by T.A. Barron
Huntwing ruffled his feathers and glared at the young woman.
“Do you know,” asked the priest, “that I can stop the blight at any time?”
Atlanta started.
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “with a simple antidote provided by a good friend of mine.”
“You mean Narkazan. Your partner in turning the Starstone into a weapon.”
This time Grukarr raised both eyebrows. “My, you really have been working hard to understand my plans.”
His expression darkened and he snarled, “Then understand this: if you agree to help me, with no more delays, I will stop the blight immediately. I will save your precious forest—and your life, as well.” He nodded smugly. “We have not much time left before Ho Byneri—but there is enough for you to tell me where to find the magic I need to gather from those creatures you know so well. Unicorns, dragons, starsisters who shine so bright—and, oh yes, those nasty little things called faeries.”
Atlanta felt the faery’s wings shaking with rage, so intensely that her whole pocket was vibrating. Not wanting her friend to be discovered by Grukarr, she gently covered the spot with her hand.
“If you help me now,” urged the priest, “I will spare you. As well as this forest.” Lowering his voice, he added, “And if you don’t . . . everything you love in the world will die. Everything.”
Despite her resolve, Atlanta blanched. Desperate to save the forest, she pleaded, “You don’t know what a terrible mistake that would be! If you destroy the forest, you’d also destroy most of this country’s resources—good food, clean water—as well as our greatest beauty and magic! And what good will your kingdom be then? You will have killed everything valuable before you gain power.”
Grukarr waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t really believe that, do you? We can live just fine without your precious forest! All I need to do is tell people to plant some fruit trees, or whatever. Then we’ll have food to eat—and none of your magical creatures to cause any trouble. Ellegandia will be a better place.”
Huntwing clacked his beak in agreement.
Outraged, Atlanta opened her mouth to reply. But the priest interrupted her.
“Mark my words, Atlanta. You can save this whole forest as well as yourself. Plus, you can spare me the trouble of calling in my army, which would no longer be needed if I get enough magic for our new weapon. Sure, if you help me today, a few of your magical creatures will perish—but the forest will survive. No more blight, no more invasion, no more harm to you and your friends.”
He whistled briefly, confident that he had prevailed. “Well, then, what do you say?”
Fixing her gaze on him, she declared, “I say you are a madman! And a scoundrel of the worst kind!”
Grukarr grimaced. “Then I will introduce you to some friends of mine—friends who have ways to persuade you.”
He snapped his fingers. Instantly, from the dark grove behind him, emerged six mistwraiths. They floated toward Grukarr, their shadowy folds rippling ominously, leaving a trail of black sparks in their wake.
Seeing them, Huntwing twitched nervously and slid closer to his master’s head. But the priest merely bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile.
Atlanta’s heart pounded, but she did her best to hide her fear. Deep in the pocket of her gown, though, the faery shivered uncontrollably.
“Welcome,” said the priest to the hovering mistwraiths. “I know you have ways to make people scream and writhe with such agony, they will do anything to make you stop. That is what I want you to do to this young woman.”
Glancing at Atlanta, he said icily, “Unless she cooperates. I want her help today—yes, to tell you where to go to find all the magic we need for sunrise on Ho Byneri.”
The mistwraiths crackled in unison, releasing a fountain of black sparks.
Slowly, Grukarr turned back to Atlanta. “Don’t think for a minute that I will show you any mercy. Or that you will be somehow rescued by your friend, that pie thief.”
She tensed visibly.
Seeing this, Grukarr chortled. “Too bad about him. He died in great pain, pleading with me to spare his worthless life.”
“Liar!” cried Atlanta. Though she hoped with all her heart that what he said wasn’t true . . . she feared that Promi had, in fact, been killed.
“Tut-tut, forest girl! You should never have sullied yourself with that vagabond in the first place.” He kissed his ruby ring. “But now he won’t bother anyone ever again.”
Leaning toward her, Grukarr growled, “You have one last chance. Will you help me? Or should I turn you over to these mistwraiths?”
Marshaling her strength, Atlanta rose to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily and grabbed a spruce bough for support. “You,” she began slowly, “can count on my . . .”
The priest began to nod expectantly.
“Total refusal,” finished Atlanta. “You will never get my help. And you will never win.”
Grukarr glared at her and commanded the mistwraiths, “Make her beg for mercy.”
Together, the mistwraiths glided toward Atlanta. As they neared their prey, bristling with black sparks, they fanned out and surrounded her. Then, crackling vengefully, they began to advance, tightening their circle as a hangman tightens a noose.
Though barely able to stand, Atlanta held herself upright. Even when she felt the first sensation of fires kindling inside her head, her torso, and her limbs—fires she knew would soon grow much stronger—she remained motionless. All the while, she stared at the priest defiantly.
Suddenly, she noticed a flash of something blue on her gown. The faery! He was bravely climbing out of her pocket, pushing one of his luminous wings into the open. Right away, she guessed what he was doing—hoping to distract the mistwraiths, sacrificing himself so she would gain a little more time.
No! she thought urgently. Go back, little friend, where you’ll be safe.
The faery ignored her. Now the top of his antennae could be seen, along with most of one wing, poking out of the pocket. While the mistwraiths hadn’t noticed him yet, Atlanta knew that would happen in just a few more seconds.
The mistwraiths crackled louder, spouting sparks. At the same time, they started to expand, rising like a mass of shadows around their victim. Meanwhile, Grukarr watched, too fascinated even to whistle.
All at once, the mistwraiths froze. They fell completely silent. And then they shrank back to their normal size, quivered in the air—and vanished.
Stunned, Grukarr gasped. Huntwing shrieked in astonishment and nearly fell off his perch.
Though she was equally surprised, Atlanta took the opportunity to move her hand over to her pocket and stuff her small friend back down inside. Stay there now, she told him firmly. No more heroics.
“What the . . . ?” asked Grukarr, utterly bewildered. He stared at the spot where the mistwraiths had disappeared, then cursed, “Cut out my enemies’ intestines, tie them in knots, and burn them to ashes! They must have been called home by Narkazan.”
Rustling his wings, the blood falcon on his shoulder screeched angrily.
“I know what that means, you ignorant bird. Something’s gone wrong! Trouble in the spirit realm.”
Feeling a sudden surge of hope, Atlanta wondered, Promi? Could he somehow be the cause of Narkazan’s troubles?
Grukarr strode over and grabbed Atlanta by the arm. He gave her a rough shake and declared, “I am changing my plans. Just as any emperor does when he chooses.”
“I still won’t help you,” she vowed.
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I have an important meeting with Narkazan, arranged long ago. And I intend to keep it! We will still meet, as planned, on Ho Byneri—and you will be with me.”
He scowled at her. “That meeting was supposed to be when I delivered the magic to power the new weapon. But I can’t do that now, can I? Not without any mistwraiths. Yet I can still deliver you, the key to finding the magic we need.”
Again he shook her, s
o hard her legs nearly buckled. “If you haven’t changed your mind by then, Narkazan will make you! Oh, yes. And he won’t be nearly as gentle as those mistwraiths. He will take all your knowledge, as well as your life, making you suffer dearly while he does it.” Lowering his voice, he added, “And if he leaves you alive, forest girl . . . I will gladly kill you myself.”
CHAPTER 43
The Starstone
Many heard your shout, Promi. But I daresay that no one, not even you, understood what it would mean for us all.
—From her journal
Promi flew through the window of Narkazan’s cloud palace, knowing this was his only chance to gain the Starstone. And to bring it back to Earth—if it hadn’t already been corrupted into the most terrible weapon ever known.
He rolled across the floor of the warlord’s private chamber, stopping by a low table draped with a white cloth. Around his neck, he felt a quick squeeze from Kermi’s tail—not exactly reassuring, but the closest thing to congratulations he could expect from his sassy companion.
Kneeling behind the table, Promi carefully lifted his head to scan the room. Meanwhile, he reached down with his left hand to check his dagger. It was still in its sheath—yet he knew it wouldn’t be any help against immortals. As he thought about what he was up against, his whole chest felt hot with fear.
Carefully, he examined Narkazan’s chamber. It was, fortunately, empty of people. Or other creatures . . . at least the sort of creatures who could be seen. Hadn’t Theosor warned him that some of Narkazan’s warriors were invisible?
The room itself was sparsely furnished. Too sparsely. Whatever treasures the warlord had amassed on his conquests, they weren’t here. Aside from the table, the only furniture was a bed with a quilt whose wispy threads seemed like woven clouds, a lamp that glowed mysteriously without any fire, and a regal, high-backed chair with inlaid designs of warriors destroying their enemies. And there weren’t any side chambers or closets. The only entrance, other than the window in the wall behind him, was an open doorway.
Puzzled, Promi looked more closely. But the room held no other objects. No works of art. And sadly, no Starstone.
Must move fast, he told himself. I’ve got to find that crystal before Narkazan ruins it forever!
Where should he search, though? The other turrets? The great dome in the center of the cloud palace? A secret storage place where the warlord kept his treasures?
Promi reached inside his pocket and felt the rim of the copper disc he’d stolen from Grukarr. Strangely, just touching its surface made his finger tingle. Maybe the shonsée disc’s magic had been aroused by the fact that the Starstone was—or had once been—somewhere in this castle.
Yet . . . even if he could come within sight of the Starstone, what use was this magical magnet if he didn’t know how to use it? He frowned, remembering how Grukarr had emphasized that anyone who didn’t tap it just the right number of times would surely die. But what number was that?
Worry about that later, he coaxed himself. Right now he needed to concentrate on finding the precious crystal. And fast!
I’ll start with the dome. He glanced at Kermi, whose round eyes seemed full of questions. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, even though the skin of his chest now felt aflame. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Harrumph,” the little fellow whispered back. “That’s what worries me most.”
Promi darted to the door and peered down the stairwell. Glad to see that there were, in fact, stairs, he realized that even beings who could fly must occasionally choose to walk. He started down the spiraling stairs made of gleaming white vaporstone. He took the first step—and then, for no particular reason, shot a last glance back at the chamber.
Something about the small table caught his attention. From this lower angle, he saw, under the rim of the white cloth, that the table had no legs. Rather, it had a wide, boxlike base. That’s odd. Why make a table like that?
“What’s the delay, manfool?” demanded Kermi.
Promi didn’t respond. For he had just answered his own question. Because it’s not really a table.
Remembering that the best way to hide something is in plain sight—a principle he’d learned long ago as a thief—he dashed back into the room. He whipped off the cloth. Before him sat a chest, fastened with a hefty lock.
On his shoulder, the kermuncle tensed in surprise. “Can you open it?”
Promi grabbed the lock and pulled. No luck. He wedged his dagger into its opening and twisted. Again, no luck.
Frowning, he knew there was only one possible way. Just as he knew that his next sacrifice would need to be something truly weighty, enough to give him the Starstone. Nothing he’d given up so far would suffice—not his boots, his journal, or even his ability to eat sweets. No, this time the sacrifice would have to be something even bigger. Something much more valuable . . . and also much more painful.
But what?
Voices! Down in the stairwell, he heard deep voices.
“Any time, manfool,” groused Kermi. “No hurry.”
Desperately, Promi tried to think what to sacrifice. He had very little left!
Kermi’s tail squeezed anxiously. “What are you doing? Singing to yourself?”
Suddenly, with heartbreaking certainty, Promi knew what he must sacrifice. The only thing left from his younger days. The last existing link to the parents he couldn’t remember. The one source of comfort he could always rely on, even when everything else had been taken away.
The song from his childhood.
More voices echoed in the stairwell, drawing nearer.
He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. Then he chanted, “Listen one, listen all.”
All at once, he heard the familiar rush of wind. He also heard, deep inside his mind, the secret incantation that kept the lock securely closed. Listening carefully, he absorbed the incantation’s every sound and rhythm and hint of meaning.
The lock burst apart and clattered to the floor. At the same time, Promi felt a sudden gap, an empty place, in his heart. He knew that he’d sacrificed the song from childhood—but he couldn’t remember anything about it. Not a single note.
The voices grew louder by the second.
“Hurry!” hissed Kermi.
Promi threw open the chest. There, all alone, sat the Starstone. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, the crystal glowed with pure, pulsing light. And with a mysterious power that suddenly made Promi feel stronger, magnifying his own inner magic.
Not corrupted, he thought with relief. We got here in time!
Carefully, he picked up the Starstone. “All right, Kermi. Let’s go!”
At that instant Promi was tackled—so hard he lost all the air in his lungs. The Starstone flew into the air. But it never hit the floor, for someone else caught it.
Powerful arms slammed Promi down and pinned him on his back. Eight arms, in fact. They belonged to a pair of shirtless giants who had four arms apiece—along with leathery wings folded against their backs. The warriors’ burly bodies, the color of amber, rippled with muscles. Hard as he tried to break free, Promi couldn’t budge.
Just then, a new, mist-colored face appeared above him. It looked as sharp as an ax blade, with a long chin and a beaklike nose. A shiny black earring dangled from one ear. And from both sides of the narrow jaw grew large, menacing tusks. Dark red, the tusks curved to sharp points that could easily rip skin apart.
“You dare to enter my chamber!” fumed Narkazan, grasping the glowing crystal. “Who are you?”
Promi glared up at him. “Someone who knows your evil plans.”
Narkazan squeezed the Starstone tightly. “Then you know this crystal will make me the most powerful ruler of any realm! I was just about to call forth the magic that will make it my most deadly—”
He stopped abruptly, sniffing the air. “I smell mortal flesh,” he declared, clearly surprised.
The warlord’s dark gray eyes probed his prisoner, running a finger alon
g one of his tusks. Finally, he announced, “Now I know who you are.”
Narkazan turned to his warriors and commanded, “Lift him to his feet.”
Instantly, the hulking warriors raised their captive. They might have been picking up a piece of straw, it was so easy. Promi wriggled and tried to twist free, but their many holds on him only tightened.
Narkazan stepped closer. Thoughtfully, he rubbed his narrow chin. Then he grabbed the collar of Promi’s tattered tunic. With a sharp tug, he tore open the cloth on the left side, exposing the mark of the flying bird. With the furious beating of Promi’s heart, the bird’s wings seemed to be moving through air.
Both of the amber giants started. They stared at the mark, then at their commander, in amazement.
“Yes,” declared Narkazan. He nodded, making his earring sway. “I was right. You are the one from the Prophecy.” His voice lowered. “I ordered you killed long ago, but you have always eluded me. And now I know why!” His eyes seemed to sizzle with rage. “You are a mere mortal, far beneath my attention.”
He glared at his prisoner. “Until now! I shall greatly enjoy driving a stake through your mark—and through your mortal heart.” Stroking his pointed chin, he snarled, “On second thought, I won’t use a stake. I shall use this knife of yours, so you will know that you died by your own blade.”
Unwilling to give the warlord the satisfaction of seeing him struggle, Promi stopped wriggling. Calmly, he said, “You will never succeed.”
“Oh?” Narkazan smoothed the front of his cream-colored satin robe. “We shall see about that.”
Tilting his angular face toward Promi’s sheath, the warlord reached for the dagger. Just as his long fingers were about to touch the hilt—a streak of blue shot from across the room and slammed into his face.
“Aaaakkk!” shrieked Narkazan. He stumbled backward, trying desperately to keep the furry blue creature from scratching out his eyes. “Help me!”
The two brawny warriors released Promi and dashed to their struggling leader. In that same instant, Promi whirled to face Narkazan. The warlord still gripped the Starstone in his fist, so tightly that just the edge of one of the crystal’s facets could be seen. Fixing his gaze on that glowing edge, Promi thrust his hand into his pocket and touched the shonsée disc. Clearing his mind, he opened himself to the magic of a Listener.
