Atlantis in Peril

  And so . . . ever since Atlanta had first met this little fellow—and healed his wounds after he’d nearly died from an attack ordered by the wicked priest Grukarr—Quiggley had found other ways to communicate with her. Sometimes all it took was a grin like the one he was wearing now. More often, he sent her a wave of feeling, an emotion so clear it always touched her heart.

  That’s why Atlanta started to laugh. A wave of sheer amusement, so full of joy she couldn’t resist, flowed through her. That joy wasn’t just from playing their little game. Most of it came from simply appreciating their rather unusual friendship.

  For an enduring friendship it had become. The attack that Quiggley had barely survived destroyed all the magic—and all the life—of his faery clan. He’d lost his young daughter, his wife, and both parents. Atlanta, meanwhile, had no relatives of her own. She possessed nothing more than a few memories of her parents, who had died in a terrible swamp near a place called the Passage of Death. So the two of them had bonded as tightly as bark and sap on a tree.

  Since finding each other, the young woman and the faery had shared some perilous adventures—including a few with serious consequences for both the mortal and immortal worlds. And on days like this . . . they shared some lighthearted moments, as well.

  As Atlanta’s bell-like laughter quieted, she kneeled to smell a clump of lemongrass growing at her feet. She inhaled deeply, as did Quiggley while balancing on her shoulder. The scent made her feel peaceful, as always. And it also reminded her of the first day she had met Promi—over a freshly baked lemon pie he’d just stolen.

  Suddenly she frowned. Standing again, she shot a glance at the faery. He nonchalantly twirled a loose lilac vine on the shoulder of her gown, looking carefree.

  “You can’t fool me,” she grumbled. “You know exactly why I’m so upset at him.”

  Quiggley merely gazed at her, cocking his head innocently.

  “Why does he have to go on acting this way?” she demanded. “When he knows it’s just impossible?”

  One corner of Quiggley’s mouth lifted in a grin.

  “Of course he likes me! That’s obvious. Any buffoon can see that! But he doesn’t have any right to assume I feel the same way about him.”

  Now the faery’s whole mouth was grinning.

  Atlanta slapped her hand against the old spruce’s trunk. “But it’s impossible! He should know that. We’re from two different worlds, separated by the veil—and a stack of ancient laws, too!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And besides . . . he’s, well—he’s such a problem.”

  Biting her lip, she shook her head. “I know, I know . . .” Her voice grew quieter until, in a whisper, she said, “Maybe not the only problem.”

  The faery merely gazed at her.

  She sighed. “Right. I’m the real problem.”

  Quiggley waved his antennae sympathetically.

  For a long moment, she stared at her feet. Briefly, that game with Quiggley had lifted her spirits. But now here she was again, feeling the weight of all those thoughts that never took her anywhere, like a circular path in the forest that she couldn’t escape.

  Glumly, she sighed. She was the problem. If only Promi could understand how—

  She caught her breath. Right before her eyes, a sparkling crystal appeared. It glistened and swelled rapidly, twirling as it floated through the air. A snowflake!

  But it’s springtime, she told herself in disbelief. And it’s much too warm today for snow.

  More surprisingly, the snowflake kept growing, stretching out delicate arms that continued to swell. Soon it looked more like a big white feather, glowing in the light. On top of that, it didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, the crystalline feather just hung in the air, twirling slowly.

  “You’re not snow,” said Atlanta, awestruck. “What are you, then?”

  She reached out to touch it, but a subtle breeze made it float just beyond her reach. At the same time, more feather crystals appeared. They glistened as they grew, spinning lightly through the air in a luminous, magical dance.

  Watching this radiant display, she held her breath. Never in her whole life had she seen anything like this!

  “Quiggley,” she whispered. “Have you ever—”

  She glanced at the faery, then stopped. For his bright eyes, together with the slight trembling of his wings, explained it all.

  “You!” she exclaimed. “You made this happen.”

  He shrugged modestly, making his cloak shimmer like the crystals.

  Atlanta peered at him, full of gratitude. “Just to cheer me up. Even if that means making it snow on a warm spring day! Quiggley . . . you are, well, you are something! I don’t know the right word to describe it.”

  Adjusting his cotton hat, he struck a casual pose.

  “Yes, I do,” she corrected herself. “The word for you is friend.”

  His expression didn’t change . . . although his eyes might have gleamed just slightly.

  “And, my friend,” she added, invoking her favorite blessing that she saved for the most special occasions, “I bless your eternal qualities.”

  The feather crystals started to fall, at last. Gracefully, they settled down to the ground, decorating the roots of the old spruce and all the surrounding rocks, ferns, and grasses. Even an elderly bullfrog, seated on a mossy root, seemed to have sprouted crystalline wings.

  For a brief instant, the forest floor glowed with sparkling radiance. Then, with a quiver of the faery’s antennae, the feather crystals melted away.

  Feeling much better, Atlanta started walking. “Let’s go, Quiggley. We’re not far from Moss Island.”

  Indeed, only a few minutes later, they came to a clear stream. Following it deeper into the forest, they found a spot where the stream split into a pair of splashing waterways. In the center sat a small island covered in thick moss. And, to Atlanta’s surprise, right in the middle of the island sat a young man.

  Promi.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Starstone’s Hiding Place

  Startled to find him sitting there, Atlanta froze. “You!” she exclaimed.

  Promi nodded, swishing the long black hair that contrasted starkly with the misty sheen of his skin. With the hint of a grin, he said, “Nice to see you, too.”

  Despite all the doubts she’d felt only moments before, her heart leaped. She dashed to the stream and jumped across to Moss Island, landing right on top of Promi. They rolled on the moss sparkling with spray, laughing together.

  Quiggley, who had taken flight as she jumped, flew up to a willow branch. Amused, he watched the scene below. Then he turned his attention to the stream itself, listening to its constant splash as it swept around the island.

  Closing his little eyes, he recalled the family he’d lost in Grukarr’s attack—a whole clan of faeries who delighted in places just like this. Places where they could zip playfully through the vapors, turning cartwheels in the air, even as they made magical flowers sprout from streams or dined on the nectar of water lilies. Of all their communal activities, though, his most favorite had been telling stories to young children . . . including his daughter. How bright their eyes had glowed when he told tales and drew colorful pictures in the mist!

  Ever so slightly, his antennae drooped. When his tales had ended, those pictures melted away, gone forever. And now . . . so had those children.

  In the moss below, Atlanta and Promi weren’t aware of the faery’s musings (although, if they hadn’t been so distracted, they might have noticed the temperature grow a little cooler). Having rolled to a stop, they sat beside each other, still laughing. Finally, Atlanta spoke.

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Just a lucky guess.”

  She peered at him skeptically.

  “You’re more predictable than you think, Atlanta.”

 
“And you’re more ridiculous than you think.”

  “Besides,” he added playfully, “what makes you so sure I came here to see you?” He ran his fingers through the thick green growth beneath them. “Maybe I just love moss.”

  “Right. So much that you came all the way from the spirit realm just to touch it.”

  “Well, maybe I came here to touch something else.” Promi leaned closer and lightly stroked her cheek. “Like that.”

  She held his gaze. Then, feeling suddenly awkward, she wanted to change the subject. “How was the journey?”

  He hesitated, tempted to tell her about the fight he’d just had with his parents. But the last thing he wanted to do right now was ruin the mood with Atlanta. Maybe he’d tell her later . . .

  “The journey,” she repeated. “How was it?”

  “A bit bumpy,” he replied. “I flew into some, er . . . unexpected winds.”

  Suddenly brightening, he added, “But I actually hit a snowstorm! With really huge flakes. It didn’t last long, ending just before you arrived.”

  She almost grinned. “That’s hard to believe.”

  He shrugged. “Most of my life is hard to believe.”

  “That’s true, Promi. You’ve come a long way for somebody who started out as a pie thief, prisoner, and all-around vagabond.”

  “And don’t forget,” he added with a chuckle, “the Divine Monk’s proclaimed Worst Criminal Ever in All History. Not because I broke all those laws to sneak into his private quarters on a high holy day, mind you. But because I . . .”

  “Stole his favorite dessert!”

  They laughed, the sound of their mirth mixing with the gleeful thrum of the stream. When at last they paused, she looked at him with an expression that was not quite serious.

  “The worst thing you ever did back in those days—”

  “You mean the days,” he interrupted, eyes twinkling, “before I figured out the Prophecy, regained the Starstone, saved the world, ended the war in the spirit realm—and, oh yes, became immortal?”

  “Right,” she parried. “Back in the days before you became the humble fellow you are now.”

  “Right.” He tapped her forearm. “So what was the worst thing I ever did?”

  Atlanta opened her arms wide. “Right here on this island, that first night, when you told me—and all those forest creatures who had fed you so lavishly—that you absolutely wouldn’t help us.”

  He winced. “Did I really?”

  “You did. And nothing could change your mind! You didn’t budge even when the centaur threatened to kick off your head, the birds tried to peck out your eyes, and the smelldrude wanted to make you stink like a field of rotten fish.”

  “And I suppose it’s no excuse that I was still just a stupid, sweets-loving mortal?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to a stupid, sweets-loving immortal?”

  “You got me there,” he said with a sigh. “And there’s nothing I can do to make that up to you?”

  Thoughtfully, she stroked her chin. “Like what?”

  “Well . . . like creating a whole new island in the middle of the sea?”

  She shook her head. “That’s been done. By somebody—can’t remember his name.”

  “Hmmm. Then how about naming the island after you?”

  Again she shook her head. “Also been done.”

  “Then how about this?”

  Promi leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips.

  After the kiss ended, Atlanta sat back. Thoughtfully, she ran a hand through her curls. “Well . . . that’s a start.”

  “Good. Maybe I should practice some more.”

  She smiled. “Good idea.”

  Reaching for each other’s hands, they stood in unison. Seeing this, Quiggley fluttered down from his perch on the willow branch. He landed on Atlanta’s shoulder, his radiant blue wings whirring softly.

  “Welcome back, little friend.” Atlanta tapped one of his red berry shoes. “Missed you.”

  “Quiggley!” exclaimed Promi. “How are you?”

  The faery turned toward him. Suddenly Promi held up one hand.

  “Wait! Don’t answer that question! The last time you spoke to me, my head almost exploded.”

  Quiggley’s grin returned. A wave of merriment flowed into both young people, making them chuckle.

  Promi turned, scanning the moss-covered island and the forest beyond. “You know, a whole lot has happened since that night. Including the prediction by that gloomy centaur.”

  “Haldor,” said Atlanta. “Not the most cheerful fellow around.”

  “I’ve met corpses more cheerful.”

  “You’re right, though—he did predict this place would actually become an island. But don’t forget what else he predicted.”

  “That one day,” recalled Promi, “Atlantis will be lost forever, sinking deep into the sea, after a great disaster. What he called a terrible day and night of destruction.”

  Inexplicably, the temperature seemed to drop. Feeling the chill, Promi and Atlanta moved closer. Even the faery drew his cloak around himself.

  “Brrr,” said Promi. “Feels like it could snow again.”

  “Anything is possible around here,” she replied. Then, recalling something, she added, “Why, on that same night we were also visited by a whole family of mist maidens. And by the river god himself! Remember?”

  Touching the magical dagger at his side, Promi nodded. “You bet I do.” He glanced at its gleaming, translucent hilt and the silver string that would wrap itself around his wrist whenever he threw the dagger. “That memory—like this blade—I’ll never lose.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “And now, thanks to you, this little island has something else unforgettable. Something with infinite power.”

  Catching her meaning, he uttered a single word—and merely saying it made him feel somehow stronger. “Starstone.”

  “Yes, Promi. It’s here.”

  He thought about the first time he’d held the Starstone. Resting in the palm of his hand, the magnificent crystal glowed with pure, pulsing light. At the same time, it filled him with its mysterious power, magnifying his own inner magic.

  For that was the Starstone’s gift. As the old priest Bonlo, whom Promi had met in the dungeon of Ekh Raku, first explained, this crystal did for magic what a magnifying glass did for images. It took simple magic and transformed that into something bigger—as well as far more rich and complex. So its very presence enhanced everything around it.

  That quality made the Starstone, quite simply, the most powerful object on Earth. Its power could be used for good—as it was now, deepening the natural magic of the Great Forest. Or it could be used for evil, becoming a weapon of unlimited destruction—which had been the goal of Grukarr and his master, the spirit warlord Narkazan.

  “But where is it?” Promi asked. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

  Atlanta grinned. “Oh, it’s here on the island, all right. Just hidden from view.”

  He continued to scan Moss Island. Yet he saw nothing unusual—just lots of moss beneath their feet, the old willow, and the surrounding stream. Maybe, he thought, if it can’t be seen . . . it could still be felt.

  Closing his eyes, he remembered what he used to do as a Listener—to hear the unheard, in his sister Jaladay’s words. He felt grateful that, now that he’d become fully immortal, he no longer needed to make a sacrifice every time he tried to do it. In fact, Jaladay had told him that he still possessed all the ability to listen he’d had before, and that the power would never leave him.

  Even so . . . he hesitated. He hadn’t tried to use that power since Atlantis became an island. What if he’d forgotten how? What if he just couldn’t do it?

  Might as well try, he told himself. The worst that could happen was he’d embarrass himself i
n front of Atlanta. And he’d already done that more times than he could count.

  Opening himself to the sounds all around, he listened. Not just with his ears, but with his bones. His blood. His innermost feelings.

  At first, he heard only the rushing stream. Then his own breathing, as well as Atlanta’s. Then their heartbeats. And then . . . the very gentle pulse of the faery’s heart.

  Meanwhile, Atlanta watched him intently. On her shoulder, Quiggley leaned forward.

  High overhead, Promi heard the steady flap of a bird’s wings. An egret, he felt sure. Seeking a fish to bring home to a nest of young ones.

  Then . . . a sound unlike any of the others. Both very near and far away, it seemed to beat like a heart, but with a resonance that echoed in all the living beings on the island. This deep, steady pulse echoed in himself, in Atlanta, in the tree—and even in the tufts of moss. As well as in the stream and in the ancient rocks on its banks.

  Slowly, keeping his eyes closed, Promi turned. The sound’s origin, its source, was calling. He could almost hear it.

  Almost.

  Stretching his listening to the limit, he caught hold of the sound. There, he told himself at last. Over there.

  He opened his eyes. With a certainty he couldn’t explain, he stepped over to the willow tree. Kneeling by its roots, he lay his hand on one especially gnarled, moss-covered root.

  “Here,” he said quietly. “The Starstone is buried under here.”

  “Yes!” Atlanta rushed over and kneeled beside him. “I asked the tree to keep and protect it. To hide the crystal away—and never to release it unless Atlantis is in terrible, terrible danger. And that root lifted out of the ground, grasped the crystal, and carried it deep underground.”

  As they stood, she gave him a smirk. “Not bad for a pie thief.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Strange Magic