Atlantis in Peril

by T.A. Barron

  As the mistwraiths pressed together, he thrust his whole arm deep into the center of their shadowy forms. Keeping his hand inside the knot of darkness, he grimaced. Then, slowly, he pulled it out. In his open hand, he held a crackling mound of black sparks—so many that they pulsed with negative energy, like an explosive weapon.

  Narkazan squeezed the sparks in his fist. Shaking with the strain, he condensed them smaller and smaller. At last, when he opened his hand again, the sparks formed a glittering black lump no bigger than a pebble. Yet that lump vibrated in his hand, sizzling with enough power to cause terrible destruction.

  “There,” announced Narkazan. “It is ready.”

  He chortled once more. “Now,” he commanded the mistwraiths, “while I go to the army, you go to the place whose image I have just planted in your minds—and deliver this gift.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The Dragon’s Eye

  As Ulanoma flew across the spirit realm, with Promi on top of her head and Kermi perched on the young man’s shoulder, nobody spoke. Although Promi was near enough to the dragon’s ears to be heard easily above the constant wind, there was really nothing to say. The plan had been hatched, the commitment made, the warning given. All that remained now was to try—and hope—to survive.

  Misty air blew across Promi’s face as they flew, sometimes offering glimpses of marvelous, endlessly varied worlds. He caught sight of one world in the shape of an upside-down tree sprouting from a deep blue cloud. Its fruit, hanging upward from every branch, glittered like newborn stars . . . and smelled, somehow, like the fresh passion fruit he’d tasted in the Great Forest. With a pang, he wished he could show this place to Atlanta.

  Then he saw a bubbling cloud of mist that gave birth continuously to worlds in different geometric shapes—a flat triangle, a squat pyramid, a quirky polygon, a perfect sphere, and more. At the moment of each world’s birth, the bubbling cloud released a different sound, like the chime of a bell, that ranged from deeper than the deepest roll of thunder to higher than the first peep of a newborn robin. As a result, the cloud literally bubbled with sounds—a celestial symphony that knew no beginning and no end.

  Most of the time, however, Promi just watched Ulanoma’s ocean-glass earring as it swayed and jostled with their journey. Though the magical crystal stayed dark, revealing nothing specific about their ominous future, sometimes Promi caught glimpses of what looked like tiny pieces of complete darkness, blacker than the rest of the crystal. Did they foretell the black sparks of mistwraiths? Or did they result from the dragon’s own dark thoughts?

  Do not trrrrry to rrrrread the futurrrrre frrrrrom my earrrrring, Ulanoma cautioned him telepathically. It is harrrrrd enough forrrrr me to sense its many meanings, even afterrrrr all these yearrrrrs.

  Onward they flew, soaring on dragon wings across the limitless expanse of the spirit realm. Ulanoma’s turquoise scales flashed and rippled with each wingbeat or turn of her massive head.

  Finally they reached a massive gray cloud punctured with ominous, lightless pits. The air around them grew sharply colder; Promi could see the dragon’s breath as she flew. He knew without asking that they were passing the Caverns of Doom. The dragon’s earring, now utterly dark, made a sound like ice breaking. A web of tiny cracks spread across its surface.

  Clenching her enormous jaw, Ulanoma flew even faster. She wanted to move past this place, as quickly as possible.

  Not long after that, all the companions suddenly tensed. The dragon slowed her flight, gliding on the cold wind. For there, dead ahead, was a jagged cloud in the shape of icicles.

  Suddenly Ulanoma banked to the right. For her golden eyes had spied, hidden in the crack between two icicles, a rectangular structure made of solid vaporstone. Compact and impregnable, the structure gleamed darkly.

  Narkazan’s fortress.

  It is time, the turquoise dragon told Promi and Kermi telepathically. Do not trrrrry to enterrrrr until I have drrrrrawn off all those miserrrrrable warrrrriorrrrrs.

  Promi placed his open hand on the scales of her immense brow. May you succeed, my friend. And may you survive this day.

  Deep in her dragon’s throat, she growled. I wish you the same, Prrrrrometheus.

  Promi leaped off the dragon, carrying Kermi on his shoulder. They flew off to one side where a swath of gray mist provided cover. Just before they hid themselves, Promi caught one last glimpse of the dragon’s eye. Within its diamond shape, he saw a mixture of rage, determination, and revenge.

  Plus one more quality—something he recognized immediately. Something he’d never seen before in a creature as immense and powerful as a dragon.

  Fear.

  Then Ulanoma roared, loud enough to shake many distant worlds. Her roar echoed across the icicle clouds.

  Instantly, a horde of shadowy beings poured out of the fortress. At least fifty mistwraiths flew in tight formation, swiftly pursuing the dragon who had dared to approach their hideaway.

  With another powerful roar, Ulanoma beat her wings hard. She flew off into the mist, trailed closely by the deadly mass of shadows.

  CHAPTER 40

  The Deepest Fear

  As soon as the dragon and the horde of mistwraiths vanished in the distance, Promi flew out from behind the swath of gray mist. With Kermi clinging to his shoulder, he plunged toward the small but secure fortress.

  Would Narkazan be waiting there? Would Jaladay? And would his sister, after whatever tortures the warlord had inflicted on her, still be conscious? Sane? Alive?

  We’ll find out, Promi thought grimly.

  Indeed we will, answered Kermi, looping his tail around the young man’s neck for added stability. Just try not to get us killed before we do.

  Apart from the pair of narrow windows in the roof of the fortress, there was only one entrance—an archway that opened into a long tunnel. It led straight into what looked to Promi like the main chamber. There, he felt sure, he’d find the answers to his questions.

  He landed under the archway. Like the tunnel and the rest of the fortress, it had been built from solid vaporstone, strong enough to withstand any attack from the outside. Except for intruders so bold—or foolish—to try to walk right in.

  Stepping as lightly as possible, Promi entered the dark tunnel. Silently, he moved farther inside, always alert for any movement or sounds.

  Deeper and deeper he walked, trying his best to calm his racing heart, a skill he’d learned during his years living as a thief on the streets. But this time, for some reason, he couldn’t slow his heartbeat down.

  Nor could he stop the burning feeling on his chest. Starting at the mark of the Prophecy, the sensation spread across his skin, stinging his abdomen, shoulders, and upper arms. And with every step, that burning grew hotter.

  Kermi’s tail tightened around Promi’s neck. Uncomfortable as that felt, the young man couldn’t do anything about it. He knew that the furry blue kermuncle was every bit as tense as he was.

  At the far end of the tunnel, a dim light gleamed. It seemed to emanate from the inner walls of the main chamber. What, Promi wondered, would await them there?

  Silently, he kept walking. Each step brought the main chamber nearer and made the tunnel a tiny bit lighter. Dark shadows still clung to the tunnel walls . . . but the hint of light helped him feel a bit more confident. The burning sensation on his chest diminished slightly.

  As Promi passed one of the shadows—it suddenly leaped at him! Black sparks exploded everywhere. The force flung him hard against the wall, smashing the shoulder where Kermi was riding. As Promi staggered to regain his balance, the kermuncle dropped to the floor, unconscious from the impact.

  Flailing, Promi tried to escape from the mistwraith’s shadowy folds. But in the narrow confines of the tunnel, he had nowhere to go. The mistwraith pressed closer, holding him against the wall.

  Trapped! he thought desperate
ly. Completely trapped!

  Tentacles of darkness flowed around him, squeezing and suffocating. Worse yet, everywhere the mistwraith touched burned with agonizing intensity. Pain shot through his entire body—his head, his arms, his chest. That pain wasn’t only on the surface; he felt a swelling agony deep in his bones.

  The more he fought to break free of the being’s death grip, the weaker he felt. For the mistwraith was feeding on his fear, as well as his pain, devouring his inner magic, sucking every drop of life out of his spirit body.

  Curtains of darkness fell over Promi’s mind. He could feel himself fading, losing his ability to think.

  Or move.

  Or live.

  Then, from a distant corner of his mind, he heard his father’s faint voice: Somehow . . . give it your love.

  Even though the idea made Promi recoil with horror, he remembered the rest of his father’s advice. You must truly give it your all. And you must hold on long enough that you won’t be destroyed.

  But how was that possible? With his awareness swiftly fading, Promi fought to comprehend. How could anyone feel compassion—let alone love—for one of these murderous beings?

  Yet . . . he needed to try. Nothing else could possibly save him. And, more importantly, nothing else could allow him to save Jaladay.

  All right then, he told himself, I will do this. For her.

  While his body burned with pain down to the blood within his veins, he tried with all his remaining strength to move beyond his anguish. To abandon logic. To release fear.

  Instead . . . he let himself feel the mistwraith. Comprehend it. Maybe even accept it for what it really was.

  I embrace you, he thought weakly.

  Seeming surprised, the mistwraith only squeezed harder. Black sparks erupted from every fold, scorching Promi mercilessly. Dark fire pierced him like flaming swords, devouring his energy.

  Yet he still hung on. With the thin wisp of awareness he had left, he imagined the mistwraith’s life of torment right from birth. Its constant torture from Narkazan, the cruelest master imaginable. Its fear of his wrath at every waking moment.

  Its anger at beings who could somehow live in comfort, peace, and even joy.

  Its resentment that the only pleasure it could feel was from the suffering of others.

  Its separation from all other forms of life.

  Its loneliness, complete and unending.

  Again, the mistwraith tried to squeeze out of Promi whatever shreds of life remained. It blasted him with a new onslaught of black fire, burning the inside of his brain and the walls of his heart. Yet strangely . . . all that didn’t produce more terror or pain. Instead, it spawned some other feeling, one the mistwraith had never experienced before.

  In panic, the mistwraith squeezed even harder. It poured all its wrath, all its hatred, into this unusual prey, willing it to perish once and for all.

  Weaker by the second, Promi continued to let his compassion flow deeper. Finally, with his last hint of awareness, he discovered the mistwraith’s deepest fear.

  You fear that you must always be alone. That you could never truly love anyone.

  Even as his last bit of life drained away, he realized, You are so much like me.

  Which is why . . .

  I love you.

  With that—the mistwraith suddenly dissolved. Nothing remained of its shadowy form, save a few black sparks that flickered darkly in the air, then vanished.

  Promi collapsed to the stone floor. Weak and dazed though he was, still feeling the ripples of pain inside his body, there was one feeling that rose above all the rest.

  Gratitude.

  Thank you, he thought weakly, conjuring in his mind the careworn face of his father.

  Summoning his strength, Promi sat up. Facing the main chamber, he realized that the opposite wall showed the lines of a door and a heavy bolt.

  A prison cell.

  Frantically, he crawled across the chamber to the door. He stood, grasping the bolt with both hands, and slid it open. As the door swung aside, he saw a windowless cell—and a frail body lying on the floor.

  “Jaladay!”

  He ran over and kneeled by her side. She lay as limp as a rag, her eyes closed. Bending down, he put his ear to her mouth . . . and felt the barest hint of a breath.

  “Jaladay,” he cried, cradling her head. “You’re alive!”

  Slowly, her eyes opened. She drew a ragged breath, then another. To herself, she whispered, “I can see again.”

  Then, focusing on Promi, she said, “And I see you.” A thin, trembling smile touched her lips. “You found me, at last.”

  “I did,” he replied, hugging her head against his chest. “And I’m going to get you out of here. You’re so weak . . . you’re almost finished.”

  “That makes two of us,” said a grumpy voice from the doorway. Kermi stood there, rubbing his sore head. “So glad I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Nothing at all,” said Promi dryly. “Now let’s get her out of here!”

  Kermi sniffed the foul air of the cell and frowned. “The sooner the better.”

  “Right,” said Promi urgently. “Those mistwraiths could come back at any moment. Not to mention Narkazan himself.”

  He lifted Jaladay to her feet, slung her arm across his shoulder, and wrapped his own arm around her waist. Then he helped her to hobble out of the cell. Kermi padded along beside them.

  As they passed through the main chamber, she whispered, “Battle plans. Over there.”

  Following the direction of her gaze, Promi saw several scrolls on the metal chest beside a cot. Gently setting down his sister, he raced over to the scrolls and stuffed them inside his tunic.

  As he lifted her again, she said, “Narkazan won’t be happy . . . to find those gone.”

  “Not to mention,” Promi added, “his prisoner.”

  Jaladay almost grinned—then suddenly looked terrified. “And, Promi . . . he’s sending something to the mortal world. A trap! For you.”

  “No time to worry about that now, Jaladay. You need healing! As well as food and water.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Kermi. “And most of all—a bath.”

  Amused by the kermuncle’s familiar snide tone, she managed a grin. Turning her head to catch his gaze, she said, “I’ll wait to hug you until after that.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he said crustily . . . though it wasn’t hard to hear the affection underneath.

  Hurriedly, they made their way down the dark tunnel. At the archway, Kermi scampered up to Promi’s shoulder—just before the young man leaped into the sky. As they flew away from the icicle clouds, he tightened his grip on Jaladay, determined to deliver her safely home.

  Casting a glance back at the fast receding icicle clouds, he thought of Ulanoma. Without the turquoise dragon’s exceptional bravery, they never could have succeeded. I just hope she, too, can return home.

  Flying fast through the swirling mists of the spirit realm, he thought of the infinite variety of worlds that existed all around. Many of them he longed to explore. Yet of all the possibilities, there was only one world that aroused his deepest feelings.

  For on that world was an island full of magic, surprise, and peril. And on that island lived the person he most wanted to see—Atlanta. He needed to speak with her right away . . . and recalling what his mother had said about dreams, he knew just how to do it.

  It is possible, Escholia had explained, for a spirit to appear physically in the dream of someone mortal. But only, she’d added, if they truly love that someone with deep devotion.

  And so, even as he flew through the mists of this faraway realm, Promi focused his thoughts on Atlanta.

  CHAPTER 41

  The Visit

  Atlanta always loved to sleep at home. Despite Etheria’s sometimes eccent
ric behavior, at bedtime she gave the whole house a feeling of serenity and peace. The oversized acorn, set among the trees, would literally glow with warmth. A crackling fire would magically appear in the woodstove, the scent of lilacs would waft through every room, and shutters would open and close themselves with a rhythmic creaking sound.

  On this particular evening, Atlanta went to bed feeling especially grateful for such a comfortable home. Though the terrible experience at the mining complex had happened more than a week earlier, it still haunted her thoughts. During all the chores and meals of that day, she’d worried about the future of her beloved forest—and of Atlantis. And the conversation with Shangri had reminded her how much she still missed Promi. Not even Quiggley’s waves of encouragement had made her feel better.

  But now, as she climbed into bed, those cares faded away. She fluffed her pillow made from soft feathers (the gift of a family of geese she’d sheltered during a wild storm). By the time she stretched herself out on her simple mattress of meadow grass and pulled up her blanket woven from softreeds, she was half-asleep. It was all she could do to glance over at Quiggley’s perch by the window, knowing that he’d return after his evening explorations of the forest.

  She closed her eyes and immediately drifted off. Soon she was immersed in deep, peaceful slumber.

  She dreamed that she was walking slowly along a mossy path by the edge of a lake. Water birds chattered and fluttered their wings by the shore. A family of river otters playfully slid down the muddy bank where a stream poured in. And a pair of moths, yellow as butter, hovered over the first marsh marigolds of spring.

  “Well, well,” said a voice. “You picked a good place to dream.”

  Startled, she looked up—and saw Promi, striding toward her on the path. She flashed a bright smile, genuinely happy to see him. But she coyly replied, “Normally, though, I dream up better company.”

  He came up to her, standing face to face. She noticed that, while he used to be a bit taller than herself, they were both now the same height. Other than his black hair being a bit longer than she remembered, he looked just the same.