Atlantis Rising

by T.A. Barron

  The flaming hand stretched taller, towering above them. Its orange form burned almost as intensely as a star, too bright to look at directly. The cavern grew stiflingly hot.

  Kermi’s big ears swiveled as he thought about the best way to answer. After a few seconds, he turned to Atlanta. “As to my secret, I’m not telling anyone. Even you. That’s because it’s, well . . . secret.”

  She sighed. “And Shirozzz?”

  “He is, you see, an outcast.”

  The flames crackled so loudly they seemed about to explode. The cavern grew even hotter.

  Keeping his voice calm, Kermi continued. “Shirozzz is, as you might have noticed, a firebeing. And there was a time when he used his impressive powers to cook. He was famous for his amazing meals—all, er, handmade.”

  He glanced at Promi, who was wiping sweat off his brow. “You would have liked those meals, manfool. Not the quality, since not everything was sweet, but the sheer quantity. So much food that even you couldn’t eat it all.”

  Turning back to Atlanta, he continued, “Shirozzz became, it’s fair to say, the greatest chef of his people. Crowds of admirers followed him everywhere, celebrating his culinary feats and hoping to learn some of his recipes.”

  Seeming to relax, Shirozzz flamed less intensely. The cavern grew noticeably cooler.

  “This fellow was not satisfied, though. The ingredients he found in his, well, home country—they just weren’t as varied as he liked. He started to search farther and farther afield, until, at last, he discovered the wonderful foods and spices of Ellegandia.”

  The fiery hand trembled vigorously. The companions couldn’t tell, though, whether that came from good memories or bad.

  Kermi’s whiskers stiffened. “The trouble was . . . creatures of his kind were not allowed to come here. Too much danger—from fires and other things. But Shirozzz ignored the ban. He persisted in visiting again and again to find the ingredients he most wanted. Especially, if I recall correctly, a certain variety of mushrooms.”

  “Curly brown ones, I’ll wager,” said Atlanta. “Forest dwellers call them monkey tails. And I saw them growing up above.”

  Shirozzz crackled loudly.

  “All this continued for many years,” Kermi went on. “Until finally . . .”

  The firebeing slumped over, curling his flaming fingers on top of himself. The light and heat diminished, until he seemed only a small remnant of the being they’d first encountered. Atlanta, compassionate as she was toward all creatures, felt tempted to hug him . . . but resisted, guessing that putting her arms around those flames probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “Finally,” finished the kermuncle, his tone quite somber, “Shirozzz was banished forever. He was cast out from his homeland and told never to return.” He gazed thoughtfully at the firebeing, blowing a bubble that reflected the orange flames. “You see . . . Shirozzz comes from the spirit realm.” He nodded, popping the bubble. “He’s an immortal.”

  CHAPTER 31

  An Earful

  Just what, I wonder, did you hear? And, Promi . . . did you also hear its deeper meaning?

  —From her journal

  An immortal!” cried both Promi and Atlanta. Their voices echoed for several seconds in the underground cavern before finally fading away.

  Both of them stared at the crumpled firebeing. Though he continued to burn, Shirozzz now looked more like a humble campfire than a towering hand of flame. Let alone a once-great chef with countless admirers.

  “Even worse than being banished from the spirit realm,” Kermi explained, “this poor fellow was exiled to the most inhospitable place of all—the Unkhmeini Swamp.”

  Shirozzz shrank down to a low, flickering flame.

  “Although,” Kermi noted with a hint of admiration, “it appears he has managed to sneak beyond the swamp’s borders a few times to gather some tasty things for his garden. Including those mushrooms he loves so much.”

  The flame sputtered guiltily.

  Atlanta glanced at the kermuncle and asked, “How do you know him? When did you meet before?”

  The furry little fellow stroked his whiskers modestly. “Oh . . . we had a few adventures together. In search of some special cooking ingredients.”

  At that, the firebeing straightened up and brightened slightly. Now he looked again like a flaming hand, though considerably smaller than just a moment earlier.

  “Relax, old friend,” said Kermi with a rare note of compassion. “We won’t reveal your hiding place to anyone. No one will ever come looking for you—not foolish folks who’d fear and despise you, and not greedy folks who’d want to use your power. You are safe.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Atlanta. “Safe.”

  The flaming hand reached a bit higher and waved gratefully. The orange light strengthened.

  “Unless you don’t cooperate,” declared Promi, his tone harsh.

  Shirozzz burst into a frenzy of flame, and sparks shot from his fingers. The cavern blazed with firelight.

  “What are you saying?” demanded Atlanta. She stared at Promi, her eyes burning with their own kind of flame.

  “Manfool!” spat Kermi. “You are even more stupid than I thought. As well as rude.”

  “Maybe so,” answered the young man calmly. “But Shirozzz and I have something to discuss. Something important.”

  “Something idiotic, you mean. Harrumph.”

  Leaning forward, Promi peered straight at the firebeing. “In your time with the immortals, did you ever hear anything about the Prophecy? The one that talks about the Starstone and what’s going to happen on Ho Byneri?”

  Instantly, the firebeing shot up to its full height. The flaming fingers angrily raked the cavern walls.

  “Hmmm,” said Promi. “I thought so.”

  Atlanta’s expression melted into amazement. Like Kermi, she gazed in surprise at Promi.

  “And,” he went on, “do you know the meaning of its opening line, The end of all magic?”

  Shirozzz exploded like a miniature starburst, so bright the companions had to close their eyes. Heat filled the cavern—but not for long, since after a few seconds, the firebeing returned to his former size. He trembled with either great ferocity or great fear.

  “As I suspected.” Promi wiped some sweat off his brow. “Tell us what you know, then.”

  Orange sparks flew from the firebeing’s fingertips, sizzling as they hit the cavern walls.

  “Tell us,” commanded Promi.

  Shirozzz resisted, shaking vehemently from side to side.

  “Tell us.”

  The firebeing merely kept shaking.

  “If you tell us what you know . . . then we will not reveal your secret hiding place.” Then, his expression stern, he added, “And if you don’t—you will never be safe again.”

  The fiery hand waved uncertainly, then condensed down to a flaming fist. All at once, it sprang at Promi’s face, so fast the young man had no chance to dodge. Just before they collided, though, Shirozzz veered to the side—and flew straight into his ear!

  Promi shouted as the fireball plunged deep inside his skull. Atlanta shrieked. Half a second later, the firebeing flew out of Promi’s other ear, having passed right through his brain.

  Shirozzz landed back on the ground where he had been before. His flaming fingers groped at the air, burning bright, as if nothing had changed. Promi, however, looked very different indeed. Eyes wide, he wobbled weakly, then fell back against the cavern wall.

  Atlanta grabbed his arm and shook him. “Oh, Promi! Are you all right?”

  Slowly, he blinked, trying to see through the orange flames that still danced before him. “Well . . . yes.” He blinked again, gathering his wits. “Though I don’t know how.”

  “That’s easy to explain,” said Kermi gruffly. “There’s nothing at all between your ears to get burned.”

  Promi spun his head toward the kermuncle. The fires in his mind were receding, so he could see at least the outline of the furry blue
creature. “That might be true, you little demon. But at least now . . .” He shot an urgent glance at Atlanta. “I know what we need to do.”

  Eagerly, she asked, “You do?”

  He nodded, then focused on Shirozzz. “Your secret is safe.”

  The immortal blazed a little brighter, his fiery fingers dancing.

  “What did you learn?” asked Atlanta. “And how did you guess that he’d know?”

  Promi leaned back against the dirt wall. “As to your second question, maybe I just, well . . . Listened.”

  Atlanta grinned slightly. Meanwhile, Kermi’s small face showed an expression that neither of them had seen before, an expression that came surprisingly close to approval. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the firelight.

  “And as to your first question,” said Promi, “I learned more than I asked for.”

  Kermi waved his paw at the firebeing. “That was dangerous, Shirozzz! You could have killed him.”

  The flames withered slightly.

  “Alas, though,” Kermi went on, “you didn’t succeed.” He blew three or four bubbles that floated up toward the trapdoor. Turning to Promi, he asked, “So what can you tell us?”

  The young man swallowed, recalling the firebeing’s visions, each of them edged in sizzling flames. Then he declared, “The Prophecy goes like this.” And 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.

  As the words echoed among the cavern walls, Atlanta asked, “So what does it all mean?”

  “Even the good friend who taught me those two stanzas, a monk named Bonlo, couldn’t say for sure.” Promi smiled sadly, for merely saying Bonlo’s name had rekindled his affection for the old fellow, just as blowing on hot coals will revive a flame.

  “But,” continued Promi, “you can bet the Prophecy is talking about Narkazan’s plan to turn the Starstone into a terrible weapon. The end of all magic—that could be the death of magic in our world.”

  Her voice strained, Atlanta said, “And the death of so many mortal creatures, too.”

  “Don’t forget about the immortal realm,” said Kermi glumly. “Worlds highmost and low means both worlds are at risk.”

  The firebeing’s fingers stretched higher, as if he wanted to reach through the cavern’s ceiling and up into the sky, all the way to his former home in the spirit realm.

  “That must be what the Prophecy calls the ultimate end,” said Atlanta somberly.

  Shirozzz shrank back down, his flaming fingers crumpled on the dirt floor.

  “That’s not all,” announced Promi. “Shirozzz just told me something new. Something important.”

  “What?” demanded Atlanta.

  He drew a deep breath. “There is more to the Prophecy! A third stanza that Bonlo, and I suspect many others, never heard before.”

  Slowly, he said the words:

  One alters the balance

  Between light and dark:

  The person who carries

  The soaring bird’s mark.

  Atlanta gasped. “The mark on your chest! I knew it meant something.”

  “Exactly what,” cautioned Kermi, “remains to be seen.”

  Without thinking, Promi rubbed the place on his chest. For an instant, he recalled that horrible dream from the island, where he’d seen his own wounded heart. It had been right there beside him, bleeding, and he couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t heal it.

  Atlanta’s tender voice snapped him back to reality. “Do you really think,” she asked softly, “you might be the one who could change the balance?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But maybe . . . I should find out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You mean,” he corrected, “what are we going to do?” His gaze locked into hers. “I’m going to find Grukarr and steal the Starstone.”

  Slowly, she nodded. “And I’m going to trek the rest of the way to his lair and find out what’s really happening there. I just can’t shake the feeling it’s crucial to stopping him—and saving the forest.”

  Promi frowned. “I was afraid you’d say that. After all we’ve been through, it won’t be easy to be—”

  “Separated.” She took his hand. “I know.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Let’s meet in, say, five days. At Moss Island. That should give us time to do what we need to do and still have a day or two to spare before Ho Byneri.”

  “All right, then. Moss Island.” She chewed her lip, surprised at how awkward she felt. “I . . . hope you’ll be careful.”

  “Oh, I will,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  “Remember, now,” she warned him, “as hard as your sacrifices have been so far, those might just be your easiest ones. Especially with the stakes so high. I’ve heard the old stories about Listeners who gave up—well, everything they had in tough times. Their hope, their sight, or even their minds.”

  “His mind you don’t have to worry about,” cracked Kermi. “Not much there to lose.”

  “So be smart about whatever you sacrifice next,” pressed Atlanta. With a warm grin, she added, “I want to recognize you when all this is over.”

  Gently, Promi touched her cheek. “And I want to recognize you.”

  Gathering his courage, he said, “And also, Atlanta . . .” He paused, fumbling for words. “I want to, um . . . well, need to, um . . .”

  She nodded reassuringly. “I know.”

  He sighed. “Right now, what we both need most of all . . . is good luck.”

  “Harrumph.” The kermuncle frowned at both of them. “You’ll need a lot more than that! What you really want is a quiggleypottle.”

  “A quiggleypottle?” repeated Promi, not sure he’d heard right.

  “What’s that?” asked Atlanta.

  Kermi shook his head, making his whiskers wobble. “Young people today know so little.”

  “What is this . . . quiggley, um, whatever?” she demanded.

  “I am sorry, but I can’t help you. If you don’t know what a quiggleypottle is, you’ll have to find out on your own.”

  She scowled at him. “Fine, then. Right now we have more important things to think about. Such as saving the universe. Which won’t be easy.”

  “Especially,” added Promi, “with no quiggleypottle.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Sweets

  You love those pastries, don’t you? But nothing is as sweet as a friend.

  —From her journal

  The first golden rays of dawn were caressing the top of the temple bell when, three days later, Promi entered the City of Great Powers. As he’d done many times before, he slipped into a shadowed street and silently made his way toward the market square by the temple. But this time, his bare feet stepped on the cobblestones—a whole new experience. Sure, his feet had toughened during his barefoot trek through forest and swamp . . . but this felt completely different from wearing his magical boots.

  And that was the least of what felt different. For starters, this morning he wasn’t hoping to steal a freshly baked pie, a cinnamon bun, or some other pastry. No, he hoped to steal something far more precious—a crystal of miraculous power. Power that could be used to magnify beauty and magic . . . or to destroy anything in its presence.

  Grukarr isn’t going to be easy to trick this time, he reminded himself. This won’t be so simple as nabbing his belt buckle.

  The two biggest differences of all, though, didn’t involve bare feet or today’s challenge. They weren’t even physical. One was the new realization that the strange mark on his chest might truly mean something—whether terrible or triumphant, he couldn’t say. Either way, it was startling to think that the black shape of a bird in flight marked not just his skin but
, in fact, his life. Even thinking about it now made his chest prickle with heat.

  The other crucial difference was, amazingly, the strangeness of being separated from Atlanta. His whole life as a loner, those years of living by his wits on the streets—all that had changed in the course of a week! How was that even possible? He’d never missed anyone before . . . except perhaps the person who’d sung that haunting song to him as a child. Now, though, he missed Atlanta all the time, with every step on the cobblestones.

  When, he wondered, will I see her again? He swallowed. Would she survive her quest and make it safely to Moss Island? Would he?

  And it’s not just about whether we will survive, he reminded himself as he turned down a darkened alley. It’s about whether our whole world will survive.

  A familiar thump on his back jolted him back to the present. “Manfool,” said Kermi from his perch on Promi’s shoulder, “I can tell you’re thinking. That always worries me.” Again he thumped with his tail. “And I’d bet you’re thinking about pastries.”

  “You’d lose the bet,” the young man replied, skirting the edge of a square where several temple guards were drinking big mugs of cinnamon tea. “I’m actually thinking about—well, it’s none of your business.”

  “Ah,” said the kermuncle with a throaty chuckle. “So you’re thinking about her.”

  “And what if I am, bubblebrain?” Promi frowned, wishing the little beast weren’t so perceptive. Muttering, he added, “I curse the Divine Monk’s hairy bottom that you made that promise to Jaladay.”

  The kermuncle sighed. “So do I.” Then, brightening, he said, “But I must say, you are entertaining. Especially when you’re feeling lovesick.”

  Promi growled, then did what he’d done so often in his life when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts: he reached for his journal. But it wasn’t there. His tunic pocket was empty.

  He paused, leaning back against a mud-brick wall. As morning light touched the tops of the buildings around him, he closed his eyes and did the one thing that always comforted him—turned his inner ear to that half-remembered song. The notes came quickly, filling him with their soothing melody.