow, still trying to sort through all the images that had electrified his brain.
“So . . . what did you sacrifice?” Atlanta raised an eyebrow. “Not food again?”
“No. Painful as that was, something told me I needed to make a bigger sacrifice this time. A permanent one.”
“What?” she implored. “You don’t have much to give up.”
“That’s true,” he said glumly. “Especially now that I no longer own any . . .”
“Boots!” she exclaimed, suddenly noticing his bare feet. “That’s terrible, Promi!” Kindly, she added, “But after your feet toughen, you’ll really feel the forest under you.”
“If I have any feeling left, that is.” He gazed glumly at his toes, so much paler and more tender-looking than hers. “It was stupid, I know . . . but it was all I could think of to hear the faery’s message.”
She didn’t say a word, though her look of gratitude was enough to make him feel a bit better. “At least,” he said, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt, “I still have my journal.”
“I wonder,” said Atlanta darkly, “whether you’ll want to write about what happens next . . . or just forget about it.”
“For once,” said the blue kermuncle, “I agree. This really is terrible.” Facing Promi, he added, “I am genuinely sorry, manfool, that you had to make such a sacrifice.”
Taken by surprise at such sympathy, Promi raised an eyebrow. Well, well. He’s actually concerned about my well-being.
“Thanks,” Promi replied gratefully. “But really, you don’t need to—”
“Truly terrible,” Kermi interrupted. “Now I’ll have to ride on your shoulder, so much less comfortable.”
Promi scowled. So much for my well-being.
“Let’s go, then.” The young man stood up, wincing at the twigs and poky bits of bark that seemed to impale his feet. He shot a glance at Kermi. “Climb on if you must. And try to stay quiet.”
“Tut, tut, manfool. Have some respect.”
“For a bubble-blowing demon like you?”
“For your superiors, whatever their form. You simply have no idea how lucky you are to share my company.”
The kermuncle blew a string of big, wobbly bubbles. Then he scampered up to Promi’s shoulder. Thumping his tail against the young man’s back, he said, “What are you waiting for? Time to toughen up those tender feet of yours.”
Promi sighed and said to Atlanta, “Ready when you are.”
“Almost,” she replied. Carefully, she placed the bedraggled faery in her only pocket, a small pouch on her hip. She stretched the lilac vines of the pocket to create a cozy space for him. And just to make sure he’d be comfortable, she slipped in a few sprigs of watercress and a wild raspberry.
Patting the outside of the pocket, she said softly, “There, now. You just rest quietly until you feel better. One day, you’ll be strong enough to fly again.”
“Are we going or not?” Kermi thumped his tail impatiently on Promi, as if he were urging an ox to get moving. “Normally, I don’t like to watch someone suffer. But this will be an exception.”
CHAPTER 27
Swamp Specters
What makes an excellent pastry? It’s part ingredients, part oven, and part baker. And of those, the one that matters most is the baker.
—From Promi’s journal
Deep into the forest they walked, through the rest of that day and the next. Atlanta led them through sunlit groves of cedar and birch, over hillside trails, and down fern-laden pathways favored by unicorns. Driven by the nearness of Ho Byneri, they moved fast—although Promi’s tender feet slowed him down enough that Atlanta had to stop regularly so he could catch up.
“Can’t you go any faster?” asked Kermi from his perch on Promi’s shoulder.
“Maybe you should try to carry me,” he replied testily. “Then you’ll—ouch!—see what it’s like to have your feet impaled every step.”
“No thanks,” gloated the kermuncle. “I’m enjoying this ride too much.”
Gingerly stepping through a pine grove, where the floor was covered with the poky remains of countless cones, Promi grimaced. This pain in his feet was constant—much like the hunger he’d endured before the feast on Moss Island. Was this what the life of a Listener was destined to be like? Going from one sacrifice to the next, one form of agony to another?
Atlanta, meanwhile, was immersed in her own questions as she trekked. Did she really have the strength to follow the path that led to her parents’ death? Had they died in the swamp . . . or at the Passage of Death? And would she be able to find Grukarr’s lair without being discovered by his mistwraiths? Her stomach knotted with fear, growing tighter with every step.
Often, she would kneel by a stream, open her pocket, and offer the wounded faery a drink of water. By dipping her finger into the stream, she could give him a few drops without requiring him to move. He looked just as weak and bedraggled as ever, but each time she did that, she felt a small rush of gratitude that warmed her heart. And he gave her the same response whenever she picked him a leaf of fresh basil, always a favorite of faeries.
Once in the late afternoon, she stepped through a boggy patch near a lake. Something about the bog’s smell reminded her of the swamp, and her stomach tightened. Without thinking much about it, she placed her hand over the pocket and said to the faery, “It’s all right, little friend. The real swamp is still a long way from here.”
Instantly, she felt a rush of warmth and reassurance. The fears seemed to fade, and the knot in her stomach loosened.
“Am I comforting you, little friend?” she asked with a grin. “Or are you comforting me?”
Midmorning on the third day, they passed a steep, rocky slope that rose swiftly above the forest floor. Highmage Hill. Though there wasn’t time to climb it, Atlanta still wondered what the view from the top might tell her about the forest—and, in particular, about the spread of the blight. She had seen far too many ravaged trees on this trek.
It’s bad enough, she thought as she padded across a meadow of flytrap flowers, to see one tree in trouble. But to see the dying stands we’ve passed . . . that’s almost too much to bear.
“Come on,” she called impatiently to Promi as he climbed a knoll to join her. “We’ve got to find that lair! And then do whatever it takes to save this forest!”
“I know, I know,” he replied. His feet felt impossibly tender from constant abuse. “Why did I ever give up those boots? By the Divine Monk’s hairy armpits, I wish I had them!”
“So do I,” agreed Kermi, blowing a bubble that popped in Promi’s ear. “The boots, I mean—not the armpits.”
As they entered a stand of baobab trees, Atlanta suddenly changed directions. She led Promi to a hidden spring bubbling out from the baobab roots. Spying an unusual herb with leaves shaped like tiny green hands, she smiled.
“This herb,” she explained while picking all the sprigs she could find, “is called sweetmint. My parents showed me where to find it . . . just in case I ever needed to enter the swamp.”
“Really?” asked Promi, puffing as he joined her. “How does it help?”
Slipping the sprigs into her sleeve, she replied, “As long as you keep it in your mouth, the sweetmint stops the poisonous vapors in the swamp from harming you. Don’t know how it works, but it does.”
“Well,” said Promi as he leaned against a baobab’s smooth trunk and rubbed his sore foot, “with a name like sweetmint, I know I’ll like it.”
“What matters most,” she reminded him, “is that it keeps those vapors away. And maybe even the swamp specters.”
“Specters?” He stopped rubbing his foot. “Really?”
“Yes,” she answered grimly. “Legends say they are angry spirits who feed on human misery. Or maybe they’re the same spirits who are stuck at the Passage of Death.”
Promi shuddered. “How far to the swamp from here?”
“Oh, we’re still at least a day’s walk away. The swamp is a long way past the headwaters of the Deg Boesi, which we’ll cross at the eastern edge of this baobab grove.”
He cocked his head, taking in the sounds and smells of the grove. “I think I can hear the headwaters flowing nearby.”
“You really do have a Listener’s ears,” she commented. “I can’t hear the river at all.” Then, on second thought, she said, “But it could be a trick of these trees, you know. Some believe these baobabs are enchanted, full of their own schemes for travelers.”
Promi raised an eyebrow, wondering. He pulled his journal from his pocket and scrawled (in the margins of a recipe for oatmeal molasses cookies) a description of the enchanted baobabs—their enormous trunks, the facelike burls that sprouted from their bases, their gray bark that seemed to pulse with life, and their gently rustling leaves. To finish off the entry, he drew a quick sketch of a baobab ringed with sweetmint.
Kermi thumped his tail on Promi’s back. “What are you writing, manfool?”
“Oh, just listing all the ways I love you. It’s very short.”
Finished, he closed the journal and gave its cover a gentle stroke, just as he would the face of a friend. Then he replaced it in his tunic pocket.
“Ready?” asked Atlanta. “Once we cross the river, we keep going east for the rest of the day. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll get to . . .” She paused, as if something were caught in her throat. “The swamp.”
Through the rustling baobabs they walked. Suddenly, Atlanta ran ahead—then stopped abruptly. She stood at the edge of a river channel that was more mud than water. And beyond it lay a vast swath of murky pools, twisted trees, and rising clouds of noxious fumes. Bog grass, yellowish brown, grew in sickly patches among the reeking pools. Dark vapors swirled everywhere.
“The swamp,” said Atlanta, aghast. “It spread . . . all the way here.”
Equally stunned, Promi and Kermi stared at the Unkhmeini Swamp. What few skeletal trees were still standing looked at the very edge of death. Some of the murky pools bubbled and frothed, spewing gases, while others held the carcasses of stricken animals and birds. Yet not a single vulture dared to go near those decaying bodies.
“How . . . ?” asked Promi.
“The blight has spread,” answered Atlanta. “And with it, the swamp.” She shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“Is it possible,” Promi wondered aloud, “that whatever evil work Grukarr is
doing at his lair made this happen?”
All at once, the baobab trees started to moan and sway as if struck by a wicked wind. Branches twisted and creaked all around them, shaking off loose leaves, until finally the grove quieted again.
Promi winced. “Said his name, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” whispered Atlanta. “But I have a feeling these trees weren’t just reacting to that.” She locked gazes with him. “I think they were answering your question.”
Nodding, he replied, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Looking again at the swamp that stretched all the way to the hazy outlines of mountains in the distance, Atlanta frowned. “It smells putrid, doesn’t it? Even from here.”
Gently, she laid her hand over the pocket that held the wounded faery. “Don’t worry, little friend. I’ll keep you safe.”
Even as she felt a wave of thanks from the tiny creature, she slid a sprig of sweetmint into the pocket. “Chew on this until we leave the swamp.”
Offering another sprig each to Promi and the kermuncle on his shoulder, she reminded them, “This will keep you safe. But only as long as you keep it in your mouth.”
“That won’t be hard,” replied Promi. “I love sweets and adore mint.”
He popped the sprig into his mouth, chewed once—and promptly gagged. “Yeccchhh! This tastes like charcoal!”
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “I guess whoever named it had a sense of humor.”
“Or,” he groaned, “a sense of torture.”
Atlanta took his arm. “Listen, now. Bad as it tastes, it works. And each sprig should last a long time. Keep it in your mouth, and those fumes won’t kill you.”
Scowling, he gave a nod.
She swallowed nervously. “All right, then. The Passage of Death is all the way on the other side of the swamp, at the base of the high peaks.”
“Lovely,” grumbled Kermi. “Sounds like a journey to a vacation resort.”
Taking a last breath of partially fresh air, Atlanta took her own bite of sweetmint and started to cross the muddy ravine. Promi followed, surprised at the coolness of the mud that swathed his feet and oozed between his toes. And more than anything, he felt a mounting sense of dread.