by T.A. Barron
For a timeless instant, they held all their complex designs. Then, in unison, their colors drained away. The vines shrugged, giving Atlanta’s hands a gentle squeeze.
“What did they say?” cried a small girl who wore a garland of blue irises in her hair.
“They welcome us all to this place.” With a hint of a smile, Atlanta added, “And they bless our eternal qualities.”
More nods and murmurs of approval moved through the crowd. At the same time, branches in the yew as well as neighboring trees started swishing and slapping. Atlanta gazed up into the living forest canopy, her face content as she listened to this gathering wind of words.
The swishing stopped—as if the entire grove suddenly held its breath. Atlanta’s brow furrowed, more in surprise than concern. Meanwhile, the vines tightened around her hands. The leaves shook and changed colors, shifting from pale gold to deeper shades of red and black.
“Tell us,” urged the girl with the irises in her hair. “What are they saying now?”
“Yes,” called the old priestess. “Do tell us.”
Atlanta’s blue-green eyes widened as she stared at the leaves in disbelief. The vines shook her arms insistently, while the darker colors spread.
“They say . . .” she whispered hoarsely, too stunned to finish. Then, regaining her strength, she cried out the vines’ message:
“Leave now! Hide yourselves!”
CHAPTER 9
True Religion
Sometimes a handsome pastry, dusted with sugar, can be just plain rotten inside.
—From Promi’s journal, written in unusually bold scrawl
The warning came too late. Even as Atlanta shouted the message of the vines, a band of people swept into the grove.
Unlike those who had gathered under the ancient yew, whose garb was so colorful and diverse, the new arrivals wore only rough brown tunics, ragged leggings, and old leather boots. Many also carried weapons, whether a rusted sword or a plowman’s staff. Several held unlit torches whose oily smell clashed with the fragrance of the grove.
Only one of the newcomers dressed differently. Taller than anyone else, he wore a robe of pure white silk, adorned only with a necklace of golden beads. On his head sat a white turban, stained at the bottom from his sweaty brow. Though he held no weapon, he conveyed an unmistakable air of authority.
Seeing him approach, the elder priestess gasped. The two younger priestesses by her side froze. And the monk accompanying them rubbed his hands together nervously.
“I am Grukarr,” declared the tall man as he reached the center of the grove. He curled his lips into an almost pleasant smile. “For those of you who do not know me, I am a humble priest of the True Religion.”
Atlanta’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Several people who had come here to learn about natural magic started muttering in anger or fear. Meanwhile, Grukarr’s men pressed closer. One of them lifted an ax with a notched blade.
But Grukarr, still smiling, raised his hand. A large ruby gleamed from his oversized ring. “Now, now, dear people. I come here in peace. So do my followers.”
He nodded sharply at the ax, then waited until it was lowered. “You see,” he went on, “we love the forest just as much as you do. We value its resources, its creatures, and most of all, its magic.”
With that, he gave a shrill whistle. Right away, a rust-colored bird descended and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s talons, still bloody from a recent kill, gripped Grukarr firmly.
“A blood falcon,” said Atlanta. “One of the few creatures who kill more than they need to eat.” Anxiously, she squeezed the vines draped across her hands.
“The common name,” agreed Grukarr, keeping his voice calm. “To those of us who know the true ways of the forest, however, he is a Royal Huntwing.”
The young woman, her gaze no less piercing than the bird’s, shook her curls. “My name is Atlanta, and I can tell you this: If you are part of something called the True Religion, that means you think any other form of worship is false. Including devotion to nature spirits. Which means you really know nothing of the ways of this forest.”
Grukarr’s smile vanished. His brown eyes peered at the young woman who had dared to contradict him. A storm seemed to gather under his brow, and his pale cheeks flushed.
Before he could speak, the elder priestess stepped over to join Atlanta. “She is right, you know. The spirits of the forest are just as worthy of devotion as the ones we pray to at the temple.”
Scowling, Grukarr glared at the old woman. “Shame on you! As you should know by now, the True Religion honors the immortals who live on high, in the sky above us, and nowhere else. You certainly won’t find them out here in the wild woods.”
Drawing herself up straight, the elder replied, “Only if you have no eyes to see and no ears to listen.”
Still holding the vines, Atlanta said to Grukarr, “We could teach you, if only you are willing to learn.”
The priest scowled at this impudence. He started to answer harshly, but caught himself. Trying to stay calm, he said, “No doubt you could teach me many things. Which is fortunate, Atlanta, because it will encourage me to be . . . gentle with you.”
His eyes glinted greedily. “You see, I have some uses, important uses, for your knowledge of this forest.”
The elder priestess gasped.
Frowning, Atlanta replied, “What I could teach you about this forest is not about uses. No, it’s about a deeper way of seeing. Breathing. Living.”
Dropping any pretense of friendliness, Grukarr growled, “If that is your attitude, then it is you who must learn from me.”
As if agreeing, the bird on his shoulder rustled both wings.
“You must understand,” Grukarr declared confidently, “the righteousness of my cause.” He shot a withering glance at the old priestess. “The True Religion, can save you—yes, even if you have strayed from the Truth. It is, in fact, the only path to salvation. The path out of the darkness and into the light.”
He paused to stroke Huntwing’s tail feathers. “But if you do not agree, here and now, to cast away your heathen ways, to end all your old-fashioned witchery and dark magic . . .”
His voice hardened. “Then I shall be forced to educate you.”
The people whose eyes sparkled with green all tensed. Some glanced furtively at the forest, looking for a way to escape. Others turned anxious faces toward Atlanta, while the small girl with the garland of blue irises scurried to her side. Still others, such as the sturdy fellow from the land of waterfall lilies, clenched their fists, ready to fight.
Atlanta, for her part, stared down at the golden-leafed vines she was touching. Quickly releasing one hand, she tapped and stroked the vine that now dangled freely, communicating some sort of message. She continued as Grukarr straightened his turban, preparing to speak again.
“Do I hear no reply?” he demanded. “Is no one here willing to repent and follow my guidance?”
“Never,” declared the elder priestess.
“No,” answered several others.
“Impossible,” said the girl with blue irises in her hair, her voice quiet but firm.
Malice written on his face, Grukarr declared, “Then I must take you to—”
He stopped abruptly as the free vine suddenly whipped toward him and struck him squarely on the forehead. He cried out in pain and tumbled over backward, losing his turban as he landed on the broken branches and dry leaves of the forest floor. Huntwing shrieked with rage and pounced on the vine, but only succeeded in battering the priest’s face with his wings.
Blood streaming from his head wound, Grukarr rolled in the leaves, trying in vain to bat away the bird. “No, you foolish beast! Get away!”
Atlanta, meanwhile, shouted to her followers, “Flee, all of you! Trust in the forest!”
She locked gazes with the old priestess. “Help them,” she said hurriedly, “however you can.”
“I will, Atlanta. But will you be safe? He has something
terrible in mind for you, that’s clear.”
Atlanta nodded. “As long as this forest survives, so will I.”
As the priestess hurried off, Atlanta pulled the small girl closer. Wrapping one arm tightly around the girl’s waist, Atlanta gave a sharp tug to the vine still wrapped around her other forearm. Instantly, the vine retracted, pulling both of them up into the tree’s highest branches. As they vanished, petals of blue iris drifted down to the ground.
Grukarr, finally free of his bird, forced himself to stand. Blood still oozed from the cut on his forehead, spattering his white robe. Dry leaves and needles stuck to his ears and eyebrows. Shakily, he bent to pick up his battered turban.
Most of his men rushed forward and tried to steady him, but he shoved them away. Angrily, he glared at all the heathens who were swiftly disappearing into the forest.
“Kill them!” he shouted, eyes ablaze. “Kill them all—except for that young woman. Find her and bring her to me alive!”
He donned the turban, brushed off his silk robe, and stomped out of the grove. Catching the arm of one of his torch bearers, he pointed at the old yew and commanded, “And burn that cursed tree to the ground.”
Shouts and screams erupted in the once-peaceful grove. Dense smoke filled the air, blotting out everything else.
CHAPTER 10
Shadows
You didn’t understand the essence of light, Promi—that it makes not only bright visions, but also dark shadows. Things you can see . . . and things you cannot.
—A passage from her journal
At last you understand! But now, I fear, it’s too late.
—Also from her journal, added later
The pain in Promi’s head woke him up. Not the throbbing ache from the clubbing, just above his right temple, though that seemed to swell as soon as he opened his eyes. No, this was a sharper pain in the back of his head.
A rock! He rolled aside, moving off the pointed stone that had been under his skull for however long. Hours? Days?
Then he felt another sort of pain, this one in his stomach. Hunger! How long had it been since he’d eaten that smackberry pie on the hillside? Too long, that’s for sure. I’m so hungry I could eat a wagonload of goats.
He reached to grab the rock and throw it away. But he stopped abruptly. Not because he’d changed his mind about throwing it, but because his arm simply couldn’t budge.
What’s this? Suddenly he realized that both his wrists were tightly bound together. And that rope also wrapped around his waist, leaving his hands dangling useless atop his belly. Just to make sure he couldn’t go anywhere, the rope’s longer end was tied to an iron ring in the stone wall beside him.
“Sizzling snakes, seeping sores, and skulking scourges!” he swore, so angry that he didn’t even bother to finish the curse. “Tied up like a bundle of firewood! And I’m in . . .”
He paused, squinting into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he scanned the shadows between the few sputtering torches affixed to the stone walls. Huddled within those shadows were bodies—dead or alive, he couldn’t tell.
A sound like a muffled groan came from somewhere down a distant corridor. And he could also hear something dripping on the stone floor. Otherwise, no sound but his own ragged breathing.
Dead as a tomb. That’s how this place seemed. Where was he?
Except for the flickering light of the torches, he saw no movement anywhere. Then he noticed something large—a rat?—near the opposite wall. It was gnawing on something that looked suspiciously like a detached finger. The rat’s black eyes glistened while it nibbled on a hunk of flesh attached to a fingernail.
“A dungeon,” Promi said in a stunned whisper. “I’m in a dungeon.”
He sighed miserably. Continuing to look around, he noticed, for the first time, that the stones of the walls and floor shone red in the wavering torchlight. At once, he remembered the gory legend of a dungeon that lay hidden, long ago, beneath the City’s outer wall. A place so frightful and poisoned from centuries of torture and death that it had turned the color of blood.
Ekh Raku, he recalled. The dungeon’s name meant “stones of blood.” And it was rarely spoken, saved for only the most anguished curses.
So it’s real. The dungeon’s reputation was so thoroughly evil that some Divine Monk ages ago had decreed that it should be abandoned. Sealed up forever. Today, most people believed that it no longer existed. And some insisted that it had never existed in the first place—that it was just another scary story, like so many tales about wrathful immortals, invented to keep people in line.
Yet here it was.
And here, thought Promi grimly, am I.
He shook his head in disgust—then ceased, feeling a new explosion of pain. His head was so sore that even the gentle tap of his gold earring against his jaw sent painful tremors through his whole skull.
Wriggling closer to the wall, he slouched against the cold, dank stones. Again he wrestled with the rope around his wrists. Nothing loosened. He tried again, pulling and tugging with all his strength. But he still couldn’t budge.
“Where is my knife when I need it?” he grumbled aloud, his voice echoing around the walls. Across from him, the rat paused for a second, then went back to gnawing flesh.
Promi winced at the putrid smell of rotting bodies that filled the dungeon. His stomach tightened, but he resisted the urge to vomit. Meanwhile, a stream of questions poured into his mind. Did the Divine Monk even know that this dungeon was still being used? Or was this a secret Grukarr and Araggna kept to themselves? Something they saved for their least favorite prisoners?
He grimaced, his head pounding like one of the monk’s sacred drums. How could he have been so stupid to eat that precious pie out in the open, on top of the hill, where Grukarr’s bird could easily spot him? And how could he have set aside all his usual caution when he most needed it?
The pounding in his head worsened. He wished he could reach his hand high enough to rub his sore skull. But he couldn’t do it. Why, he couldn’t do anything. Ever again. For he’d been cast into a dungeon—the dungeon.
Listening to the drip-drip-drip on the floor, he felt hopelessly trapped. He needed to do something to revive his spirits, to keep from giving up completely.
The song, he realized. That will help.
Quieting his mind, he opened himself to the distant memory of that melody, just as he’d done so many times before. He waited . . . and waited some more. Nothing came to him. Not even a single note.
Was the relentless dripping sound getting in the way of his memory? Or was it the oppressive darkness? The blood-soaked stones?
Whatever the reason, he couldn’t hear the song. It had abandoned him—for the first time in his life. Had he lost it forever? The mark over his heart began to throb with heat.
“Nnnooooo,” groaned a voice nearby.
Promi started. It came from one of the bodies in the shadows! He scanned the huddled forms, trying to see which of them was still alive.
Suddenly a leg kicked. The body, wearing a frayed brown robe that might have belonged to a wandering monk, rolled over and wriggled weakly, trying to get away from something.
As the body moved into the torchlight, Promi could see that it belonged to an elderly man. His head, topped by a mass of white curls, lay on the stone floor. Since he, like Promi, was roped to the wall, he couldn’t move any farther from whatever he was trying to escape. So he just lay there, moaning and kicking helplessly.
Promi peered into the darkness, trying to see what could be tormenting the old fellow. Something moved by the man’s foot.
A rat! Promi winced, watching it try to gnaw on one of the old man’s toes.
“Nnnooooo,” the elder groaned again, this time more weakly.
But the rat just ignored him. Curling its back, it hunched over its prey and sank sharp teeth into the flesh of the man’s big toe.
“Stop!” cried Promi. “Get away from there!”
His voice echoed l
oudly within the stone walls, but the rat barely even noticed. It merely glanced up at Promi to satisfy itself that the young man couldn’t do any harm. Then it went right back to gnawing—with a gleam in its eyes from the certainty that this new prisoner would supply many future meals.
“I said stop!”
This time, the rat didn’t even bother to look up. It merely kept chewing contentedly at the toe. Not even the old man’s futile twitching disturbed its dining pleasure.
Promi growled in frustration. Ferociously, he tore at his bonds, trying harder than ever to free his hands. But the rope held fast.
“Eeaaaah,” moaned the elder, clearly in anguish. Unable to do anything else, he lifted his head and hit it against the floor, again and again. “Nooooo, please . . .”
The rat continued to tear at the bloody sinews.
Promi’s heart pumped with rage. He wrestled with the rope, ignoring the way its coarse surface scraped his skin.
The old man moaned piteously. “Great Powers . . . save me, please . . .”
Free! Promi wrenched one hand from the bonds. Rolling to the side, he grabbed the rock that had been under his head. With the skilled, fluid motion of a knife thrower, he hurled it straight at the rat.
A perfect shot! The rock struck the rat’s head so hard that the beast shrieked and fell over backward. A broken tooth flew from its mouth, skidding across the stones. Seeing Promi start to crawl closer, it shrieked again and scurried into the shadows.
Kneeling by the man’s side, Promi whispered. “It’s all right, old fellow. You’re safe now.”
Even as he spoke those words, however, he realized their folly. Safe? How could anyone be safe down here in the dungeon of Ekh Raku?
