Atlantis in Peril

  “Yes.” The spirit of wisdom grimaced as he spoke. “Narkazan, I fear, has returned.”

  “No!” shouted Promi. “That’s not possible!”

  “But it is,” declared Theosor, nudging the young man with his enormous head. “Just because no one has ever escaped the Maelstrom before doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. And if anyone burns with vengeance enough to do it, that would be Narkazan.”

  A gust of wind buffeted the ring of mist, scattering some lacey shreds. But nobody moved. All eyes remained fixed on Sammelvar. He drew a long breath and then spoke again.

  “We have no way yet to know if my suspicions are true. But if indeed they are, then Jaladay is truly at risk.” Glancing at his wife, he added, “He will try to make her turn her powers against us—and when she refuses . . .”

  Silence fell over them. For everyone knew that Jaladay would never cooperate with the immortal warlord.

  “Do you think,” asked Promi at last, “he will kill her?”

  “Yes,” replied his mother, her eyes shadowed with worry. “Any spirit—even one as strong and brave as Jaladay—can die from pain that’s just too intense or prolonged.”

  “Like drowning,” rumbled Theosor. “Or being skinned alive.”

  Sammelvar clenched his fists. “Both of which Narkazan has used in his tortures. And I am certain he’s found other methods, as well.”

  He drew a deep breath and faced his son. “On top of that, we have another problem. The veil is close to failing entirely. We—”

  “If that’s really true,” interrupted Promi. He locked gazes with his father. “Why worry about something no one can prove, when we need to focus on saving Jaladay?”

  Sammelvar answered frostily, “I know that you would rather not believe it’s true, Promi. That way you can visit Atlantis anytime you like.”

  “But—” Promi objected, his rage rising.

  “I have not finished,” declared Sammelvar firmly. “What I was starting to say is something that you of all people should consider.”

  Heed him, young cub, Theosor said silently to Promi. This is a time to listen, not speak.

  Grinding his teeth, Promi remained quiet.

  “We must remember,” Sammelvar went on, “that if Narkazan discovers the weakness of the veil, he will use that to his advantage. Right now, I’m afraid, it would take only a small band of his warriors to destroy whatever remains. Then there will be no way to stop him from invading the world of mortals, whose magic and resources he has long coveted.”

  Trying to keep his voice calm, Promi asked, “But how do you know the veil is so weak? What makes you so sure?”

  Sammelvar and Escholia traded glances, understanding that Promi’s question was only partly about the veil.

  Reluctantly, Sammelvar admitted, “You are right that there’s no way to be sure, because the magic of the veil repels all the normal ways of perceiving it.”

  “So,” said Promi with more than a touch of smugness, “you really are just guessing.”

  “I suppose that’s true, my son. But over the years, I’ve developed a keen understanding of the veil—a feeling for it, you could say.”

  “But you still have no proof! And you want us to stake so much of our plans—and our lives—on some undefined feeling?”

  Theosor growled quietly at this rudeness. But Promi didn’t seem to notice. His resentment was just too strong.

  “Yes,” answered Sammelvar. “That’s right.” He took a step toward the young man. “I am asking you, just this once, to trust me.”

  Promi studied his father for a moment before speaking. “Well,” he answered, “I can’t.”

  Once more, Theosor growled.

  “Don’t you see why?” asked Promi. “Now that I’m old enough to think for myself, I just don’t buy this.”

  To Promi’s surprise, his father nodded in agreement. “Yes, I do see. It seems . . . I must prove this to you.”

  “If you can.”

  Escholia looked at her husband with growing concern.

  “When I told you we couldn’t be sure,” Sammelvar declared, “I said that was true in ‘all the normal ways.’ There is one other way. But it comes with a great risk.”

  Escholia sucked in her breath. “Not . . .”

  “Yes,” said her husband with a grim nod. “We could use mist fire.”

  Peering at Promi, he pledged, “I will do this for you. But as I said, there will be a cost. Calling up mist fire to show us the veil will leave a faint residue—an afterglow—for at least a few days’ time. If, by some chance, Narkazan sees what the mist fire reveals . . . he will know our great weakness.”

  “But,” protested Escholia, “is this wise?”

  “No,” replied Sammelvar. “But it’s necessary.” He gazed at her, then added, “If only to regain the trust of my own son.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she insisted.

  “I must.” The elder then turned back to Promi and asked, “Knowing what I have told you, do you still want me to proceed?”

  Theosor’s deep brown eyes watched his friend. Think carefully, young cub.

  But Promi was still too full of anger to do that. All he could think about was how sick and tired he was of being told what to do with his life.

  “Yes,” he declared. “Proceed.”

  “So be it.” Sammelvar reached up and twirled a small shred of mist around his finger. Focusing on the mist, he spoke an ancient chant:

  Flame now, mist fire—

  Burn bright and rise higher.

  Show me secrets I must know,

  Hidden where I cannot go.

  Stretching out his hand, he commanded, “Show me the Veil of Peace that divides the mortal and immortal worlds.”

  Instantly, the wisp of mist flared into a blazing red flame that reached from Sammelvar’s hand up to nearly twice his height. As the elder spirit removed his hand, the flame hung in the air. At the same time, it flattened and took the shape of a trembling piece of red cloth.

  Promi, along with the others, gasped. For the cloth had been torn almost to shreds. Some sections were connected by just a single thin thread. Overall, it looked so weak it could simply disintegrate from a gust of wind.

  Swiftly, the vision began to fade. Like the embers of a dying fire, it quivered and glowed for a few final seconds. Then it disappeared completely.

  Theosor turned his head, scanning the surrounding clouds. “I can see a subtle red glow in the most distant mist. And it was not there before.”

  “The afterglow,” said Sammelvar grimly. “Let us hope our enemies don’t notice it before it, too, fades.”

  Promi swallowed. Looking straight at his father, he said, “I’m . . . sorry.”

  “So am I, my son. I wish that it hadn’t been so.”

  “As do I,” added Escholia.

  “But it is so,” Promi declared. “And I’m going to do the only thing I can to lessen our troubles.”

  “What,” asked Sammelvar, “is that?”

  “I will find Jaladay! Whatever it takes, I will find her.”

  “Wait,” pleaded Escholia. “If there are mistwraiths—”

  “Then I will face them.” Promi straightened his back. “And Narkazan, too, if I must.”

  Sammelvar reached for his son’s arm. “You don’t need to do this, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Please, Promi,” said Escholia. “We don’t want to lose both of you to Narkazan.”

  Theosor shook his mane and rumbled, “I would like to go with Promi.”

  “Me, too,” piped up Kermi, thumping his tail on Promi’s back.

  Sammelvar frowned. “I cannot let you go, good Theosor. Now that we have revealed the true state of the veil, I need you and your most trusted wind lions to patrol the entire perimeter of the aftergl
ow—and to capture any allies of Narkazan you may find. You must stop them from reporting back to him.”

  Theosor gave a nod. “As you wish.” Then his huge eyes moved toward Promi. “I am sorry not to join you, young cub.”

  “That makes two of us,” Promi replied.

  “Three of us,” added Kermi.

  Sammelvar peered at his son. “Since I cannot, alas, give you the help of a wind lion . . . I can at least give you some advice. About mistwraiths.”

  “What advice?”

  “Mistwraiths,” said the elder spirit, “are rightly feared in every corner of the realm. They are malicious, brutal, cunning, and merciless. They are Narkazan’s most dangerous creations, raised from birth to terrorize and destroy anything alive. They devour the life, as well as the magic of other creatures. And they are totally loyal to their master because they fear his wrath.”

  On Promi’s shoulder, Kermi shuddered.

  “But they do,” Sammelvar continued, “have one weakness. Only one.”

  Promi’s eyebrows lifted. “Tell me.”

  “They have never known love.”

  “What?” asked Promi, confused.

  “Just what,” Escholia asked her husband, “are you suggesting?”

  Sammelvar scowled. “I’m not really sure.” He locked gazes with Promi. “But I suspect . . . the best thing you can do, if attacked by a mistwraith, is somehow to give it your love.”

  Promi recoiled, backing away. “Are you completely crazy?”

  Escholia stared at her husband in utter disbelief. Kermi looked horrified. Even the ever-loyal Theosor shook his mighty head.

  “That’s not advice,” said Promi. “That’s idiocy! Suicide! Even if it made sense, which it doesn’t—it’s impossible.”

  “No,” corrected Sammelvar. “It’s not impossible. Just very, very difficult.”

  “And crazy!” Promi frowned at his father. “First of all, there’s no possible way to love something so horrible—so it really can’t be done. By anyone. And second, even if I could find some way to do that . . . what would happen? Would love kill the mistwraith? And if it did, would that also kill me?”

  Sammelvar ran a hand through his hair. “I just don’t know. All I can say is if you do try this—you must truly give it your all. And you must hold on long enough that you won’t be destroyed.”

  Promi scowled. “Thanks for the advice. But there’s no way I’m going to take it.”

  Sammelvar merely sighed. “Then go, my son. With our blessings . . . as well as our hopes.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Faith

  Unwilling to wait even a minute before setting off to find Jaladay, Promi refused his parents’ invitation to spend the night with them in their ring of mist. As lacey shreds floated by, darkening toward the end of the day, he felt only increased urgency to find his sister.

  Even if that meant dealing with mistwraiths.

  Promi’s parting from his parents was hurried, as well as awkward. Though they didn’t speak any words, their expressions said enough. Promi knew he’d never forget his mother’s misty blue eyes, so full of worry, and his father’s careworn face, weighed down by everything that had struck his world, as well as his family.

  Saying good-bye to Theosor was no easier. Promi gave the wind lion a hug, burying his face in the thick mane. He breathed in the rich smell of Theosor’s fur, which reminded him of all they had done together. And he couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d ever smell that again.

  Looking into the lion’s deep brown eyes, Promi said telepathically, Travel far and stay safe, my friend.

  “It will be hard for either of us to stay safe,” Theosor replied.

  “Are you saying,” asked Promi with a hint of a grin, “that it will be impossible?”

  “Our specialty,” rumbled the wind lion. But there was no joy in his words.

  “Well, manfool,” said a grumpy voice on Promi’s shoulder. “We can keep on delaying or we can get going. Your choice.”

  With a sigh, Promi said, “You really don’t have to come, you know.”

  “Of course I do, you bumblebrained idiot! Why . . . you could get destroyed.”

  Promi raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear such an unusual expression of concern for his well-being. Touched by the kermuncle’s kindness, he started to say thanks—when Kermi finished his comment.

  “And what fun would that be, if I’m not around to see it?”

  Promi clenched his jaw.

  “Besides,” Kermi continued with a rap of his tail on the young man’s back, “the whole point of this exercise is to rescue Jaladay without getting her killed. And I sincerely doubt you can do that without my help.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  As Kermi settled into position, wrapping his tail around Promi’s neck, Promi felt strangely comforted. In a way he didn’t want to admit, he actually felt grateful to have some company on this mission. Even the company of a little blue demon he’d often wanted to strangle.

  With a last glance at his parents and Theosor, Promi leaped. Up into the swirling mist he soared, knowing only his goal—but utterly unsure how to accomplish it. Where could Jaladay be? And how could they find her?

  “Where is our first stop, manfool?” asked Kermi in his ear.

  “Well, um, I . . .”

  “Good. I’m so relieved. For a moment there I was worried you might actually have a plan! And then I might have fallen off in shock.”

  Ignoring him, Promi announced, “We’ll go to that cloudfield where she was last seen. To see if we can learn anything about those mistwraiths.”

  “Fine, fine,” grumbled his passenger.

  “One thing I can tell you for certain,” said Promi. “Despite what my father said, there is no way I’m ever going to touch one of those shadowy monsters on purpose. And I’m definitely not going to give it any love!”

  “For once, manfool, I must agree with you.”

  Considering his thorny relationship with his father, Promi thought, He may have been right about the veil. But how can I possibly trust him when he gives me such crazy, suicidal advice?

  “That problem,” said Kermi, who had heard his thoughts, “could be tougher than rescuing your sister.”

  Through the billowing clouds they soared. Even though the dim light at this time of day cast many of the clouds in shadow, Promi saw glimpses of life—whole civilizations, even—within their darkening vapors. As always, the spirit realm’s mysterious ways intrigued him. How many worlds existed here among the clouds? What endless varieties of shapes and sizes did they take?

  Plus one more question that haunted him as they flew through the darkening mist: would all those worlds survive whatever was to come?

  Promi’s thoughts turned to Atlanta. Would her precious forest be one of the places that didn’t survive? He knew from his encounters with Narkazan and his henchman Grukarr that seizing the sources of magic in the Great Forest would be a top priority. Fortunately, Grukarr had died in the earthquake that created Atlantis . . . but it seemed Narkazan was still around. And if so, he’d be more dangerous than ever—as well as more determined to conquer the Earth and plunder its treasures.

  It was wrong, he told himself sadly, to tear more holes in the veil. But it wasn’t wrong at all to visit Atlanta. He saw, in his mind, her face. She was really extraordinary, despite her flaws. Not to mention smart, adventurous, and beautiful.

  Frowning, he thought, Whatever chance we still had is gone now. Despite his vow earlier that day, he wouldn’t be going back to find her and apologize.

  Atlanta, he knew, had faith in him—at least she did, before he destroyed it. And even if he couldn’t ever regain it . . . that faith had been a gift.

  As Promi soared through the cloudscape, he realized, Nobody has ever had that kind of faith in me before. Except maybe Shangr
i. And Bonlo.

  He smiled sadly, remembering the brave old monk with the white hair who had saved his life in the dungeon of Ekh Raku. At the cost of his own life, Bonlo had protected Promi. And the monk also taught him some valuable history of the mortal and immortal realms—as well as the Prophecy. Although Promi had been a captive audience—in more ways than one—Bonlo had filled their time in the dungeon with tales of wonder, tragedy, glory, great losses, and even greater hopes.

  Bonlo. You gave me so much . . . even at the end.

  Even as he banked a turn through the clouds, heading toward the spot where Jaladay had disappeared, Promi thought about Bonlo’s most unexpected gift. That belief in me. He kept telling me that I was better than I seemed, that I was destined for great deeds—even though he had no evidence at all.

  Sure, Promi knew that he had, in fact, done a few things right. But he’d also done several things massively wrong. Like tearing holes in the veil as if nothing mattered but his own desires . . . which had also wrecked his chances with Atlanta. All considered, he still didn’t deserve that faith from the old monk. Yet he knew that, if Bonlo were still around, it would still be there.

  Why, Bonlo had even believed, long ago, in Grukarr! Before Grukarr became a monstrous, power-mad priest who served Narkazan, he’d been a confused, damaged orphan boy. Bonlo took him under his wing, sheltering and mentoring Grukarr for many years, hoping to bring out the best in him. But that best, if it ever existed, had been buried much too deep to find.

  Promi sighed. I just hope that someday, somehow, Bonlo’s faith in me will turn out to be justified.

  Spotting a dome-shaped cloud in the distance, Promi glided toward it. Even in the growing darkness, the cloud glowed with a purple hue from all the flowers. And he could smell their delicious aroma, as sweet as honey itself, from a good distance.

  Yet Promi knew that this cloud’s most amazing quality wasn’t its rich color or sweet scent. It was the cloud’s array of miniature worlds, each one distinct from the rest—an entire field of worlds.

  Promi landed, taking care not to crush any of the honeyscent flowers. Instantly, Kermi jumped down and bounded over to the spot where he’d last been with Jaladay. Following the kermuncle over to the spot, Promi reached his hand in his pocket to touch his journal. Writing journal entries was a favorite pastime for both him and his sister, something they’d done together as small children and still enjoyed.