Atlantis Rising

by T.A. Barron

  As always, she wore a most unusual bracelet—a deadly snake wrapped around her right forearm. An orange-striped boa constrictor, it slithered closer to her elbow as she passed through the doorway. The mere sight of the priestess’s snake caused people to tremble with fright, for she often used it as a means of torture, commanding it to squeeze people’s necks or crawl inside their clothes. It was said that if Araggna’s snake hissed at you, then death would befall you that very day.

  With a sharp look at the incense bearer, Araggna rasped, “Whatever the Divine Monk desires, that is your command. Never question him again!”

  The old fellow shuddered with fear, trying his best not to shake loose any more incense.

  The Divine Monk, by contrast, beamed, which made his multiple chins curl upward in unison. “Thank you, High Priestess. That was most helpful.”

  She bowed her head. “Anything to serve you, my master.”

  The Divine Monk rubbed his chubby hands together. “Oh, I do so love hearing you say that!” His beady eyes turned toward the pie, still steaming invitingly. “Almost as much as I love smackberry pie.”

  “Befitting the purity and sweetness of your nature,” observed Araggna in a flattering tone that was not quite convincing.

  But the Divine Monk didn’t notice. He tugged excitedly on his jeweled beard. “In fact, I intend to start a new tradition, as of this day, and begin my holy meal with that very pie! Better to eat it while it’s still hot—as testimony, of course, to my faith in the immortal spirits who guide our lives.”

  “How wise of you,” said Araggna, her voice as thin as a dying breath.

  Promi, however, knew that the old priestess was very much alive. And also very much feared throughout the land. For good reason: he’d seen her proclaim punishments in the market square, sometimes even worse than what she had ordered for the young boy Galmy who had forgotten to bow—a punishment that Grukarr had carried out with cruel zest. Araggna’s victims, whose crime might have been stealing a peach or inadvertently using a forbidden word in a curse, could easily lose a hand or an eye. And those were the lucky ones, villagers who’d been brought before her when she was feeling uncommonly lenient. The less lucky ones often lost their heads, their families, or both.

  Just then Promi noticed something unusual. Under the collar of Araggna’s robe, an object glowed strangely, almost like a miniature lantern. What could it be? Probably just a trick of the light from the candles, he guessed. Yet . . . he couldn’t be sure.

  Keep your focus, he chided himself. This is no time to lose your concentration!

  “Well, now,” said the Divine Monk, patting his belly. “Are we all here and ready for the prayer?” In a quieter voice, he muttered, “The sooner we deal with that, the sooner I can eat some pie.”

  “Almost ready, my master,” rasped Araggna. She snapped her withered fingers. “Grukarr! Enter now, you fool!”

  Instantly, Grukarr appeared in the doorway. His expression was just as arrogant as when Promi had encountered him a few hours earlier, but his garb was different. He had changed to a flowing purple robe that needed no belt.

  Noticing the change of clothing, Promi allowed himself a small grin.

  Grukarr entered the dining room. He gave a cursory bow to the Divine Monk, then glowered at Araggna.

  “Move along,” she snarled impatiently.

  As if to emphasize her command, the snake on her arm waved its tail menacingly.

  “Move, Grukarr,” she repeated. “You are keeping the Divine Monk waiting! There is no excuse for your tardiness—except for your stupidity.”

  Grukarr’s cheeks flushed deep red. But he contained his anger and replied in a level tone, “You told me to wait outside the door for your command, High Priestess.”

  Araggna shot him a threatening glare. “Hold your impudence. Right now the Divine Monk needs us all assembled so he can recite the ceremonial prayer.”

  You mean, thought Promi, so he can eat that pie.

  “Let us proceed with our important work,” declared the Divine Monk, eyeing the pie.

  And I will take care of my important work, thought Promi, gripping his dagger.

  Dutifully, Araggna and Grukarr walked to the table and stood beside each other. Behind them, the wooden wall, painted with scenes of past Divine Monks’ glorious revelations and magnificent deeds, glistened in the candlelight.

  The Divine Monk bowed his head (no easy feat with all his multiple chins) and intoned, “Now let us turn our thoughts away from lowly mortal concerns. Send them, instead, to the sky above, where our radiant guiding spirits reside. I bid you all to take the hand of the person beside you, that your divine thoughts may be joined.”

  Reluctantly, Grukarr and Araggna went through the motion of joining hands. In reality, though, only their sleeves touched. Fortunately for Grukarr, he wasn’t standing next to the arm that held her snake. Nearby, the trio of monks fumbled with their ceremonial objects, setting them down so they could clasp hands.

  Eager to proceed, the Divine Monk started to recite the traditional prayer. “O great immortal spirits,” he began, then paused to lick his lips.

  Meanwhile, unseen by any of them, Promi concentrated on his target. Gently, he parted the curtain and raised his knife, pausing to judge the precise trajectory. Steady, steady, he told himself.

  All at once, he snapped his arm and released the blade.

  Slam! The knife pierced the sleeves of both Araggna and Grukarr exactly where the fabrics touched, then buried itself deeply in the wall.

  Thrown backward by the force of the blade, the two of them fell over each other in surprise. But the blade pinned them firmly to the wall. They cursed and clawed and kicked wildly. The snake hissed furiously.

  “Attack!” shrieked one of the old monks, picking up his incense shaker to use as a weapon.

  Just then, one of Grukarr’s kicks smacked the incense bearer’s shin. The old fellow howled in pain, toppled into the other two monks, and threw the shaker onto the floor. It exploded, sending clouds of incense into the air. People coughed and shrieked, their eyes burning.

  Coughing wildly, the Divine Monk staggered into the table, tripped on himself, and fell face-first into the ceremonial feast. Cherry sauce, smashed grapes, and flasks of wine flew everywhere. The table buckled under his great weight, tossing more food to the floor. Candles broke, falling onto the tablecloth, which erupted in flames.

  In all the commotion, nobody noticed that when the platter for the precious pie hit the floor, the pie itself did not. Promi had caught it. Firmly clutching his prize, he darted back to the balcony.

  As the dust and smoke began to clear, Araggna glared at the dagger that still pinned her to the wall. “Help me, you fools!” she shouted. “Curse this day with everlasting plagues!”

  “No,” commanded the Divine Monk, “help me first!” He had landed belly up on the floor and lay there, squirming like a huge turtle on its back. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t roll over, let alone stand. A huge glob of cherry sauce covered his turban’s ruby.

  Grukarr, for his part, remained silent and still. His gaze was fixed on the red curtain by the balcony, where he’d just watched a young man escape. A young man he clearly recognized.

  Grukarr clenched his fists tightly. “You will pay for your crimes,” he growled under his breath. “Whoever you are, you will pay.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Punishment

  The only thing worse than a bitter pastry is a bitter pastry chef.

  —From Promi’s journal

  You what?” rasped Araggna, pacing angrily across her dimly lit chamber. Her dark eyes smoldered with fury. “You actually saw the attacker—and even recognized him—but did nothing at all to stop him?”

  Grukarr growled, baring his teeth. “I did not see him, as I told you, until after he attacked us.”

  “That makes no difference!” she shrieked, shoving him backward into her marble washbasin. “You are an incompetent fool! I should have yo
ur eyes put out and your mouth sewed shut for all your stupidity!”

  The boa constrictor on her arm coiled itself tighter. Then, its orange eyes on Grukarr, it hissed loudly.

  Seething with rage, Grukarr barely restrained himself from striking the priestess. But he couldn’t ignore the barbed spear points of the four temple guards who were standing at the doorway, watching him suspiciously.

  He drew himself up to his full, commanding height, made even greater by his white turban. Menacingly, he looked down at her—this wrathful old priestess who had the nerve to berate him. “I will find him,” he vowed, “and kill him.”

  “Not too quickly,” she countered, raking her fingernails against Grukarr’s chest. “I want him to suffer.”

  “Don’t worry. I know exactly what to do with him.”

  “You had better succeed,” snarled the High Priestess, her white hair still flecked with incense powder and duckling sauce from the attack. “For if you don’t . . . it will be you who will suffer.”

  For an instant, Grukarr almost lost control again. But he held back his rage, clenching his jaw. There will be another time, he promised himself.

  Then he spied, under the collar of her robe, a mysterious glow. It came from something she was wearing around her neck. Yes, he added vengefully, and when that time comes . . . you will have no more need for that little treasure.

  He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she rasped. As soon as he turned back, she peered straight at him and taunted, “Prove to me, for once, that you are not a complete imbecile.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “By the way,” she added, “I heard about that episode this morning in the market square. Through your carelessness and poor commands, you allowed some street beggar to escape—and, in the process, you turned six of our highly trained temple guards into laughingstocks! They should be respected, like all of us who wield authority.” Araggna paused to pull a gooey mass of duckling sauce out of her hair. “Your sheer incompetence shames us all. It makes even the Divine Monk seem foolish.”

  “He needs no help from us to do that,” grumbled Grukarr.

  Instead of rising to her superior’s defense, Araggna merely smirked. “You are right about that. He is unalterably a fool. But as long as I am here to, er . . . guide him, as well as keep the buffoonery of this country in line, we shall continue to thrive.” She glared at her deputy. “Just to make certain you do no more damage to the reputation of the temple guards, I hereby strip you of your right to have them as your security detail.”

  Grukarr caught his breath. “No temple guards? What if I am—”

  “Attacked? Spat upon? Jeered?” She savored the thought. “Well then, I suppose you will just have to deal with it yourself. You and that filthy bird who sometimes rides on your shoulder.”

  “Huntwing? He is a loyal, intelligent, well-trained servant.”

  “Better than you, then.” She practically spat the words. “From now on, if you are to have any guards, you must find them yourself. I am retaining the entire corps of temple guards for my own protection.” In an unmistakably threatening tone, she added, “We all need protection, you know.”

  Furious, Grukarr clenched his jaw. He glanced at the guards standing by the doorway. Right you are, he thought viciously. We all need protection.

  He spun around and stormed out of her chamber.

  “Don’t forget,” she called after him, “you have some punishments to carry out this afternoon before you leave the temple.”

  He halted, but didn’t turn to face her. “I thought the top priority was to find the attacker.”

  “You thought?” she ridiculed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Grukarr. Just follow my orders, that is all! I want at least something in this temple to happen as planned today. So go now to the prisoners and deliver all the punishments I promised.”

  “As you command.” In a darker tone, he added, “All those who deserve it shall be punished.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A Fine Day’s Work

  Thought you were so clever, didn’t you? Typical! Just the way you were before . . . well, before that cursed prophecy changed everything.

  —From her journal, beneath a sketch of something that looks surprisingly like the mark on Promi’s chest

  Purple juice dribbled down Promi’s chin, seeping under the collar of his tunic. He wiped his neck with a tattered sleeve, folded his legs tighter beneath him, and retrieved a flake of crust that had fallen onto his boot—all while taking more bites of the sweetest pie he’d ever tasted. His own personal holiday feast.

  “Not bad,” he said with satisfaction, pausing to lick each of his purple-tinted fingers and finishing with a loud smack. “Now I know how these berries got their name.”

  Seated on a grassy knoll just outside the City’s outer wall, under the shade of an old cedar, Promi sighed gratefully. Here he was with his hard-earned prize, savoring its sweetness . . . and also, for a change, relaxing on the warm grass with nobody chasing him, cursing him, or trying to kill him. It wouldn’t last long, he knew—these moments never did—but that made it all the more precious.

  He lay back on his elbows, keeping the still-warm pie on his lap. Sure, he’d lost another good throwing knife in grabbing it. But it was a most worthy cause! So he’d just have to find himself another knife, as he’d done many times before. This very afternoon, in fact, he could easily fetch one from an unsuspecting peddler in the market square.

  Of course, he’d need to be extra cautious after his busy day. After all, he had not only stolen Grukarr’s belt buckle and humiliated the priest in public, he had also left a trail of extremely angry temple guards around the City. And that was just the beginning!

  Now he’d also stolen the Divine Monk’s precious pie. In doing so, he’d violated at least a dozen laws, defiled the sacred temple, committed sacrilege on a high holiday, and—oh yes—totally destroyed the Divine Monk’s dining room. Not to mention outraged the two most vengeful and dangerous people in the country, Grukarr and High Priestess Araggna.

  He grinned. A fine day’s work.

  Gazing at the City wall, he felt satisfied that he was, indeed, all alone. From this spot, he could see from one end of the settlement to the other—though not as far beyond its borders as he’d seen from atop the bell tower. Still, if any guards tried to pursue him, he’d notice them in plenty of time to escape.

  For centuries, this community at the edge of the Deg Boesi River had been the country’s capital. In fact, it had long been called Ellegandia City. Then the current Divine Monk, in his typically humble way, had renamed it the City of Great Powers. (Whether he’d done that to honor the powerful spirits of the immortal realm, or to honor himself and his entourage, who were such great powers among mortals, nobody was certain.)

  Yet despite its grandiose name, this place still felt a lot like a village. Sure, it was by far the largest settlement in the country, the site of the Divine Monk’s temple, and the seat of government. But its life and people and rhythms were still much like those of any other village in Ellegandia.

  Of course, Promi reminded himself as he chewed on a buttery edge of crust, that wasn’t to say that Ellegandia was like anywhere else in the world. All the stories about Ellegandia celebrated the country’s uniqueness. Its very name originally meant “a land alone” or “a place apart.” Of course, nobody could be sure those stories were true, since no one from Ellegandia had ever traveled to other lands and returned to describe them. But Promi felt a strong instinct that his country was, in fact, very special. Maybe even, as the legends said, unique among all the other places on Earth.

  Now, some of that specialness stemmed from simple geography—from being so utterly remote. Shielded on three sides by stormy seas and sheer cliffs, and on the fourth side by an impassable mountain range that separated Ellegandia from the rest of the continent—the land mass some people called Africa—it was a lonely, forgotten place. A kind of island, though one that w
as still attached to land.

  On top of that, Divine Monks had decreed since the beginning of history that nobody could ever leave the country, on pain of eternal torment by the Great Powers. The reason? So that no one outside this realm would ever hear about Ellegandia’s riches . . . and be tempted to try to steal them. For the most ancient prophets had warned the Divine Monks that Ellegandia held treasures found nowhere else on Earth.

  Those treasures were, indeed, vast. Yet they didn’t come just in the form of shiny jewels, colorful cloths, and precious metals. Such things existed here, but they were the very least of the country’s riches. What really made Ellegandia special, what really made it so blessed by the Great Powers, was the abundance of something else.

  Magic.

  So much natural magic that it was said to flow in the very streams of the Great Forest, producing luminous flowers, talking trees, and sentient stones. And that wasn’t all. In addition to magical creatures of every description, Ellegandia’s forest was said to be the only place in existence that held creatures from everywhere else on Earth. So the Great Forest was not only a home for magical beings, but also an oasis for mortals of all kinds—a spectacular array of animals and trees, insects and birds.

  That was, at least, the forest’s reputation. Having never set foot there, Promi couldn’t be sure how much of that was true. But those woods had certainly inspired plenty of stories from travelers and food gatherers. Growing up on the streets of the City, he’d heard plenty of those tales, some more believable than others.

  What nobody could doubt, though, were the amazing fruits, nuts, herbs, spices, and seeds that people had brought out of the forest for centuries. As well as the silver leaves of the sacred muliahma tree, leaves the monks covered with intricate prayers. Plus all the bizarre and wondrous creatures brought to market from the forest, like those color-shifting pigeons he’d seen today—and thrown in the face of the guard.